by Nathan Ronen
He did not like the idea of taking along the most senior and conservative of the division heads unless her hidden agenda was to make them take part in the process in order to minimize their objections to the upcoming change, a reverse-psychology tactic of sorts.
“I’ll take on the task, but I do have a request for you,” Arik replied. “My impression is that you’ve come to the Mossad with cohesive thoughts regarding the organization, with an emphasis on replacing the division heads, most of whom happen to be in my Operations Administration.”
She waited for the punchline.
“The Operations Administration is territory I built with my own two hands, and I promise that if we decide on changes that require moving people around, I won’t hesitate to do it. But in the meantime, I’m asking for a commitment from you here that you won’t take any steps without me before I can submit a recommendation plan regarding the overall vision of organizational change required.”
She looked at him appraisingly and he responded with a determined look signaling, You have to decide if you’re doing this without me, in which case you can do what you want, or with me, in which case you have to take my opinion into consideration. That’s my condition.
She was contemplating getting rid of Alex immediately but was holding back and Arik sensed it.
“I think we need to be focusing on the issue at hand, not on the specific person, right?” he hinted at her thoughts.
“That’s fine. It’s a deal.” She extended her hand as if signing a gentleman’s agreement.
He shook her hand, surprised by the power in the gesture. He had not appreciated how physically strong she was.
“I have a few more notes or guidelines with regard to other required changes,” Raya said determinedly. “One other thing that’s not directly related to the reorganization but will impact it: I think we should retain control of the topic of cyber. I know there are people in the National Security Council who want to convince the prime minister to establish an independent cyber agency, like the American NSA. I’m opposed to that. I think it would create even more fragmentation of the intelligence apparatus.
“Secondly, I think the intelligence collection system should be separated from the research system when it comes to analytics. I believe that the division needs to be split into two departments. I want two different perspectives between those collecting the intelligence and those assessing its significance from a broad perspective. I also want to found a sort of ‘devil’s advocate’ department that can read raw intelligence material so that we don’t sink into a type of mental stagnation stemming from the human need to stick to one way of conceptualizing things, after which everyone who’s dependent on you adopts the party line and tries to compile data to convince you that you’re right.”
“I assume you’re not speaking in the abstract and have something specific in mind, right?”
“Don’t forget that I was General Manager of the Office of Intelligence and Strategy. The advantage of my role there compared to my role here is that no one expected anything from me other than to pass on recommendations, in order to design a policy to combat the delegitimization of Israel and embargos against it. I had plenty of free time to quietly read, think about, and observe the Mossad and other agencies within the defense system. Therefore, I fear that we’re already prisoners of our preconceptions,” she replied. “I believe we tend to see Iranian fingerprints everywhere and it seems correct and natural to us because we want to believe that that’s the case.
“Therefore, I want your administration to include a team that is exterritorial to the Mossad. Pick out some academics, researchers who have the required security clearance but are working in universities and research institutes. I want this team to examine the possibility that it might actually be the Saudis manipulating us and leaving behind tracks or fingerprints implicating the Iranians, so that we attack their arch-enemy, the Shiite Iranians, while the Saudis sit on the sidelines and enjoy watching us taking their chestnuts out of the fire for them, aided by the Americans.”
Arik was surprised by her fresh, creative way of thinking. He liked it but concealed his enthusiasm.
“At this stage, I prefer to focus on the truly important part, which is the reorganization. But as you said earlier,” Arik said, “we don’t have to re-invent the wheel. I need to think about it and see what’s going on with the allied intelligence agencies that have already implemented organizational changes recently.”
“I thought of a timeframe of a month and a half to present your conclusions. Will that work?” Ron asked.
“I think a timeframe like that will be enough for me to submit my initial thoughts about the required reorganization,” he concluded.
Arik returned to the Operations Administration building and asked his loyal office manager Claire to coordinate his flights to the United States, England, and France. However, first he needed to dedicate significant time to preparing the toolset that would be applied to the organizational change while he simultaneously traveled to find out what had been done in allied agencies in the world.
He knew that leading change in organizations was a complex task requiring a balanced strategy regarding the organization’s state in relation to its employees, resources, and clients. He also intuitively realized that one crucial component in leading change was the presence or recruitment of agents of change in the organization. As the Mossad did not have a workers’ union, he wanted to locate agents of change from within, such as employees, managers, or organizational advisors working in the agency, while also bringing in external advisors. He remembered what he had once learned during his university studies, that such a process should be inclusive, and the employees must be engaged and pitch in. The process of future organizational change should be explained to them and incorporate them.
He knew whom he wanted at the head of this committee. He was thinking of a Business Administration professor from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, a man who had once been the CEO of one of the major food corporations in the Israeli market and who had carried out painful changes in kibbutz society, ultimately improving it. The man lived in Kibbutz Glil Yam. There were not many people who refused to pitch in and help the Mossad, and Arik hoped this would be the case this time as well.
He sent an email to the head of HR asking him to contact the man and assess his willingness to head an ad hoc committee to reorganize the Mossad for a period of six months, making a note to himself to meet him before he traveled abroad.
He called Gideon Perry in order to consult with him, but Gideon and his wife Paula were on a trip to northwest Cambodia for an archeological tour in the temple in Angkor Wat.
Arik sat quietly, scribbling some thoughts and directions for himself, sketching out several diagrams of an alternate organizational structure on the erasable whiteboard. At ten p.m., he found himself alone at the office. Only two army clerks had stayed in the office for the night shift.
Suddenly, his heart felt empty, and he found himself intensely missing Eva and the kids. They talked on Skype every evening and he could witness his kids growing up on the computer screen. But he missed hugging them, touching them, and smelling their scent. He wanted to call them, but it seemed too late.
Arik left his room and walked over to his office manager Claire’s empty room. Claire had already gone home hours earlier. He left her a personal note in which he asked to fit a weekend with his family in Heidelberg, Germany, into his schedule. He wanted to talk to Eva about her expectations regarding the family’s eventual return to Israel.
He drove home to Palmachim Base. An accident caused an endless traffic jam on Highway 4 South and he sat there beside his driver, gradually falling asleep.
His thoughts drifted. The reorganization at work got mixed up in his head with his family in Germany, and suddenly the Brothers Grimm and the story of Snow White popped up. An odd mix of associations.
I
n his dream, he saw himself as the escaping princess Snow White arriving in the world of the seven dwarves, people who worked very hard to make a living. Snow White invaded their home uninvited, ate their dinner, lay down in their bed, and began to change the routine of their lives, and finally fired them. He woke up from the nightmare when the witch wearing the form of Raya Ron knocked on the door and offered him a poisoned apple. He refused to take the apple, but the witch insisted, shaking his shoulder.
He woke up. The driver was saying apologetically, “We’re home. Good night. See you tomorrow at a quarter to seven?”
Chapter 35
Alexandria, Virginia
The United Airlines plane landed in Washington, DC in the afternoon after a layover in Paris. Gideon Perry was suffering from a backache as a result of a herniated disc and could not fly for such long distances, so Arik ended up making the trip on his own. He was staying at the Westin Georgetown Hotel in Washington, DC, not far from Georgetown University. A series of meetings with CIA personnel had already been scheduled for him.
Arik called his friend Admiral Derby, intending to invite the admiral and his wife Barbara for dinner in the city. Both of them were carnivores and fond of the Brazilian steakhouse Fogo de Chão, which offered an all-you-can-eat meat buffet.
“No way are we eating out today!” Jack Derby declared. “You’re at your usual hotel, the Georgetown Westin, right? Well, I’ll come pick you up and we’ll have a family dinner at our place.”
Arik’s flight had been long, and he was quite tired. Nevertheless, he was pleased to be invited to enjoy Barbara’s home cooking for dinner.
He had a few hours before his friend Jack came to pick him up, and Arik decided to set out for a relaxing run that would loosen up him limbs and perhaps leave him with enough time for a quick nap. He put on a light tracksuit and began to walk in the direction of Montrose Park. At this hour of the afternoon, the park was still empty of joggers. He began to run on the path surrounding the park when he suddenly felt a push from behind, and a large Black man ran past him and sprinted forward. Arik grew suspicious. He inserted his hand into the back pocket of his pants and realized his wallet had disappeared.
Pickpockets always annoyed Arik. As far as he was concerned, they were a type of lice teeming in busy locations, having their way with passing tourists. He increased his speed and began to rush after the thief. Once he caught up with him, he shoved two fingers into his back and confidently commanded, “Stop!”
The man stopped at once and raised his hands, still looking ahead.
Arik shoved him between two flowering sophora bushes by the side of the road and commanded, “Give me the wallet!”
The young man thrust his hand in his pocket and gave Arik the wallet without turning around. Anyone who has not lived in large American cities may find this hard to believe, but Americans would rather lose their money than their lives.
“Keep running and don’t look back,” Arik instructed. The young Black man obeyed, glad to escape with his life. Arik turned around and took off, running swiftly in the direction of the hotel, noticing that the tall young man had also disappeared in the opposite direction and was not running after him. He concealed the wallet he had received from the pickpocket in the pocket of his jogging suit.
Out of breath, he arrived at the hotel, went up to his room, and much to his surprise, found his wallet lying on the table. At that point, he noticed that his wallet was actually brown, while that of the man from the park was black.
Arik felt mortified. He had just robbed an innocent man. He sat down on the bed, laughing. Sometimes, survival instincts were more powerful than logical thought. At that moment, he realized that everything he had thought was in fact topsy-turvy.
The phone rang while Arik was in the shower. He glanced at the clock. The time was seven-thirty p.m.
The concierge informed him that Admiral Derby had arrived and was waiting for him at the entrance.
Arik came down with a glum expression, handing the wallet he had ‘robbed’ to the concierge. He asked him to hand it over to the police after he left the hotel, claiming he had found it in the park while jogging.
***
Arik Bar-Nathan was sitting in an old, comfortable leather recliner in Admiral Derby’s large home. The Derby residence was located in Alexandria’s Old Town. It was a spacious, red-brick, nineteenth-century Victorian that had been in the admiral’s family for generations, with pediment roofs, rounded turrets, and large windows overlooking the garden on the bank of the river.
Jack went to pour them shots of Jack Daniel’s Single Barrel bourbon, while Arik gazed out through the large window at the wide Potomac River, flowing by leisurely. The river constituted a border between Virginia and Maryland, adjacent to the District of Columbia and the federal capital of Washington. The rays of the setting sun sparkled upon the ripples of the river that flowed slowly past the multi-paned window. He saw families of white swans and waterfowl floating near the bank of the river. The autumn evening was cool, and a howling northern wind infiltrated the house through the chimney, feeding the flames consuming the logs. The firewood crackled cheerfully in the massive fireplace creating a pleasant warmth and a fragrant aroma from the hickory wood.
Arik looked at the cherry-wood covered walls, listening to a chronicle of the house, which was a family legacy, and its role in providing temporary shelter for runaway slaves from the South during the American Civil War.
“This ancient house has quite a history,” Jack Derby said. “I’m very proud to tell you that I come from a longtime family tradition of brave men and women who fought oppression and took action to ensure the freedom of Black slaves during that dark time in our nation’s history. My great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side was a devout Quaker who was fiercely opposed to slavery. As you can see, he built the house right next to the Potomac River at the beginning of the nineteenth century. He himself was one of the people running the Underground Railroad, the network smuggling slaves to freedom.”
Dinner was served in the dining nook next to the large kitchen. Barbara was indeed an excellent cook and prepared a meal of traditional American meatloaf, served with steamed vegetables. They drank red California Cabernet Franc from Robert Mondavi Winery in Napa Valley.
After dinner, Derby and his guest moved to the spacious living room, full of ancient eighteenth-century Chippendale furniture in a neoclassical style, all Derby family heirlooms.
Derby poured Arik a glass of fine Courvoisier XO Imperial cognac and walked over to the humidor, from which he retrieved two Perdomo Reserve cigars, hand-rolled in Nicaragua. Derby could not be expected to provide Cuban cigars, due to American sanctions against Cuba.
Barbara, his tall, fair-haired wife, placed a silver tray bearing warm apple pie, along with a carton of Ben and Jerry’s vanilla ice cream and Amarena cherries soaked in sweet syrup, on the shell-coated coffee table. Derby poured his wife a shot of Italian Amaretto.
In the living room, in front of the blazing fire, Arik noticed an unusually beautiful item. It was a chessboard placed on a small, high wooden table, embedded with squares of ebony and white bone, on which large pieces sculpted in ivory were set out in preparation for a game.
“Do you play chess?” Derby asked him.
“I do,” Arik said, “but I’m not a master like you.”
Derby chuckled. He carefully lifted the open board with the assembled pieces and placed it on the living-room table across from them.
“Shall we play?” he challenged Arik.
“It’s too late for me,” he dodged. “I’m tired and still jetlagged from the flight.”
“I’m not going to let you wiggle your way out of this,” Derby informed him.
“Let me bounce back for another twenty-four hours, and I’ll gladly step up to the challenge.”
“Did you play the game when you were a kid?” Derby asked. He
knew that most chess masters in the world were Jewish and apparently thought the game was ubiquitous in Israel.
“When I was a boy, I’d play chess with my neighborhood best friend’s grandfather. Today, this friend is a prominent Jerusalem cultural personage, a writer, and announcer on Radio Jerusalem,” Arik told him. “Like most kids from Ashkenazi origin, I myself didn’t have a grandfather, since they were all killed in the Holocaust, so I borrowed his grandfather from him. I remember how Grandpa Rossilio, who was originally from Istanbul, Turkey, began to describe the game and its implications to me. But first, he had a kind of ritual. He would produce a tin of yellowish tobacco from one pocket, a pack of rolling paper from another, extract some tobacco and a razor blade, chop up the tobacco very finely, roll a cigarette, light it with an old Zippo lighter that always smelled like gasoline, inhale a lungful of that stink into his lungs, cough loudly, making scary sounds, spit some yellow saliva into an old cloth handkerchief that he’d conceal in the pocket of his old striped pants, and only then would he be ready to start the game and the lesson. He claimed chess was a game of kings… rulers… and that those who know how to play it have a good grasp of controlling people and politics.”
“I’ve never managed to understand the intricacies of your politics,” Derby finally changed the subject. “I think that with you Israelis, everything is internal politics, which greatly influences the way you make decisions. Or at least that was Henry Kissinger’s opinion. Am I right?”
“We’re a small country, with plenty of small political parties that cause the prime minister to be dependent on the coalition,” Arik explained. “That dependency makes it sometimes resemble what you’re describing from the outside, but all in all, we, too, have a system of checks and balances, just like yours, and our democracy is vibrant, alive and kicking.”
“To me, from the outside, it all looks like one big mess,” Derby said.
“You two will have to excuse me,” Arik said. “I’m tired from the flight, the wonderful food, and the booze. I think I’ll go back to the hotel. See you tomorrow at Langley, at ten a.m.? I’ll be happy to hear your review of the organizational overhaul you carried out in light of future challenges.”