by Nathan Ronen
In his youth, Arik had been addicted to the books of the Scottish Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle. In one of the books, Conan-Doyle’s hero, Sherlock Holmes, had said that you shouldn’t build theories before possessing all the facts, for you might end up distorting the facts to make them fit the conception you had constructed in your mind, instead of adjusting the theories to fit the facts. Despite the truth of this statement, he had to admit it had never bothered them or stopped them at the Mossad.
In the background, Ruhama Saltzman continued prattling and analyzing Iman, defining him as a paranoid psychopath with no feelings of guilt or regret and who was schematic in his execution of tasks.
Arik’s mind objected to her psychological analysis. The analysis itself seemed somewhat schematic to him. It did not fit in with the creativity and the complex professional abilities Iman al-Uzbeki had exhibited in Morocco in his attempt to assassinate the king. Arik knew you should never underestimate your rival so as not to be caught by surprise.
The topic of the pigeons kept gnawing at him as well. If the pigeons aren’t going to the mosque, where are they going? Does Iman al-Uzbeki have a different operational and logistical center to which encrypted messages are conveyed? he asked himself. If I could intercept one of the pigeons carrying a message from Colonel Rizkawi, could I use it to yield intel regarding the meeting spot? Would Iman al-Uzbeki show up for the meeting, or send one of his emissaries? And if we catch the emissary, would that provide a lead?
Ruhama noticed that Arik wasn’t listening to her. She stopped talking, rose from her seat, mumbled something like, “Let’s talk later, I see you’re busy…” and disappeared, while he failed to notice her absence.
Angry and irritated, he rose and entered the kitchenette, where he made himself some fragrant coffee in a paper cup and took it into the bathroom. He placed the coffee cup on the sink, shaved first, then entered the shower stall. He closed his eyes, letting the powerful stream of water beat upon his back.
He began to lather up, but suddenly, his body betrayed him with no warning. He felt pain over the entire surface of his body. His head dropped and hit the soap dish, and he collapsed inside the shower stall, experiencing terrible cramps in his right calf muscle and then in the rear gastrocnemius muscle in his left leg. So as not to exhibit weakness or frighten his subordinates, he let out a silent scream into the air, biting hard into his palm. He sat there naked, grabbing his legs and massaging them, trying to loosen the cramping, achy muscles. The pain then transitioned to his feet, a powerful ache in his bones. He tried to rise to standing and felt as if his feet were on fire. He was unable to stand upon them.
He held on to the shower rod for support and performed a strange dance under the shower of hot water spraying powerfully over his body until he grew tired. He didn’t want to frighten anyone and didn’t want them to feel sorry for him. Alarming thoughts were crawling down his spine. He was afraid his multiple myeloma73 had returned, seizing hold of his body once more. Several years ago, he had been hospitalized in the United States and received a transplant of his own bone marrow, which had proved successful. Immediately afterward, he had undergone a long series of chemotherapy treatments that had provided him with a lengthy remission from the disease.
He stepped out of the bathroom and sat down naked on the end of the bed. He knew he would soon have to undergo comprehensive tests but would only be able to do so once Operation Enigma to capture Iman al-Uzbeki was over. He straightened and made a note in his personal calendar on the Chameleon to call Dr. Alice Ben-David, head of the myeloma unit in the hematological-oncological center at Sheba Hospital.
However, it would have to wait, as he was in the midst of chasing a tiger. But what happened if the tiger flipped things around and started tracking him?
It was important to know that the first rule of tracking a super-predator was that there were no rules. And in the current stage of the hunt, there was no time for the ‘luxury’ of his own physical pain. He punched his chest with his fist, the way he would do as a child, when he yelled in frustration at his body as it faltered and weakened following an asthma attack, “You won’t control me!”
Arik had the ability to place his entire personal life in a box, slam the lid shut, and refuse to allow it to invade his thoughts while he was on a mission. Usually, he managed to soothe his mind. He would place himself in a meditative state and close his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply until he calmed down. However, today was not a regular day. He felt spring-loaded with tension and could not manage to relax.
He knew his body needed sleep. He had been awake for forty-eight hours since arriving in London with Tal Ronen. He entered the break room he was sharing with Tal, took two painkillers, and curled up in the bed in a fetal position, hiding his pain and hoping no one would come in and see him in his current state.
* * *
73Multiple myeloma is a form of leukemia forming in plasma cells, a type of white blood cells. Cancer cells accumulate in the bone marrow, where they crowd out healthy blood cells.
Chapter 51
The United Kingdom’s Security Service (MI5) HQ
The Black Jaguar belonging to Sir John, head of MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service, arrived around evening time at Thames House, an awkward office building on the bank of the Thames, close to Lambeth Bridge. Sir John took the elevator straight up to the office of Security Service Director David McBrady, who was both a colleague and a rival for the attention of their shared boss, the British prime minister.
The redheaded McBrady, a tall Scot, pointed at a bottle of Glenfiddich 21 Gran Reserva, wordlessly raising an eyebrow.
“No, I don’t like the single malt, especially the Gran Reserva’s aroma of rum. If I liked rum, I’d simply drink rum,” Sir John said, his eyes scanning the contents of the modest bar.
“You English,” McBrady snorted contemptuously. “You don’t understand a thing about scotch. Usually, you just drink port wine fortified with a bit of brandy, like old women.”
“What do you suggest?” Sir John ignored the barb.
“I’ve got a special whiskey called Hazelwood. It tastes smoky, which isn’t for everyone, with a slight sweetness. Want to give it a go?” the Scot asked. Sir John nodded.
The head of the Security Service poured from the special glass bottle, styled in an Art Deco design, and Sir John took a sip and liked what he tasted. He refused the offer of ice.
“So why did you want to see me?” the head of MI5 asked.
“Because we’ve got a dirty trick planned—we’re going to double-cross the Israelis, and I wanted you to hear about it from me,” Sir John said quietly.
McBrady’s jaw dropped, his eyes gaping in amazement.
“I don’t understand. Just a few days ago, in my presence, you asked the Israeli to intervene in order to eliminate the arch-terrorist who’s currently third on the Most Wanted list, and you told him you were asking him to do it because if we catch al-Uzbeki, we’ll have to prosecute him, and now you’re telling me you’re going to double-cross him?”
“I might have used too strong of a word,” Sir John said, sipping from his glass again as if trying to imbue himself with courage. “David, what no one knows is the fact that Iman al-Uzbeki’s mythological deputy, ‘Ali Baba,’ is an agent of mine.”
“Wow!” McBrady said appreciatively.
“His real name is Ashraf Ghani Abdullah, and he’s Pakistani by origin. It took me many years to recruit ‘Ali Baba’ and turn him into a double agent,” Sir John said. “We held his wife and kids hostage, and that didn’t make any sort of impression on him. He conveyed to us through middlemen that as far as he’s concerned, we can slaughter them. But when we managed to get our hands on his blind mother, who has cancer, in some godforsaken village in the mountains north of Islamabad, he broke down and arrived for a private conversation with his handler. The best collection management officer I’ve e
ver had.”
“How long have we had him?” McBrady wondered.
“I’ve been discreetly handling him for a year now, in return for a simple cataract operation that restored his mother’s eyesight, and oncological treatment that extended her life,” his colleague said. “He didn’t want payment, pussy, or praise, the three “P’s” that motivate every agent. He’s just a mama’s boy who wants to be the boss.”
“And what does that have to do with double-crossing the Israelis?”
“I have to make sure the Israelis kill Iman al-Uzbeki, because only then will Ali Baba become head of the Afghani-Pakistani arm of Al Qaeda, and he’ll boost us up the hierarchy to the head of the medusa controlling all arms of the global Al Qaeda movement.”
“I’m sorry, I still don’t get where you’re going here,” the head of MI5 said.
“Iman al-Uzbeki is a man of a thousand faces. We have no idea what he looks like these days or where he’s hiding. He has never revealed himself to his sub-commanders. He leaves that to his deputy, to whom he provides a logistical outline. Ali Baba then meets the heads of the sub-teams while wearing an Anonymous mask,” Sir John explained. “The only thing we know is the fact that Ali Baba has been here almost two months. He rented a house and a large warehouse in an industrial district in East London, as well as commercial vehicles, including parking spaces in a large parking garage structure. He’s been instructed to buy the materials required to prepare a bomb that he assesses will weigh about 400 kilograms (880 pounds). His people have also prepared explosive vests, while others have begun to seek potential suicide bomber shahids among the British Muslim community. He’s now merely waiting for an activation command from Iman, at the time of Iman’s choice. Usually, Iman al-Uzbeki is the strategist, the planner, and the commander, working behind the scenes like a master of shadows. The moment the chain of command kicks into gear through the sub-commanders, he leaves Ali Baba behind to work out the final details, while he himself disappears. I wouldn’t be surprised if at the moment the bomb goes off, he’ll already be at the airport, wearing some disguise on his way out. He’s done it in Morocco and other places as well.
“We’ll cooperate with the Israelis up to the point when we identify that the bomb is ready and ticking and know both the main target of the major terrorist attack and its secondary targets. At that moment, we’ll allow Ali Baba to inform Iman that he’s detected an Israeli plot to kill him, and that he knows where they’re hiding. I think Iman al-Uzbeki will be unable to hold back and will want to personally eliminate the famous Arik Bar-Nathan, with whom he has a score to settle, as Bar-Nathan killed his best people in Morocco. It’s important to me that the head of the snake leave his viper’s nest. I hope the Israelis kill him in the exchange of fire without tarnishing Ali Baba’s name with the tint of betrayal. And that way, we also get to eliminate an arch-terrorist who has caused us plenty of grievances. I haven’t forgotten we have our own score to settle with that son of a bitch Iman al-Uzbeki. He personally tortured and killed a team of our SAS74 personnel in Afghanistan. That way, we’re also promoting our man to the top leadership of Al Qaeda in Pakistan and Afghanistan. I hope he’ll be number two in the Al Qaeda organization after Ayman al-Zawahiri, who replaced Bin Laden. It looks like a win-win-win to me.”
“That would be a fine chess move. So, what do you expect from me?” McBrady asked.
“I want you to provide the Israelis with any cooperation they ask for, while also giving me all the details. I want to know where they are and what they’re planning so that I can start employing Ali Baba to lure the head of the snake out of the nest. I want you to track the Israelis closely but discreetly. And watch out for them—they’re good and unpredictable, since they don’t trust anyone who isn’t one of their own.”
“I have to say, I feel shitty about all this,” McBrady said.
“Don’t talk to me like you’re new to this business. This profession of ours is teeming with con artists, broken promises, meals taken with the enemy, and nature reserve rangers who have long become poachers.”
“I actually really like Arik Bar-Nathan,” McBrady explained.
“I like him too, but what’s that got to do with anything?” Sir John wondered. “It’s just business. These are global considerations that are larger than this Arik Bar-Nathan and his midget country. We’re talking about a global scale, a world league where the Israelis aren’t players.”
“Okay,” said McBrady in resignation.
Sir John left McBrady’s office, and the latter sank into his armchair with a sigh.
As a patriotic Scotsman, he had never felt British. His own family history had taught him a thing or two about their treachery. He remembered the story of the last battle between the English and the Scots in the swamps of Culloden75 in the eighteenth century. At that battle, the British had killed off most of the McBrady clan, which had supported the Scottish king from the House of Stuart, a king who had legitimately and consensually ruled the four separate nations comprising the British United Kingdom: England, Scotland, Wales, and North Ireland. However, due to the treachery of the Protestant Hanover dynasty that ruled England, the House of Stuart was defeated and was supplanted by the House of Hanover as the kings of Great Britain.
When McBrady was a child, his father had quoted the clan’s motto, “Fortune favors the brave.” However, he knew that sometimes, the brave also needed a little help from their friends. He was torn between his role as a British gatekeeper and his personal emotions as a Scot, recalling a traditional Gaelic proverb about loyalty and commitment. As a man of high moral standards, he had a very serious problem with betraying an ally.
* * *
74The Special Air Service (SAS) is a British Special Forces unit, considered to be among the best of its kind in the world.
75The Battle of Culloden took place on April 16, 1746.
Chapter 52
The Sea Eagle, the Mossad’s Tactical Headquarters Vehicle
Arik Bar-Nathan was sitting with the command post team in the Sea Eagle van, which was currently near the Iranian Embassy in London, camouflaged as a vehicle belonging to G4S, a well-known British security firm. On the other side of the street, he saw a black van that he believed to be a standard vehicle used by MI5, the British security service, to conduct surveillance on the embassies of hostile countries.
The phone rang in the mobile command post. Yuli Ebenstein, head of the Technology Division, was on the other end of the line.
“Arik, good news,” he began. “Sometimes, primitivism actually helps in exposing irregularities. Our Spartacus software scanned all the companies in London offering fertilizers that could potentially be used to manufacture explosives. My hacker crew, Yahli and Nina Lev, infiltrated their accounting ledgers, where we found two different companies with the same address in the Bethnel Green neighborhood, close to Whitechapel. One is a gardening company and the other is an exterminator.”
“What exactly is irregular about them?” Arik asked.
“They bought pesticides, fertilizers, and ammonia fuel worth thousands of pounds and paid solely in cash, which is pretty unusual for a commercial company. Masha Kramer checked them out opposite London’s municipal licensing department. Seemingly, they’re legit, but they only went into business two months ago, and guess who their only client is? Some accountant working for East London’s Grand Mosque. He gave them receipts and demanded invoices for fertilizers for accounting purposes and to get tax deductions. Ultimately, it only takes one little nail to topple a horse.”
“Do you have the address for the gardening company?” Arik asked, and was answered in the affirmative.
“Please let me talk to Etty Levkovich,” Arik requested. The head of the safe house’s main war room appeared on the line.
“Eti, please send lookout teams to the site, and keep me posted.”
An hour later, he was contacted
by the commander of one of Kidon’s teams.
“Control, this is zero-three. I’m on site. At the moment, there’s no one here. We broke into the warehouse and it’s empty. Apparently, they’re on their way to another day of work. But there are twelve unmade beds and mattresses in the house, and the trash contains leftovers from Asian and Mediterranean takeout. Judging by the depth of the tire tracks in the mud, there are at least two commercial vehicles here. I think our customers here are Pakistani and Arab. The cigarettes are the same ones that are sold in Gaza. The most interesting part is what we found on the roof: a dovecote full of beautiful brown carrier pigeons, as well as a few empty message tubes.”
“Blend into the neighborhood and maintain your surveillance,” Arik said with satisfaction. “This might be either the lead team or Iman al-Uzbeki’s logistical HQ. Send the Graces team to install cameras and microphones there.”
“There’s more good news. We found these people’s passports in a hiding spot.”
“Surprise me,” Arik said. “They’re all Pakistani and Afghan, right?”
“Not all of them. A few of them have Palestinian passports from Gaza.”
“Great. Take photos of everything and put it all back where you found it. Pass all the info on to Masha Kramer. She knows what to do with it. And send the photos of the passports to Digital Fortress’s wonder twins, so they can set up some surprises for them on the police network as well.”
“Control, this is zero-three. I’m on it.”
“Zero-one, where are you?” Arik contacted Tal Ronen.
“I’m at the entrance to the East London Mosque, and my people are watching Maryam Centre, the teachers’ seminary,” the head of Caesarea said. “Some of them are also taking part in the lessons on Islam at the Islam Centre next to the mosque.”