by Nathan Ronen
Shit, he thought to himself. Maybe I won’t be running with the hounds anymore, but I’ll be activating them, training them, and mostly watching over them.
He arrived at the apartment building and pressed the elevator button that would take him to the operations suite. Two security guards from the embassy were standing in the corridor and hurried to open the door for him.
Etty Levkovich and Masha Kramer let out a spontaneous shout when they saw his disheveled form entering the suite. Arik did not linger, coming in and walking past them with a gesture indicating, Hi… I don’t really feel like talking about anything right now.
He then closed the door to his room behind him.
Arik took off his coat and allowed it to fall to the floor with a thud. He began to take off his clothes. A heavy fatigue spread through his body and he felt that his legs were no longer carrying him. He sat down on the bed in his underwear, shivering with cold and exhaustion although the room was heated. His water-soaked shoes stained the parquet floor with mud, and his whole body now yearned for a hot shower, and perhaps also for the hearty vegetable stew Masha had probably made for him.
But, at that moment, he mostly missed home, Eva, and his children. It seemed as if it had been more than ten days since he left home; it felt like an eon. He reached out for the phone and called Eva, yearning to hear her caressing voice and the exuberant voices of his children in the background. But he was answered by a recording of his own voice. “Hi, you’ve reached the home of Eva and Arik Bar-Nathan. We can’t answer the phone right now. If you don’t leave a message, how will we know you called?” he heard his voice, immediately followed by Eva’s laughter and her message in German. Her recorded voice moved him.
“Hi, Eva, meine liebe,” he whispered tiredly into the answering machine. “Thinking about you and missing you all. Hope to see you soon.”
* * *
80Hezbollah’s military branch is called al-Muqawama al-Islamiyya, or “The Islamic Resistance.”
Chapter 58
The Mossad Safe House in Whitechapel
After a hot shower, Arik ate the thick stew the two older ladies had prepared for him. It was his favorite soup, which reminded him of the flavor of his Polish Jewish mother’s cooking: hearty, filling krupnik soup with barley, mushrooms, and plenty of vegetables. An entire meal in one bowl.
After a brief rest, he felt himself recovering like a dry plant that had just received a shot of life. The three prisoners captured in East London were waiting for him in the living room of the apartment. They were zip-tied to chairs. Their heads were covered with black felt bags, earplugs had been inserted in their ears, and their mouths had been blocked with a thick band of gray insulation tape. They were in their underwear. Their bodies were reacting as if they were recovering from a night of hard drinking, apparently due to the Ketamine’s side effects. The plump girl was wearing a cheap cloth bra.
Arik hugged Etty Levkovich and Masha Kramer in wordless gratitude for their concern and the way they took care of him. Masha could not hold back and embarked on a preliminary conversation. “Those young people are twenty-five to thirty at most,” she began. “Iman al-Uzbeki is forty-five. That plump girl is twenty-five, and from a distance, she does indeed look like the wife of the guy from the mosque, but the three of them speak fluent English, like graduates of a good British university. Two of them have employee cards from the British Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the girl has one from the Ministry of the Interior. Their driver’s licenses are British and authentic. We checked their information opposite the British License Bureau. Both men have entry permits and a meal card for Babylon House, the British intelligence service’s HQ, and the girl has an employee ID for Thames House, the British security service’s headquarters, also known as Box 500. Their pistols are standard British security agency weapons. Something’s not right here.”
Masha and Etty accepted Arik as he was. They never said, “We told you so,” even when he was wrong. Like his office manager Claire and his wife Eva, they were his guardian angels, unconditionally and with no agenda.
Arik returned to the living room and signaled one of the security guards from the agency to remove the hoods from the three prisoners’ heads, as well as the ear plugs and the sticky tape on their mouths, and to cut the zip-ties restraining their hands.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
The three lowered their eyes. He knew they knew.
“We apprehended you because we thought you were part of terrorist Iman al-Uzbeki’s network,” Arik said, and saw an amused look in their eyes.
“I know you’re security personnel,” he continued, “based on your weapons and your operative driving techniques. You also have entry permits and a meal card to the employee cafeteria of the agencies employing you. If you’re my allies, I’ll shortly release you and apologize to you. I just want to understand, why were you tracking me in the mosque, and who sent you?”
The prisoners looked at each other, and one of them asked for water, as the medication with which he had been injected had made his mouth dry.
“You’ll get water, coffee, and we might even buy you a meal, but I want answers first!” Arik insisted.
“We’re from the operational arm of ‘the Circus,’” said the tall man with Pakistani features.
“The circus?” Arik was puzzled.
“You call your Mossad ‘the Office’ and we call ours ‘the Circus,’ rather than MI6 or SIS, like the official documents state. I suppose it has something to do with John Le Carré’s books,” the second man answered with a smile. They looked more relaxed from the moment Arik had referred to them as allies.
“I’m actually one of David McBrady’s people at Thames House,” the plump girl said, bashfully trying to cover her chest. “And we call our agency ‘Box 500’ rather than MI5. Officially, I work for the Ministry of the Interior and I’m an analyst for the Joint Terrorist Analysis Centre (JTAC). I was asked to join these two agents, who are Muslim, as an analyst and an expert on Al Qaeda and Taliban terrorism.”
“And who sent you?”
“That’s a question you need to ask our bosses. We’re field operatives, and our mission was to follow you and report back. And we weren’t the only ones there,” the second young man answered irreverently. He was brawny and looked like a former SAS fighter.
“I still need to talk your bosses to get answers to a few questions, and therefore I can’t let you go immediately,” Arik explained apologetically. “But you’re our guests, and you can ask my people for any kind of food you like. I promise you that tomorrow morning at the latest, you’ll be released, and I’m asking for your word of honor that you’ll behave accordingly, since otherwise, we’ll have to restrain and drug you again. Is that clear?”
The three of them nodded.
Arik had plenty of unanswered questions but had no one to ask. Therefore, he instructed his team to give the Brits their clothes back and lock them in a bedroom with an en suite bathroom.
“When you get the order to release them, put hoods over their heads, take a long drive, and ultimately, release them in Piccadilly Square in the West End. I don’t want them to know where the safe house is,” he concluded.
“What about their weapons?” one of his people asked.
“Tomorrow, when you release them, give them their weapons back.”
“Zero-one, this is Command,” Arik contacted Tal Ronen from the control center in the operations room.
“This is zero-one, over,” the head of Caesarea replied.
“What’s going on?” Arik asked.
“This is zero-one. We’re on site with the entire team,” Tal reported. “Unfortunately for them, the friends here weren’t friendly or cooperative, and we had to put them to sleep for good, in the veterinary sense of that phrase. One of ours sustained a light scratch to the shoulder. One of the ‘dirties’ tried
to escape and we shot him in the leg. I think it’s Ali Baba. I’m passing through a ‘loyal doctor’81 to extract the bullet and have him sewn up before I bring him along to meet you at HQ.”
“No, don’t bring him here. I’ll call ‘Tarzan’ and ask him to open the emergency ‘escape apartment’ for us.”
“I’m ordering a cleaning crew for our friends here,” Tal reported.
“Has the cleaning crew already picked up the dearly departed from the motel?”
“We haven’t had time yet. We drove here immediately after the motel skirmish and they’re still stashed in the white pickup. I used the green van in order to quietly enter the site. They weren’t expecting me.”
“Great!” Bar-Nathan said. “Add these dead to the one in the white pickup and put them in body bags. Take the truck with the bodies and leave it on the street next to the Iranian Embassy. Don’t lock it up. I’m taking care of it.”
“I don’t understand,” Tal said, hoping Arik would explain the strange request to him.
“It’s a kind of message to Colonel Rizkawi with my twisted sense of humor. I’ll explain it later.”
“Okay,” Tal grumbled.
“How long do you think it’ll take before Ali Baba is ready to be interrogated?”
“We’re heading for the doctor’s clinic,” the commander of Caesarea replied. “He said he would operate on him with local anesthetic. The surgery will take half an hour, unless there are complications. I assume that with the drive there and back, it’ll be at least two hours.”
Fifteen minutes later, Tal called Arik’s Chameleon once more.
“Ali Baba is in surgery right now. Everything looks okay,” he said quietly. “What should I do with the workers from Gaza? We have five of them restrained in the vehicle. They surrendered the moment the battle began. Only the Afghans fought back, as well as two Brits of Pakistani origin with ISIS tattoos on their arms. One of my guys sustained a slight injury. The doctor will treat him shortly as well.”
Arik was pleased.
“Regarding the guys from Gaza, they look like small fry to me, not exactly the sharpest pencils in Iman al-Uzbeki’s metaphorical pencil box. They’re simple laborers. I’m actually interested in the Lebanese from Hezbollah. If you can motivate them to talk, they can provide you with valuable information. The part that interests me is information about the attack tunnels Hezbollah is digging along our northern border. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found out that they’ve built an underground city there under our posts. Pass on the information you extract from them to Shlomo Toby at the Shin Bet.”
“No problem. I’ll let one of my people take care of it. He was an agent handler in Unit 50482 and is trained in interrogation.”
“Hand the guys from Gaza over to Thames House, MI5 HQ. Ask Masha to get in touch with her contact person so they can come and collect them. They’ll be glad for a chance to curb the smuggling of illegals into Britain. Pack up the Lebanese well, using the ‘cocoon’ technique. We’ll take them to Israel with us for further interrogation.
“Great job. See you in an hour and a half with Ali Baba at the new escape apartment. I’ll text the apartment’s coordinates to your phone. Send your team out to have a good lunch and get some rest. They’ve earned it. Congratulate them for me. They did good work.”
“On it,” Tal said, his tone gloomy, hanging up. He didn’t need instructions from his boss on how to manage and reward his team, although he knew Arik meant well.
The Mossad’s escape apartment in London was in the Hampstead Heath neighborhood. It was a small, luxurious villa, originally built by an English aristocrat at the edge of his estate for a disabled son who lived there in the early twentieth century with his caretaker. The estate itself was further down the hill, sheltered from the main boulevard, The Bishops Avenue. The villa’s small structure was concealed within some thick woods with a private access road that was not visible from the main house. Currently, the estate belonged to a wealthy Iraqi family that rented out the villa to “a Dutch businessman,” who was supposedly seeking a discreet residence for his encounters with his English lover every time he arrived in London.
Arik sent the house’s coordinates to Tal Ronen, which left him with only one little task.
“Etty, please get me the cell phone number for Colonel Rizkawi, head of the Iranian intelligence extension at their embassy in London.”
She and Masha looked at him in surprise, but his expression made it clear that he was serious. The two ladies typed in numbers, compared results, and within a minute, Arik’s Chameleon received a text message with Colonel Rizkawi’s personal cell phone number.
The phone rang for quite a while until a tentative voice with a heavy Iranian accent replied, “Hello?”
“Colonel Rizkawi, this is Arik Bar-Nathan from the Mossad, the Israeli Institute of Intelligence. We’re colleagues, old acquaintances, even though we’ve never met socially,” Arik introduced himself.
A tense silence emanated from the other end of the line. The colonel thought someone was pranking him.
“It really is me,” Arik clarified. “We recently met at the international seminar in King’s College University, at the opening lecture on international terror given by Prof. Yuval Kaspi. You were sitting in the fifth row behind me.”
Rizkawi grew truly curious.
“Are you currently in your office at 16 Prince’s Gate Street in London, at the embassy?” Arik asked.
“Maybe. And if so, why are you asking?” Rizkawi asked suspiciously.
“Because at the end of your street, you’ll soon find a white Mitsubishi pickup truck. Its door will be unlocked. There’s a delivery inside for you, with a message from me. Don’t worry, it won’t explode,” Arik said with a chuckle and hung up.
* * *
81Every Mossad bureau in the world has a network of professionals willing to assist without maintaining official records, such as doctors performing surgery in private clinics who are also rewarded in cash.
82Unit 504, or the Human Intelligence Formation, is a unit in IDF’s Military Intelligence Directorate in charge of handling secret agents outside the borders of the State of Israel.
Chapter 59
The Escape Villa in Hampstead Heath, London
Ashraf Ghani Abdullah, nicknamed ‘Ali Baba,’ was sitting naked, handcuffed to a chair, with a black hood over his head. The numbing agent with which he had been injected by the doctor as the bullet lodged into one of his leg bones was extracted had begun to wear off, and he was experiencing severe pain. The villa’s air conditioning was going at full blast and he was shivering with cold.
An unseen hand removed the hood from his head and a strong flashlight blinded his eyes. As far as he could see, there were three people sitting across from him, wearing ski masks.
“How do you feel?” he heard a voice asking him in a concerned tone.
Ali Baba let out a moan of pain as a shiver ran through him.
“How do you want us to call you? Ashraf? Abdullah? Or Ali Baba?” one of the people in the ski masks asked in fluent English spoken with a foreign accent.
“Who are you people?” Ali Baba asked.
“We ask the questions here,” replied the one who looked like the boss.
Ali Baba kept silent.
“We know everything about you and about Iman al-Uzbeki. We want you to tell us where he is now and what the target of his major terrorist attack is. When? How many? And how?”
“Give me something for the pain and a glass of water!” Ali Baba asked, his throat dry and his body wracked with shivers.
“Help us and you’ll get everything.”
Ali Baba did not reply. ‘Exercises for the beginning interrogator’ always made him laugh.
“Okay, so you want to play with us and see how much we can extract from you and how long it takes?” as
ked Tal Ronen. “We both know you’re a professional, a warrior and a well-known commander in the battle of Tora Bora. We know you’re Iman’s deputy. He’s head of planning and you’re head of execution. I know you’re a tough man, you enjoy hurting people, and you think you’re good at it, but you’ll soon realize you have a lot to learn.”
Ali Baba’s mouth was dry, but he spat in the direction of Tal’s face. The spitters and shoe-throwers within the Muslim world used these tactics to express their contempt and show that they were in control of the situation.
Ali Baba did not take into account that Tal, too, was well familiar with Muslim mentality. It was important to react immediately to such an action.
Tal raised his two enormous hands and hit Ali Baba’s ears in an intense clapping motion. The shock wave unsettled his inner ear, making him sway in place, losing his equilibrium, like an attack of vertigo. A thin trickle of blood dripped from his right ear.
Arik brought his mouth to his other ear and whispered, “Abdullah, I’m your angel of death. I’ll take you to hell, where you belong.”
Ali Baba didn’t bat an eyelash.
“Way to go, big guy. You’re definitely a brave man,” Arik continued whispering. “But after all, you know that everyone breaks in the end. The question is what price you’ll end up paying and in what condition you’ll find yourself once we’re done with you.”
There was no point threatening a terrorist on Ali Baba’s level with a variety of forms of torture. He would shutter himself up immediately and start praying loudly for death to come save him and turn him into a shahid. A shahid was considered to have a guaranteed spot in heaven.
Ali Baba looked at the English-speaking man wearing a ski mask and said, “You’re not English, and your English is Mediterranean. Who are you? You’re Israeli, right?”
Arik ignored him. He had no intention of letting the man control the conversation. “Look around you, ya habibi (my dear) Ashraf Ghani Abdullah,” he said. “I have all the time in the world, and I’m the son of a butcher. As I skin you with a blade, you’ll feel like you’re about to die, but I don’t intend to let you die. I’m going to keep you alive so that the fear gnaws at every single nerve in your body, every fiber in your body. You’ll lose your mind, but before that, I promise you you’ll spill the beans like every single person here before you. Eventually, you’ll tell me everything I want to know.”