She nodded.
“I’ve been diagnosed with blood cancer,” he told her in a whisper.
“What? What did you say?”
“Blood cancer.”
“Leukemia?” she almost shouted the word.
“No, myeloma. It’s a type of bone marrow cancer that attacks the white blood cells.” Arik said with confidence, even though it was only yesterday that he had heard the disease’s name and symptoms for the first time.
“What are you going to do?” she asked quietly.
“I’m going to undergo an intensive medical treatment. This large envelope contains a will and letters addressed to my children and the most meaningful people in my life, which means there’s a letter there for you as well. I want you to serve as my witness and sign the will after I sign it in front of you. Right now. I want you to serve as my trustee and hand all the letters to their addressees after I’m gone.”
Claire began to wail.
“Claire, dear, please don’t cry. I need you beside me now, stronger than ever.”
She tried, unsuccessfully, to overcome her tears. She sniffled and a series of sighs escaped her chest.
“There’s a chance I’ll be much weaker soon, perhaps even unable to control my physical reactions and going in and out of consciousness. I trust you to take care of every legal aspect of things”
“What about your job?”
“I’m about to go into the prime minister’s office and ask him for six months of unpaid vacation. After that, we’ll just have to see.”
Clair burst into bitter tears again. Arik hugged her fondly, then gently pushed her away from him. He took out the will and signed it. Then Claire signed it as his witness. The angry and confused eyes of the receptionists accompanied him on his way out of the office. They all wondered how he had insulted Claire again and why she ran out of his office in tears holding a large envelope.
He went up to the prime minister’s office and asked Raaya, Kenan’s personal secretary, for permission to go into the aquarium for a few minutes and give the prime minister a personal and urgent update.
“The prime minister has a meeting with his chief of staff regarding coalition problems,” said Raaya. “I’ll give you a call the moment they’re finished. You can wait in your office.”
When Arik was called inside, he spoke straight and to the point. He briefly gave some details about his illness and added that he thought it would be unwise to leave this important and dynamic government office without a commander for the foreseeable future.
The prime minister vigorously patted his shoulder, and Arik remembered an insight he had learned while a young flotilla officer: “Most people who pat your shoulder aren’t really fond of you. They’re merely seeking the easiest spot to stick you with a dagger once you turn your back on them.”
“Let me take care of the office. You need to take care of yourself and be healthy now. Keep in contact, you hear?”
Two minutes with his new boss were enough for Arik to understand thirty-three years of service, fifteen of them in Mossad, had vanished into thin air. The huge investment in his various roles, the fact he had to neglect his family, the personal price he needed to pay, the injuries he suffered, all simply vanished.
For a moment, a great sadness overcame him, but the very next he was surprised to feel an immense sense of relief. He remembered the Roman phrase, “Sic transit gloria mundi.”
Chapter 55
The Guardians of Faith Quarter—Jerusalem
Nathalie woke up toward dawn, suddenly feeling extremely nauseated. She ran to the restrooms and threw up for long minutes. She was gripped with fear. It has been months since her husband, yeshiva student Haim Fishel, had returned from his visit to Rabbi Nachman of Breslov’s grave in the Ukraine. Indeed, his good deed had born fruit. She was in the third month of her pregnancy.
In the dim light of the emergency bulb, she returned to bed and sank into a restless sleep. Suddenly, she saw her father in her dreams, pale, old, tired, and unshaven. He held his hands to her and called her name.
She had been seeing visions since she was a child, and, amazingly enough, most of them turned out to be detailed images of future events.
The sickly sight of her father made her forego her anger about his broken promises and the fact he had left the house while she was a teenager. The rage was now transformed into sadness and empathy. They had lost so much time together by arguing and blaming each other. She sat in her bed, and large tears rolled down her cheeks and fell to her buttoned nightgown. She recalled how her father had carried her in his arms as a child, then hurled her up into the air while she screamed with joy mixed with fear. She recalled how he stood by her side every time she would have one of her endless adolescent arguments with her mother and how generous he had been financially, supporting her over the years, depositing an amount that was enough for her rent and living expenses each and every month. Now her father’s image called her from the darkness. Was he sick and in need of her? She sank into a nightmarish sleep again. Her last waking thought was that she must call her brother first thing in the morning and ask him if he knows anything about an illness suffered by their father.
Chapter 56
Hemato-Oncology Ambulatory Center—Sheba Medical Center
The Cancer Center and Hemato-Oncology Institute, located at the southernmost end of the giant Sheba Medical Center, looked like a resort in the middle of a remote and secluded island. Densely-foliaged poinciana trees, whose branches were adorned with beautiful red flowers, formed a shaded boulevard. Hairless patients sat on wood benches, wearing hospital pajamas with a portable IV drip line attached to their arm and quietly spoke with their visitors. A flock of myna birds wandered on the grass, pecking food scraps and chirping loudly.
A large sign hung on Arik’s door: “Isolation Room—Entry Permitted to Medical Staff Only!” A picc line had been inserted into his chest, and the chemotherapy substances were administered through it into his superior vena cava. He was exhausted. He suffered from abscesses that formed inside his mouth. He needed to wear a diaper and suffered from involuntary spells of diarrhea. A bedpan was placed next to his bed because he frequently vomited. The lower end of his stomach was hurting from anticoagulant injections. His calf muscles suffered frequent and sudden spasms. His hair grayed and began to fall. His consciousness drifted between dreamless sleep and nightmares. He tried to hold on to a solid object so he could find some security and rest but to no avail. He rocked back and forth between floating and slowly and uncontrollably sinking into an ice-cold bottomless pit.
At a certain point of time, between exhaustion and incontinence, one reaches a point of deep detachment filled with simple clarity. At that point, Arik felt a sense of pure and impenetrable tranquility. It was a defining moment in which Arik understood who he really was and that nothing really mattered. Everything suddenly appeared unimportant and miniscule. His senior position at Mossad and the prime minister’s office, Cornfield’s and the prime minister’s clashes of ego, Israel’s strategic problems, the Iranian nuclear threat, the operations against the enemies of Israel that still awaited execution… They all dwarfed next to the most important battle of his life.
He missed Michael and Nathalie. Barely conscious, he called their names again and again. They didn’t answer. He tried to scream, but was barely able to utter a sound and sank back into the exhausted drowsy sleep induced by his medication cocktail.
Ten days had passed, and the chemotherapy treatments stopped. Gradually, his body began to recuperate before the autologous bone marrow transplant could take place.
Arik was lost in a temporary blindness. Every attempt to open his eyes caused severe spells of vertigo-like dizziness. A female hand tried to help him drink lukewarm tea, which he immediately vomited. Through the haze of pain, he felt a gentle hand washing his body with a soft washcloth. He smelled the familiar scent of ylang-ylang soap, lifted his hand, and grabbed the soft hand that caressed his head. Soft lips kiss
ed his eyes, just as his mother had done when he was a sick little child.
From afar, he could hear someone calling his name. Was it his daughter who had heard his call? His sister, Naomi? Eva? His mother? Was he dreaming? Dead? Was he still alive?
He was the young asthmatic boy from the poor Halissa neighborhood in downtown Haifa again. Little Leibele, who beat his own chest with his fist during severe asthma attacks and shouted at his body, “You’re not going to rule me!” Now he wanted to rule his own body and destiny again but was simply too weak to do that. This was very frustrating for him.
A few days later, when he woke from the effects of the medication and painkillers, he saw Eva next to his bed, dressed in a green nurse’s gown, a surgical mask on her face and a plastic cap covering her beautiful hair. She combed his thin hair and beard with a little comb.
“How long have you been here?” he asked in a cracked voice.
“More than two weeks. I sleep right over there.” She motioned with her head toward the large armchair that had been brought into the room for her. “But I’m not the only one.” She pointed at the round window, through which he could see the worried faces of Naomi, Michael, and Nathalie. “You’re in the isolation room and entry is forbidden, especially for Nathalie. She’s been put on bed rest because of pregnancy complications.” She subdued a smile.
“You speak Hebrew?” Arik was surprised.
Eva smiled and said, “Yes, and I’ve started the process of converting to Judaism.”
The door opened, and the chubby Dr. Alice Ben David entered the room, along with the hospital manager and the prime minister’s military secretary Major General Amishav. They all wore plastic caps, hospital gowns, masks and shoe covers. “Good news,” Dr. Ben David announced. “The biomarker we sent to the medical center in America indicates that you can be treated by an innovative and groundbreaking new medicine developed there.”
“What kind of medicine?” asked Eva, taking command over Arik’s destiny.
“They’ve developed a biological substance that manages to make the cancerous growths myeloma patients suffer from disappear,” said Dr. Alice, while placing a bundle of papers on Arik’s bed and asking for his signature. “You’ll need to appoint a legal guardian to handle all the travelling arrangements.”
“That would be Eva,” Arik whispered, and both women answered with a wide smile that stretched to the edges of the surgical masks.
Epilogue
April 2008. Beneath a pair of coconut trees, in Manuel Antonio National Park in Costa Rica, facing a red sunset, two vacationers swung in a large hammock.
To their great delight, the beach was silent and empty of tourists. It was a wise decision to travel to such a popular tourist destination off-season.
Their naked feet splashed in the clear water of the Pacific Ocean, and vast, green expanses lay behind them. The woman embraced a baby that enthusiastically suckled from her exposed breast. She leaned her head on the shoulder of a skinny man whose face was adorned by a whitening beard.
“Pina colada, señora?” asked the waiter who roamed the beach idly, trying to fish for tips.
The woman shook her head no, and the man said, “Why don’t you bring me a caipirinha?”
Six months had passed since Arik had signed the medical approval forms at the clinic and a month since he had been released, healthy, yet extremely weak, from the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, following his treatment. He was grateful to Lolik Kenan, the prime minister, for breathing down the necks of the Minister of Health and his team until they finally gave up and approved the funding of the innovative medicine for myeloma. Kenan also made sure all the payments for the trip and the expensive treatment would be taken care of by the government. Some Ministry of Finance officials muttered complaints about the fact an ordinary citizen would have never received such treatment. But Kenan answered them all that most ordinary citizens had never risked their lives for the sake of their country like Arik had.
Eva gave birth to their son in the same hospital in which Arik was admitted. They decided, at Eva’s request, to name the boy Leon Hai Junior after Arik’s father, as a gesture of compassion and forgiveness.
They spent their recovery vacation in a small ecological hotel called Clandestino Beach Resort, which was actually a handful of large wooden huts paved with black slate, in the middle of a rainforest clearing. The huts were built around a large pool whose sweet, warm water gushed from a hidden volcanic spring. In the mornings, Arik and Eva woke to the sound of colorful parrots screaming. Capuchin monkeys jumped down from the treetops onto their porch to give them a curious morning greeting, and giant, red-green iguana lizards fearlessly drowsed on the tanning chairs lining the swimming pool.
Jorge, the French landlady’s young lover, served as the hotel’s chef and trained Arik in yoga exercises on the beach every sunset to strengthen his body.
One morning, their peaceful vacation was disturbed by a phone call. “Señor, you have a call,” the waiter announced and pointed at the office.
“Arik Bar-Nathan?” Major General Amishav’s voice was heard through the earpiece.
Arik knew it was pointless to ask how Amishav had located him and confirmed his identity.
“This is Amishav. How are you, Arik? We’ve been worried about you,” the prime minister’s military secretary, continued with trivial politeness.
Arik smiled. He knew the polite exchange was just an introduction and waited with newfound patience.
“The prime minister would like to speak with you,” said Amishav.
A muffled click was heard, followed by the prime minister’s exuberant voice. “How are you, Arik?”
“I’m fine, sir. Still a little weak, but getting better every day.”
“Perfect!” said Kenan and Arik, as usual, had no idea what he was getting at.
“When are you coming back to work? I still haven’t appointed a replacement. I’m filling in for you as Chairman of Intelligence and Security Services.”
“I’m grateful, sir, for everything. For your friendship and for the backup,” said Arik with suppressed excitement.
“Make no mistake—I did it all out of sheer egotistical reasons. I need you here.”
This time, the expressed irony in Kenan’s words made Arik sympathize with the man.
“Cornfield is getting old, and I’m looking for a replacement. He’s going to finish his term in December. What do you say? You think you’re strong enough for the job?”
“What about Gideon Perry, the Mossad deputy director you brought back after you had fired Mot’ke Hassin?”
“No, he’s too old and is a wonderful number two.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll think about it and get back to you,” said Arik.
“You’ve got a month.”
Arik took a large glass of cold milk and a plate of cookies from the bar and started walking back to the beach. He knew it would be difficult for him to convince Eva but also recognized the fact he wouldn’t be able to refuse the offer of the man who had rescued him from certain death.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my wife, Denise Abensour Ronen, for her active participation, her wise insights, her suggestions for the twists and turns of the plot, her encouragement, and her constructive criticism regarding the writing of this book. I’d also like to ask her forgiveness for not always being there for her while my mind was preoccupied with the characters of this book who forced me to sit down and write their story for over three and a half years.
A special thanks to my dear friends for their remarks and insights for the first drafts of the book and for finding plot holes and pointing out unrealistic dialogue: Shlomo Zimmer, Gideon Perry, Lina Sharon, Ra’aya Soudery, Jo Amar, Abigail Urman, Genya Shafir, Nava Gad, Eli Nemzer, Edna Kalef, Tani Geva, Shlomo Tobi, Elie Parkal, and to H.D., who asked to remain anonymous, as he is still active in the system.
To my dear children: Ariel, Nathalie, Michal, Yuval, and Galit and thei
r spouses for their support and encouragement.
Last, but not least, my deepest gratitude to the book’s editor, Dr. Amnon Jackont, an author and historian without whom the book would not possess its correct pace, tight plot, dramatic twists and turns, and what I regard as the right combination between a human drama and an espionage thriller.
I’d love to hear your comments and insights at: [email protected]
* * *
[1]Caesarea is the name of Mossad’s special operations division in the prime minister’s office.
[2]A division in Mossad that operates agents and informants across the globe, according to foreign publications.
[3]Who is this?
[4]It’s me, Mother.
[5]Mistress of the house.
[6]Shitty, lousy
[7]Resistance.
[8]Mossad department responsible for liaisons with allied governments.
[9]The division in charge of infiltrating stationary structures (such as buildings), obtaining information, and obtaining intelligence by using electronic means, such as the planting of listening and surveillance devices.
[10]An act that provokes war.
[11]“Special unit taskforce”–an elite Russian army unit.
[12]https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Entebbe, accessed 24 September 2016.
[13]The Syrian secret police, known for its ruthless methods.
[14]Translated from Arabic by Kabir Helminski.
[15]Good evening. (Russian)
[16]Signals intelligence—Intelligence gathering by interception of signals.
[17]A Muslim cleric.
[18]French security agency
[19]Beautiful, very beautiful.
[20]And who are you?
[21]I am your son.
[22]As a general rule, the Israeli security forces’ intranet computers are not connected to the Internet.
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