“I fractured my shoulder.”
“So why did they give you an antibiotics infusion?” She pointed at his medical chart.
“Stay out of my medical chart,” Arik protested.
“Sometimes fractures are treated with preventive broad spectrum antibiotics and steroids,” Eva said calmly.
“Oh,” said Naomi. “I understand.” Arik thought she remained just as naïve as she had been as a child. But why is Eva covering for me? he wondered.
Naomi’s cell phone rang. She answered, listened for a moment and after hanging up asked Arik, “Nathalie is here. She asks if you’re dressed and if she can come in.”
Arik pulled the sheet tighter around his body. Eva grabbed Naomi’s arm. “We’ll wait outside,” she said politely. When the two left, Arik heard Naomi introducing Eva to Nathalie in the hallway. Nathalie entered hesitantly, as if she were afraid of him. “Come. Come to Daddy,” he called her. She stopped some distance from his bed. She was dressed in a long, black skirt and a white, long-sleeved shirt. Her hair was tied into a tight knot.
“Daddy!” she called emotionally.
The sound of that word immediately alleviated all the pains that began to awake as the morphine’s influence began to wear down. He thought of asking her to come give him a hug, but feared it might be prohibited by religion and did not want to offend her.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“Now that you’re here, it doesn’t.” He smiled at her.
She took an envelope out of her bag. “I brought you a surprise.”
She placed the envelope on the bedside table and immediately returned to stand in the middle of the room. Arik barely tore the paper flap. The name of his ex-wife was the first thing his eyes caught under the words “the bride’s parents,” then he saw his own name, separately written. The names of the groom’s parents, on the other hand, were written side by side, almost embracing.
He read the groom’s name. “Haim Fischel?” He couldn’t help himself and ended with a question mark.
“Yes, that’s his name,” Nathalie said, her eyes shining. “He’s a great student of the Torah.”
Arik nodded.
“It’s very rare, you know, for a great student from a good family to marry a woman who has just found her faith, but…”
“But what?”
“We fell in love,” she said emotionally. “His mother is my teacher, and once, when I spent the weekend there, he came back from the yeshiva because he was sick. I saw him, and he saw me, and…”
“That’s how I fell in love with your mom. The only difference is it was at a campfire at the kibbutz.”
Nathalie’s face fell.
“All right. I hope you stay together longer than we did.”
“Longer?” a hint of tears invaded her words. “We’re going to be married forever and ever. Don’t you get it? How insensitive can you be? What happened between you and Mom is exactly what I’m trying to run away from. It’s the reason I turned to religion. I was seeking the purer side of life.” The tears burst out of her all at once. “I came to see how you are and invite you to the wedding, and you… You always have to ruin everything.”
She ran out of the room in tears, and Arik heard Eva trying to soothe her. He wondered where Naomi was, thinking only Nathalie’s aunt could calm her down. To his surprise, the sound of crying gradually subsided.
Eva came into the room with her face beaming, much like Nathalie’s before her crying fit. “Where’s Naomi?” Arik asked angrily.
“She went to bring a vase. Are you all right?”
“That girl…” Arik motioned with his hands to indicate helplessness.
“That girl is wounded,” said Eva softly. “She’s afraid to get hurt again every time she’s close to you. As far as she’s concerned, the past is still here, and if you ask me, it looks like you haven’t really changed.”
“Tell me…” Arik erupted, then stopped himself and went silent.
“Tell you what?”
“How come you know so much about my life!”
She sat at his bedside and sought his hand with hers. He drew it away, and she didn’t protest. “I don’t know; I understand. I can read you, Arik, and believe me, it’s not as hard as you think.”
Chapter 29
A Profitable Investment
As usual, Ayalon Highway No. 20 was already jammed with traffic early in the morning. The cars moved slowly, bumper to bumper. Arik shifted uneasily in his chair. His shoulder still hurt. His cellular phone buzzed in his pocket. Arik slid his finger on the iPhone screen and saw the photo of a smiling woman. The Arc de Triomphe of Paris could be seen in the background. Mariam Halachi, or “Ruth the Moabitess” as she had been code-named in the operation’s paperwork, waved at him, leaning on a brand new, white Mercedes-Maybach. Two grim-faced, muscular bodyguards flanked her.
Arik smiled with satisfaction. It was time to check whether the investment in Mariam Halachi had yielded the expected results. He pressed the buttons of the operational phone in his car and called, “Office.” Claire answered and he asked her to connect him in an encrypted conference call with Albert Lev-Ari, the person responsible for Operation Flower Bud.
“Yes,” a distracted voice answered.
“Albert, this is Arik Bar-Nathan. Am I disturbing you?”
“No, it’s fine. I have a little electricity problem. I’m in the ‘Pikpur’ office.” The officer used the code name for Kirkuk, a city in the Kurdish enclave in Iraq.
“What’s going on with Ruth the Moabitess’ guys?”
“They’re very serious. The training and investment have definitely proven their worth. They’re bringing in some good stuff.”
“What about the nutcrackers?” asked Arik, actually speaking of the SIGINT[16] people drafted from among the Tabriz University students.
“Already working. We’ve equipped them with cutting-edge technology. They’re proving to be fine students.”
“What about the Ghostbusters on bikes?”
“Doing some fine and thorough cleaning and pest-control work.”
“Excellent. Thank you,” said Arik, finishing the conversation.
He stopped at the roadside and sent Mariam a smiley emoticon.
Chapter 30
Imam Khomeini International Airport-Tehran
The Tehran Imam Khomeini International Airport teemed with human trafficking. Two men, supposedly strangers, sat next to a small table in a coffee shop at the corner of the terminal. One, wearing a turban and looking like a student from one of the religious seminaries, was reading the popular Al-Akhbar newspaper. Behind the newspaper, inside a backpack placed on his knees, rested a small submachine gun with a silencer and two hand grenades. The other one was dressed like a tourist with a large backpack placed beside him and a broad-brimmed Australian hat on his head, concealing most of his face. A powerful laptop sat on the coffee shop table in front of them, scanning the entire airport area in a phishing attempt—to collect information from other computers in the complex.
The hacker dressed like a tourist’s eyes were restless. They moved back and forth from the computer screen on the table to the security cameras installed in every corner of the airport. Suddenly, he tensed up. The first data had been captured and a minute later was cast back into the net. It was a Facebook chat from a tourist from New Zealand on his way to visit India. The hacker emitted a silent curse and cast his virtual net back into the water.
Following an hour of failed attempts, his face brightened. He had found an Arabic-speaking computer. Within seconds, dozens of documents, including diagrams and construction plans on which the words “natanz,” “arak,” and “fordow” were written, among others, appeared on the screen in front of him. All the documents bore the title “Top Secret.” There were also blueprint files bearing Chinese writing.
The laptop’s owner sat only two tables away from the hacker. He was a big, burly man, wearing a suit that looked too small for him. A similar looking man
, perhaps his bodyguard, sat beside him, they were watching an action movie. The hacker took out his cell phone and with a smile asked the turban-wearing student to take his photo. The young Mullah[17] complied with a smile.
The Mullah directed his cell phone camera at the burly man behind the hacker and sent the photo in an encrypted email to his own Gmail address. He knew that in one of Tehran’s poor neighborhoods’ Internet cafes, Ruth the Moabitess’ people were sitting that very moment, monitoring his Google account. The moment the burly man’s photo went on the Internet, it was sent to an email address in London and scrambled inside photos of a fictitious wedding. From there, it was automatically transferred to Mossad’s research and intelligence center in Tel Aviv.
The computer on the desk of the Dr. Alex Abramovich, head of the Research and Analysis Division, woke up with a clicking sound. A message nervously jumped onto the screen. “Your attention is urgently required.”
The photo appeared on the screen and Alex immediately identified the burly man: General Ahmad Suleiman, the Syrian president’s special advisor and chairman of the Syrian Atomic Energy Commission. A document written by the analyst team of the Levant Department was attached to the email, stating that, from checking the passenger lists of the various flight companies, the man appeared to be making his way from North Korea to Damascus and had a stopover in Tehran.
The hacker in the Tehran Airport received a message to his cell phone: “Personal pizza and drink for only ten rial. Free delivery anywhere in the airport area.”
A great excitement overtook him. He lit a cigarette and took out a small USB stick. When he inserted it in the appointed slot in the computer, all the data phished out of the Syrian general’s computer was transferred to the stick with an incredible speed. When the copying finished, the hacker concealed the USB stick in a hidden compartment in his pants and dialed his cell phone. “I’d like to order a personal pizza with mushrooms, onions, and olives. I’m sitting at the Departure Terminal lounge, section G, next to the bookstore. Please send a Coke and salsa with the pizza.”
“The delivery man is on his way. He’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
About forty minutes later, the Mullah rose from his seat and disappeared among the crowd of passengers. A golden-haired tourist dressed in an elegant suit with the symbol of the Red-Cross embroidered on its pocket took his place. The hacker shook, with a slight movement, the left side of his pocket. The USB stick dropped to the floor and almost vanished into the gray-black colors of the floor tiles. He waited a few more minutes, then rose and left the place. The tourist took her makeup bag from her suitcase and applied lipstick on her lips. An accidental movement caused her to drop it to the floor. She leaned to pick it up. When she rose, the USB stick was hidden in the palm of her hand as well. While the airplane took off for Paris, the hacker stood in front of the arrivals and departures board and looked with satisfaction at the Syrian general’s flight number being erased.
He felt he had had an exceptionally successful day.
Chapter 31
Café de Flore—Boulevard Saint-Germain, Paris
It was an autumn Parisian morning. The skies were blue and cloudless, and a winter sun shone in the heavens, and the air was cold. Mariam Halachi sat in the old and prestigious café and drank a macchiato.
Since she’d met the stranger in Baku, the same stranger she was now supposed to meet, her life had changed beyond recognition. She returned to Paris and reopened the offices of the organizations she headed, this time with the full authorization of the French Deuxième Bureau.[18] Large amounts were deposited in her bank account every month, and her men were trained by “American” guides in Kirkuk or Azerbaijan and were equipped the newest weapons and technology. She often held press conferences, which were broadcast in Persian language radio stations via satellite and could be heard all over Iran. Her personal safety was assured. Her bodyguards held proper gun permits, and she drove around Paris in an armored Mercedes-Maybach with a diplomatic license plate.
She noticed two lovers sitting next to one of the tables. A suspicious bulge could be seen in the man’s coat pocket. Another couple sat next to another table and appeared to be interested in the surroundings more than in each other. She had no doubt they were actually Mossad agents securing the place for the important guest about to arrive and meet her.
A man’s image appeared in the café’s door. Mariam recognized him immediately. She knew him as ‘Raymundo’, as he had introduced himself during their first and only meeting, would arrive. She had refused to speak with the Paris Mossad station manager and demanded to speak with ‘Raymundo’ alone, knowing he would not refuse. The message her cyber spies had sent her from Iran imbued her with a sense of power she hadn’t felt for a long time.
She rose to him, and they exchanged kisses in the French style: cheek to cheek, then blowing a kiss in the air.
“You look wonderful,” Arik flattered her. “I understand everything is in order.”
“Everything is great, Raymundo. I’ve received everything we’ve agreed upon down to the last detail. I hope you are also satisfied from the level of service provided by my organization.” Even though Mariam’s French was excellent, her Persian accent was still very noticeable.
“Yes, absolutely.” Arik beckoned the waiter to approach them. “Would you like to order?”
She smiled and shook her head no. Raymundo ordered an espresso and a plate of macaroons. He actually began to like her smile, which was warm yet restrained. He looked at her eyes, which sent him a look as bright and gray as the Parisian skies, and wondered how come he hadn’t remembered just how beautiful she was. “You wanted to see me personally and urgently?”
She looked sideways and placed a narrow envelope inside the menu. “You’ll find a USB stick here with photos of a huge complex under construction. It is hidden within a mountain. I have also included architectural plans and calculations written in Chinese.”
Arik pulled the menu to him and placed the envelope in his coat pocket. Mariam gave him an expectant look, apparently seeking approval for her accomplishment. He merely gave her a polite smile of gratitude. Finally, she couldn’t contain herself any more. “This arrived yesterday from Tehran. It appears the regime there has decided to aid the Syrians by funding a plutogenic nuclear reactor to be constructed with the aid of North Korean scientists. As you’ll be able to see for yourself, construction is already underway.”
“Thanks. Let me check it out,” said Arik and rose from his seat.
Mariam stood as well and extended her hand.
“Well done.” Raymundo finally managed to bring himself to praise her. He flagged the waiter, placed two ten-Euro bills on the table and went on his way.
Chapter 32
The House by the Lake—Creteil, East Paris
Arik had never felt lonely during his travels. He was curious by nature and loved to roam the streets of various cities, admire the architecture of ancient houses and buildings, meet people of different cultures, and taste ethnic and national dishes. He especially liked Paris for its parks and the way nature always managed to burst through the concrete armor of the city.
This time, though, a different kind of feeling nestled in him, a slight yearning for something he could not quite put his finger on.
Nathalie? No. She was a different person now. Different and far from him in her lifestyle. Michael? He missed him very much, but didn’t have a real relationship with him either. Who was left then? Naomi and his mother, whose presence he has always taken for granted.
And Eva. He quickly chased the thought from his mind.
Eva was an attractive woman and a wonderful companion, but she was also an enigma, an unsolved mystery. Each time he thought he understood her personality and behavior, she managed to surprise him anew. One could not yearn for an enigma; they could only be troubled by it.
But he wasn’t troubled. As he walked on the docks along the Seine, he thought what she would have said had she walked be
side him that moment, and when he lay in his wide hotel bed, he found himself missing her wit, her body, her scent, and her laughter.
When his private cell phone rang, he hoped it would be her on the other line. But it was actually the duty officer at the Mossad’s control center in Tel Aviv. “Your chameleon is sleeping?” he asked, reminding Arik that his operational cell phone was turned off.
“Its tail is in the cave,” Arik replied, hinting that the phone was charging.
“Please talk to me on the secure line. I’ll be calling in a minute.”
Arik disconnected the operational cell phone from the charger and turned it on. The phone rang.
“I have some breaking news. The bastards have assassinated Ruth the Moabitess’ brother. The boss thought it would be nice if you go pay a little condolence call before you come back.”
“Roger that.”
“Do you need company?” the officer asked, using the codename for bodyguards.
“I’ll manage.”
The house in Toison d’Or Alley in the Creteil neighborhood was modest when compared with the other mansions resting by the shore of the large, artificial lake yet was still highly impressive. Perhaps it was the small windows or the porch, protected by an iron grating, or maybe it was the steel door with its cast-iron decorations. When Arik approached it, an automatic spotlight turned on to illuminate his way. He pressed the doorbell bulging from a green copper frame. The ringing of a church bell sounded from inside the house.
Two cameras moved with a slight whirr. The steel door opened, and Arik stepped inside only to find himself facing a semi-transparent glass door. Another light turned on, this time from inside the house, and the shadow of a feminine figure accompanied by three large dogs was seen on the other side of the door. Another camera examined him.
“Are you alone?” he heard Mariam’s voice emerging from a hidden speaker.
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