Three Envelopes

by Nir Hezroni

  “The bomb slipped out the Iranians’ hands at the very last minute thanks to our nutcase, who was dispatched to take out the three scientists. We were forced, of course, to eliminate all the other scientists who were in the room, too, because we didn’t know which of them was involved. The remaining nine scientists died as a result of accidents of some kind or from ‘natural’ medical causes over a period of several years up until 2009. Each was handled by a different agent. We assigned the three nuclear scientists to the psycho because they were all heavily guarded and we knew that his extreme methods, with the addition of the transformations he underwent, would be our only chance of getting to them. And besides, it fit with our overriding objective. Had we managed to get our hands on Shariri a few years earlier, we wouldn’t have had to take out the other nine. It was all about the timing. Tough luck.”

  “What about the bomb?” One of the men at the table, with gray hair and thick-rimmed glasses, looked at the raindrops trickling down the glass wall.

  “We tried to locate it. Based on the call we intercepted at the conference in Brussels, the bomb was supposed to be in a cemetery somewhere. We dispatched more than a hundred agents with Geiger counters to sweep all the cemeteries in all the countries of origin of the scientists. It took years and they didn’t come back with anything other than a reading from one grave in Buenos Aires that we opened, only to discover that the body itself was the source of the radiation. Someone who had moved to Argentina from Chernobyl.”

  The room went silent.

  The woman with the gray hair lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply and spewed out a cloud of smoke as she started talking.

  “I’d like to remind you all that I was opposed to this plan of action ten years ago–due to the high level of uncertainty and the huge risk involved. I’m not here to say, ‘I told you so,’ but I’d like to make sure that we never adopt such extreme measures again.”

  The host poured himself a glass of cold water from the pitcher next to him and remained silent. A man with curly gray hair, which showed clear signs of once being red, spoke up.

  “We have to bear in mind that we were concerned with maintaining a constant defensive mode,” he said.

  The others around the table listened.

  “I am aware not all of us were in the loop of that activity ten years ago. Those who were in the loop—please excuse me for dumping all this information. From our perspective, the United States functions well in the global arena when faced with a specific threat. Terror. The Cold War. The threat of a Saudi oil embargo. The Gulf War was a clear demonstration of this. That same year, a quarter of a million people died in civil wars in Africa, and no American aircraft dropped a single bomb there. But the moment Iraq invaded Kuwait—that spelled the end for Saddam. As far as NATO and the United States are concerned, the Syrians can pulverize each other to death until not a single one is left standing; but look at what happened the moment oil production in Libya came under threat.

  “Because we don’t have large oil reserves, our strategic value in the international arena isn’t fixed. It’s a linear function that is related directly to the threat level felt by the Pentagon. We can amuse ourselves with the thought that the enlightened world actually cares about us because we contribute to humanity. Bullshit, my friends. Bullshit. If the map of interest doesn’t place us in the role of a watchdog loyal to the values of its masters, a watchdog that maintains order in a problematic neighborhood and bites sometimes whenever necessary, then we are worthless. All of a sudden, we’re no longer a shining light of democracy in the Middle East but a pain in the ass that the entire world would be more than happy to see disappear in a flash. Let’s not fool ourselves.”

  No one around the table said a word. The wind played with the raindrops sliding down the glass wall of the large room. The redhead continued:

  “Following the end of World War II, the balance between the Soviets and the Americans preserved their defensive mode. ’49—the Communist revolution in China. ’50—the division of Korea. ’53—Laos. ’60—Congo. ’61—the Bay of Pigs. ’62—the Cuban Missile Crisis. ’65—the war in Vietnam. ’70—Cambodian invasion. ’79—Afghanistan and the Soviets. ’83—the Grenada invasion. ’46 to ’91—the nuclear arms race. There was an ongoing sequence of external incidents between two superpowers that boosted our strategic worth to the United States; but this worth gradually diminished following the break-up of the Soviet Union. For an entire decade, since 1991, we have witnessed a steady decline in American interest and behind-the-scenes assistance. I’m not talking about the numbers they publish every year in the framework of their “so-called” aid budget, but the real numbers, the sharing of technology and satellite intelligence, the integration of control systems.

  “The slide came to an abrupt halt on September 11, 2001, when al-Qaeda brought down the Twin Towers along with the three thousand Americans who were in them at the time. Washington went berserk and invested six trillion dollars to set things straight in the region. I’ll say that number again. Six trillion dollars. Strategic threats we had no idea how to cope with disappeared within two weeks.

  “From then on, the defensive mode again fell into a state of decline. We had to wait for radical Islam to do something, or take action ourselves. Operating on U.S. soil was certainly out of the question. There are enough conspiracy theories going around without us actually having to do anything; and from the perspective of security as well—every foreigner who enters through a border crossing is monitored by the NSA until the moment he leaves the country. We decided to go for their neighbors. Much less security, and pretty much the exact same effect.”

  “I have to cut in,” said the gray-haired woman. “Nothing is worth the risk of this operation coming to light. It would completely destroy our relationship with the United States, not to mention Canada. You all know what happened in the summer of ‘54 with Operation Susannah. It changed the entire political-historical course and overturned the political map—and all over a few incendiary devices the size of a wallet that didn’t even injure anyone aside from one of our own agents. Do you have any idea what would happen if someone were to link us to Canada?”

  The redhead fidgeted with the cap of his pen and went on:

  “Of course Canada shouldn’t have been hit on such a large scale. No one thought a lone agent without special equipment could cause such extensive damage; but if we look at the effective impact it had on preserving our interests, we saw the Americans ended up spending eight hundred and fifty billion dollars on security to protect their interests in the Middle East after the incident in Canada—and we can’t ignore that.”

  Another one of the previously silent participants joined the discussion “And why did we think that doing this kind of operation in Canada would alert the Americans? After all, everyone thought this was the single act of an insane person.”

  The redhead placed the pen back on the table and replied “Right after this happened in Canada two agents we had planted deep in al-Qaeda made a phone call from Iraq. One of them called the other and congratulated him on the successful operation in Canada and asked him if they were going to publish a tape about it before continuing with the U.S. operation. The other replied that this one would remain unannounced. That’s all it took. ECHELON SIGINT collection did the rest. As a part of the ‘Five Eyes’ the U.S. is collecting every bit of digital data that moves in the Middle East—Satellite transmissions, fiber optics, radio stations, cell carrier channels, all sent back to NSA HQ at Fort Meade, Maryland, for decryption and processing. We do not know why the U.S. did not share this one with the rest of the ECHELON partners who are in the UK, New Zealand, Australia, and Canada. For some reason they kept it to themselves.”

  The host folded his arms and rested them on the table. He took charge of the discussion again.

  “Friends, let’s get back on track and talk about the matter at hand. Whether or not we should have carried out the operation is a subject for another time, and I’ll arrang
e a separate meeting for such a discussion in the near future. For the operation in Canada, we needed someone who didn’t know why he was carrying it out or what exactly he was doing. Someone who couldn’t even explain it to himself. Someone who even if caught, in the worst-case scenario, would reveal at most that he was sent to assassinate someone and that the extensive damage he caused was at his own initiative. At that point, the interrogators would stop. They’d have no reason to think there was still another layer to peel off after extracting such a confession from him. Sure, it would have caused quite an uproar, but no one would have known the real reason.

  “I’ll make sure that in the end, when he’s done with the little performance he’s currently busy with, he will also disappear. For good this time. Does everyone agree with this course of action?”

  Seven hands went up in silence, along with the raised hand of the man who called the meeting.

  The rain was coming down harder outside. Water streamed down the glass wall. Thunder boomed overhead. The logs in the fireplace crackled.

  “Okay then, ladies and gentlemen, the meeting is adjourned. Please, help yourself to breakfast,” Grandpa said. He unfolded his arms, gulped down the remainder of the water in his glass, and placed the empty glass on the table.

  The members of the inner circle stood up and went to fill their plates, and Grandpa used the time to go over to a corner of the room, sit down on a large leather sofa and enter a ten-digit number into his phone. After three rings, someone picked up.

  “Rachel speaking, at your service.”

  “It’s been ten years,” Grandpa said. “We need you.”

  10:25

  Efrat could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She bent down slowly, gently placed the package she was holding on the floor, stood back up, and left the house. But before she had a chance to lock the door, a blow to the back of her head dropped her to the floor.

  She tried to look up and raise her arms to protect her head, but a second blow rendered her unconsciousness. A man in a brown UPS messenger’s uniform leaned over her with something that looked like an oxygen mask in his hand. He reached into his pocket and took out a syringe and attached a sterile needle to the tip.

  The needle slid into Efrat’s arm and a few drops of blood were drawn into the syringe, creating a small red whirlpool within the clear liquid in the plastic tube. The mixture was then injected back into her vein.

  The man in the uniform lifted her onto his shoulder and placed her in the back of a large van with the words MASHANI—CARPET CLEANING painted on both sides.

  Fixed to the ceiling of the van were several powerful lights. The man turned them on before tying Efrat’s hands and feet to the four metal rings soldered to the floor of the vehicle. He then removed his brown uniform, along with his shoes and socks, and stuffed all the items into a trash bag.

  Two wooden cabinets stood on either side of the van’s cargo space, blocking the vehicle’s windows. The man reached into a drawer and retrieved a set of blue overalls bearing the same slogan and logo as displayed on the sides of the van. He sung cheerfully to himself as he dressed:

  Twinkle, twinkle little star,

  How I wonder what you are.

  10:39

  Avner pulled up outside Rona’s home and dashed out of his car without bothering to close the door. He left the engine running.

  Rona and Yigal’s front door was locked. No one was home.

  Avner banged his fist on the door. “Efrat!” he shouted. No response.

  The homes where he lives are only a minute’s walk from one another. Avner stood still for a moment to catch his breath. He had to remain focused.

  He looked around and began walking slowly from his neighbors’ front door toward his own home, looking for the signs of an abduction or a physical struggle.

  On reaching the entrance to his home, he found the front door wide open.

  “Efrat!”

  No one answered. Avner noticed a few drops of blood by the front door. He went inside.

  The house was empty. Avner looked around the entrance hall. He didn’t see the package.

  “Efrat!”

  He went into the kitchen. There was a full glass of orange juice on the table. Next to it was a white sheet of lined paper.

  Avner recognized it at once—both the type of paper and the handwriting on it.

  He felt the blood drain from his face.

  He sat down on the same chair he’d occupied last night during his brief meeting with Amiram and picked up the sheet of paper.

  NIGHT, MARCH 2006

  I’ll tear this page out of the notebook and leave it in the basement when I’m done writing. I’ll return to the basement at some point to retrieve it. But not now.

  The bedroom upstairs is ablaze and I’m sitting in the basement at the Last Supper table eating dinner together with the 2 people on either side of me. They’re still alive, but their heads are unstable and keep flopping from side to side. I add more liquid to the container to which their IV feeds are connected and throw in some antibiotics to prevent their pressure sores from becoming infected. They’ve lost weight and the zip ties holding them to their chairs are a little loose. I tighten them.

  I wait for 3 o’clock and leave via the back balcony.

  The surveillance team tracking me is still parked outside on the other side of the building.

  Perhaps they think I have an accomplice.

  I recognize the license plate.

  It’s an Organization vehicle. The middle 3 digits on the license number are 171, which is a number divisible by 3. I remember seeing the same car parked at the main base when I last met with Amiram.

  I realize that the people trying to kill me are members of The Organization. I realize that they’ve decided to eliminate me so as not to leave behind any evidence of the missions I carried out with such success. This is how they want to repay me for all I did for them.

  I walk away from the building and take a cab to the satellite branch in Ra’anana. The branch is located in a building marked THE ISRAEL ELECTRIC CORPORATION LTD. Several large transformers on the roof of the building are hooked up to cables coming from a nearby pylon, but they’re inactive.

  I go inside, pass through the security check and leave my cell phone with the guard with the battery removed.

  I get myself a glass of water and a few cookies from the kitchenette and go into one of the private offices with a desktop computer. I close the door and lock it. I log into the system using a system admin password.

  I do a search for each of my 3 targets. I learn more about the Bernoulli Project. I now know the truth. The people in The Organization are the real enemy. I operated on their behalf and they betrayed me. They followed me. They sent people to my home.

  I compile all the information I can about the Bernoulli Project and the members of The Organization’s inner circle. They are the ones who gave the order to kill me. You can’t connect a flash drive to The Organization’s desktop computers, so I write down all the details on several sheets of paper, which I then fold and slip into the pocket of my pants.

  I delete all traces of my searches from the system, along with any record of my having entered the branch.

  I’ll get them all. Amiram. His boss. All those who tried to kill me. And all the members of the inner circle. I’ll make sure they all die, together with their families.

  February 15th 2006

  Professor Federico Lopez stopped in his tracks in the middle of his afternoon run. There was a strong smell of gasoline in the air. It took him a moment to connect the smell to the sprinklers that had suddenly come to life.

  He saw a fuel tanker parked at the edge of the park. The air was thick with fuel vapor. Then he caught sight of a figure crouching beside the tanker. The figure threw a small ball of fire at the park. He knew he wasn’t going to get out of there alive.

  He reached into his pocket for his phone and started dialing.

  The sea of fire rushed toward him, thre
atening to engulf him. The heat was overwhelming.

  The phone sounded a single call-waiting tone.

  He had to pass on the location. He’s the only one who knows it.

  His clothes caught fire. He could smell his own burning flesh and hair.

  The phone sounded a second call-waiting tone.

  The skin on the hand holding the phone was melting. His eyes were burning.

  He had to pass on the location, or it would be lost forever.

  Someone picked up.

  “Hello, Herr Schmidt speaking.”

  The burning phone went dead.

  Federico Lopez’s burning lips kept repeating the same two words that nobody ever heard.

  Then he dropped the blackened phone and fell to his knees, engulfed in flames.

  Today, December 4th 2016, 08:30, Montreal time zone

  He sat in the dimly lit den. A small reading lamp cast a small circle of light on a dark wooden table; outside the window, snowflakes fell softly in a slow swirling dance.

  Majid Shariri is living in Israel under the name of Sharon Tuvian.

  He resides at 7 HaNarkisim Street in Holon.

  Those were the words on the piece of paper he’d removed from the envelope that was waiting for him under the door to his office. The envelope gave no indication of who sent it. All it showed was a date and the name of the intended recipient.

  The envelope also contained a photograph of Sharon Tuvian. The man didn’t look exactly like Shariri, but he wasn’t different enough to completely rule out the possibility. Who delivered the envelope? None of the office employees had seen anything.