“Where the hell is my assistant, Zimmer?” he screamed.
“He’s right here, getting briefed by Fischer’s assistant.”
“Send him in right away!” Cornfield slammed the phone down.
The door buzzed, and Shlomo Zimmer, who had been Cornfield’s loyal personal assistant for many years, entered the room. Cornfield waved a document at him.
“There’s something surreal here,” he said. “An assassin for Hezbollah wants to assassinate the head of the Caesarea Division to avenge his father’s death. Sounds like a load of crap. I know this Arik too well. He’s nothing but a paper tiger. This entire organization is rotten from the core. They hear a little gossip and start pissing in their pants. Anyway, I want you to check the source for this one.”
The assistant looked at the document, raised his eyes to his commander, and said, “There’s an order here, signed by Fischer, to assign him a personal bodyguard.”
Cornfield slammed the table with his fist. The metal spheres of a Newton’s Cradle placed on the large table came to life and began to swing and tick. “Never! Write on that shitty document that I’m annulling it. This is my first order as the new director of Mossad, and I don’t care what anybody says. Is that clear?”
Chapter 8
Kfar HaNagid Village
Cornfield woke at dawn in his house and went down to the ground floor, dressed in shorts and a tank top and leaned on crutches. He loved the house his father had built after emigrating from Bulgaria during the fifties. He enjoyed sitting beneath the pergola every morning and drinking Turkish coffee simmered in a pot. Intentionally, he turned his back to the large living room, crowded with modernist sculptures and paintings his wife, Amira, collected. He hated the artwork she liked and much and preferred to look at the blooming garden and the cactus rockery where the first flowers of summer began to blossom. The smell of hay rose from the neighboring cowsheds. He took a deep breath, inhaling that rich smell and the morning tranquility.
Amira came down to the ground level as well, dressed in a flowered nightgown. They had met forty years before when she had been his secretary in the Mista’arvim, the undercover counterterrorism unit of the Israel Defense Forces. They’d been together ever since. They’d lived parallel lives and slept in separate rooms for years. The intimacy they had once known had been replaced with a life of comfort each lived by themselves. Cornfield was busy with his military affairs in the Israel Security Agency or the prime minister’s office. Amira, on the other hand, spent her days in the company of her grandchildren and friends. She also volunteered for various organizations and regularly went to sing-along evenings or folk dancing in the nearby town.
During the weekends, he cooperated with all her requests and demands: dishwashing, grocery shopping at the supermarket in the nearby city of Yavne, patiently listening to the stories she felt compelled to tell him about a book she had read or the exploits of one of their grandchildren. She served as the anchor that connected him to reality, his children and grandchildren, and always made excuses for his frequent absence from family events and glorified his dedication to his work. It was also convenient for her to be left on her own. “Ben-Ami is keeping our country safe,” she would confide with her children.
She looked at him sipping his coffee. He looked very serious and distant. She could feel his discomfort. “What’s up?” she asked. “Is Lolik bothering you again?”
Cornfield looked at his wife. She had done something to herself. Some sort of cosmetic surgery, perhaps a breast or facial lift? Her visage had become different, glowing. He decided it was best not to ask. Secretly, he had always suspected she was having an affair with the man who was their neighbor in the Palmachim Military Air Base. “Arik the Smiling Bastard” as his detractors called him. Cornfield was definitely one of them, and his suspicions only served to strengthen the resentment he felt toward the handsome officer. And yet he never dared to confront his wife about the subject. Mainly because he had been neglecting his duties as a husband for many years.
“There’s still some coffee left in the pot. Let me warm it up for you,” he said and rose on his one leg, supporting himself with his crutches.
“Ben-Ami, I’m not drinking Turkish coffee anymore. I drink herbal tea. With your diabetes, you should consider cutting down on coffee and sweets as well,” she called after him.
“How do you take your tea?” he shouted from the kitchen.
“Pick some lemon verbena, a handful of mint, and lemongrass from the herb garden. Wash them with cold water, cut them with the little scissors in the drawer under the gas stove and pour some boiling water. No sugar, please.”
“Where is your herb garden, and since when do we have one?” he asked with embarrassment as he limped back to the pergola.
“Just sit down. I’ll make my own tea,” said Amira impatiently and headed to the kitchen.
When she came back, carrying a pitcher of greenish tea, Cornfield clenched his lips and hissed, “I’ve got news.”
Amira froze. Every time Cornfield gave her ‘news’ it meant there would be more burdens for her to bear.
“The prime minister asked me to accept the role of the director of Mossad.”
Amira chuckled. “Are you asking for my opinion or simply informing me?”
“I went there yesterday afternoon. I’m starting on Sunday. This is going to be the job of a lifetime!”
“When are you finally going to retire?”
“Five minutes before I die,” Cornfield recited his regular mantra. “I’m sure you already know that.”
As always, she found him predictable. She swallowed her anger along with all the things she had wanted to say to him when she was younger during the long nights she spent by herself in bed. Now, in her advanced age, she spent those nights watching stupid television shows and reading romance novels. She told him nothing of her yearning to be touched, to have someone caress her and speak words of love in her ears. Instead, she just said, “In that case, I insist that you clear your head a little before you begin. Esther and Joe Amar have a vacation house in Taormina on the coast of Sicily. It is a historic, reconstructed dream house in the old city. I showed you some photos, remember?”
Cornfield didn’t. He shrugged. “Who took the photos, Esther?”
“I took them! Don’t you remember? A coastline full of inlets and bays, a deep blue sea and on the other side, the smoking Mount Etna… I was there with them last year, while you were roaming Europe with your boss. You really don’t remember?”
Cornfield didn’t remember and wasn’t listening. “I need to go to the Jerusalem today. I’ve got a lot of things to discuss with the prime minister and the rest of the gang before I officially take office.”
“Ben-Ami, you’re just like a little kid. I need to protect you from yourself. You’ll end up collapsing! That’s how you became diabetic in the first place! Besides, you’re so busy with your top-secret nonsense, you don’t even have time to listen to the news on the radio. Just so you know, the prime minister flew to Washington last night to attend the Jewish Congress Annual Conference. Then he’s flying to Miami to attend the Israel Bonds conference. He won’t be back in the country before next Monday. The weekly cabinet meeting on Sunday has been cancelled as well, in case you’re wondering.”
Cornfield cursed in his heart. His wife was right. Now he would need to think of a good excuse not to stay home so he won’t start climbing the walls with boredom. He needed to be active, to be constantly challenged. The trouble was, he was temporarily unemployed. He was no longer the prime minister’s advisor and, at least officially, not the director of Mossad yet. Under the circumstances, even going on a trip with Amira seemed like a good idea.
“All right, then. We’ll go to… Where did you say it was? Sicily? All right. But I’ll still need to go to Jerusalem this morning for some arrangements. I’ll meet you at the airport later. Update Eve, my secretary, about all the details. Tell her to send my diplomatic passport here and pack so
me clothes for me. All right?”
“All right,” called Amira, already on her way to the kitchen, carrying the empty pitcher and glasses.
“And pack my new prosthetic leg as well,” he shouted after her. “This one’s starting to bother me. Bring some painkillers too. The weather’s still cold, and my broken ribs are starting to say hello again.”
Chapter 9
Israel Intelligence Heritage & Commemoration Center—Tel Aviv
Six in the morning. A short, stout, and muscular man with Caucasian features parked a rented dirt bike in the shrubs next to the fence of the Israel Intelligence Heritage and Commemoration Center. He climbed up the nearby hill and hunched over with his head low, so the spotters patrolling the roof of Mossad Headquarters on the other side of the hill wouldn’t notice him. He wore a camouflage suit with a hood. In his pocket rested an international ornithologist certificate, specializing in bird migration. It was issued by the University of Omsk, located in southwestern Siberia. In his backpack, he carried a camera with a telescopic lens, powerful binoculars, and a can of red spray paint and two bottles of pure benzene disguised as mini bar vodka bottles.
The abundant rain that had fallen in the winter made the vegetation on the hill grow tall. But now, it was dry due to the heat of the summer. He felt secure. He settled in a small clearing overlooking a curve in the road outside the roadblock guards’ field of vision. From among the dry thorny bushes, he watched the vehicles entering Mossad Headquarters with his binoculars. He knew that the division heads drove a BMW X5 SUV, so he focused his attention every time such a vehicle stopped in front of the roadblock. He wrote the license plate numbers and sought one with a bent front bumper.
At seven fifteen, the vehicle he had expected arrived. He leaned forward and focused the binoculars on the right spot. The car passed in front of his eyes, slowly moving up the sharp curve. He followed it until it disappeared. Then he took out the red spray paint from his backpack and marked the underbrush around him with color. After that, he crawled very slowly down the 300 yards of thorny bushes that separated him from the sharp curve. It took almost an hour before he finally reached it and hid the two small bottles of pure benzene that would explode and cause a fire. He had to keep low as a patrol car passed by. Then he carefully crept down the hill heading west, still hidden by the bushes.
The dirt bike awaited him like a trusted steed. He mounted it with a jump and took off to seek an escape route that would take him from the hill back to his hotel by the Herzeliya Shore north of Tel Aviv just five miles away. On the way, he stopped at a payphone, the last one remaining in the neighborhood, and quickly dialed.
“Armenian Patriarchate of Jerusalem,” a voice said from the other end of the line.
“Brother Vasili, please,” he asked in Russian.
The receiver was placed down, and a few seconds later a heavy bass voice was heard. “Vasili speaking.”
“This is Ruslan. I need to collect the holy vessels you’ve prepared for me.”
“Come after the morning prayer,” said Vasili. “I’ll meet you in the Cathedral of St. James. Then we’ll go to the Seminary School, where your package awaits you.”
At the appointed time, in the Armenian quarter at the old city of Jerusalem, Ruslan waited in the cathedral. Vasili passed him by without saying a word, and Ruslan followed him to the other side of the road. There was a small sign on the door, written in Armenian: Seminary. They went into a chilly entrance hall and turned to a side room stacked with boxes of candles, candlesticks, and folded robes. A large, elongated bag rested on the table, closed with wax strings and lead seals. The initials “DIP” were imprinted on its side.
“This is the first time we’ve received a diplomatic pouch straight to the seminary,” said the priest. “Don’t you think it might arouse suspicion?”
“It won’t be here in a minute,” Ruslan said emphatically, then slung the bag over his shoulder and left.
The bike sped down Mount Herzl toward Ein Karem Canyon, passing by the Hadassah Medical Center and disappearing between the trees of the John F. Kennedy Forest next to Eshtaol Village. The parking lots, packed during the weekends, were now completely deserted. Ruslan sat next to one of the many wooden picnic tables scattered in the park, cut the strings and wax seals with a sharp knife, and opened the bag. His hand sought and felt the oiled parts of a sniper rifle wrapped in black burlap. He fished them out carefully, peeled off the cloth, and expertly put them together. Then he added a silencer and a dimmer tailcap. Finally, he slid the telescopic sight and sought a target for practice.
Looking at the wadi facing him through his long-range sight he noticed an old Chevy vehicle parked between the bushes with a couple making love inside. Over half a mile separated him and the vehicle with the lovers. He lay on the ground and watched, generously allowing them to climax. The head of the man filled the lens and the crosshair was placed on his forehead. Ruslan held his breath for a moment and gently squeezed the trigger. A light crack was heard as the bullet sped to find its target at 4,000 feet per second. The man’s skull burst like a ripe watermelon dropping off the back of a truck. The woman opened her mouth and emitted a scream that immediately turned to silence as the fragments of her head mixed with those of the man. Ruslan mounted the dirt bike and headed back to the his hotel at Herzliya shore. He felt the same sense of elation he always felt after a kill.
After midnight, Ruslan left his hotel room and drove to the hill next to Mossad Headquarters. He hid the bike between the bushes and started his climb . He took the binoculars out of his backpack, and set them to night mode. The starlight night vision came on, and he saw his own footsteps from that morning between the thorn bushes, as well as the spot he had painted, glowing red. He put the sniper rifle together, opened the bipod, and prepared two cartridges. Then he cut an opening in the bushes and wore a multispectral camouflage ghillie suit that would prevent anyone using night vision from spotting him. Now all he had to do was wait for morning.
He planned to shoot tracer rounds up the hill, ignite a fire in the thorn field next to the road, and create a smoke screen that would stop anyone who arrived at the sharp curve in the road. He needed a few seconds of delay to make the target slow down and allow him to hit it with precision.
Dawn arrived, and vehicles began to move up the road. He paid them no mind. At ten past seven, he noticed the BMW with the bent front fender turning into the private road leading to the top of the hill. He was already filled with elation, just a portion of the happiness he’d feel after pulling the trigger. Another minute or two and he would shoot a bullet straight into the forehead of the son of a bitch who killed his father and injured his younger brother in Paraguay. He watched Arik with hatred as he stopped at the roadblock, lingered for a moment, then advanced toward the curve.
Ruslan fired two tracer rounds at the benzene bottled he had hidden early in the morning and set the thorn bushes around the curve on fire. The driver, who had not yet noticed the fire, continued to drive the vehicle up the road. The morning breeze was stronger than usual, and the road filled with smoke within seconds. Ruslan hurried to place the crosshair on the driver’s head, but it disappeared within the smoke. He decided to fire a shot at its estimated location.
The bullet fired out of the long rifle put a hole in Arik’s car, just a few centimeters above his head. Arik instinctively hit the gas pedal, and the car sped forward while the assassin, with the eagerness of a predator, followed with a quick volley of three additional bullets to the spot he fired before.
Then everything turned upside-down.
Someone, perhaps a resourceful guard or his intended victim, ran toward Ruslan, fully exposed and firing regular shots from pistol as he ran. The two roadblock guards ran after him and opened automatic fire into the bushes. The wind changed its direction and returned the smoke straight into Ruslan’s lungs. He hoped to retreat, but feared getting up now would expose him. The fire advanced toward him, threatening to trap him in the burning fie
ld.
He started crawling backward across the scorching earth, shouldering the rifle and the equipment-filled backpack. The smoke that almost suffocated him protected him from those seeking to kill him until he disappeared from their field of vision. Then he stood up and frantically ran down the hill. A few bullets whistled close to him as he started the motorcycle’s engine and sped down the dirt road into a nearby orange orchard. The howl of sirens cut through the air. Ruslan didn’t know whether they belonged to the fire engines coming to take care of the fire or to a police patrol car that had somehow managed to locate him. He hid the bike, the rifle, and the equipment between some bushes, returned to the coastal highway on foot and flagged a taxi to get back to his hotel room. This time, he had failed.
There was an old Chechen saying: “He who lives by the river knows where the animals come to drink.” Ruslan had studied the course of the river, familiarized himself with the place the animal drank from, and simply needed to wait for its return.
Chapter 10
Taormina, Sicily
The old village at the top of the hill proved to be a real jewel. Far more beautiful than Cornfield had anticipated. The small cafes, seafood restaurants, piazzas, and churches wrapped him with a pleasant sense of comfort. The house they stayed at was spacious, yet inviting. Where did that great bastard Joe Amar get the money to buy such a house from? It must be worth millions, he wondered with admiration as he walked between the large rooms stacked with antique, rustic furniture.
“While you and your friends were lying in ambushes, playing boy’s games, he studied at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, created a high-tech company from scratch, along with a few friends, mortgaged his parents’ house, and employed Esther as a free secretary until some giant American corporation bought them for a lot of money. Now he’s working there as the R&D vice president. He’s spending six months in San Francisco and six months in Israel.”
To Kill a Shadow Page 5