“Where are you?” he demanded.
“Why are you asking?” she replied with amazement.
“Where are you?”
“In Jerusalem, of course. Where else could I be?”
She sounded sincere enough, but Arik remained suspicious. “Where in Jerusalem? Do you have a landline?”
“What’s going on with you?”
“Give me a number.”
She dictated him a number and added, “Room two hundred and two, if you’ll ever have time to finally come over.” He wrote the number on the traffic ticket and dialed.
“American Colony Hotel. How can I help you?” he was immediately answered. He asked to be transferred to Eva’s room.
“Now will you tell me what’s going on with you?”
“My mom’s sick,” he said in a defeated voice. “I guess I’m a little unsettled. I thought I saw you in Haifa.”
“Well, you could have just asked me instead of playing games.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Do you want to tell me about your mom?” she asked carefully.
“No, it’s… It’s still too fresh in my mind. And too painful. I’ll talk to you once I get to Jerusalem. I’ll call you.”
“All right,” she said, and he thought he detected a hint of suspiciousness beneath her seemingly soft-spoken tone. “I’ll be waiting.”
The suspicious agent in him just wouldn’t calm down. He redialed the number she had given him.
“American Colony Hotel, good evening, how may I help—” He heard the voice of the receptionist again and immediately hung up.
Chapter 15
Hezbollah Headquarters, Dahieh Suburb, Beirut—Lebanon
Three black Land Cruisers emerged from a side gate in Rafic Hariri International Airport and sped their way to the Dahieh suburb. They didn’t obey the red traffic lights and crossed the Lebanese Army checkpoints manned with Shiite soldiers without stopping. In fifteen minutes, the convoy reached its destination.
In Dahieh, the Shiite suburb of Beirut, the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the city known as “Paris of the Middle East” had transformed to hostile suspiciousness. Iranian and Hezbollah flags fluttered on the rooftops. Giant portraits of Iran’s spiritual leader, Ali Khamenei, were displayed on the walls of public buildings beside the portrait of Hezbollah’s Secretary General, Hassan Nasrallah. The two bridges, bombed and demolished by IDF airplanes during the last war, were in final reconstruction stages. Cranes and construction scaffolding belonging to Jihad al-Bina, a company owned by Hezbollah, could be seen everywhere.
The three SUVs stopped in front of the entrance of a large building on whose façade numerous flags hung along with a sign that declared: “Welcome to Hezbollah Headquarters.”
The distinguished guests were welcomed by Imad Husniyah, Hezbollah’s chief of operations, dressed in a dappled khaki uniform and wearing a baseball cap and tall Palladium boots.
General Mazen Suleimani, head of Iran’s Revolutionary Guards’ Al-Quds Force, emerged from the first SUV, his hands extended and a wide smile on his face. The two embraced amicably. Suleimani’s staff officers came out the other SUVs, carrying briefcases with paperwork they had prepared for the work meeting awaiting them. On the way to the conference room, the smile evaporated from Suleimani’s face.
When they all sat in their chairs, staring at the smiling portrait of their leader, Nasrallah, Suleimani immediately began to speak. “By Allah’s name, my brothers, you leak like an old sieve. This week, the Jews took over a boat loaded with weapons that was supposed to reach you. It contained dozens of Fajr-Five missiles as well as raw chemical materials for the production of drugs, which were supposed to help you make millions. The Zionists’ audacity is more than we can tolerate. They intercepted the ship right next to the Islamic Republic’s territorial waters in the Strait of Hormuz. How do they know about our every plan?”
Husniyah and his aides were silent.
“My brothers, soldiers of the mukawama,”[7] continued Suleimani, “the commander of the Revolutionary Guard, General Ali Jafari, has requested me to ask you directly, as is customary among friends, if it is possible the Jews have a mole hidden deep in your ranks?”
Imad Husniyah swallowed in fear. “Gentlemen, honorable guests coming from our eldest sister, the Islamic Republic of Iran…” He opened with flattery. “…in the name of our great leader, Sheikh Nasrallah, I bid you welcome and thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support of the Lebanese resistance movement for the liberation of Palestine from the hands of the Zionist conqueror. It is no secret that the Zionists have been trying to infiltrate our ranks with their spies. Our counterintelligence unit has captured a few of them. We’ve also found some surveillance and listening devices that the Zionist army has hidden in the field, but with all due respect, General, sir, the big secrets do not leak from us. I’m not implying the leaks come from your end, of course, but…”
“But what?” asked Suleimani.
“Brothers,” Husniyah tried to change the course of the conversation, “the Israelis will be thrilled to learn about our differences and that we are busy in exchanging false accusations.”
“All right,” Suleimani said, certain that the dissatisfaction he had demonstrated would be enough to cause his Lebanese colleagues to initiate a thorough investigation among their ranks. “We must deter the Zionists from performing preventative strikes close to the shores of the Islamic Republic. We must demonstrate our strength. Therefore, I ask that your 1800 Unit carry out attacks in Europe, in the Middle East, South America, and the Far East. I want to hear about Jewish diplomats being blown up, Chabad Jewish Centers, which are actually undercover Mossad branches, burned down, and Jewish schools and community centers destroyed. As far as I’m concerned, they are all soldiers in the service of the Zionist devil.”
“They will respond by bombing us,” Husniyah said with concern.
“We’ve thought about that,” said Suleimani. “We will strengthen you, militarily, in a way that will deter the Zionists from attacking you. We will provide you with long-range missiles capable of hitting any target within the Zionist entity. In return, you must commit to harm Jews and Zionists anywhere you possibly can. They need to realize our long arm will reach and annihilate them everywhere. We will also provide weapons and war materials to the Hamas and Islamic Jihad in Gaza. That way we will be able to attack the northern and southern borders of the Zionist entity simultaneously.”
“But,” Husniyah replied hesitantly, “they will simply intercept the ships and bomb your truck convoys in Sudan, Eritrea, and other African smuggling routes.”
“After you carry out two or three attacks, they’ll think twice before doing that. Besides, in the future, we will transfer you Syrian knowledge, technology, and raw materials that will allow you to develop nuclear warheads. In return, we want to see some major achievements!” Suleimani finished his speech by lightly tapping the table.
Husniyah felt the need to point out at least one accomplishment. “You know, our plan to flood the Zionist country with drugs is working well. We continue to damage the social structure of that spiderweb country,” he reported with pride.
“Well done!” said Suleimani. “But we expect more than that.”
“We are honored to accept your plan, General,” said Husniyah. “And I personally commit to meet all the objectives. I only request one more thing. I need the means to carry out the attacks to wait for our squads at the Iranian embassies of all target countries.”
“Agreed. Our diplomatic mail services will transport the weapons and explosives to the destinations of your choosing. Now, let us pray for the success of our plan.”
The company exited the room and moved to a small mosque situated in one of the rooms in the building. At the end of the prayer, while they were all still kneeling, Suleimani said, “Only the nation of Allah will end up gaining the upper hand.” He touched the carpet with his head, stretched up, raised his hands high an
d cried, “Takbir!” and everyone echoed him by calling three times, “Allahu Akbar!”
An hour later, when he was sitting in the plane headed back to Tehran, Suleimani relayed a three word message to his commanders, via a secure satellite phone line: “It has begun.”
Chapter 16
The Prime Minister’s Office—Heads of Intelligence and Security Services Meeting
“I want you to bring me the head of that son of a bitch on a stick,” the prime minister looked straight into the eyes of the new Mossad director. “Is that clear? In the past few months, the Iranians have raised their heads again. But that was only to be expected.” He took a thick booklet into his hands, a report prepared by Alex. “The Israeli embassy in Baku has been attacked.” He read aloud the details Cornfield was only too familiar with.
“In Egypt, a terrorist cell has been exposed. The cell intended to carry out an attack on the Suez Canal and the Israeli embassy in Cairo. The Turkish authorities have exposed a terrorist cell that attempted to carry out an attack against the Ahrida Synagogue of Istanbul. In Thailand, Hezbollah operatives have been arrested while trying to attack the local Chabad Jewish Center. In Spain, Hezbollah operatives, riding a motorcycle, opened fire on the wife of an Israeli diplomat and severely injured her. On the Paraná River…” He raised a warning finger. “…at the border of Paraguay and Brazil, a Hezbollah squad, carrying forty-five pounds of explosives hidden within the lining of a suitcase, has been captured on its way to Argentine to carry out a terrorist attack against the local Jewish community center. In New Delhi, a Chabad envoy and his wife have been killed by terrorists who opened fire on them. Only their baby and his nurse have survived.” He placed down the booklet. “This represents a major escalation. I also think this is only the beginning. Can I count on you to take him out?”
“It’s not that easy,” said Cornfield. “The Kidon have been unsuccessfully trying for several years. He is a very cautious man, a real chameleon, constantly changing identities and locations. We know he is carrying a diplomatic Syrian passport under the false name Jawad Nur a-Din. We’re not the only ones looking for him. The Americans and several European intelligence agencies whose agents or soldiers he had taken out are looking for him as well.”
Alex joined the conversation. “He’s up there on the list of terrorists most wanted by the American government, right next to the heads of Al-Qaeda. There’s a five-million dollar reward on his head. Recently, following a request by the Argentine government, Interpol issued an international arrest warrant against him and five Iranian senior officials who are suspected of being involved in the planning of the Buenos Aires AMIA bombing in 1994. In 1995, we wiped out his brother in Beirut, hoping he’d come out of hiding to attend the funeral. He didn’t show up. We tried to assassinate him last February in a major operation at the border junction of Paraguay, Argentina, and Brazil. We killed a lot of men involved in the funding of terrorist attacks against us, but he managed to slip away.”
The phone on the prime minister’s table buzzed. “The Defense Minister asks to join you,” announced the secretary.
“All right,” the prime minister growled. “We’re talking about Husniyah,” he said with frustration as the minister came into the room.
“Yes, a real saint.” The Defense Minister chuckled. “No doubt the world would be a much better place without him. It’s also going to send a clear message to Iran and Hezbollah.”
“You need to take into account that each attack immediately brings about a counterattack. We hurt them and are being hit back immediately,” Alex pointed out.
“We’ve been hit without taking out Husniyah,” the prime minister reminded him, using his usual sarcastic tone. “This is why I ask— No, I demand that you do it. I don’t care how difficult it is. I know you can carry out anything if you really want to. The only question is when?” He passed his cold, blue eyes across the other men’s faces in careful expectation.
“I can’t give you a timetable,” said Cornfield carefully, “but we do have a lead.”
“Stay here a moment,” the prime minister said and motioned to the others that the meeting was adjourned. “What did you mean?” he asked when they sat by themselves.
“Tevel[8] received information from the Americans about a mistress Imad Husniyah keeps. Her name is Layla al Tirawi. She’s Shiite and manages an Iranian school in a suburb of southern Damascus. He goes to visit her for a few hours once a week. Tzomet already has the place under surveillance using agents and local operators.”
“Don’t screw this one up,” the prime minister said eagerly. “Do whatever it takes to nail the bastard. You don’t need to run this by the Security Cabinet. The fewer people know about it, the better. I want Arik, head of Caesarea Division, to personally command the attack and make sure everything goes smoothly.”
Cornfield protested: “I thought about assigning Mot’ke Hassin as the commander in charge. We’ve had some problems with Arik lately.”
The prime minister’s expression became aggressive and determined. “Take Arik! He has a personal interest in being successful after his previous failures in South America and Beirut.”
“All right.” Cornfield gave in. “Arik Bar-Nathan will command the operation.” A defiant expression of loathing settled on his face.
Chapter 17
Mediterranean Chess
A reminder popped up in Arik’s digital diary: “Operation plan approval meeting.” He went into Cornfield’s office, tired from a day of preparations with his men and a sleepless night during which he had considered the various options of carrying out the attack.
“I’ve seen the suggestion of the Caesarea Division’s chief for Operation Elusive Shadow Two.” Mot’ke Hassin opened the meeting.
“Hold on, there was an Elusive Shadow One?” Cornfield asked Arik.
“Yes. That was in February, at the border junction of Paraguay, Argentina, and Brazil, but he managed to slip away.”
Hassin continued. “I have to say, I don’t like Caesarea’s plan at all.”
Arik exchanged looks with his division manager associates: Alex; Jonathan Souderi, head of Tzomet; head of Neviot;[9] and the head of Tevel, It was apparent they were all on his side.
“There could be lot of possible complications involving the use of disparate forces: Arab collaborators that are not a hundred percent reliable; men of the General Staff Reconnaissance Unit, who are excellent soldiers; members of Kidon, whose high level of skill has already been demonstrated during the ‘Koresh’ Operation during the failed assassination of Khaled Mashal in Jordan; as well as Air Force rescue units. In short, too many parties are involved; too many things can go wrong. It’s just too complicated.” He finished his short speech and sent Arik a mocking smile.
“What do you suggest as an alternative?” Arik interrupted him.
“I suggest having the Air Force drop a precise, one-ton bomb on the house Imad Husniyah will be at. We take down the entire house and end the problem. Nice and clean. Why do we need to take the risks involved with the logistics of coordinating so many forces and endanger our men?” Hassin wondered aloud and was rewarded with a satisfied smile from Cornfield.
“And you think the Syrian president will just sit quietly after you take down an entire house right in the middle of Damascus, killing hundreds of innocent civilians in the process?” asked Alex.
All the operation divisions heads nodded in agreement.
“Don’t start acting like bleeding hearts,” Hassin answered angrily. “‘When you cut down a tree, chips will fly.’”
“With all due respect,” Arik replied, raising his voice a little, betraying his tired and stress-filled state, “what you suggest in an amateurish and superficial attack. I suggest an entirely different plan. A surgically precise operation that will harm Husniyah alone. That way, we do not commit a casus belli.[10] I don’t think the Syrian president will mourn for this man.”
Cornfield looked at him curiously, yet there was still
doubt in his eyes.
“When I sat with my men to plan this assassination, I knew we are faced with an enemy who is a terrorist mastermind. When faced with a mastermind, what you need is a sophisticated master plan,” Arik said. “He’s already slipped right between our hands twice. A few months ago in South America and in 1995, when we took out his brother in Beirut. He had guessed our intentions and didn’t show up for the funeral. He’s also managed to slip away from the Americans and Europeans easily.”
“What are you getting at, then?” Cornfield hissed like a cobra about to bite its victim.
“In the real world of special operations, you need to connect the few dots your information offers you and try to guess your rival’s behavior pattern from a practical point of view.”
“Get to the point.”
“I know the plan I’ve presented you with is based on hazardous guesses of the enemies’ actions, but this only means we need to be careful of the dangers of logical thinking or the tendency to react in a predictable way different scenarios.”
“Come on already.” Hassin spurred him on. “I’m tired of listening to your fancy philosophical bullshit. What do you suggest we do?”
“A plan with three levels of security that will cover every option. A powerful explosive charge in his car seat headrest, poison on the steering wheel, and another option…”
“All right, I approve the explosive charge in the headrest thing, as well as the poison, but what is your third option, and why isn’t it in the paper you’ve prepared?” Cornfield demanded.
Arik answered slowly, selecting his words carefully. “It has to do with one of our collaborators. We’ve been suspecting him of switching sides for a long time. Should both stages of the plan go wrong, he will follow Husniyah in a bomb-rigged car. Of course, he won’t know his car has been rigged, only that he needs to take Husniyah off the road. At a certain point of time, once they’re out of Damascus and heading to Beirut, I’ll give the order. He will bypass Husniyah, and his vehicle will blow up. We kill two birds with one stone.”
To Kill a Shadow Page 10