Finally, he decided to go running to relieve some of his stress. Hopefully, some physical exercise would allow him a good night’s sleep. He dressed in a warm sweat suit, went down to the stormy beach, and began running south. The lights of Ashdod twinkled from afar, and the waves of the sea, noisily breaking against the limestone cliffs, washed the sand strip under his running feet.
A few hundred yards later, his body filled with tiredness. He panted, coughed, and slowed his pace to a quick walk. Sharp pangs between his ribs forced him to sit down on one of the rocks. Cold sweat washed his body. He could barely breathe. He forced himself up, wobbling on unsteady feet as he walked back home, feeling dizzy and sick to his stomach. Black spots appeared in front of his eyes, and he was barely able to climb the stairs cut in the cliff.
When he got back home, he got straight into the bathroom and took a warm shower. It was difficult for him to breathe regularly, or even to remain steady on his feet beneath the stream of hot water. Finally, his legs buckled, and he dropped to the shower floor, hot water still pouring from above.
After long minutes, he heaved himself up, went out of the shower and put on a bathrobe. In the living room, he activated the hearth with a click of a button. A few minutes later, warmth spread through the house. The logs crackled happily, and a pleasant scent of eucalyptus oil filled the air. Arik collapsed on his large leather armchair and snuggled in his warm bathrobe.
He was filled with fear. The breakdown of his body took him years back, to the uncomfortable territory of his childhood. With a shivering hand, he poured himself a glass of Rémy Martin cognac and added some sweet Cointreau, a mix he had learned from a French friend. The alcohol spread through his body, offering him comforting pleasure and relaxing the dread that held him. His thoughts became sharp and clear. There’s no choice, he decided, I’ll go and see a doctor tomorrow.
On the following morning, while he was driving to the clinic, his car phone rang. He looked at the screen. “Mossad Director’s Office,” the digital letters blinked.
“Yes!” he spoke into the mouthpiece above his head.
“Listen,” said Shlomo Zimmer, Cornfield’s bureau chief.
Arik detested the use of that military word at the opening of a sentence.
“Yes, what do you want?” he asked angrily.
“It’s not about what I want. It’s about what Cornfield wants. He asked me to tell you, ‘The flower bud has opened.’ He said you’d know what to do.”
“Of course I know what to do,” Arik lied, “I’ll get on it right away.”
He drove a few more miles until he reached a gas station. In an enclosed tire shed was a clandestine safe. There, Arik took out of the safe the envelope Cornfield had handed him a few weeks before and opened it. He went over the instructions of the operation and got back to the road, calculating the shortest route to the nearest airport.
He called Cornfield’s bureau chief on his phone. “Zimmer, I need you to arrange a plane to take me to Baku, capital of Azerbaijan. I’m on my way to the Air Force military base at the Ben-Gurion Airport right now. Let me know when the plane’s ready for takeoff.”
Chapter 20
Heydar Babayev International Airport—Baku, Azerbaijan
Arik looked at the luxurious and spacious terminal named after the former
president’s father and predecessor. He was experienced enough not to look down on the country’s form of government. Western democracy, he knew, was not suitable for every country. There were societies in which a presidential dynasty, or even a dictatorship, was conceived to be the better way.
He stood in line for the passport control, and as always, memorized his false name, as it appeared on the Canadian passport he was holding.
Two police officers came out a side office, approached him and silently beckoned him to join them. He left the line and walked between the two of them to a wide door that silently opened, then closed behind him. He found himself in a large and carpeted VIP lounge. The numerous sofas lined against the walls indicated it was used for hosting important guests. A tall, lanky man walked toward him with his hand extended.
“Georgi,” Arik said happily, using the predetermined code name.
“Raymundo,” the man replied.
They shook hands warmly. “Would you care for a drink after your flight?”
The man didn’t wait for an answer, quickly pulled aside a curtain, and exposed a bar laden with alcoholic beverages. Arik smiled. He should have guessed Georgi, who was actually Dato Zerekidaze, the president’s bureau chief, would keep the finest alcoholic beverages at hand. Dato took a bottle of local vodka from the freezer and a plate of herring from the refrigerator. “It’s shitty vodka,” said Dato. “The state of vodka can always tell you how well we are doing with the Russians, diplomatically speaking. When things are good, there’s a steady supply of good vodka. When the Russians are angry, we need to settle for this shitty local vodka. Personally, I prefer our local Chacha brandy.”
Arik took a small sip and coughed. Dato laughed. “I see you still haven’t learned how to drink,” he chided Arik. He tilted his head back and emptied his frosty glass with a single gulp. His face reddened, and the hairs of his mustache stood on end. He took a piece of herring and swallowed it while biting a slice of black bread, which he generously buttered. Then he poured himself another glass and smiled at Arik, who patiently waited for the ceremony to end.
“Now, tell me…” He placed his hand on Arik’s arm. “Are you sure you’d like to meet that witch? I’m not even sure she’s in Baku. I think she might be in Paris now.”
“I know she’s here now. Ask your people. I need her for her abilities, and she could use my help to advance her business. Just set up a meeting, and I’m sure we could come to a mutual understanding.”
Dato shrugged. “I’ll try, but there’s something else I need you to help me with as well. Something very important.”
Arik listened.
“Our president, Nur Sultan Babayev, is unwell. He underwent a certain surgery in Paris, which wasn’t successful. He’s extremely concerned. His father had passed from the same illness when he was thirty-eight. The Parisian doctor recommended Dr. Jackie Maman, an Israeli urologist from the Hadassah Medical Center in Jerusalem who has already saved many patients by using brachytherapy.”
“What is the president suffering from?”
Dato squirmed uneasily. “I’m not authorized to discuss it. As you know, the president cannot openly visit Israel. He is the chairman of the Organization of Islamic Cooperation.”
“Don’t worry.” Arik smiled. “We know how to handle such obstacles.”
Arik considered all developments, both positive and negative, that might result from such an operation: the president might die on the operating table, someone might recognize him, one of his own men might take over the country in his absence and claim he had always been a traitor and a Zionist spy… On the other hand, he had to consider the enormous benefits gaining such a friend could bring, a friend with strategic assets right at the northern border of Iran.
Dato guessed what was in his mind. “Just give us a list of things you need, and I’ll do anything in my power for it to be accepted, for a suitable price, of course.”
Arik thought of Cornfield. Would that rough man be able to be involved in such a delicate, eastern style give and take negotiation?
“And the appointment with Mariam?”
“Consider it a gift demonstrating the respect I have for you. I checked. You were right. The witch is indeed here in Baku. You’ll be able to meet her as soon as possible.”
“Thank you,” said Arik. As always, he felt overwhelmed by how flexible the truth was in those parts of the world and by the ability of the people of the east to lie and immediately retract their claims without any sense of unease. “It’s important that she doesn’t know who I am until the very last moment. Just tell her I’m your friend, an international businessman who will be able to aid her business in Fr
ance, both politically and financially.”
“All right, I recommend that you do your homework on her. She’s a tough lady who leads a group of terrorists. She’s seen it all. Nothing scares her anymore. Do you know that the Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps murdered part of her family to avenge her organization’s support of Saddam Hussein?”
“Yes,” said Arik. He had learned everything there was to know about Mariam on the flight to Baku, from her family’s history to her sexual habits.
Dato took a cell phone from his pocket, dialed, exchanged a few sentences in Azeri and returned he phone to his pocket. “The presidential chopper will be ready in an hour. If you’re tired, we could take you to a hotel, or you can wait in our VIP lobby while I make the proper arrangements.”
Arik knew that time was just as flexible as truth in those parts of the world. An hour could often stretch into four, which meant going to a hotel and back could postpone his appointment for many hours. “Thank you, I’ll wait here.”
Dato extended his hand for a handshake again, and immediately moved to a series of hugs and wet kisses on both cheeks. “Good to see you here,” he said a moment before stepping out the wide door. “The president and I are convinced we have great things ahead of us.” He winked to Arik.
Chapter 21
The Presidential Palace—Baku, Azerbaijan
Much to Arik’s surprise, Dato returned to the VIP lobby in less than an hour. “The helicopter is ready,” he said with sparkling eyes, and Arik could only assume President Nur Sultan Babayev really needed his operation urgently. When they walked on the runway, Dato added, “I did some checking. Mariam Halachi was deported from France after her organization had been declared a terrorist organization. She has sought asylum from our country and is now in our debt.”
Arik looked at the Caspian Sea through the window of the presidential chopper. It was strewn with gas rigs spitting tongues of fire. Across the beach strip, the chimneys of refineries spat smoke. Thousands of oil pumps rose and fell as if in mock prayer. Beside them, across the horizon, stretched the miserable shanty towns of foreign laborers.
“Which means what, exactly?”
“Which means she will do anything we tell her to do.”
Arik nodded in satisfaction. That was the answer he had hoped for.
“You will meet the lady in a private conference room inside the Presidential Palace. As you’ve requested, we haven’t told her anything about you, but she’s not stupid.”
Dato wasn’t wrong. In a room with a wood parquet floor laid with beautiful Azeri carpets, a woman waited for Arik on a red leather sofa. She looked fortyish and wore a dark blue, tailored suit that fit the bright gray shade of her eyes. Her white skin, her manicured nails, hair, and black eyelashes all spoke of a well-groomed woman. Her body language indicated her sense of self-importance. She rose to greet Arik and shook his hand. The two inspected each other like two carpet merchants in a Persian bazaar. “Thank you for coming to see me,” Arik said in fluent French, a language he had mastered years before while serving as Mossad’s station commander in Paris.
“Am I correct in assuming I’m speaking with a representative of the Israeli Mossad?” she answered in French with a thick Iranian accent and met his gaze.
Arik was surprised by her direct approach, but was careful not to betray his emotions. “At this stage, let’s just assume I represent an international organization with similar interests to your own. I think we could greatly benefit each other.”
She smiled with demonstrated skepticism. “Are you sure?”
Arik knew the game well enough not to be worried by her cynical reaction. What he needed could be obtained by other means; what she and her organization needed was a matter of life and death.
“We know,” he said, “that you are currently at the top of the American State Department’s list of terrorist organizations. We also know that it is important for you, personally, to be regarded by the western world as a pioneer of advanced Islamic politics and a freedom fighter.”
Her face remained expressionless.
“We can help you. Perhaps we can ask our friends in Paris to allow you reopen your Paris headquarters and offer you a special status as political refugee. Maybe even provide you with a VIP diplomatic passport.”
She continued to examine him with her beautiful eyes, still saying nothing.
Arik continued. “We admire the fact the members of your People’s Army are dedicated to the organization’s cause and vision. I even heard a few of them had burned themselves to death in Paris last year to protest your arrest by the French government. We are also aware of the fact a large part of your organization members have divorced their wives, according to your instructions, to demonstrate their loyalty to the organization.”
A crack finally appeared on her armor of indifference. “We are not Muslim fanatics, and they weren’t asked to demonstrate their loyalty to the organization or to me personally. Under the circumstances, the members of my organization cannot enjoy the comforts of marriage. We are confronted with a ruthless enemy and mustn’t be diverted. I, too, have divorced my husband. Each of our organization members believes in the cause of bringing democracy to Iran and is willing to sacrifice himself for it.”
Arik wasn’t impressed. He had read all the details about Mariam’s divorce, which involved a young lover, a soldier in her organization, and money. Lots of it.
Even though it was Ramadan, a servant wearing a colorful Azeri garment silently entered the room, holding a tray laden with dry fruits, nuts, and a teapot of herbal tea, which emitted a wonderful aroma. He placed the tray on a table carved with beautiful damask patterns and left the room. Arik was hungry and thirsty. He took a handful of dried fruit and filled them with nuts and began to chew with great relish. She examined him, and he lifted the teapot from the tray and gave her a questioning look. She approved with a nod, and he poured tea for the both of them. She took a sugar cube, placed it in her mouth, and sipped the tea with open pleasure. He could not remove his eyes from her face, which suddenly wore a sensual expression. They sat quietly for long minutes, drinking tea and continuing their negotiation with their eyes.
“What else can your organization offer me?” she suddenly asked.
“What else do you need?” Arik replied with a question of his own.
“I need money, arms, communication and explosives training, optical equipment and advanced communication equipment, encryption means and computers, powerful dirt bikes, and perhaps fast race-boats as well.”
“Would you like to work with us directly or through the Kurds?”
“So you admit to being a Mossad agent. By the way, you still haven’t told me your name, although I’m sure you’re going to lie to me anyway.
“Just call me Raymundo.”
“Raymundo.” She chuckled. “The name of a Latin lover. You look like a Norseman but have Mediterranean table manners. She extended her hand, “My name is Mariam Halachi, and I’m the elected president of the Iranian National Council of Resistance. I’m the leader of our exile organization abroad, but I assume you already know all that.”
“Yes,” Arik admitted.
“The organization’s boss is my brother, Professor Massoud Halachi. He is still in Iran, hiding from the revolutionary guard’s hit squads who’ve been looking for him since he was deported from France in 1986…” She sipped the remaining tea from the bottom of her cup. “What do you need from me?”
“We want a group of your organization’s soldiers, say about three hundred men, to arrive at the city of Kirkuk, at the heart of the independent Kurdish controlled area of Iraq. There, they will practice in mining activity, sabotage, communication, encryption, collecting tactical intelligence, and riding dirt bikes…”
“And who would train them?” asked Mariam. “Not the men of your organization, I hope?”
“As far as you’re concerned, they’ll be trained by US Special Forces personnel.”
“The American
s have allowed you to use their services?”
“You shouldn’t worry about that. We’ll take care of everything.”
She paused for a moment. “You’re asking for a lot,” she finally said. “In addition to settling the question of my status in Paris, you will also need to open a bank account in my name and deposit a million Euros in it for initial expenses.”
“I’ll check,” Arik promised.
“And one more thing. Paris is a dangerous city. I’ll need an armored car, preferably a Mercedes-Maybach.”
Arik suppressed a smile. He knew all about the “spy syndrome.” The office had given him all the in-depth psychological knowledge he needed. He knew that in order to make someone do something, he needed to find their emotional weakness. He also knew all about common weaknesses: sex, money, ego, and rancor.
He was experienced enough to understand Mariam’s personal demands would come at the end of the list. They’d reached the point of no return—the point that represented Mariam’s emotional needs. Thus, it was the right moment to add another demand to his shopping list. “There’s something else that we want, something that would benefit your organization as much as it would benefit ours.” She tightened her lips in discomfort, and Arik ignored it. “We need twenty-five outstanding students, graduates of Tabriz University’s computer science department in Iran, all Azeri in origin. We want them to take a cyber warfare course in military base near Baku. This will allow them to work as cyber spies for both our organizations as early as three months from now—”
“We’ve talked enough for now.” She cut him short and rose from her seat. “Let me check with the proper parties and do some thinking. I suggest we meet here tomorrow to coordinate our mutual interests as well as discuss the technical details.” She offered Arik a firm handshake and a smile that revealed two rows of pearly white teeth and left the room, tapping the floor rhythmically with her high heels, well aware of the fact he was following her with his eyes.
To Kill a Shadow Page 12