To Kill a Shadow

by Ronen, Nathan

  Dato came inside before the door even closed. “Don’t worry,” he told Arik, without trying to hide the fact he had eavesdropped on the conversation. “She’ll give you everything you’ve asked for. Let’s go to town. I’m inviting you to dinner in a nice restaurant. Have you ever eaten Azeri food?”

  At the heart of the old city of Baku, next to the souvenir stalls and a short distance from the Maiden’s Tower, inside a stone cellar, a beautiful oriental restaurant was hidden: The ‘Firuza’ Restaurant. The floor was covered by Azeri carpets and colorful, embroidered tablecloths were spread on the tables. The place was teeming with life because of the end of the Ramadan fast. The delicious food reminded Arik of the Ottoman restaurants in Istanbul: taboon bread; lamb chops grilled over charcoal; kebabs on a bed of yogurt sauce; tara dishes—green mallow plant leaves—with small dumplings and green pickled plums; a bowl of rice pilaf with meat; carrot sticks with cumin seeds; and fresh salads sprinkled with nuts and pomegranate seeds.

  “Now, let’s discuss the preparations needed for the president’s operation,” said Dato after gulping several glasses of frozen Polish vodka.

  On the following day, Arik met Mariam for lunch at the same conference room in the Presidential Palace. This time, she arrived wearing a green suit and matching shoes. She was much more relaxed and smiled often.

  A servant wearing traditional garments entered the room and served the guests fresh breads stuffed with meat, sheep cheese, and fresh pomegranate juice.

  “I’ve discussed your offer with my brother, and we’ve decided to accept it. As an advance, I am willing to share everything we know about Ahmadinejad’s nuclear plan with you. We call him ‘the dwarf’ by the way. That man is a kind of modern Napoleon who wants to return Iran to the glory days of the great Persian Empire. In order to achieve that, he wastes my country’s resources on the huge Islamic Revolutionary Guard, supporting Shiite terrorist organizations all over the world and developing an ambitious program for transforming Iran into a nuclear superpower, thus dragging all the other Gulf states into an insane nuclear arms race. We simply won’t have that. I think your organization should know we’ve determined to assassinate the scientist involved with this insane plan.”

  “That is your decision to make,” said Arik, suppressing a smile. He knew Cornfield would be delighted with this news and would happily take credit when revealing the information to the prime minister.

  Chapter 22

  Mossad Headquarters

  Early in the morning, Arik landed at the military section of the Ben-Gurion Airport. His car was already waiting for him there with one of Mossad’s drivers. “Go straight to the office, please,” Arik instructed him, feeling elated.

  The two men waiting for him at the office weren’t as cheerful. Major General Mot’ke “Steak Face” Hassin was sitting next to Cornfield. “What’s up, Arik?” asked Hassin. Arik immediately realized Cornfield had instructed Steak Face to manage the debriefing and assumed it was just one more of his control games.

  “I met Mariam Halachi in Baku,” he said calmly, careful to conceal his emotions. “I assume you know who she is from reading Alex’s reports.”

  “And?” Hassin urged him on.

  “She will make a force the size of a brigade available to us which we will train in Kirkuk, in the Kurdish controlled area of north east Iraq. I have a list of equipment, arms and money she’s requested from us.”

  “And what is she offering in return?” asked Hassin.

  “Hold on, I’m not finished yet.” Arik ignored him and continued to address Cornfield directly. “The training must be coordinated with ‘ELGA’.”

  “Who the hell is ‘ELGA’ and why should we coordinate anything with her?” Hassin wondered, exposing his ignorance.

  Arik did his best not to chuckle. “ELGA is the codename we use for CIA forces.” Arik turned his eyes to Cornfield. “I suggest you finalize the details with your friend, Admiral Jack Derby. Fischer used to meet with him twice a year to tie up loose ends and coordinate our operations. I think as the new Mossad director, you should also maintain such a relationship with the director of the CIA.”

  The two generals snorted in contempt at the sound of Fischer’s name.

  “We’re walking on eggshells here,” Arik explained. “We can’t leave any fingerprints when it comes to our relationship with Mariam. Her men will be willing to cooperate only as long as they believe they are working with the western superpowers against the Ayatollah’s regime. If they discover Israel is involved, the entire operation would probably fall apart. Some of them have been hunted by the Savak, the Shah’s secret police, whose men we helped train in the past.”

  “But what can she offer us in return?” Hassin demanded to know.

  “She still has many connections inside Iran. She has people everywhere, especially in the northern part of the country where there’s a population of thirty million Azeri. She will give me a few dozen outstanding students from the Tabriz University, who will be trained by my Digital Fortress Team to become ‘keyboard spies’.”

  “What in God’s name are ‘keyboard spies’?”

  “Cyber soldiers.” Cornfield silenced him. “Good guys. They know how to do some serious damage with computers and worms, right?”

  Arik smiled. Cornfield was definitely a quick learner.

  “And how much money does she want?” asked Cornfield. “How much is this going cost me?”

  “I suggest that we take a look at the cost-benefit analysis before we discuss the actual—” Arik answered.

  “How much?” Cornfield demanded and slammed the table with his fist.

  “In addition to weapons and equipment, she’s asking for a million Euros and help with convincing the French DGS to offer her a diplomat’s status. She also needs arms licenses for her bodyguards and an armored Mercedes.” Arik left out the Maybach part of the vehicle description, as it almost doubled the price.

  “That’s a lot of money,” said Cornfield. “I’ll need to discuss this with the prime minister.” He thought for a moment. “As for the weapons, I approve. Doing what we can with the French… Maybe. But I’m not authorizing that Mercedes nonsense!” he said decisively.

  Hassin nodded in agreement, and Arik looked at them both with mocking eyes. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, he thought. And I’m stuck here like some kind of Hamlet. He tried to summon all his powers of persuasion. “Cornfield, the Mercedes represents her emotional attachment to the deal. We’re talking about small change. Especially when compared to the enormous benefits such a deal could offer us. Let me handle this directly with our finance division.”

  “I won’t approve it, do you hear me?” Cornfield barked.

  “My mother once taught me something that may sound stupid to you: every agreement is sacred and must be honored, even if it was done with scumbags. I gave Mariam my word we’d honor the agreement.”

  “Then take it to the finance division yourself as you’ve suggested!” Cornfield rose from his seat, indicating the meeting was adjourned.

  “Hold on. There’s something even more important to discuss,” said Arik. “A matter that came up during my meeting with Georgi in Azerbaijan.”

  “Who’s Georgi?” Hassin wondered aloud.

  Cornfield placed a large hand on Steak Face’s shoulder. “I’ll explain later.” He dropped back in his large chair and sighed. The phantom pains he was suffering from gave him no rest. Arik looked at him curiously; the new Mossad director reeked of alcohol.

  “Hold on a minute. I need something to drink. My leg is killing me.” Cornfield took two Tylenol, opened the large wooden globe placed on the side of his table, and took out a bottle of Glenfiddich 21. He poured himself half a glass and swallowed the pills in a single gulp.

  “Medicinal alcohol, of course,” he said jokingly, and Hassin echoed his bitter laughter, having been maimed in battle himself.

  Arik got back to the subject at hand. “I’ve received a request from the president of Azerbai
jan, Nur Sultan Babayev, involving a sensitive matter.”

  “What does he want?” Cornfield interrupted him impatiently.

  “To come here incognito and undergo an operation at the Hadassah Medical Center. I think he has prostate cancer, and the operation he underwent at the Percy Military Hospital in Paris did not go well.”

  “Since when does Mossad care about healing some Kurd’s dick?” asked Hassin.

  “First of all, he’s Caucasian.” Arik now spoke with authority. “Secondly, his country is located in a highly sensitive geostrategic location between Russia, Iran, and Armenia—a location they all would love to annex because of its vast gas and oil reserves. Thirdly, Azerbaijan and Iran have been in conflict for decades; the Iranians claim the region was stolen from them by the Russians at the beginning of the twentieth century.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Cornfield admitted.

  “Nur Sultan Babayev is in distress. His father had died from prostate cancer and he’s afraid of suffering the same fate. He needs us. During the war in Afghanistan, he allowed the Americans to use former Soviet bases for logistical purposes. He would be willing to do the same for us.”

  “I’m still waiting for you to get to the goddamn point,” said Cornfield, who had reached the limits of his patience.

  “I think if we saved his life here in the Hadassah Medical Center, offered him aid, and sold him surveillance equipment and weapons, he’d agree to let us have a signals intelligence base right on the border of Iran. Perhaps he would even lease us one of their military’s inactive Air Force bases. This means we could have a fighter squadron right in the Iranian’s backdoor.”

  “Now you’re talking!” Cornfield laughed with the joy of a child who had just received a desirable toy.

  “Anything else?” Cornfield asked, “I need to take a leak. My diabetes is killing me.”

  “Mariam Halachi has told me her organization is interested in sabotaging the Iranian nuclear program. I think they’ll wait for us to give them the proper equipment and training before actually starting to assassinate Iran’s nuclear scientists.”

  “Excellent, the prime minister is going to love this. All right, get this Kurd here to Israel and fix his pecker. Yes, it’s a great idea. Go for it. Try to convince them.”

  Arik suppressed another smile. He had already gotten the Azeri’s principal agreement to the idea. At least that had been his impression following his conversations with Georgi. Still, he wanted Cornfield to be able and take credit for the achievement. “I think you need to close the details with him face-to-face once he’s in Israel,” he suggested. “This is above my level of authority. Perhaps we would even need to arrange for him to meet the prime minister.”

  Cornfield felt another stab of fear. Should the visit be marked a success, he’d be able to take credit for it, but should it fail… “All right,” he said and rose to go to the restroom. “But I want you to be his escort officer for the visit.”

  Arik emitted a sigh of relief. That was exactly the offer he had hoped for.

  Chapter 23

  Hotel Burj Al Arab—Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  From the windows of the congress hall, on the 117th floor of the hotel, the skyline of the United Arab Emirates stretched to infinity. High-rises were carefully lined across the shore beside low houses like a mouth with broken teeth, their windows gleaming in the afternoon sun. Fifty-seven men sat around the huge wooden table, some wearing keffiyehs and robes strewn with gold threads, others wearing elegant suits. All were Muslim leaders of the member-countries of the Organization of Islamic Cooperation.

  Nur Sultan Babayev, President of the Republic of Azerbaijan and the organization’s acting Chairman, opened the convention, trying hard to look at his fellow leaders’ faces instead of the lenses of the television cameras. Behind him and all other leaders in the room sat each country’s dignitaries and their entourages.

  Nur Sultan examined his surroundings with a forced smile that concealed the fact he suffered a searing pain down the lower part of his body. He hit the table with the wooden hammer he was holding and began. “Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim… There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah. Your eminences, kings, presidents, and heads of states, thank you for coming to this important convention of the Heads of State Committee, which leads the Organization of Islamic Cooperation.”

  His private cell phone rang in his pocket. Nur Sultan took advantage of the temporary interval created by the applause and stole a look at the screen. “They’ve agreed. I got a green light. When can you take off?” A text message winked at him. The tension did not show on Nur Sultan’s face. He looked straight at the floral arrangements, flown from Amsterdam that morning, and continued. “I ask the organization’s general secretary, Professor Ahmet Aydin Ishangulo of the Turkish Republic, to give us an overview of the organization’s activity in the past year and its financial status.”

  The moment the general secretary’s raspy voice rose from the speakers, Nur Sultan shook his head apologetically and rose from his chair. His pelvis burned with pain. He knew the television cameras were following him and wore an expression of urgency on his face as if he had just been called to attend to a matter of great importance. He left the room with measured steps and, the moment the door closed behind him, moaned to his bodyguard. “Tell Dato Zerekidaze to get here urgently.”

  The bodyguard hesitated, not wanting to abandon the leader he had sworn to protect. He knew the hotel was guarded by the best security forces the small kingdom had to offer, but Azerbaijan and President Babayev had many powerful enemies.

  “Go already!” the president commanded and dropped into one of the armchairs. The bodyguard, a former Olympic wrestler, moved with surprising nimbleness for a man his size. He went back to the conference hall and quickly returned with the bureau chief. Babayev motioned for him to sit beside him and then waved his hand at the bodyguard, who hurried to take his distance and keep an eye out from the other end of the hall. Babayev covered his mouth with the palm of his hand.

  “Do you think it’s safe to travel to the Jewish country?” he whispered, leaning toward Dato.

  “Yes. I’ve spoken with one of their Mossad officers. He promised no one would know who you are.”

  “That’s not enough!” hissed Nur Sultan, “I want complete medical confidentiality. If someone ends up identifying me, they can’t know I’m sick or, God forbid, dying. The moment word of this gets out, all my remaining loyal subjects will abandon me.”

  “Sir, the lives of many people depend on you.”

  “You are Georgian, so you are not entirely familiar with our culture.” The president sighed. “Our people are like a pack of wolves. The moment the pack senses a weakness with the alpha wolf, all its members unite to attack and bite it to death.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. President. I trust the Jews. They have an interest to buy oil and gas from us at bargain prices and sell us weapons and equipment. This is a win-win situation, a safe deal for us.”

  “Allah will help us.” Nur Sultan sighed again. His pains gradually worsened, and he longed to have the treatment over with. “Prepare the plane. Instruct the pilot to present a flight plan to Amman. I have connections there who will allow me to continue to Israel without leaving any footprints. You’re going to fly with me as well, and so will he.” He pointed his finger at the bodyguard, who gave him a blank stare. “Send out a press release stating I was urgently recalled home to handle security issues at the Nagorno-Karabakh region. Back home, release an announcement stating I flew directly to hold talks with the Russians at the Sochi beach resort. This way, no one will notice I’m missing. How many days do we need for the operation?”

  “Two or three days, including recuperation.”

  “I want to pray at the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  An hour later, Nur Sultan lay on a narrow bed in the presidential plane headed northwest. His bodyguard and Dato si
lently looked at him. Nur Sultan sighed and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll get through this.” In his heart, he asked himself how their lives would look without him. He wasn’t worried about the bodyguard, who would simply protect his successor. But Dato’s life, should he stay alive, would not be easy at all. He examined him with fatherly affection, recalling the day he had discovered him during a graduation ceremony at Baku Polytechnicum. Dato had come from the neighboring country of Georgia to study oil and gas engineering, sponsored by a generous scholarship awarded to gifted students from all over the Soviet Union, and finished first in his class. Nur Sultan often thought he would marry his daughter to Dato if the latter weren’t a Christian and of Georgian origins.

  The plane suddenly shook. Nur Sultan felt a sharp pain piercing his groin. Dato held his hand. “Dato,” Babayev whispered, “should anything happen to me, everything will collapse. Our chief of staff is a veteran of the Moscow Military Academy, and I doubt his loyalty. The prime minister is a religious Shiite and has excellent relations with Tehran. The Armenians will try to raise their heads and conquer more parts of the country just like they did in the Nagorno-Karabakh region. The Russians will back them up to get to our gas and oil.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. President,” said Dato. “You’re a very strong man, and you’ll survive.”

  Nur Sultan beckoned him to get closer and whispered in his ear. “I have a bank account in Hong Kong I’ve set aside for a rainy day. In the Presidential Palace, you will find a secret safe beneath the carpet on which my table is placed. Only Esmeralda, my secretary, knows about it.” He took off a thin necklace from his neck on which a key was hanging. “The safe contains a secret escape plan, which includes a map leading to a hiding place in the village. There is also a villa on the shores of the Caspian Sea. There’s a fast boat hidden there in a boat house. It will take you and my family across the Caspian Sea to Kazakhstan. Please take care of Esmeralda as well; she doesn’t have a family. She has dedicated her life to me.”