To Kill a Shadow
Nathan Ronen
Copyright © 2016 Nathan Ronen. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the permission, in writing, of the author.
Editor :Dr. Amnon Jackont
Translated from Hebrew by Yaron Regev
Copyediting by Adirondack Editing
Contact: [email protected]
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Table of Contents
A Personal Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
A Personal Note
“Espionage is the world’s second oldest profession and just as honorable as the first.”
Michael J. Barrett, Assistant General Counsel of the CIA, Journal of Defense and Diplomacy, February 1984.
The book you hold in your hands tells the story of unique individuals who pay a heavy toll for their dedication and commitment. They do it not only out of commitment to their country or for their livelihood; they are addicted to adrenaline, control, action and the fact that their actions which, on other circumstances, would be forbidden are sanctioned and authorized.
These people live in the shadows, work under false identities and behind masks, and, like the common man, are petrified of loneliness.
It is a fictional tale. Its name, To Kill a Shadow, hints at the different levels at which the intelligence system operates above and below the surface, the interpersonal and international relationships, and the complex considerations the people who operate in it need to face on a daily basis.
I concocted the plot from various autobiographical and historical events, rare people, dreams, and fantasies. Part of the book’s plot was inspired by people I’ve met and events that took place while I had served as a senior officer in the Israeli defense forces.
The book is dedicated to the memory of my late sister, Naomi Sharon, whom I miss dearly. Naomi passed away from blood cancer in 2008 at the young age of fifty-seven.
Nathan Ronen. Yavne, Israel. May 2016
Prologue
February 2003. La Triple Frontera—The Triple Frontier
It was the end of a summer weekend in the southern hemisphere. Twilight time. A drizzle washed away the dust from the leaves of the tall cupuaçu trees. At the border junction of Paraguay, Argentina, and Brazil, the wide Paraná River flowed serenely, its water tinged with the brown-reddish hue of erosion. Colorful parrots sought a place of refuge for the night at the top of the canopies of the trees, and their screams muffled the sound of the UCAV drone hovering above Aiman Juma’s mansion in the suburbs of Ciudad del Este in Paraguay.
On the other end of the border, in the Argentinean town of Puerto Iguazú, a small group of men wearing faded khaki uniforms sat and closely watched the images transmitted by the drone onto a computer screen.
“Here he comes,” said a young, crop-haired remote pilot operator in Hebrew.
Arik Bar-Nathan, head of Caesarea Division,[1] sipped from his umpteenth cup of coffee. “Zoom in on him.”
The young man’s fingers fluttered commands on the keyboard, and the drone camera focused on a racing boat approaching the mansion dock from the Brazilian side of the border. A fleshy, bearded man wearing a baseball cap stood at the bow of the boat, wearing a heavy pistol. Behind him, in the wider part of the boat, stood several men. The drone camera zoomed on each of their faces in turn.
“I recognize Imad Husniyah, Hezbollah’s chief of operations,” said the young man, “and that’s Omar Mussawi, Chairman of the Da’wah foundation, which assists the Hezbollah’s charity organizations. Next to him is Asaad Ahmed Barakat, a businessman and one of Hezbollah’s primary donors. There’s another man there I don’t recognize…”
“Aiman Juma,” observed Dr. Alex Abramovich, Head of Mossad’s Research and Intelligence Division, “the biggest drug dealer in the area.”
“The two behind him are bodyguards,” added the young man, “both armed with submachine guns.”
“Why only two?” asked one of the men present.
“They feel safe here,” explained Arik. “They’re bribing the district governor, the chiefs of police, and the generals of the army camped in the area. One couldn’t wish for better defense…”
The boat kissed the dock, and the company exited it and entered a minibus that awaited them. Two heavy motorcycles manned by Paraguay Police officers accompanied the minibus on its way to the heart of the mansion.
“Who else are we waiting for, Alex?” asked Arik.
“This is a gathering of Hezbollah donors, and more stakeholders are supposed to arrive. Men like Ramzan Akhmatov, head of the Chechen Mafia in South America, and his younger son. They’re both making huge profits smuggling drugs and weapons and laundering money. The heads of the Triads in Hong Kong, specializing in human trafficking and brand piracy, are also going to be there along with representatives of the Columbian drug cartels. Others will probably join them later on today, people who donate profits from their businesses to the Hezbollah in order to ensure the continuous flow of drugs into South America from Afghanistan through Iran and the Beqaa Valley in Lebanon.”
Arik Bar-Nathan exhaled impatiently. “If we have a chance to nail them all in one shot, that’s even better. I’m certainly not going to cry at their funeral.”
Their eye in the sky followed the minibus, which stopped at the entrance of a large house. The passengers disembarked and went inside. Only the bodyguards remained outside and chatted with the drivers of the armored limousines.
“Kidon task force, are you ready?” Arik asked on the encrypted radio.
“T-minus five minutes,” answered the commander of Mossad’s commando unit from the other end of the border, close to the mansion wall.
“You’re clear to go,” he whispered into the mouthpiece. “Nail the moth
erfuckers.”
The UCAV remote pilot operator navigated the aircraft toward the center of the building and homed in on the laser designators of the Kidon. Arik was pleased. Everything progressed according to plan.
In less than a minute, the drone crashed into the center of the villa with a huge blast. That was the signal. The Kidon detonated charges, planted in advance, inside the villa’s wall and broke into the garden, riding ATVs. They opened fire from short range on the bodyguards with their submachine guns and hurled grenades into the spacious ballroom. Some of the participants died on the spot, among them Ramzan Akhmatov. His younger son had only been lightly injured and was dragged outside as the fire subsided by his bodyguard.
The local rescue and police forces were busy putting out fires, started by Mossad agents and local collaborators using incendiary bombs, and delayed from getting to the mansion. Under the cover of those actions, the Kidon retreated to the Argentinean border, where Arik and his Caesarea unit were already waiting to be debriefed.
It was only then that Arik learned about the telephone call Imad Husniyah had received seconds after he’d arrived at the mansion, a call intercepted by the listening station. “Get out quickly, the Israelis are here!” the local chief of police warned in English. Arik reviewed the drone footage one more time. He had to examine it closely before he discovered the figure of a man breaking out through a back window, crossing the yard at a run, and throwing something over his head. Arik knew exactly what it was: the baseball cap, Imad Husniyah’s trademark.
“Who leaked information to the local police?” Arik shouted with frustration, knowing he would never receive an answer. In the nearby town of Foz do Iguaçu lived a large community of Lebanese Shiites, the tenth largest and richest community in South America. The police, like the rest of the authorities and government institutions, were eager to please. Someone there must have known something.
“This just came in.” Alex Abramovich presented him with a piece of paper scribbled with a name.
“Ramzan Akhmatov,” Arik called.
“He’s been killed,” said Alex with a grim face. “The Chechens won’t let it go without retaliation.”
“I know,” said Arik, his heart filling with foreboding.
Chapter 1
Spring, 2003. Beehive on the Cliff Neighborhood in the Palmachim Air Force Base
Sunday at dawn. Arik woke to the sound of birds chirping among the branches of the erythrina tree outside his bedroom window. The digital clock gleamed with a green luminance. It was four forty-five AM. His hangover caused him to toss restlessly in bed. He gently removed the arm of the woman sleeping next to him from his chest and covered her tanned, shapely body with the satin sheet. All he remembered was that her name was Eva, and she had a PhD of some sort. She had a long German last name Arik had forgotten, perhaps because of the influence of the fine Zachlawi arak one of his agents had brought back from Lebanon. He had drunk the strong alcoholic beverage to the last drop. After all, it was his surprise party, thrown for his fiftieth birthday.
Arik brushed his teeth, dressed in a gray track suit, put on his battered New Balance running shoes, and headed down to the first floor. From the large glass window, he could watch the Mediterranean Sea below the cliff, peaceful and smooth as the surface of a mirror. The first rays of dawn broke through the veil of clouds and swirled with green, gray and black. The porch was littered with last night’s surprise party’s leftovers: plates with salads, half-eaten fruit, half-filled glasses of alcohol, bread the wind had managed to dry and cakes snatched by a company of screaming seagulls.
Arik ignored the chaos. Others were in charge of organizing and cleaning the house. He preferred to focus on life’s pleasures. “Life’s too short and there are no reruns,” he often said. Arik enjoyed good wine, exquisite food, thrillers, and espionage novels. His kicks came from fast cars, renovating old Harley Davidson motorcycles, off-road riding, and strong women who felt comfortable with short-term relationships. His job—Mossad’s Chief of Operations—had made him addicted to adrenaline rushes. He enjoyed the stress and ambiguity offered him by his line of work.
Arik wasn’t liked by everyone, and he knew it. There were those in the office who called him “Arik the Smiling Bastard” behind his back for being a control freak and a perfectionist. Others claimed he was a nouveau-riche because of his love of designer brands. Only few soul mates experienced rare moments of grace in which he relaxed and showered everyone around him with charm and witticism.
Arik activated his Rolex stopwatch, shoved the Blackberry into the cell phone armband, and put on the earphones. He began his six mile morning run by going down the 120 steps leading to the rocky beach beneath his cliff house at the edge of the Palmachim military base. When he reached the sand strip, Arik pressed the activation button on his cell phone. The unique contratenor voice of David D’Or singing Che Faro Senza Euridice rose from the earphones. Arik increased his pace and leapt between the rocks and reefs in the shallow water, slaloming through the scattered metal husks of burned tanks used as target practice aids for combat helicopters stationed at the IAF base.
The sleepy soldiers waved hello from their stations. The watchdogs, tied to a rail or running along the fences, barked at him and bared their teeth. He growled right back at them and laughed. Arik Bar-Nathan took pride in the fact he had transformed over the years from an overweight, asthmatic kid from a poor neighborhood in Haifa to a strong, muscular, and handsome man whose military position awarded him in a luxurious and cultivated villa situated in an upscale neighborhood on the cliff in the midst of a military base.
He recalled his childhood with loathing, the frequent asthma attacks, the wheezing, and desperate attempts to gulp air. As the son of Holocaust survivors, Arik couldn’t possibly show any outward signs of illness. “Those who were sick were the first to be taken to the gas chambers,” his mother used to whisper to him. In reply, he began a series of self-inflicted tortures. He beat his breast with a clenched fist and encouraged himself by saying, “I mustn’t be weak, I must be strong!” But the wheezing and panting merely served to worsen his bodily weakness and brought him a terrible tiredness mixed with unbearable helplessness. As the years passed, he realized that the asthma attacks had been a sort of desperate plea for help, an expression of his need for his parents’ attention. It was also an expression of annoyance with the forced role his parents had burdened him with of caring for his younger sister as a parentified child.
His anxious mother, who had already lost a husband and a son during the Holocaust, stayed home with him during the days he was sick and did not go to school. She sang him Yiddish songs, hugged him, and whispered in his ear secrets and stories about her far-off childhood in the little village of Sarnaki in Poland. She used to spoil him with Swiss chocolate bars or expensive, red-cheeked Italian apples she bought in the black market with money she saved and hid deep within her lingerie drawer.
From his father, Arik had known only anger and resentment. He was a short-tempered man who grew up in a God-fearing, hunger-stricken Hassidic family. As he failed as a yeshiva boy, Arik’s father was sent to study and work as a shoemaker’s apprentice in a far-off city. He always bemoaned his lost childhood but believed he mustn’t spoil his children so they wouldn’t turn out to be too soft in a harsh world.
As a weak, sickly child, Arik needed a loving, protective father figure. Devoid of such a father figure, and for lack of any other choice, he’d learned he must toughen up, put on a hard shell, and wear a mask of indifferent criticism on his face. He protected himself with an impenetrable armor of anger often mixed with cynicism, but deep inside remained that sick little boy who lay in bed, yearning for his parents’ embrace.
After an hour of running, Arik turned back. His pulse rose to a 120, his warm body drenched with sweat, and he longed for his morning shower.
When Arik arrived at the door of his house, he heard a strange noise inside the kitchen, and his senses tensed. He knew from experience th
at the least likely event could take place in the least expected moment. Arik froze and listened, then crouched silently beneath the kitchen window. The noises became louder. He threw himself to the ground, crawled toward a large jasmine bush, dug beneath it, and removed a sealed metal box. The oiled cover opened silently on its hinges. Arik took out a Glock 17 pistol he’d buried there with two cartridges for emergency cases. He lay on his back for several minutes until he regained his breath and his body relaxed. Then he cocked the gun and advanced, crawling on all fours to the basement of the house where his service car was parked. Behind it, the Harley Davidson motorcycles he’d collected over the years glinted in the sun, a fully equipped repair shop beside them.
Arik crossed the garage on tiptoe until he reached a steel door. He tapped the entry code, and the door silently slid open. The noises were distinct now, coming from the floor above. Someone opened a faucet and turned on the radio. Arik slunk up the stairs separating the basement from the ground floor, his loaded gun at the ready. When he peeked around the corner, he relaxed at the delightful sight revealed to him. His nightly guest stood with her back to him, singing and moving to the sound of a Bruce Springsteen song, dressed in her underwear and one of his denim shirts.
Arik smiled. His suspiciousness, which had saved his life on more than one occasion, had turned out to be unnecessary this time. He hid the gun in the fuse box and went into the kitchen with a loud “good morning.” Eva jumped and turned to him with a smile that revealed tanned Nordic features and a pair of large blue-green eyes. Her dirty blond hair was tied in a ponytail.
“I watched you through the living room window when you went down running to the beach and decided to shower and wait for you. Meanwhile, I’ve prepared us a little breakfast. I found some croissants, orange juice and a couple of eggs in the refrigerator, and strawberry jam in the pantry.” She spoke fluent English, almost without a German accent. Her smile conveyed an air of confidence and unceremonious openness. Arik could tell she had used his ylang-ylang soap. It smelled good on her.
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