To Kill a Shadow

by Ronen, Nathan

  Michael lay on an elevated hospital bed, his leg and hand bandaged and bleeding. His face was expressionless, and he seemed dazed from the morphine injection. He recognized Arik’s face and smiled. Arik fondly ruffled his hair. “How are you, my boychik?”

  Michael smiled an “everything will be all right” smile.

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “I did. He wasn’t Arabic,” he whispered. “He had Mongolian eyes.”

  “Have you told this to anyone?”

  “No one asked.”

  Arik wondered where the General Security agency agents and police personnel who were supposed to interrogate Michael were. Where was the bodyguard he had been promised?

  “I’m going out for a moment to ask that you be transferred to a secure room. It could very well be they hurt you just to set a trap for me here.”

  “Enough with the paranoia, Dad. Not everything is part of a conspiracy, you know,” Michael whispered.

  Arik went outside into the corridor. The commotion and shouts of the sick, wounded and their escorts filled the air. He found a quiet corner and called Claire. “Hi, I’m at—” he managed to say before a thin metal wire was wrapped around his neck from behind, and two strong hands dragged him to a nearby laundry room.

  Arik choked and gurgled, and his consciousness began to dim. He allowed his body to drop down and back. The attacker leaned over him, and Arik took advantage of the opportunity and slammed his head back against the assassin’s. The sound of a smashing bone was heard, followed by a short cry of pain. The assassin let go of the wire and grabbed his bleeding nose. Arik turned around. The dim light in the corridor was enough for him to identify his attacker. Ruslan Akhmatov stood in front of him, wearing a green surgeon’s gown, a white, blood-drenched mask on his face. Ruslan took a scalpel from his pocket and reached forward with his hand to slash Arik’s throat.

  Arik kicked Ruslan’s hand. Ruslan dodged the kick with the agility of an acrobat and cut Arik’s forehead with his knife. Arik drew his Glock, but Ruslan sent a quick and precise kick to Arik’s right shoulder exactly where he had shot him on the Temple Mount. Arik screamed with pain and dropped the pistol. Ruslan jumped on his back, grabbed his hair and pulled up his head, readying Arik for the slaughter. Arik tried to break free, but Ruslan wrapped his legs around his ribs and they both fell.

  Was it all over? The desperate thought passed through Arik’s mind.

  Barely conscious, he saw a hand reaching out, from beyond the curtain covering the laundry room’s doorway, and slamming a blunt object against the back of Ruslan’s head. Arik felt the full weight of Ruslan’s body falling on his. He gathered his remaining strength and rose all at once, kicking back the semi-conscious Ruslan. Arik lunged toward the pistol still resting on the floor. His right hand hurt badly, yet he still managed to aim and fire three bullets in Ruslan’s head.

  Two hospital guards heard the screams of panic emitted by the people in the corridor and rushed inside the laundry room with their guns in their hands. “Police!” one of them shouted. “Put down your weapon and get your hands up!”

  “You’re not police, and I’m Arik Bar-Nathan from the prime minister’s office.” He tried to take out his wallet from his pocket to show the guards his ID. The guard nearest to him raised his gun towards his Arik’s head. “If you pull out my wallet,” Arik said, “you’ll be able to easily identify me.”

  “Toss your gun first,” the officer insisted. “Do it now, or I’ll shoot.”

  “You’re not going to shoot,” Arik said calmly. “You’re going to pull out my wallet—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, two General Security Agency men from the Jerusalem District appeared at the entrance. “Lower your weapon,” they instructed the guard and presented him with their IDs.

  “It’s about time.” Arik complained and used a handkerchief to wipe the blood pouring from his forehead and staining his face and shirt.

  “We received the call over an hour ago,” one of them explained apologetically. “But we got stuck in morning traffic in the old city. Sorry.”

  Arik leaned toward Ruslan and closely examined his fingers. The thin slivers of light that barely penetrated the laundry room from the corridor were enough to reveal tattooed crosses and stars. He grabbed the dead man’s right hand sleeve and tore it, exposing the tattoo of an eagle, skull, and sword. He turned the body and revealed a gaping hole at the back of the skull, oozing blood. Arik closed the curtain and moved to the back of the room. His hands fumbled across the wall, seeking the light switch. He felt wrinkled fabrics, iron cart frames and exposed pipes. Finally, he found the switch and turned on the light. Hundreds of towels, gowns, blankets, pillows, pillowcases and sheets filled giant carts. A large metal hammer rested between two of them, stained with blood.

  The handle of the door at the end of the room was also stained with blood. A slight rustling sound was heard behind it. Arik drew his pistol and turned to the side of the door. A few seconds later, he opened it with a kick. In the dim light coming from behind the open door, he recognized a mountain of scraps: bed parts, old metal cabinets and broken chairs. He slammed the door shut behind him and shouted in English, “There’s nowhere to run to! The place is crawling with cops. Get out with your hands up.”

  No answer came.

  The sound of muffled breathing was heard. It came from the corner of the room. He advanced carefully. Another rustle was heard, nearer and stronger this time. “I’m about to fire,” he said. “This is your final warning.”

  A dark figure hesitantly rose from behind a table lying on its side. Its hands were raised in the air, weaponless. Arik still feared an explosive vest or a charge concealed in the room. With one hand, he grabbed the terrorist’s wrists, which surprised him with their slenderness. His other hand, he squeezed into a fist and slammed it between the terrorist’s ribs. The terrorist collapsed behind the table with a sigh of pain, but offered no resistance.

  Arik dragged him across the floor to the laundry room, slamming his face against every piece of furniture on the way. To Arik’s surprise, the terrorist continued to show no resistance at all. When they passed the storage room opening, he tossed him onto a pile of laundry with his face down, pressed his knee against the terrorist’s back and pinned him to the floor.

  The terrorist groaned with pain. Arik tied his arms back with a shirt that was lying on the floor.

  When he finally turned him and saw his face, he froze, dumbfounded. “Eva?”

  Chapter 47

  A Fateful Encounter. Hadassah Medical Center’s Emergency Room—Mount Scopus

  Eva was badly bruised and partially conscious. An orderly and a nurse moved her to the Emergency Room and adamantly refused Arik’s request to question her. “You can question her only after a doctor authorizes it,” the nurse said angrily and led him outside. She then added, “You need stitches in your forehead.”

  Arik’s gaze followed them. Then he went to wash his face before rushing to see his son in the orthopedic department. Michael lay with his eyes open, his plastered leg tied to a splint and elevated, and his entire hand bandaged. His mother stood beside the bed, her hand resting on the armrest to indicate she was now the one in control. They exchanged cold glances.

  “Son, are you all right?”

  “Getting better. What happened to your forehead?”

  “I ran into a wall,” Arik said and placed an alcohol pad against his forehead to stop the bleeding.

  Michael laughed. Before he could question him any further, Arik asked, “Do you need anything?”

  “Same old Arik,” said his ex-wife. “Keeping things practical so you don’t really need to give of yourself.”

  “Mom, stop. Dad, don’t answer her. Please don’t start fighting here.”

  “I’ll come back later,” said Arik and left the room, washed with a feeling of disgust and an uncontrollable urge to question Eva. He found her in the Emergency Room. A hospital security guard blocked his
way. “Can’t now,” the guard said in broken Hebrew. “Police come soon.”

  Arik’s nerves were shot. He took out his ID and waved it in front of the guard’s nose. “I’ve had enough of you people,” he said and pushed him beyond the curtain. To his surprise, the guard simply gave up and stayed behind. Eva looked at him with sad eyes, hands resting on her painful ribs. “No more games now,” Arik said. “I want to know everything.”

  “I’m sure you already know…”

  “No, I don’t!” Arik called angrily. The expression, “I’m sure you already know,” was one Rachel, his ex-wife, had often used. “I don’t know anything anymore. I want to know here and now. Who are you?”

  She closed her eyes and tiredly said: “I’m Agent Three-Six-Two of Tzomet Division. I was drafted to Mossad by David Fischer about twelve years ago and underwent a field agent training course. If you call Fischer, he’ll confirm my story.”

  “And this whole cover story, your university titles, the lecture at the Van Leer Institute…”

  “Officially, I’m really a professor of theology and German philosophy at the Heidelberg University, and today I’m also an associate professor at the Hebrew University’s department of philosophy. I first arrived in Israel while a student during my summer vacation after finding out about the crimes my beloved grandfather had committed during the Holocaust.

  “I volunteered in a kibbutz and lived with a German-speaking family, refugees from Germany whose son worked for the Mossad. A short while after I had arrived, Mossad agents came to see me. They asked for my German passport and used it. I don’t know for what purpose, and I don’t really want to know. When I got back to Germany to continue my studies, Fischer, who was Head of Mossad’s Bonn Station at the time, approached me and recruited me to perform small errands and courier tasks.

  “While working for Fischer, I developed a deep sense of love and admiration for Israel in general and Mossad in particular. David noticed it and, after I had finished my studies, suggested that I come to Israel and undergo an agent training course. I took part in several missions in Europe and the Middle East, but at a certain point I decided I want to concentrate on my studies and became a sleeper agent that could be activated only in cases of emergency.”

  “And what was the emergency that brought you back?”

  “After your operation in South America, Alex shared his fears that the Chechens might seek revenge on Fischer. It all happened at the same time I came to Israel to visit my adoptive family. I dropped by to say ‘hi’ to Fischer, who was just finishing his term as Mossad Director. He asked me to volunteer for a special mission—protecting you. This is why he had arranged the sabbatical for me here at the Hebrew University.

  “I guess I’ve done a good job; the university management has already asked me to remain for three more years, and now I’m an associate professor of humanities. I’m still officially on unpaid vacation from the Heidelberg University, for the time being.”

  “Why on earth would he recruit you? Did Mossad suddenly run out of bodyguards?”

  “He knew Cornfield would never authorize security measures for you. That’s why he wanted someone unknown. Alex recognized the terrible danger you were in. He was afraid the incident at the triple frontier would lead to an attempt on your life and shared his concerns with Fischer. Just to be on the safe side, Alex had registered me as a senior analyst for Europe One.” A hint of her familiar smile rose to her lips. “Cornfield doesn’t know anything about it, obviously.”

  “So when you came to my party and went to bed with me it was all part of the job?” Arik asked indignantly.

  “Partly,” Eva’s lips stretched into a painful smile. “I came to check things out, familiarize myself with the person I needed to keep safe. But I chose to stay that night, and be with you in all the days that followed out of… You know…”

  “You were the one who rescued me from the biker’s assassination attempt in Jerusalem?”

  “Yes. During the lecture, I noticed a Chechen man who matched the general description Alex had given me and saw that you were looking at him as well. After you’d left, I followed him to the parking lot. He went to his motorcycle, and I got into my car. He drove around the gate, but I had to use my parking ticket to open it. This is why I arrived at the scene a few seconds after him and didn’t have a chance to shoot him.”

  “You’re able to fire precise shots while driving?” Arik wondered and gave her a skeptical look.

  “I’m an expert markswoman, specializing in the use of Sig-Sauer guns. I have a second dan black belt.”

  Arik tensed up. “Are you still carrying your weapon?”

  She rolled up the right sleeve of her pants, exposing a leather holster attached to her ankle and containing a small, yet deadly, P250 Sig-Sauer pistol.

  “How did you get to pass the idiot standing outside?”

  “The Hospital’s chief security officer came to see me, and I showed him this.” She took an ID, very similar to his from her pocket. “This is why the guard gave you no arguments when you showed him your ID.”

  Arik felt stupid. So many things had taken place around him without him having even the slightest idea of their existence. He thought about everything Eva had just told him about herself, then thought back to the various incidents of the past few weeks. “You were really there when I visited my mother in Haifa, weren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “How could this be? I dialed your Jerusalem hotel number.”

  “It’s the oldest trick in the book. Your phone was programmed to transfer calls to my hotel to a Mossad operator. She simply transferred the call to my cell phone.”

  Arik sighed with frustration. “What else don’t I know?”

  “How did you manage to go over the head of the prime minister’s military secretary and get a personal meeting with Kenan?”

  “I honestly don’t know. How?”

  “After you told me he was blocking you, I called David Fischer, who called Kenan.” Her eyes sparkled.

  “And now, after you helped me take out the assassin, why did you hide from me?”

  “You were pumped up with adrenaline, and I was afraid you might instinctively shoot me, thinking I was the assassin’s accomplice.”

  Arik thought aloud. “So actually, you’ve been running my life for the past few months.”

  “You almost sound like you’re complaining. Don’t forget I saved your life today, and remember what I told you. Learning to accept from others is not a weakness.”

  He sat by the edge of the bed and took her hand in his. “So where is our relationship headed now?”

  “It’s up to you, my dear. I’ve been much more than your bodyguard for quite some time now, but you’re a tough customer who doesn’t commit easily.”

  Chapter 48

  Deir ez-Zor—North Eastern Syria

  Eight F-16 fighter jets took off minutes after midnight from the ‘Khinkali’ military base in South Azerbaijan, a base given on lease to the Israeli Air Force by Nur Sultan Babayev, President of the Republic, upon his return from Jerusalem.

  The eight fighter jets were accompanied by F-15 tactical fighters, and the entire squadron flew west south toward the border of Turkey and Syria. Electronic warfare surveillance aircraft flew high above them.

  On the ground, at a safe distance of about half a mile from the reactor, hidden beneath thorn bushes, were two teams of soldiers from the IAF special Shaldag unit, specializing in marking targets for airstrikes. Complete radio silence was maintained. Electronic warfare aircraft flew at a high altitude and blocked the Turkish and Syrian air defense radar systems. In mid-sea, north of Cyprus, a tanker aircraft awaited for the squadron jets to return from their silent attack.

  Eight maverick missiles and bunker buster bombs silently slid from above, and the Syrian reactor went up in flames and crumbled in a series of blasts. The pillars of smoke could be seen for miles all around.

  From the moment the planes had entered Sy
rian airspace until the moment they left, leaving the blasted reactor behind them, the jets weren’t discovered by the cutting-edge Syrian radar systems, which included Pechora 2A missile launchers. These were advanced and highly sensitive systems that had recently been bought from the Russians with Iranian funding and were the source of the Syrians’ pride and sense of security.

  Even after the attack finished and the jets left Syrian airspace, the systems remained inoperative. The Syrians were shocked. The Russians’ shock was even greater upon discovering their systems had not worked at all. The Iranians received a clear and immediate message that their nuclear facilities were not protected from the Israeli Army’s technology and military might.

  In the Israeli Military’s underground command center in Camp Rabin, 100 feet below the streets of Tel Aviv, the members of the Security Cabinet sat along with the Heads of Intelligence and Security Services, headed by Arik Bar-Nathan, the prime minister’s office new intelligence consultant. Everyone sat in tense silence. The radio silence made it impossible to follow the results of the bombing in real time. Eight green dots were seen on a huge screen with the middle eastern map moving south. It was only half an hour later that the squadron commander reported to the chief of staff in an encrypted message. “Red onion. I repeat, red onion.”

  Shouts of joy echoed between the reinforced concrete walls. Glasses of cognac were poured, shoulders were clapped, and hugs were exchanged. But as far as the commanders of the Israeli Mossad, the score had not yet fully been settled. Cornfield wanted to make sure General Ahmad Suleiman, the Syrian president’s special advisor and chairman of the Syrian Atomic Energy Commission, would completely disappear from the pages of history, thereby sending the Syrian president a clear and unambiguous message.

  The very next day, a tiny tracking device was attached to the general’s car while it was in his secret HQ in Damascus, allowing a satellite to monitor it. Meanwhile, Alex examined Suleimani’s personal file and analyzed it with a Mossad psychiatrist. It appeared that the general had a weakness for young boys. Those were brought from refugee camps in Bosnia and Moldova for him and his friends to pleasure themselves with. The children were transferred to Syria with the aid of a network of Balkan Mafia smugglers specializing in supplying prostitutes and sex slaves to Europe in return for drugs cultivated in the Beka’a valley in Lebanon. . Now and then, the general and his friends would hold wild parties in his villa in the luxurious Sabatan neighborhood, off the shore of Latakia, not far from the Presidential beach Resort.