by Shlomi Tal
This notice confirms what JJ told me—that is to say, he feels safe with us.
“Do you have a car here?” I ask JJ when I return to the table.
“Yes, I have a car and a local driver from our office in Marseilles. He knows the city well, and we’ll ride to the port with him. What exactly is going to happen there?”
“I thought they reported to you. Good! When Avigdor calls, we’ll drive to the harbor. At the entrance, Avigdor will introduce you to the man who knows the bad guys. He will accompany you to the area near where the ship will be moored and there, he will point out the man to you as he disembarks.” I sip the wine slowly—it’s cheap, not fine wine, but it has a pleasant flavor—and continue. “Our information is that several people will arrive, apparently three. They will get off the ship and go to some place in Marseilles—we don’t know where. The cargo, which is three to four kilos of uranium, is appropriately wrapped in a container on board the ship. We have learned that they intend to offload this container here and retrieve it afterward. I don’t know the destination of the cargo. It may be in transshipment to another location. If they get the idea that it is impossible to offload it here in Marseilles without customs inspection, they may transfer it to another port in the region where it could get through more easily,” I report, lying without any pangs of conscience. The plain and simple truth is that France was never the container’s destination; it was sent to Marseilles for transshipment to Istanbul, from where it was to be transported overland to Iraq, its final destination. Our information is that one man is accompanying the cargo. Our operative knows him and will point him out to Jean-Jacques. We have been told that the man has been instructed to go immediately to the customs broker’s office at the port, whose name we have not managed to get. There, the man must get approval to join the ship that will transport the container to Istanbul. We decided to say that a few people were accompanying the uranium and that they got off the ship so that the SDECE would become entangled in finding them. This would give us a few days until they got to the bottom of it, days during which we would be able to continue our operations at Orly undisturbed. Our working assumption is that JJ will want to reap for himself the credit for catching these men; if he is busy dealing with the Iraqi uranium, he will not have time to bother us.
We finish eating and drink coffee, waiting quietly for the call to drive to the port. We drink more coffee. Jean-Jacques is relaxed, and I don’t look behind me, not even once. At twenty minutes to two, the barman announces, “Monsieur Cohen, telephone! Monsieur Cohen!”
“That is our signal,” I tell Jean-Jacques and go to the telephone.
“The ferry is loaded, the trucks are leaving the port now, and the trailers are securely tied to the lower deck of the ferry that will set sail immediately. Everything went off well—RAS.[15] The Atlantic Queen is outside the entrance to the harbor waiting for the navigator, and then it will be brought in. Come on, move it.” Avigdor hangs up.
We settle the bill, each of us paying for his own meal, and we climb into the back seat of the SDECE car, a regulation black Renault 16. Jean-Jacques is of the equivalent rank of a colonel in our Israeli Army. My respect for the man increases. He probably thinks that I am of at least the same rank as him. I will remind my superiors that I certainly deserve a promotion…
We drive in silence. Jean-Jacques suddenly interrupts, “Are you armed?”
“What? Armed? Me, armed? No way! Carrying weapons in France is illegal. Are you carrying a firearm?”
“No, I’m not. My police at the harbor have submachine guns, and the undercover SDECE men have revolvers. I don’t carry arms.”
I glance at my watch when we reach the parking lot at the entrance to the harbor. It’s nineteen minutes past two.
Avigdor is waiting for me. When Jean-Jacques goes to check out something with his men, I ask Avigdor, “How did you know that I would go to the women’s cubicle in the restroom?”
“We didn’t know.”
“So how come, you left the note there?”
“You’re really an idiot, Yiftach. Think for a minute! Since your back was turned toward our man, we had to give you a different kind of signal, so we decided to leave a note in the restrooms. We didn’t know which one you would use, so we left similar notes in all three cubicles and a fourth one above the pissoirs. After you saw one note, the fellow in the black T-shirt destroyed the others.” He doesn’t mention the names of the two men who guarded me at the restaurant.
I tell Avigdor that JJ saw through the cover of the agent on the verandah, and I draw his attention to JJ’s high rank in the SDECE. Avigdor isn’t at all impressed.
“When are we going to The Atlantic Queen?” I ask.
“In another ten minutes. I will introduce JJ to Doron, who will identify the smuggler for him. We’ll stand on the side, near a crane, as if we belong somewhere else, and we will see what happens. I want to see how they nab them from up close. It’s an opportunity to learn other people’s techniques, live, as the arrest goes down.”
We disperse over the area. Ten policemen remain outside the harbor. Six came with us; they are in uniform and march in pairs on the quayside where the navigator of the harbor is directing The Atlantic Queen to drop anchor.
The six men marching in uniform don’t appear to belong to any organization in particular; they look like a regular patrol doing its rounds of the port. JJ stands with two men in civilian dress. Avigdor says they are SDECE and chats with them. Doron stands beside them, smoking a cigarette as if he belongs to the group. Doron faces the quay, and I notice that the four are some fifteen meters from the ship, located exactly opposite the spot where a door is opening about a meter above the dock. Four laborers lower a gangway that stretches to the entrance of the ship. This is not a passenger liner, so there is no sleeve like there is on an airport gangway. Two uniformed customs officers with guns in holsters on their belts board the vessel. The document inspection process begins.
“Pay attention to the ferry sailing out on your right,” Avigdor suddenly alerts me. “That’s ours, setting sail. Everything is all right there.”
Avigdor and I are beside the crane, opposite the prow of a big container ship, about sixty to seventy meters from the entrance to the ship. We both raise our heads to the crane as if we’re looking at something, which isn’t the case. But to an observer in the distance, we appear to be busy with something, paying no attention to the ship. Only our eyes, focused on the open entrance to the ship, watch. We are both tense, knowing exactly what we have to do.
After less than fifteen minutes, two customs officers disembark from the ship and go away. That is a sign for us that the registration procedure of the ship’s docking has ended. We begin moving toward the ship’s entrance. Our progress is slow—we pretend to examine something that isn’t clear, stopping for a moment. Some people leave the ship. They look like passengers who joined a cargo ship. We continue our progress with slow strides toward the entrance. The first five people off the ship, four men and one woman, appear to be Europeans of around twenty-five to thirty years of age. Each of them carries a small suitcase. I see Doron, standing alert at the entrance, not signaling anything. Another two men exit; one is European, the other is African, and neither of them carries any baggage—one has a small backpack. It’s nothing. Another minute passes, Avigdor and I stop again, alert and very tense. Where is the fellow we are expecting? Did he get off the ship at Valencia? We are about fifty meters from JJ, Doron, and the others.
Moving fast, Doron makes a rapid turn of one hundred and eighty degrees to face JJ, turning his back to the ship’s entrance and sharpening our excitement. Four African males aged over thirty now exit the ship. They don’t appear to have any connection to one another. One man strides ahead, followed by another man, next to whom (related or unrelated) there is a third person—in the rear, the fourth and last one. Suddenly, ten SDECE men appear out of nowhere, their weapons drawn, and yell, “Police! Police!” They attack the four and pu
sh them down on the quayside, handcuff their hands behind their backs and chain their legs. Avigdor and I approach them slowly. When we are about twenty meters away, an imposing African man, almost two meters tall, suddenly runs down from the ship. He is about forty-five years old and has a full head of curly hair that seems like a wig. He is holding an AK-47 assault rifle.[16] He screams something unintelligible and aims his weapon at the French. The SDECE men, who had returned their firearms to their holsters, start trying to pull them out again. The African doesn’t fire his weapon—I think he’s afraid of shooting his friends. He hesitates, facing the tightly closed group, aiming his AK-47 at it. Avigdor and I close in from the side, forming a triangle: the African at one vertex, the French SDECE and their prisoners, at the second, and Avigdor and I at the third point.
“Are you armed, Avigdor?”
“Yes.”
“So why don’t you shoot the black guy? Give me your gun!” I commend him. Avigdor hands me his .22 Beretta, a ridiculous toy compared to the AK-47. My only advantage is that the African hasn’t noticed me. I release the safety catch as I dash in his direction. He moves to pull a revolver out of his trouser pocket. I run the last fifteen meters between us, yelling out loud in Hebrew, “Son of a bitch, stinking bastard!” The black man turns to me, and before he can straighten up completely and point his AK-47 at me, I shoot him four times straight in the heart at a range of five meters. I pray that he isn’t wearing a bulletproof vest, which would stop the .22 rounds without them so much as tickling him. Just to be certain, I save the last two rounds to fire at his head from close range if it becomes necessary.
The black man drops. Before I understand what is happening, Jean-Jacques is beside me, hissing, “You said you weren’t armed!”
“The weapon belongs to Avigdor.”
“Is it legal?”
“Of course not.”
“Listen here, Yves-Tah. Throw that gun in the sea. Now! Yes, by the ship, quickly! Without anyone seeing, make use of the commotion. Move!” Jean-Jacques shoves me toward the ship.
When I return after a few seconds, having gotten rid of the gun, I see Jean-Jacques grab the dead African’s gun, a large Magnum, and fire three shots at his heart.
“Is that to confirm the killing?” I ask.
“I’ll explain later. Now, wait for me here. Too many people witnessed you shooting him, and we have a giant corpse lying here. Now we have to proceed according to protocol, with a few minor adjustments to prevent unnecessary and pointless complications. Let me thank you for preventing a slaughter from taking place here. You acted quickly and professionally. Bravo!” JJ applauds silently and, while he is still clapping his hands, continues right away, “Tell your people from the consulate to go now and leave it to us. It would be a pity to implicate you in this mess. The police will arrive with their investigating team, and I have to handle it. I will instruct them exactly what to say in the report. Of course, we will release you from the whole affair.” Jean-Jacques lets me hold the dead African’s gun to get my fingerprints on it and then takes it from me carefully, without leaving his own prints on it.
Avigdor and Doron are happy to get away from the place. It suits them not to get involved in this. We agree that I will call Avigdor at the consulate to report what happened. He will inform the CDSE and prepare him. Prepare for what? Who knows?
The police, who had stayed outside the port, come to the quayside. They quickly cordon off the area. An investigative team also arrives within minutes, and an ambulance belonging to the Port Authority.
They film everything, documenting what is necessary with professionalism and perfect order, all under JJ’s watchful eyes.
Jean-Jacques handles the investigation assertively and with professional authority. He doesn’t allow anyone to approach me, citing my diplomatic immunity. Chapeau, Jean-Jacques! I think to myself. The report is written up, the body is slowly moved to the ambulance, the four detainees are driven away, and the people from the various forces are dispatched. The ambulance drives off without its siren blaring, and the quayside returns to normal.
Jean-Jacques beckons me and we ride back in his car to Marseilles, to the local SDECE HQ. I glance at my watch: it’s a few minutes after three thirty. Everything has been completed in record time. On our way, we pass a convoy of several buses traveling toward us, returning the port workers from their demonstration. Everything went like clockwork—except for the African I killed. Strangely, I don’t feel any emotion. I am not in combat in the war in Israel, yet I have killed a man.
“Now we are going to HQ, where we will prepare our internal report. I will write that you were the person whose role was to identify the African, when he arrived and rushed off the ship to shoot us, you attacked him because you were closest to him. You grabbed his revolver, fired it at him, and prevented him from using his AK-47. That’s what will appear in the report. You will volunteer to approve it with your signature—of your own free will, of course. You can refuse because of your diplomatic immunity. With that, your participation ends. The press will not report the incident until I end my inquiry and the uranium is found. When do you have to return to Paris?”
“I have a seat on the seven-fifteen flight this evening, but it can be changed if neces—”
Jean-Jacques interrupts me. “No! No! You will finish in time. When we reach HQ, call your consulate and ask them to pick you up at five thirty. I will make sure we finish by then.”
Jean-Jacques takes out a pad of notepaper and writes the doctored story of the events, as he wishes to represent it. This all happens while we are being driven to the SDECE HQ. We review it together; my French isn’t good enough to draft the report, so I leave that to my companion. All that remains for me to do is to agree to the final version. It doesn’t occur to me that I should get approval for this from my superiors. I don’t have the time or the capacity to think now. All that is going through my mind is the vision of the huge African falling on the dockside after I shot him. What is most important is that the ferry got off safely, and the matter is behind us. Now the SDECE will be busy with the uranium and will leave us in peace for a few days.
“When we get to HQ, I’ll send this to be typed up. I will sign it, you will witness it, and I will give you a copy. It will be a secret document. I rely on your discretion that it will remain so. After a short discussion in which you will not take part—you will sit outside with a cup of coffee—we will release you. Perhaps, later, I will arrange a letter of appreciation to you from the SDECE commander in Marseilles. I will conclude the matter quickly with the excuse that we have to interrogate the four smugglers we apprehended. Please thank your colleague at the embassy in Paris whose help enabled us to carry this out. Tell him that I will report our findings to you all as soon as I discover what it was about.”
We carry on in driving in silence, seated side by side in the rear. JJ is pensive. He suddenly asks, “Why is the consular official’s weapon illegal? Why don’t you request permission to bear arms in order to defend yourselves?”
“This is just between the two of us…” I hesitate for a moment. “If they know that I told you, they will eat me alive. So, it’s like this. We don’t request permission because, if we ask and are turned down, the situation would be much worse if they caught us—for example, in a situation like today. Right now, it is in the gray area. We don’t ask. That’s the situation. In the past, when an embassy security operative was caught with a firearm like that, he was released quietly without anyone knowing. That is also the reason why our weapon is a Beretta .22, which is only effective within ten meters. Under French law, it’s considered to be a defensive weapon. If we used a more powerful weapon, they could conclude that we had aggressive intentions from a legal point of view. That’s the whole story.”
“I don’t understand why you don’t apply for a weapons license. I think you would be approved.”
“It’s not up to me. Please forget about it, JJ, it was only for your information. After all, in real
ity, there was no illegal weapon there, was there? The illegal firearm is now underwater, below The Atlantic Queen.”
“Yes, right. I understand. What shit, what shit…” This last sentence he says as if to himself.
At the SDECE HQ, the whole process takes place just as JJ predicted it would, and at five thirty, Avigdor drives me to the airport. On the way to the airport, I tell Avigdor exactly what happened and how Jean-Jacques and I parted. Avigdor confirms that the CDSE knows what is going on, and that I am to present myself to him as soon as I reach the embassy. According to Avigdor, Emi or someone else will pick me up from Orly airport. The traffic moves slowly, but we arrive in time for the flight.
***
My flight lands at Orly on schedule, and as I exit the terminal, I am met by Yossi Ben-David.
“Hi, Yossi! What are you doing here? Why didn’t Emi come to pick me up?”
“When we were together at the El Al counter this evening, to release the flight, he was called to return to the embassy immediately. Since I was the only person left there from the embassy, he asked me to wait for your flight. I’m on my way back there anyway and the delay of fifteen minutes wasn’t a problem. What doesn’t one do for a comrade in arms?”
At his request, I tell Yossi about the events in Marseilles—at least, about the loading of the ferry. I ignore the story of the SDECE capturing four people and don’t mention that I killed a man a few hours ago.