On a full moon night, when the Syrian general and his friends partied on the villa’s porch, the dim shadow of a Dolphin submarine emerged from the sea. Half a dozen Flotilla Thirteen seals, dressed in black diving suits, headed out from the submarine toward the shore in two tiny Zodiac boats. They sped along until they were about 6,000 feet from the porch, far from the light of the boardwalk street lamps on the beach. A man holding an elongated object lay on one of the boats. He slammed a cartridge with 8.59 mm bullets into a L115A3 sniper rifle, cocked it, and placed a silencer and a dimmer on the barrel. The men in the water supported the boat on both sides to make it stable and unmoving. The rifle was directed to the porch of the house on the beach. General Suleimani’s head filled the large telescopic lens, and the crosshair was placed on his forehead.
The marksman held his breath for half a second and gently squeezed the trigger. A slight rustle sounded in the air. On the porch, General Suleimani’s skull exploded. No one noticed the black shadow of the submarine that hurried to admit the Zodiac boats into its escape hatch. Within less than a minute, the submarine sank below the surface of the water, on its way back to the Port of Haifa.
The phone rang in Cornfield’s house. A young soldier working in Mossad’s control center let him know, “The black goat is out.”
Cornfield bit his lower lip, knowing it was Arik who would be credited by the prime minister for the operation’s success. In his heart of hearts, he had to admit Arik indeed deserved it.
Chapter 49
“Heaven can Wait”—A Rehab Resort, Malibu Beach, Florida
The clock showed the time to be one after midnight. In his house, in the village of Kfar HaNagid, near the city of Yavne, Cornfield sat in his favorite battered leather armchair. He took off the prosthetic leg from his aching knee and allowed it to slide to the floor. The stump of his leg was swollen all the way up to the hip, and he felt intense pains in his phantom limb.
Aided by his crutch, he stumbled to the bar, took out a bottle of Glenfiddich 30 Year Old single malt he had saved for special occasions and poured himself half a glass. Then he raised it, saluting the enemy who had just been killed in Operation Black Goat and draining it with a single gulp.
“What’s going on, Cornfield?” he heard Amira calling him from their bedroom on the upstairs floor.
“Everything is fine, dear. Good night,” he shouted back.
Before he could pour himself another drink, he saw her standing in front of him in her transparent nightgown that exposed her still firm and supple breasts and the curves of her thighs. She scolded him. “That’s enough, Cornfield. Put that glass down. You’re like a little child; someone always needs to keep an eye on you. You’re your own worst enemy.”
He reluctantly put down the glass and sank into his soft armchair.
“Do you want to end up like your dad?” Amira continued in the same scolding tone.
“My father had both legs amputated because of diabetes. I’m making it easier on the doctors; I’ve already done half the job for them.”
“No, dear, I’m talking about the blindness and stroke he had to live with for ten years before he finally died. Is that how you want to end your life?”
He didn’t answer. In his mind, he saw the image of his father, a farmer and a giant of a man, who ended up a blind, wheelchair-bound amputee.
“You’re not eating well. Most of your diet is composed of coffee and cookies. You smoke cigars all day and consume enough alcohol to make an elephant drunk. You’re not doing any physical exercise. If you want to go to hell, you’re on the right path, Cornfield.”
“You don’t know what I’m going through. The pains in my leg, the pressure at work, the headaches…” he argued tiredly.
“I know only one thing: There are no desperate situations, only desperate people. If you don’t take some time off and start taking care of yourself, you’re done for.”
Cornfield’s silence expressed his agreement.
A week later, again with a glass of whiskey in his hand, he let her know in a cheerful voice, “You got what you wanted. I got sick leave for a month. Kenan found me a great place. The Malibu Beach Recovery Center. The wife of another prime minister spent some time there.”
“You’re talking about the wife of—”
“Don’t you dare say the name. Some things you just don’t talk about. Will you come with me?” he asked hopefully.
“I really think you need to go on your own.”
“But I need you.” Cornfield tried hard to sound confident, but his voice was cracked and pleading. “I’m dizzy most of the time. It’s hard for me to even walk straight, and I keep forgetting to take my medication. Come with me, please.”
Three days later, when they boarded the flight, he thought how lost he would truly be without her. He suffered pains and shivers, and the medication only served to make him weaker. She had to support his large body during the long journey from Tel Aviv to New York, then to Miami. After two days of torturous travel, they finally found themselves at the reception desk of a private rehab located in a remote corner of Malibu Beach.
From a safe distance, and without his knowledge, two Israeli General Security Agency bodyguards kept a close eye on the couple, backed up by a local team of US Secret Service.
A young doctor welcomed them. “Hello. I’m Dr. Brian Strum. I’ll be your medical consultant for the rehabilitation process. It’s not going to be an easy experience, and I’d like to salute you for your courage and for agreeing to join our intensive program.”
“What can I expect here?” asked Cornfield. “I don’t like surprises. I’m a man who likes to prepare and know what the future has in store for him.”
“Well, I can’t promise you a rose garden,” the doctor joked and immediately regretted his humorous remark when faced with the angry and tough expression on Cornfield’s face. He immediately began to describe the details of the rehab program. “You’ll experience all the alcohol withdrawal symptoms: shakiness, increased heartbeat rate and high blood pressure. Then you’ll have severe seizures and, finally, during the last week, psychotic attacks that normally include delusions and shivers as well as nausea.”
“Is that it?” Cornfield asked with a bitter smile.
“Actually, no. As you are diabetic, we’ll need to add a rehab treatment based on medications from the benzodiazepine class of psychoactive drugs. Their effect on the brain is very similar to that of alcohol. We’ll also need to restrict and balance your diet. You can undergo the most difficult parts of the treatment under sedation, if you’d prefer that.”
“And miss out all the fun?” Cornfield laughed bitterly and signed the consent forms.
During the next few nights, his body thirsted for alcohol. He shouted in his sleep, cursed, raged, and threatened in every language he knew until the resort staff had no choice but to strap him to his bed. Yet he still refused to take any sedatives. He didn’t know that Amira visited the rehab center every day, and her heart went out to him when she heard his screams from the hall, just as it had gone out to him twenty years before when he had been injured and lost his eye and leg. It was only during the last two days of his stay that she was allowed to visit him in his room. He looked calm, the color returned to his cheeks, and he gained a few pounds. He appeared to be genuinely healthier.
“The past few days have made me think a lot about myself and our relationship. I got the opportunity to spend a lot of quality time with myself.” He chuckled cynically.
“And what did you come up with?” asked Amira and sat by the side of his bed.”
“Perhaps I should finally retire.”
“Are you asking for my opinion, or have you made up your mind?” She rose and looked into his eyes.
Cornfield’s eyes clouded. “I haven’t finished my term as Mossad Director yet, and I want to end it properly. On the other hand…”
“Cornfield, there’s no ‘other hand’ here. If you retire now, you’ll never forgive yourself. Go bac
k to your job and finish your illustrious career in the best possible way. The fact you insist on keeping one foot in the grave doesn’t mean you need to let people step on the other. Just don’t kill yourself, learn to delegate responsibility, and spend more time with me and the children.”
The sound of ocean waves breaking against the rocky shoreline could be heard from below the cliff, rising and falling. The Cornfields snuggled together, he in his pajamas and she in a tiny summer dress. She smelled wonderful. Cornfield felt the old emotions rise in him and was intensely attracted to his wife again.
A Mexican nurse came into the room and disturbed their rare moment of intimacy. She checked Cornfield’s blood sugar levels and prepared a cocktail of medications that slowly dripped into his veins through a thin cannula. He looked tired, and the nurse asked Amira to leave and return at a later time.
“From now on, we’ll be together forever,” Amira said and kissed her husband’s forehead. But there was still one thing Cornfield wanted to ask her before their reunion could be complete.
From the verge of sleep, he heard himself saying, “Darling, I have a personal question for you, one that has troubled me for the past few years now,” he barely muttered. “That business between you and Arik. When I openly accused him of having had an affair with you, he didn’t deny it. On the other hand, I’ve no right to criticize you. I wasn’t exactly the ideal husband, and you were on your own with the children and the household chores—”
The medication cocktail finally got the better of him and he fell asleep. In his dream, he felt the soft, warm touch of Amira’s body and saw her climbing on his bed, placing her lips close to his ear and whispering, “Come to me, my silly goose.” Her lips fluttered on his face with little kisses, as she confessed, “You’re my champion, the only one I’ve ever loved. And that’s all you need to know.”
Chapter 50
The House at 12 Maimon Street—Neve Sha’anan Neighborhood, Haifa
“This is the voice of Israel broadcasting from Jerusalem…” The familiar voice of the announcer rose from the radio in Arik’s new car. Heading to Jerusalem, he sat comfortably in the backseat of his black Audi 6 and listened to the lead story on the morning news.
“During a meeting held yesterday, the government has approved the appointment of Mr. Arik Bar-Nathan to the role of Prime Minister Intelligence Advisor and Chairman of Intelligence and Security Services joint committee.”
Within less than a minute, his phone began to ring. Arik ignored the calls and kept reading intelligence reports and researches. The only call he answered was from his sister, Naomi. “Too bad our parents are no longer with us to see how far you’ve come. It would make them feel incredibly proud.” She sighed.
“Mom’s still with us,” he reminded her.
“Only in body,” she answered sadly. “And we need to take care of it instead of her. You need to come here urgently to sign the guardianship forms for the judge. Mom is no longer able to eat by herself, and the hospital won’t use a gastric feeding tube without our signature.”
“What’s a gastric feeding tube?” Arik asked in horror.
“A tube inserted through a small incision in the abdomen into the stomach to allow feeding,” she answered.
“When would you like me to come?”
“Yesterday! I have a lawyer friend who can see you anytime. He just needs your signature to present the forms to the court.”
“How about this evening?”
“Perfect!”
Arik hung up and immediately called Eva. “I want us to go to Haifa this evening to visit my mom,” he said briefly. “It’s important for me that she’ll see you before the end.”
That very same evening, Arik’s car stopped at the Ziv commercial center in the Neve Sha’anan neighborhood. Arik and Eva got out of the car and both walked toward the neighborhood flower shop.
“Mom loves daffodils,” said Arik. “I hope they have some.”
On the flower shop’s floor, buttercup and anemone bouquets rested inside water-filled buckets. Arik was overwhelmed by childhood memories. He recalled the weekly ceremony of picking wild flowers and bringing them to his mother every Saturday. Eva, as practical as ever, began to scour the flower shop for the right bouquet and found it. A last bouquet of delicate scented daffodils was hidden in the corner.
“As lucky as ever.” Eva laughed and rescued him from his memories. Arik thanked her with a smile and asked the seller to enrich the bouquet with a variety of winter flowers.
A few minutes later, the car parked next to Arik’s mother’s house. The two of them crossed the street and turned toward a long Soviet-style apartment building, one of many that had been built during the mass immigration period of the fifties. Eva lingered at the entrance for a moment and looked at the apartment building.
The soot coming from the factories of the Gulf of Haifa had made the stairwell walls turn gray. A stranger opened the door for them. She gave them a questioning look. Arik was surprised as well. He couldn’t recall his sister telling him anything about a new nurse.
“I’m her son,” he explained in English and encountered a blank stare and an embarrassed smile.
To his surprise, Eva translated his words and the nurse immediately replied, “Ja Marushka.”
“She says her name is Marushka,” Eva translated.
“Is there anything you don’t know?” Arik appreciatively teased her.
“Lots of things, but I still needed to learn some basic Russian for my PhD thesis.”
“Excuse me, where are the restrooms?” Eva asked the nurse with urgency and quickly disappeared. The muffled sound of vomiting was heard from inside the restrooms. Arik stood behind the door and asked with concern, “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes, don’t worry, I’m fine,” shouted Eva from within.
Arik suddenly noticed the great change around him. The house had never looked so neat and tidy. Pleasant scents rose from the kitchen, accompanied by the familiar smell of borscht.
His eyes sought his mother and found her sitting in the armchair, thinner than he had remembered her, wearing a colorful dressing gown. Her hair had been dyed in eggplant shades and gathered up in a way that did not suit the fact it was thinning. She completely ignored him and continued staring at the cartoon characters running on the television screen and squeaking in Russian.
He noticed that what first appeared to him as a colorful dressing gown was actually a large sheet wrapped around her hips and shoulders, holding her body to the couch. Now and then, she slid hither and thither, unable to control her own movements. She looked as small and fragile as a rag doll.
Marushka tried to take the flowers from him, but Arik ignored her presence and kneeled next to his mother. He handed her the bouquet, bringing the daffodils, whose scent she loved so much, closer to her face. She looked at him with the curiosity of a woman meeting a suitor for the first time and flashed a toothless smile. “Sheyn, zeyer sheyn,”[19] she said about the flowers. “Und ver bist du?”[20]
“Mamele,” Arik said with tears choking this throat, “ikh bin deyne zun.”[21]
She replied with the embarrassed smile of a child. Her green eyes, once bright and beautiful, were now covered with a veil that distanced her from him. She held his hand tightly, but was immediately distracted, and her eyes wandered to the cartoon characters on the television screen.
Eva came into the living room, pale, her hair disheveled. The nurse immediately realized the source of her distress and gave her the mysterious and knowing smile of rural women.
“This is how it is. Mother’s condition is changing every day.” She spoke to Eva, then waited for her to translate her words before continuing. “Naomi is in contact with Mother every day. She probably doesn’t understand you are her son…”
“I haven’t been here in a long time,” Arik admitted and his heart was immediately filled with guilt.
The nurse continued to speak, and Eva translated. “She will bring a vase and
take care of the flowers. They have such flowers in her village back home. She suggests that you sit and talk to your mother for a little while. She’ll set the table so we could all sit down and eat some Ukrainian borscht.”
Within a few minutes, the table was set, and a large pot of borscht was placed in its center. Marushka sat Arik’s mom at the head of the table, much like a kindergarten teacher seating a small child. She tied a large bib around her neck and secured her to the chair with a harness. Arik averted his eyes, embarrassed.
“Malorussiski borscht,” said Marushka with pride and filled deep bowls with a thick, reddish soup with meat cubes, grated beets and carrot cubes. The smell of apple vinegar and lots of garlic rose from the stew. Next to the soup bowls, the nurse placed a saucer heaped with sour cream and chopped dill. She beckoned Arik with her hand to place a spoonful of sour cream and dill in his soup.
Even though she had not eaten anything since morning, Eva didn’t touch any of the food. It was apparent the sour smell of the soup repelled her. She drank some water and munched on a piece of brown bread.
His mother did not eat either. All the nurse’s attempts to feed her were in vain. His mother clenched her lips and stared at the nurse with distant eyes. Marushka smiled at her, cleaned her face patiently, spoke comforting words in Russian, and repeatedly tried to make her drink from the spoon she held close to her mouth. Finally, she slapped her own hips in frustration and said something long to Eva.
To Kill a Shadow Page 24