‘From now on, everything is on record,’ said Johnson. ‘OK?’ Uzi shrugged his acquiescence.
Skid turned on the table mic and spoke into it, stating the date, time and Uzi’s name – his real name. Then he gestured for Uzi to begin and put on a pair of headphones. Uzi cleared his throat, glanced at Avner, who was sitting beside the door cradling his gun. The microphone seemed ridiculously large. Uzi began to speak.
‘I’m going to give an account of Operation Cinnamon,’ he said, ‘the joint Mossad–Shabak operation to murder the interior minister, Ram Shalev.’
Johnson was taking notes on the laptop, his hands tapping away as if they had a life of their own. ‘Describe your involvement,’ he said, without looking up.
‘My role was to liaise with the Shabak and the Kidon, and to contribute towards the accomplishment of the objective,’ said Uzi. ‘From the start, it didn’t feel like a regular operation.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Johnson. ‘For the record: by “Shabak” you mean the Shin Bet, Israel’s domestic secret service. The Israeli MI5, so to speak. And by “Kidon” you mean a Mossad assassin.’
‘Right. Normally we would receive our orders in briefing sessions with the section commander. This time, I was called for a meeting with ROM himself – the director of the Mossad – on behalf of the PM.’
‘Hold on,’ said Johnson. ‘I just want to be absolutely clear about this. You’re saying that you were called into a meeting with the director of the Mossad on behalf of the Israeli prime minister?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’
‘How did you know it was on behalf of the prime minister? Did ROM say so explicitly?’
‘Yes.’
‘What were his exact words?’
‘He said, “I’m calling you into this meeting on behalf of the prime minister.”’
From across the room, Avner sniggered.
Johnson flushed. ‘Fine.’
‘Thanks,’ said Uzi drily. His throat was sore from the cigarettes and his lungs were tightening. ‘From the start, all orders were issued verbally. No documentation whatsoever.’
‘And that was unusual?’ said Johnson.
‘Yes, it was unusual. Now just shut up and listen. You’re driving me crazy.’ Johnson made no response. ‘The whole thing was very strange. It didn’t feel right. Operation Cinnamon was to be carried out within Israel’s borders. Ordinarily the Mossad only works abroad.’
‘The Mossad being the Israeli MI6.’
‘If you must make that comparison, yes.’
‘Why do you think the Mossad was being used domestically in this operation?’
‘Because ROM and the PM go back a long way. They are both kibbutzniks, both of the same political stripe. The PM knows he can trust the Mossad more than the Shabak or any other intelligence unit; they’re like his own family. And, of course, he chose us because of our expertise. In assassination.’ There was a silence. That word, with all its ugly sibilance, hung in the air horribly. ‘But I had been taught not to ask any questions. So I agreed to take on the operation.’
‘Did it bother you that the target of the assassination was an Israeli minister?’
‘Of course it bothered me, but I could only assume he was an enemy agent of some sort.’
‘ROM gave you no reason for the hit?’
‘None whatsoever. I found out later.’
‘I see.’
‘Look, by that point my career was unstable. I had been asking too many tricky questions, and was relying on my horses – powerful allies on the inside – to limit the damage. But I knew they couldn’t protect me forever. Cinnamon was a Priority One operation, and I was flattered that they offered it to me. You just don’t refuse a Priority One operation. I knew that I needed to carry it off in style if I was going to survive in the organisation.’
‘Why do you think ROM chose you?’
‘My horses had set it up that way. I’d promised them that I’d stop challenging authority, that I’d toe the line no matter what, and they wanted to give me a chance to get my career back on track.’
‘OK.’
‘So Operation Cinnamon began. The Shabak’s undercover Arabists had already infiltrated a cell of suicide bombers in Gaza. Myself and a Kidon were assigned to the Shabak unit. Our plan was to pose as Hamas terrorists, instruct one of the suicide bombers to kill Ram Shalev, and pass it off as a terrorist attack. This suited the government, by the way. Whenever there is an attack in Israel, public opinion swings to the right. Just the thing with an election coming up.’
‘Did you know the identity of the Kidon?’ said Johnson.
‘No,’ said Uzi coldly. ‘They’re the most secretive unit in existence. I did meet with him several times to discuss the operation but he only ever called himself K20.’ He lit another cigarette. Through the smoke that was leaking from his mouth, fogging his eyes, the world looked dream-like, mystical.
‘Everything went smoothly. The undercover Shabak operative made contact with a prospective suicide bomber, and we set up a meeting in Gaza. I posed as a high-ranking terrorist in Hamas who had arrived to give him a personal mission. He was a young boy, not more than sixteen, whose parents had been killed during Operation Cast Lead. Nadim Sam Qaaqour was his name. A lanky kid, wiry. He’d been brainwashed – totally brainwashed – as if somebody had removed everything inside him and filled him with . . . I don’t know . . . a sort of gas.’
‘Gas?’
‘Some kind of spirit, I don’t know. Anyway, we told him that Ram Shalev had been one of the main architects of Operation Cast Lead and that he was planning another offensive against the people of Gaza. The boy didn’t need any more than that. He agreed to do it there and then. We left it a week, then scheduled another meeting. Nadim was as keen as before, keener in fact. So we provided him with a suicide vest and instructions. The Kidon – K20 – arranged a meeting with Ram Shalev in the private garden of a hotel in downtown Jerusalem. The plan was to smuggle Nadim out of Gaza and drop him off in Jerusalem. Then he would make his way into the hotel garden via a side entrance. When K20 saw him coming, he would excuse himself and walk into the hotel, leaving Shalev alone in the garden. As soon as K20 was inside, Nadim was to run over and detonate the bomb. K20 would then return to the scene to make sure that both Shalev and the boy were dead. If not, he would finish them off with a miniature explosive charge to the head, made of the same substances as the suicide vest.
‘It was the sort of plan that only the Mossad could have come up with. The Shabak, well, they’re sophisticated operators but they don’t have the same flair.’
Uzi paused, got to his feet and walked over to the window. He parted the curtains. Outside it was dark and the rain was coming down in great flapping sheets. He saw his face reflected in the glass.
‘Do you want to stop the recording?’ said Johnson.
‘No, leave it. I’m fine,’ said Uzi. He returned to his seat, passed a hand over his brow, and resumed the narrative. ‘I was uncomfortable with the whole operation. I felt there was no doubt that Nadim would blow himself up sooner or later. In his mind, he’d already crossed to the other side. But using him as an instrument of assassination?’ He shook his head. ‘There was something I couldn’t put my finger on, something that wasn’t right.’
‘Do you normally trust your instincts?’
‘This operation was far from normal. Anyway, what really bothered me was the target: Ram Shalev. It didn’t add up. He just didn’t seem like the type to be an enemy agent; my gut was telling me it was all wrong. But I convinced myself that since it was a Priority One operation, it wouldn’t have been approved without good reason, especially at such a high level. Call me naive, but that’s what I wanted to believe. It’s what I wanted to be true; this operation was going to be very good for my career.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Well, K20 had instructed me to get Nadim to hand over all the money he possessed the week before the attack. This amounted to thr
ee thousand dollars; his parents had left it to him to be used as a dowry for his sister. K20 said that it was standard practice to take money off suicide bombers, as it made them more committed. If they didn’t have any money, it made them more determined to blow themselves up; they’d have nothing to go back to.’
‘Where did the money go?’
‘I remember K20’s face when I handed over the cash. There was a very slight change of expression, greed, I guess. And then I knew exactly where the money was going. I knew I was being played. But I let it slide.’
‘So the operation went according to plan?’
‘It did. It was the strangest thing, taking a suicide bomber to his target. That was Nadim’s last journey, and he seemed so calm, so otherworldly. I picked him up in Gaza, smuggled him out and drove him into Jerusalem. There was something eerie about the boy. He was praying constantly. I waited outside the hotel until the bomb went off. Then I drove away. Later I found out that Nadim had been killed instantly, but Ram Shalev had only been injured. K20 had finished him off.’
‘With the explosive charge to the head.’
‘With the explosive charge to the head. Then he disappeared.’
Uzi sat back, running his hands through his hair. He glanced at Avner, who gave him the slightest of nods.
‘So what made you investigate further?’ said Johnson.
Uzi sighed. ‘That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the faces of Ram Shalev, of Nadim. When the objective had been achieved and they were both dead, it really hit me. I didn’t know why, but the whole thing stank. The following morning, the PM called me personally to congratulate me and thank me for my dedication. It was when I put the phone down that I knew I had to find out what lay behind the operation. I needed to know what I’d done.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I was sure that K20 knew the truth. The Kidonim are the highest-ranking intelligence operatives in Israel; he had to know the full story. I managed to make contact with him by making a formal request for a one-to-one, intelligence-sharing session. Surprisingly enough, the authorities agreed. We met in downtown Tel Aviv, and I threatened to inform his superiors that he had extorted three thousand dollars from Nadim. This freaked him out. Don’t get me wrong, corruption is rife in the regular Mossad, but the Kidonim are held to a different standard. They’re not meant to be players like the rest of us. And if they break the rules, the penalties are high.’
‘How did K20 respond?’
‘He started to threaten me, but I told him that I’d left a letter containing this information with a friend, to be opened if I were killed or injured. I said I just wanted to know the nature of my crimes, that I had no intention of leaking any intelligence. That it wouldn’t be worth risking my life over. I distinctly remember telling him that I wasn’t that stupid.’ Uzi smiled to himself bitterly.
‘So K20 gave you the information?’
‘He did. We met the following week and he handed over a file of documents. I had them for only five minutes. I used a clamper – you’re familiar with a clamper?’
‘Yeah, that’s our stock in trade.’
‘OK, so using a clamper I photographed all of the documents. I read them through that evening. And what I saw shocked me.’
‘Do tell.’
Uzi took a deep breath. ‘Ram Shalev was assassinated on the orders of the PM because he had some information that he was going to make public. The information was this. The government was planning – is still planning – to carry out lightning air strikes on Iranian nuclear facilities, in an operation called Desert Rain. They say that the Iranians have enriched uranium and produced yellowcake. This yellowcake represents an existential threat to Israel, so if it existed, the attacks would be justified. But, in reality, according to Ram Shalev, the yellowcake is a paper tiger. It doesn’t exist. Operation Desert Rain is simply a publicity stunt to drum up some patriotic fervour in Israel, and swing the country in the run-up to the election.’
‘Talk about playing with fire,’ said Johnson. ‘If Iran were to retaliate, this would mean war.’
‘I know,’ Uzi replied. ‘This government is nothing if not arrogant.’
A silence fell, a tangible silence broken only by the tapping of keys as Johnson made feverish notes.
‘So let me just run through this again, for purposes of clarity,’ Johnson said, trying to keep his voice matter-of-fact. ‘The prime minister has authorised an attack on a bogus target in Iran in order to get the public on his side before the election.’
‘Right,’ said Uzi. ‘Operation Desert Rain.’
‘Ram Shalev, one of his own ministers, found out about the plan and intended to make it public.’
‘Correct.’
‘So the prime minister used the Mossad to assassinate him. He killed his own interior minister, and he used the Mossad to do it.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you personally were involved in this operation. Operation Cinnamon.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And this testimony is all completely true. Everything happened exactly as you said it.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Fuck,’ said Skid from the corner of the room. He stopped the recording and removed his headphones. ‘This is massive.’
Uzi reached into his inside pocket and drew out the buff envelope he had taken from the slick in his old apartment. He tossed it over to Johnson. ‘Here are copies of all the documents I photographed with the clamper. They confirm everything I’ve told you.’ Johnson took the envelope, with a forced casualness. ‘Leak them, Johnson, whatever your name is. Let the world know about Operation Cinnamon, Operation Desert Rain. Once the information is out there, the government can’t bomb Iran.’
‘That’s your motivation? To avert war?’ said Johnson.
‘That and the money,’ said Avner from beside the door.
‘What money?’
‘J didn’t tell you? Political donations,’ said Avner. ‘And speaking of money, we have agreed with J that you won’t make this information public until we’ve received a cash deposit in our accounts. Do you understand that?’
‘Whatever,’ said Johnson, slowly closing his laptop.
‘No, not whatever,’ said Avner, getting to his feet. ‘Put it like this. If my colleague’s testimony leaks before we get our money, we will hunt you down and kill you. Not J, not anybody else, just you. Understand now?’
Johnson nodded, avoiding eye contact. The two WikiLeaks men hurriedly packed up their equipment and prepared to leave. Uzi took out Avner’s MacBook and turned it on. Skid came and watched over his shoulder as he inserted the Office’s USB and ran the de-encryption software. Then he opened the file.
The four men huddled around the glowing screen. Within seconds there appeared a gallery of head-and-shoulder photographs of the Mossad’s forty-eight Kidonim, all of whom looked young and serious, and six of whom were female. Uzi breathed in sharply. Just setting eyes on these pictures meant an instant death sentence.
‘Present from J,’ murmured Johnson.
‘Him,’ said Uzi, pointing to one of the images. ‘That’s K20.’ The picture showed a baby-faced man with longish black hair, pale green eyes and a high-bridged nose. Uzi opened his file, read his name. ‘There you are. Yakov Ben Zion. Aged twenty-six.’ He turned to Johnson. ‘You make this guy’s name public as well. Make sure of it.’
After the men had left, Uzi and Avner sat in silence for many minutes, lost in their thoughts. The rain could be heard pounding on the window with a renewed ferocity, heightening the stillness in the room. Then Avner took out his phone and dialled a number.
‘It’s Michael here,’ he said. ‘Yes, it’s done. All went according to plan. We’re waiting for our money. When we receive it, we’ll give J the green light.’ And he hung up.
There was a pause.
‘Well,’ said Uzi, ‘that’s it. It’s done.’
‘It’s done,’ Avner repeated. ‘Doesn’t that
feel good? We’re fucking the Office, preventing war with Iran, and making more money than we can spend in a lifetime. All at once.’
‘Yeah,’ said Uzi impassively, ‘feels good.’
‘I’m going to go home, have a hot bath, and start making the arrangements for my new life,’ said Avner, getting to his feet. ‘I suggest you do the same. When the story breaks, we both want to be far away.’
‘I’ve told you, I’m staying right here,’ said Uzi. ‘I’ve got a good thing going here with Liberty. Good work, well paid. And I have protection.’
Avner looked at him as if he were about to say something. Then he changed his mind. He walked over and rested his hand on Uzi’s shoulder. Then he turned and left the room.
23
In a backstreet between Soho and Covent Garden, beneath a constantly flickering streetlight, lay an underground vodka dive. It had no official name, but was known to the people who knew about it as Pogreb – the Cellar. The place was subterranean; to enter you had to descend a flight of slippery stone steps, pass through a steel door – which was always closed, and manned by an armed bouncer – and go down a spiral staircase into a converted wine cellar. Its customers were pushers, pimps, money launderers, even the occasional arms dealer. All Russian.
In a shadowy corner, hunched over a bottle of flavoured vodka, cupping shot glasses in their hands, sat two men. One, an Afghan named Aasif Hamidi, was swarthy and sullen, with a black moustache and a jacket collar turned up in a low fan behind his neck. His companion, Alexey Mikhailovich Abelev, had tightly curled blond hair, thick white eyelashes and eyes that looked like marbles.
‘So,’ said Abelev, ‘this is your first time in London?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you like it?’
‘I was sent from Afghanistan to check on how the woman is selling our product,’ he said; his Russian was thick with an accent from the Afghan borderlands. ‘That is all.’
‘Your boss is losing confidence in her? That’s what I am hearing.’
Hamidi shrugged. ‘Business is business. We have to make sure we get the best price.’
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