by Nathan Ronen
Maryam was obviously disappointed that he did not desire her body. It was a rare occurrence for her. She also truly disliked the note of threat apparent in the voice of the object of her affections. And the more he played hard to get, the more she was turned on. But she let out something that sounded like a bad imitation of hysterical laughter. She definitely remembered the period in which she had been persecuted both in her own country and by the Western countries’ intelligence agencies, when she had been thoroughly humiliated.
Arik strode toward the door, accompanied by her dogs. She tried to extort a hug or a reluctant goodbye kiss from him, but Arik placed his left hand on her shoulder and physically pushed her away. He only extended his right hand to be shaken, but she ignored it.
As he was driving the Mossad’s black Peugeot SUV, speeding north on the Périphérique ring road toward downtown, Arik cursed himself, swearing to never again fall into Maryam’s booby trap. It did not flatter him as a man. Their latest interaction flooded his brain with the memory of their traumatic encounter in her apartment several years ago, in which the boundaries between agent and handler had been breached. It was true, she had been drunk and out of control, but still, the Mossad had firm, clear rules on this issue. Arik had dismissed talented agents and warriors from the Mossad for less.
He looked in the mirror. From afar, he saw the black Citroën that had been following him from the moment he left the embassy. Was it Haya’le, head of the bureau, who had sent him a security detail? Was it Lacoste, head of the French intelligence agency? Was it a rival or enemy who knew him and was preparing a death trap?
Arik didn’t have enough free time to test all these theories. He stopped his vehicle by the Israeli embassy, ran up the stairs leading to the Mossad bureau and entered the communication room, which was encased in special layers preventing surveillance. He used the encrypted Red Line to call Albert Lev-Ari, head of the Mossad bureau in the Israeli Embassy in Baku, Azerbaijan.
“Albert, Code Red alert. Zero hour for Operation Bakery is commencing within thirty-six hours.”
“What?!” Albert sounded stunned. “What are you talking about?!”
“What’s going on? You didn’t get the operation dispatch from Tal Ronen?” Arik asked in amazement.
“I did. I got some urgent material by diplomatic pouch last evening. But I haven’t had the time to delve in. I…”
Arik cut in impatiently. “I need you to immediately find an inn or a discreet hotel for fifty fighters outside the city. Twenty-five are ours and twenty-five are from ‘Ruth the Moabite.’ They’ll be there within twenty-four to thirty-six hours and will be joining you. Whip up Revolutionary Guard uniforms for all of them. The Iranians need weapons, tactical vests and Kevlar body armor. We’ll bring our own weapons from here. Read the dispatch order right now and catch up. We don’t have time!”
Judging by his silence, Albert was utterly stunned on the other end of the line.
“Within a short time, our cargo plane, a Super Hercules, will be landing near you,” Arik went on. “It’ll be carrying the Sayeret Matkal warriors and Engineering Corps personnel along with two or three heavy forklifts, and that’s not all. Within twenty-four hours, you can expect the flying Ukrainian monster to be landing.”
“Monster?” Albert wondered. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about an Antonov Mriya aircraft, the largest transport plane in the world, which will be landing where you are,” Arik explained. “I need you to give Tal Ronen in Caesarea the coordinates for an airport with a runway long enough for that monster. I’d prefer it if that plane didn’t land in Baku, the capital; that city is teeming with Iranian spies. Look for an alternate landing destination for the aircraft on its way from the base in Ukraine to you in Azerbaijan. For security reasons, don’t let the crew of the plane leave its vicinity, and provide them with everything they need, as long as they stay on the plane. Give them hookers, food and plenty of vodka. You have to start preparations for Operation Bakery within a few hours.”
“Are you… on your way to me?” Albert stammered, quite flustered.
“Not this time. Tal Ronen, head of Caesarea, will command the force,” Arik concluded. “Unfortunately, I’m tied up with something personal in Paris.”
“Shit,” Arik heard Albert cursing on the other end of the line.
“What’s happening?” he wondered. “What’s going on with you, Albert? You’re acting strangely. If you need uniforms, weapons or equipment, or anything else, talk to Gideon Perry, head of the Logistics Administration, and everything will be delivered to you immediately along with the force arriving in the Hercules.”
“No, that’s not it,” Albert said in an odd tone. “I can be ready within the timeline you gave me. But… you’ve caught me in the middle of something personal. We’re packing in preparation for a trip.”
“What?!” Arik called out in surprise.
“I promised my wife a cruise in the Caribbean Islands to celebrate forty years of marriage. Everything’s all set up. I already received confirmation from HR to go on my annual vacation two months ago. In a few hours, we’ll be on our way to the airport. We have tickets, flights, and a surprise party I organized for her on the largest and most modern cruise ship in the world, Harmony of the Seas, which we’ll be boarding in Barcelona.”
“I see,” Arik tried to conceal his disappointment with a businesslike tone. “What about your new deputy, Sasha Yarshanski? Is he all caught up yet? Can he take control?”
“No, he’s still a rooky, an untried kid. There’s a difference between being an outstanding field agent in an operational unit and the scope of work required from a deputy bureau commander in hostile territory,” Albert replied in resignation, realizing his vacation was now doomed.
“Alberto, we Ashkenazi Jews have a Yiddish proverb: ‘Man makes plans and God laughs,’” Arik told him, feeling his colleague’s pain. “When all this ends well, I hope, I’ll try to make it up to you and your wife Zehava. Right now, I need you fully and exclusively focused on Operation Bakery. So, as far as I’m concerned, have your wife travel from Baku to board the cruise, invite a friend of hers or her mother to come along, and send me the bill. I need you a hundred percent focused now. That’s what I’m asking. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” Albert said and began to dial his wife. He realized he was about to be dealing with a volcanic-scale outburst. His wife Zehava was a hot-tempered redhead, and he knew exactly what was in store for him. Albert knew that a broken heart could not be made whole with money or with excuses regarding a national state of emergency, but this was the nature of his work, and she had known him for many years now.
It was no coincidence that in the Mossad and other security agencies in Israel and all over the world, many of the division and operational unit heads were divorced and lonely. The reason was the gap between the demands of the job and the need to simultaneously maintain a normal family framework. It was an unbearably heavy price, especially once they retired.
Chapter 12
Nakhchivan Autonomous Republic International and Military Airport
The Antonov AN-225 Mriya took off from its home base at Kherson International Airport in Ukraine, formerly a Russian military airport, flying southeast toward the Black Sea. It was the only aircraft manufactured by the Antonov company, known for its massive cargo aircraft, that was still flight worthy. Its activity consisted mostly of transporting irregular cargo outside state borders.
The client who ordered the job instructed the pilots to arrive on short notice at Baku Military Airport in Azerbaijan. The pilots had no idea regarding the nature of the mission they had been called to carry out. But they asked no questions. The Antonov Company provided services for discreet clients who paid in cash. They only hoped someone would be waiting for them upon arrival to give them instructions. Since the Russian invasion of eastern Ukraine and the takeover of t
he Crimean Peninsula, the Ukrainian economy had collapsed. Unemployment and corruption were wreaking havoc, and the black market was flourishing.
During takeoff, the entire wingspan, about 300 feet in length, shook violently. Strange creaking noises emanated from the weary body. The monster, with its six engines and double tail, rose into the air with the slowness of a snail. The wheels of the enormous landing gear folded slowly while emitting screeches, disappearing into their storage nooks with a loud thump.
The three pilots, two navigators, three flight engineers, and five cargo loading supervisors crossed themselves and kissed the wooden icons of Jesus and Mary, thanking them for another successful takeoff by the flying barge. It was a good time to raise a glass of Polish Zubrowka vodka, along with a sandwich of black bread generously spread with butter, pickled herring, pickled gherkins, and cabbage.
The estimated flight time east to Azerbaijan was about two hours and fifteen minutes. They were supposed to cross the Black Sea, traverse the full length of Georgia and cross the Republic of Azerbaijan until they reached Baku, on the bank of the Caspian Sea. There, they intended to pick up their mysterious clients, who wished to maintain full anonymity. For the pilots of this transport company, such circumstances were not unusual.
When they were over Georgia, on their way to the shore of the Caspian Sea and Baku Airport, an assertive voice, speaking Ukrainian, was heard over the radio. “Good morning, Antonov Mriya, this is ‘Trotsky.’ I’m running this transaction. Please note a change to your landing site. Repeat, your landing site has changed. Please confirm.”
Andrei, the main pilot, did so.
“I’ll give you the new coordinates. Please write down: 39 11 19 N 045 27 30 E, region: AZ. It’s an asphalt runway that’s about two miles long, followed by another mile and a half of packed soil runway. Is that long enough for you? Please confirm receiving the new landing location.”
Andrei inputted the coordinates. The computer immediately identified the location as that of the Nakhchivan District International and Military Airport in western Azerbaijan. The flight time to reach it was shorter by an hour than the flight time to the original destination in Baku.
“Copy that. I know that airfield, on the border with Iran. We’ve been there plenty of times with clients. What did you say your name was?” he asked.
“Call me ‘Trotsky,’ and I’m your new boss. I’m the guy waiting for you at the end of the runway with the suitcase full of money. I have a few steaming pots here full of smoked pork chops stuffed with mushrooms and potato stew, plenty of frozen vodka, and a few hot dark-skinned girls who can’t wait for the horny blond Ukrainian air crew to finally land,” came the answer.
The lips of the chief pilot curved in a smile as he heard his crew members screaming with joy. They obviously liked Trotsky, their new boss.
“We have a small technical problem. The flight plan we filed specified Baku as our destination,” the pilot tried to protest.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” came the answer. “Plans have changed, and those who need to know about it already do. The fueling personnel, the technical crew and all your passengers will show up in time and join you in Nakhchivan Airport. I’ll be waiting there too. Come down and see me to get instructions for the rest of your route and ask the crew members to stay in the plane.”
The plane landed at the military airport located in the Nakhchivan Autonomous Republic, an area belonging to Azerbaijan but severed from it during its war with Armenia.
The ground control crewman’s car guided the aircraft over to a large parking lot, where a Russian UAZ jeep was parked next to a minivan with tinted windows. Albert Lev-Ari and his assistant Sasha Yarshanski disembarked from the jeep. The latter was a field agent in Kidon, the Mossad’s elite unit, and had been personally promoted to his new role by Cornfield, following his success in a covert operation sometimes referred to with a smile as “Operation Geula.”
The fuel tank arrived and was connected to the aircraft but fueling did not commence. Its crew waited for the arrival of a team member from the flying monster, who would be bringing a suitcase full of cash. Some airports had instituted regulations that Anotonov aircraft, as well as those from countries that were bankrupt or had unstable currency, had to pay in advance for fueling, in cash and in dollars.
Meanwhile, a truck carrying a generator that supplied electricity to run the air conditioning and lighting systems while the aircraft was on the ground connected to the plane.
Andrei, the Antonov’s chief pilot, disembarked from the aircraft and headed for the jeep in order to talk to his new boss. The other crew members stayed on the plane, as instructed.
“I’m Trotsky,” said blond, tall Sasha, extending a wrestler’s strong arm to the squat pilot approaching him.
Albert, the oldest member of the group, also shook the pilot’s hand, but kept his silence. His body language indicated that he was the boss, who apparently preferred not to expose his identity. Andrei though he had a Middle Eastern visage.
“You have all we agreed on?” the pilot asked in broken English.
Albert nodded, and Sasha produced a green military duffle bag from the jeep, containing orderly stacks of dollars and euros.
“Trust me. Everything here is exactly as agreed upon. You’ll get half the money now and half when the work is concluded to my full satisfaction. Including what I promised,” Sasha said in fluent Ukrainian, tilting his head in the direction of the minivan with a smile.
“Okay. What’s the plan?” the pilot asked.
“You’re already connected to the fuel tank,” Sasha replied. “Send your co-pilot here to pay them in cash for the fuel. I ask that you fill up your tanks, since our mission is a two-way flight of over 4,000 miles from here, loading a cargo of over 200 tons, one stop on the way there and landing back here to unload equipment and passengers.”
“How dangerous is the mission?” the pilot asked, hoping to extort a few thousand dollars more as a bonus.
“It’s a routine transport assignment: landing, loading, taking off, one stop to unload cargo and equipment, and a final landing here. Don’t worry about a thing. Anything related to security and safeguards is entirely on us,” Sasha said.
“You speak good Ukrainian, but your accent is like someone from Kiev. But for some reason, I don’t think you work for our homeland, do you?” challenged Andrei, the Ukrainian pilot. He himself spoke in an accent typical of the residents of the Carpathian Mountains in western Ukraine, near the border with Moldavia.
Sasha smiled enigmatically.
“I’m never wrong,” Andrei stated assertively. “If you’re not one of ours, you must be SVR12.”
Sasha kept smiling. “Andrei, my friend, you’re asking too many questions. You guys wait in the plane until I tell you differently. Meanwhile, have fun. You have at least eight hours before takeoff. So make sure you get some rest, since it’s going to be a long flight, and start preparing seats for fifty people and their equipment, as well as equipment to tie down two jeeps and two large forklifts that will be used to load some metal barrels containing a chemical powder.”
“Okay,” Andrei said.
Trotsky extended one arm out of the jeep and signaled to the people outside. A dozen girls emerged from the minivan, wearing ridiculous floral dresses, bearing straw baskets containing steaming pots, loaves of tutui (Caucasian fried bread), and bottles of vodka. The crew members received them with cheers of joy, disappearing with them inside the massive cavity of the empty cargo plane.
Six hours later, when darkness fell, an ultramodern Super Hercules aircraft, painted gray and with no identifying insignia, landed at Nakhchivan Airport. The plane had taken off from Tel Nof Military Airport in central Israel and had landed in Heydar Aliyev International Airport in Baku, where twenty-five Iranian Mojahedin-e Khalq rebel fighters boarded it, having arrived via a circuitous path from the Tabriz region
in Iran. The Israeli Hercules immediately took off, turned west and landed two hours later in Nakhchivan Military Airport in western Azerbaijan.
After it landed, the Israeli plane was led to the same lot in which the giant Antonov was docked; next to it, it looked like a grasshopper standing beside an elephant. Someone behind the scenes had instructed the airport manager and his staff not to approach or ask unnecessary questions. As was the custom in this part of the world, ample compensation was paid in advance. Airport security blocked all access for any curious spectators who wanted to see the giant Antonov up close.
The doors of the Super Hercules opened. Two groups of soldiers, dressed in camouflage gear identical to that of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, disembarked in two separate columns. Once the soldiers had exited, two Land Rover jeeps painted in camouflage were unloaded. Tal Ronen, head of Caesarea, was sitting in one of them, dressed like a Revolutionary Guard colonel with a Quds Force13 shoulder mark. With him were two armed bodyguards from the Mossad’s elite Kidon unit.
A small group of IDF Engineering Corps soldiers, mechanical equipment operators in green civilian vests, emerged with two forklifts. They drove after their commander, who was waiting for the order to load the equipment onto the flying monster.
Following a signal from Tal Ronen, the force commander, the entire group began to march in two parallel columns toward the silent monster.
Sasha picked up a two-way radio that was tuned to the Ukrainian plane’s channel and called out, “Antonov Mriya, this is Trotsky. Prepare to load equipment and passengers!”
Someone inside the aircraft flicked a switch, and the entire front part of the aircraft began to rise slowly, creating an immense opening. The aircraft crew’s cargo technicians emerged from the plane, producing metal gangways. They began to direct the loading of the engineering equipment, the heavy forklifts, the jeeps, and the fifty-five warriors and operators. All passengers, operators and warriors, strapped themselves to the cloth seats, not even noticing the swaying female figures disembarking from the back door of the plane and entering the darkened minivan. Albert handed the driver a thick pack of Azeri manat bills, and the entire cheerful gang disappeared into the dark.