“Hello?” her voice drifted hesitantly across the line.
“Hi, daughter of mine. It’s Dad. I have some spare time today, and I wanted to spend it with you. If you’re available, that is.”
Silence.
“Nathalie?”
“All of a sudden you remember I exist?”
“I missed you. I know I’m not exactly father of the year, but I care for you deeply.”
“You never call just like that. There’s always a reason.”
“I was with my mom today,” he said sadly. “Grandma’s in the hospital, and her condition is not good. She’s suffering from Alzheimer’s. When I got out of there, I decided I need to dedicate more time to my family.”
“So why are you saying that to me? You finally have a moment to spare, so you called to emotionally blackmail me?”
“No, Natush. Family is the only thing a man has. I’ve been trying to find a way to reach out to you for a long time without knowing how. I suppose it’s all up to me, and I’m sorry for not doing more.”
Once more, silence.
“So tell me, what’s up with you? How’s school?”
“Since when do you care?”
“I’ve always cared. Right after you, Michael, and your mother had left the house at the air base and moved to Jerusalem, I tried to schedule joint therapy sessions with you. You agreed in principle, but never really cooperated.”
“What did you expect? I was starting my teens when I found out my dad was cheating on my mom with her best friend. As a teenager, I needed a father figure, but you were never there for me.”
“Nathalie, I don’t want to start another war of accusations, but your mother wasn’t exactly the perfect wife either. I don’t know what she’s told you—”
“I don’t care about your bullshit!” Nathalie shouted. “That’s between you and Mom. I’m talking about you and me. I’m talking about what you did to Michael when he was a little child who looked up to you as a hero. Forget about me—why weren’t you there for him?”
Arik considered whether he should tell her his ex-wife had issued a restraining order that prevented him from coming to visit whenever he wanted to, and his sort of job prevented him from coming to see them on the visiting hours the court had set for him. Finally, he decided silence was the better policy. He recognized a glimmer of hope in the conversation. Perhaps the fact she had actually confronted him, for the first time, marked the beginning of a relationship.
“Maybe we should meet and talk about it?” he suggested. “I’m driving from Haifa back to the Tel Aviv area now. I can drive up to Jerusalem. Maybe we could go to that seafood restaurant you like so much?”
“I don’t go there anymore. I only eat kosher food now.”
“You’re tired of eating shrimp and calamari with basil and tomato sauce?” he asked smilingly.
“Yes. My faith has been getting stronger this past year. Anyway, I can’t do it this evening. I’m going to study with my rabbi’s wife.”
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about becoming religious.”
“Why not? They accept me for who I am in the rabbi’s house. At least I have a spiritual father there.”
“Do you want me to get you something from abroad if I need to go in the near future?” Arik tried bribery, a policy that had never failed him before.
“No thanks. I’m trying to learn to settle for what I have.”
“Do you need money or anything else?” He tried again.
“No, thank you. I have everything I need, praise the Lord.”
“See you soon, then?” Arik tried hopefully.
“Have a good month,” she answered and hung up.
He couldn’t help himself. Arik stopped at the nearest bus stop and checked the calendar in his cell phone. Indeed, it was the first day of the Hebrew month. Apparently her faith really was getting stronger.
“You have a good month too, daughter of mine.” Arik released a short, sad sigh.
Chapter 6
Division Heads Meeting—Mossad Headquarters
David Fischer, director of Mossad, entered the conference room. As usual, he was dressed in a tailored three-piece suit and wore an Oxford alumni tie.
“Before we begin,” he said, speaking with a pronounced Anglo-Saxon accent, “I want to thank all of you for calling to inquire about my health. As you know, I’ve been suffering from backaches for many years. The pressure I’ve been getting from the prime minister’s office is not improving my condition.”
The men sitting around the large table all stifled smirks. Each of them had been exposed to that pressure in one way or another.
“Don’t get me wrong,” added Fischer, “the prime minister has every right to demand we sabotage the Iranian president’s plan to turn his country into a nuclear superpower. It is also his legitimate right to limit my term as the head of Mossad to four years, a term which, as you have probably already heard, is coming to an end in a few weeks.”
“There were rumors,” replied one of the men, “but we still don’t know who is going to replace you.”
Fischer ignored him. “Let’s get back to the subject of Iran.” He pressed a button and the photo of a woman wearing a hijab appeared on a large screen. “This is Mariam Halachi, head of the Mujahideen al-Islamiyya organization. Alex, please give us all the information you’ve accumulated about this organization.”
“Mujahideen al-Islamiyya is a terrorist and guerilla organization that’s been operating in Iran since the sixties of the previous century,” Dr. Abramovich read in polished Hebrew that a slight Russian accent still clung to. “In its first years, the organization united the resisting factions against the Shah’s regime and even fought side by side with Khomeini. But after the Iranian revolution of seventy-nine, it wasn’t allowed to take part in the rising new regime because of its leftist inclinations. Many of its members were arrested or even executed by the Ayatollahs, and the others were exiled. From the beginning of the eighties, they have been located in various countries in the area and operating against the clergy regime.”
“Real saints,” Fischer hissed.
Alex smiled. “Saints suffer more. Isn’t that written somewhere in the Scriptures? Anyway, in spite of its political views, the Mujahideen al-Islamiyya has been declared a terrorist organization in the United States and Europe. Right now, the organization is in dire straits. I think we should take advantage of their situation. All members of the organization are Iranians who are very familiar with the area. They have agents and supporters scattered among the educated elites in universities all across Iran. We can assist them in their attempts and even help remove their organization’s name from the list of terrorist organizations. We can also offer them financial, perhaps even military, support in return for cooperation that could greatly benefit both parties.”
“What influence could such a small organization have on the Iranian empire?” asked Fischer.
“The Iranians are much weaker and more vulnerable than they make themselves out to be. The way they’re running their country is a part of Shiite culture, the culture of a minority operating within a Sunni majority. They’ve always used fraud and psychological warfare in order to survive.”
“Hmm… Interesting,” Fischer said. “We’ll still need to check how much we can trust them.” He turned to a tall, slim man sitting at the end of the table. “Jonathan, do you have an agent that could thoroughly look into this?”
Jonathan Soudry, the head of Tzomet[2] Division, answered. “We have such a senior agent in Azerbaijan. We call him ‘Georgi’. He’s in contact with the Mujahideen. They even gave us an advance in the form of a slightly disturbing intelligence message.” Jonathan looked at those sitting around him, lingered on the expressionless face of the director, then read from a page he was holding. “An assassin for the Hezbollah is somewhere in the world, perhaps even on his way to Israel, and plans to kill a high-ranking official in Mossad in retaliation for the death of one of their own.”
/> “I have a theory about who the arrows are pointing at,” said Alex as he turned to Fischer. “I’ve already told you they’d be looking for revenge. But that’s just a theory. A mere speculation…”
They all knew perfectly well who the theory focused on: the head of the Caesarea Division, the one responsible for operations and assassinations worldwide. But Arik didn’t seem concerned in the least. He appeared as if he hadn’t even heard what was said.
His two vacation days had ended. His mother was in the care of a nurse, and the prime minister had passed him an unequivocal message through his military secretary, Major General Amishav: “Expect retaliation. You know he doesn’t like being stood up. He’s the only one allowed not to show up.”
Now Arik just stared back at everyone and asked indifferently, “What? Sorry, did I miss something?”
“We’re concerned for your health,” said Fischer with typical sarcasm. “You haven’t been paying close attention to what has been said here, have you?”
“Yes, well, I… My mother’s very sick, and I must—”
“Let me repeat,” Alex cut him off in a matter-of-fact tone. “The Hezbollah has sent an assassin to avenge the assassination of a senior in their organization. He intends to take out one of our own. As you’re responsible for assassinations, we’re afraid that—”
“No one will get close to me.” Arik was washed with the feeling of over-confidence that always took over him in moments of danger. Suddenly, he felt the absence of the gun he had deposited before entering the conference room. “I’d shoot him first.”
“I’m not sure you’ll have the chance,” Fischer said calmly. “You know better than anyone else here that there are many ways to kill a person. Not only by shooting.” He began to collect his papers. “I don’t intend to convince you to take precautions or set you up with a bodyguard. That will be a job for the next director of Mossad.” He smiled. “Perhaps this is the right moment to let you know his identity.” He waited a moment, relishing the tension he had created. “Major General Ben-Ami Cornfield,” Fischer announced ceremoniously.
For a moment, an expression of concern darkened the faces of some of those seated around the table. The rest visibly demonstrated their contempt.
“Good day, gentlemen!” said Fischer, and he left the room, abandoning them to their fates.
Chapter 7
Mossad Headquarters—Tel Aviv
On Tuesday afternoon, a small convoy of vehicles swerved from Road No. 5 and drove up a road marked by a sign reading: Private Road—No Trespassing! Beyond the bend, in a spot hidden from the sight of the thousands of drivers passing through on the highway, a sophisticated roadblock obstructed the convoy’s way. Beside it stood Mossad’s chief security officer. He had been standing there for over an hour, exposed to the midday sun and waiting for his new boss: Major General Ben-Ami Cornfield. The security officer, a tall, grim-faced redhead, hated tardiness even more than he hated the scorching sun.
He approached the first vehicle and motioned for the driver to open the dark-tinted window. Surprisingly, the rear window that slid open instead. A large, curly head peeked out and said in a low bass voice, “I’m Cornfield. I think you’re waiting for me.”
“Yes, sir. I’m Dov Shapir, head security officer. I’ll just ask my men to write the details of your driver and the people sitting in the other car. This will only take a minute. I need you to prepare your ID’s or your official certificate.”
“Hurry up. We haven’t got all day!” Cornfield growled as the window slid back up.
A few minutes later, the cars followed a white SUV marked “Security” to the top of a hill, upon which stood a five-sided building, modernly designed and overlooking the coastal highway. The security officer got out of the SUV and rushed to open the door of the vehicle behind it. The tall figure of a man sighing with effort emerged. In spite of his advanced age and missing leg, Major General Cornfield appeared as tall, muscular, and slim as a professional basketball player. He climbed the stairs quickly, leaning on a mahogany walking cane with a carved head shaped like the head of an eagle.
“The director of Mossad is waiting for you in his office,” said the security officer and pressed the elevator button. When they reached the fifth floor, he slid a magnetic strip card in the slot beside a wide door, and it opened with a quiet whoosh. At the other end stood two young, handsome men dressed in suits whose waistcoats bulged due to the concealed weapons beneath. “Welcome,” said one of them in an official tone. “Please take out all metal personal objects and place them in the plastic basket. Additionally, you’ll need to deposit your personal weapons, cell phones, watches, and beepers as well as belts with a metal buckle.”
“Then you’ll go through the metal detector,” said the second one with a grim face.
“Are you serious?” Cornfield snarled. “I have a metal prosthetic leg—do you expect me to place it in the basket as well? Open the goddamn door right now!” The anger distorted the right side of his face and exposed the fact that his evil expression partly resulted because of his glass eye, which was barely noticeable when his face was relaxed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the security officer. “Those are the security regulations. One cannot enter the director’s office with weapons or devices with transmission capability.” He spoke with the peace resulting from the knowledge that he represented good order and routine. “Once you’re Director, we can continue to discuss changing the security regulations,” he added, then paused and changed his mind. “You can come with me this one time, but your assistant will need to go through the procedure,” he said and motioned for the guard to open the electric door.
“Join me when you’re done,” said Cornfield to his assistant with resignation and followed the security officer, indicating his displeasure by huffing and puffing angrily.
The heavy glass door revealed a large room, its large windows overlooking the Herzliya shore. A handsome, middle-aged woman approached them. “Please, come with me, Major General Cornfield. The director is waiting for you.” She pressed a concealed buzzer, and another door opened. At a large table, carved in its entirety from Carrara marble, sat the outgoing director of Mossad, Dr. David Fischer, who rose with a bitter smile on his lips to shake the hand of his successor.
Cornfield ignored Fischer’s extended hand and walked about the room. He examined, with visible distaste, the alabaster marble floor covered with expensive Persian rugs and the walls plated with reddish cherry wood on which hung original paintings of famous Israeli artists. He raised his eyes above the table. The emblem of Israel, a brass menorah surrounded by the portraits of the president and the prime minister, hung right behind the director’s head. Books of poetry, philosophy, reference, art, history and military strategy rested on the bookcases. The photo of an elderly woman, surrounded by her children and grandchildren, rested on one of the shelves. “My family.” Fischer chuckled shyly. Cornfield didn’t respond. Still looking about with authority, he went and opened a side door, which led to a small restroom with a shower. “Is this where you screw?” He chuckled while winking with his healthy eye and making an obscene gesture with his hand.
Fischer was amazed even though he didn’t expect refined manners from someone who was close to Prime Minister Lolik Kenan, a ruthless politician who betrayed everyone who helped him climb the ladder. The latter had been complaining for quite some time about Mossad turning into a weak organization devoid of any fighting spirit under Fischer’s leadership. He called Fischer a second-rate foreign minister behind his back. No one in the prime minister’s office recognized Fischer’s longstanding contribution, and no one recalled the fact he had acted as the special emissary for three former Prime Ministers and set the stage for the peace agreements. The way he dressed, like a British gentleman, and the way he spoke with a slight British accent made him appear as a recent immigrant in their eyes. His age transformed him into a dinosaur whose expiration date had long been past due. The prime minister’s peopl
e used to mock him when they met at The Farm, the prime minister’s house in the south, and imitated his speech while sitting around tables laden with whiskey and roasted lamb.
Cornfield wasn’t too fond of Fischer either. Having lost his leg and eye because of a grenade tossed at him by a double agent, he simply couldn’t understand how a man heading the Mossad, the major security organization, a man whose only weapon was a Montblanc fountain pen, had never seen combat or participated in a war. He examined Fischer with his one healthy eye with demonstrated contempt. Fischer gave him back a worried look, deeply concerned. “I prepared a detailed file for you with all the information you’ll need to settle in,” he said and presented Major General Cornfield with a thick, leather file folder. “I know you army people don’t have a lot of patience for reading, so I tried to focus on the important things.”
Cornfield wordlessly took the file folder, measured its weight and thickness, then slammed it on the large marble table.
“When would you like to start?” Fischer asked with tired acceptance.
“How about right now?” Cornfield barked, went around the table, and dropped into Fischer’s chair. “You got a problem with that?” he asked, making himself comfortable. He sent his massive hand below the large chair to adjust the lifting lever.
Fischer looked at him, slightly amused. “Why not?” he said in agreement. “Sometimes it’s best to simply cut to the chase.” He opened a closet door and collected some personal belongings into a battered leather bag. “I’ll send someone to collect the rest of my things early tomorrow morning,” he said when he reached the door.
“Don’t worry,” Cornfield growled. “No one will touch your junk.”
As soon as Fischer had left, Cornfield hurried to open the file folder. For a long time he busied himself with reading one document after another. Suddenly, he stopped and lifted the telephone receiver.
“Yes, sir,” the voice of a young secretary soldier was heard.
To Kill a Shadow Page 4