The Critical Offer

by Yitzhak Nir

  He tried hacking into three companies and settled for one in Singapore whose address was https://www.F.R.S.com.

  “Great!” he shouted, as he opened the homepage, “It has an option for speaking in Chinese!”

  The program offered a free version for one hour. First, he tried it out on family and friends who appeared in the computer’s contact list. It worked perfectly.

  “You’re alright, guys,” he said in his language-school Hebrew, but immediately switched to Mandarin: “but I have no intention of paying five thousand dollars to your second-rate Chinese company in Singapore for the lousy program you’re offering… Let’s see what your security system is worth, you bunch of crooks...”

  After two hours of strenuous decoding, he succeeded in hacking into and downloading the facial recognition software program, Facial Recognition Star, which its developers described thus:

  “This program can identify a black cat on a dark night and return it to its owners!”

  “Well, well, we’ll see about that in a moment, you bunch of showoffs,” he whispered, focusing on the Mac’s screen.

  Chun was convinced that correct use of the program he had just downloaded, together with the graphic possibilities of his computer, would lead him to solve the “mystery of the ‘Limper,’” as he had privately named the gray-haired, mustached man who had been meeting with Li-Lan, his own unattainable beloved, for a while now. From the video film captured by the white dragon he retrieved sharp images of his quarry and dragged them onto his screen. A clear computerized image of the man’s face soon appeared on the screen, shown frontally and in left and right profile.

  “Amazing!” he shouted happily.

  The program offered a menu of countries:

  “Israel,” he called in English.

  Public figure? - “Possibly,” he selected on the touchscreen and a “V” sign appeared in the appropriate box.

  Politician? “Possibly”, he selected hesitantly.

  Free professions? Chun hesitated again. “He doesn’t look like a lawyer,” he remarked in Mandarin. “No.”

  Industry? He chose “Unknown”.

  Security? He marked “Possibly.” …He looks like some kind of soldier or former army officer. Nice!

  Government employee? He opted for “Yes.” In Israel, as in China, there were many government employees…

  The program chewed what it chewed and after several minutes outputted:

  “No suitable match found for your selections.”

  “Aha! You won’t escape from me. I haven’t finished with you yet, son of a bitch!” he whispered angrily.

  He selected the menu “Changes and Adjustments”:

  Mustache? The automatic options continued. “Yes.”

  Beard? “No.”

  Bald? “No.”

  Glasses? “Yes.”

  Optical? “No.”

  Sunglasses? “Yes.”

  Dolce & Gabbana? “No.”

  Prada? “No.”

  Ray-Ban? “Yes”! He felt exhilarated like a child who is about to uncover a secret.

  The program ran what it ran and again emitted: “No suitable match found for your selections.”

  “Ahem… This will be harder than I thought,” he remarked to himself. “Right, shall we peel away some few more layers?”

  Remove mustache? A new set of options appeared: “Yes”, he selected.

  Different haircut? …OK, we’ll try to peel-off his wig if he wears any… “Yes.”

  Shaven head? “Possibly.”

  Marines? “Yes.”

  Special features? Scars?

  Chun carefully examined the three views. From the right profile and the frontal view a red scar could be seen clearly above his eye.

  “Yes”! He typed excitedly.

  Location? The program demanded. Without hesitation he indicated the location of the scar and its size.

  The computer outputted a “Please wait” exciting, hummed quietly and with indifferently manner, outputted:

  Colonel (Ret.) Gershon Shalit, Mossad Director (2020).

  Interested in more information? The screen asked drily. He called, and taped on the lit-up keyboard on his desk: “Yes.”

  His computer began outputting information gathered from official sources, media and social networks about the director of the Mossad and his previous positions, in descending chronological/academic order.

  In an interview appeared that he had given years earlier to the German newspaper, Die Welt, about the ThyssenKrupp shipyards in Kiel Harbor in northern Germany, and the accusations of bribery related to building submarines for Israel and Egypt. He was photographed wearing the dress-uniform of a military attaché: proud, light-skinned, with a Marine Corp crew-cut, but no mustache, decorated with paratrooper’s wings, pilot’s wings and a colonel’s insignia. It was impossible not to recognize him...

  Chun’s heart sped up and a pulse beat in his temples: “Wow! …So this is the bastard who’s trying to seduce Li-Lan! She will pay for this, the bitch! Your day of reckoning will come, traitors… and maybe I’ll also earn a handful of dollars while screwing both of you!” he whispered in Mandarin, his glasses vibrating on his nose in time with his whispers. A little sweat collected under his nose and reddish pimples glistening on his shining cheeks.

  Excited by his success, he lingered for a while watching Japanese hentai animated porn films, and then turned his attention to his mailbox: He was getting rid of junk mail when an English e-mail caught his eye before he erased it as well:

  To: chunchangtlv@016.net

  From: beijingartfair@122.com

  I am pleased to invite you to submit your candidacy for participation in the 29th International Art Fair at Beijing Art Expo that will be held from April 8th to April 12th, 2025.

  Please take this unique opportunity to participate in today’s art scene at the Beijing Exhibition Center in our capital.

  Your application must be submitted no later than March 8th, 2025.

  Yours truly,

  Van Chi-Dong, Producer and General Manager

  Tel.: + 86-10-6523-1876

  His heart accelerated again: …Maybe this is my big chance? he asked himself excitedly but uncertainly.

  However, disappointment awaited him at the bottom of the page: March 8th had already passed a week ago. If so, I’ve missed the deadline… He calculated and found that the time in Beijing was four p.m. He wasted no time and dialed the number of the event producer, Mr. Chi-Dong:

  “Yes?” answered a weak voice in Mandarin.

  “Ni-hao! Mister Van Chi-Dong?”

  “Yes. Who’s speaking?” The voice sounded fragmented and distant, but the Beijing resident’s accent indicated that he was at home.

  “I’m a Chinese diplomat in Isalia, but also an artist. I have works that haven’t yet been shown over there. The application date has passed, but I only saw your invitation now. Is it still possible to apply?”

  And since in China they don’t waste talent, he received the reply:

  “I will check up. Send ten examples. The acceptance committee is now assessing copious material. You’d better hurry.”

  And after a few minutes of static on the line: “Have you read the regulations? Do you have sufficient funds to purchase an exhibition space?” he continued in fragmented speech from a distance of 5600 miles.

  “Of course,” he answered without hesitation, although he had no idea what the answer to the last question should be.

  “If so, sir, I hope your work is up-to-date. If you have nothing innovative and exceptional, we won’t exhibit it.”

  “Thank you, sir. Zàijiàn! I’ll send the material soon.”

  “Good luck to you, sir. Zàijiàn!” The voice from Beijing vanished.

  His mind began working feverishly.

 
I’ll prepare some huge paintings for them, pseudo-abstracts based on the white dragon’s aerial photographs. I’ve got time before the exhibition opens. If I can build an effective Guanxi fast enough, maybe I’ll also manage to sell a painting or two… he tapped his fingers on the lit-up keyboard displayed on his desk.

  In his imagination he conjured up his best paintings. He remembered the portrait he had presented to the governor the day he was released from prison and the hug he had received from him. He clearly remembered Lt. General Wang Chi-Lai, the ruthless, tough man from Gangbei Prison in Tianjin Municipality. At the prison they had already recognized his talent that would “contribute to the construction of modern Chinese society,” as payment for his early release, alongside his impeccable behavior. He always suspected that the prison warden was behind the preferential treatment he had received. In the prison’s corridors and cells it was whispered that the governor’s seventeen-year-old son had been killed riding his bicycle to school. …Maybe that terrible man saw in me a kind of substitute for his son…? He reflected.

  And as he was gifted with sharp intuition, he gambled: “He’s the man!” He called in the direction of Gordon Elementary School’s roof: “I must participate in that exhibition and get him to come and visit me there!”

  Chun was aware that Lt. Gen. Wang Chi-Lai, the prison warden, was almost sixty-two years old and the tendency in China was to encourage people of that age to retire. As was acceptable in many established Chinese factories, many of the prison wardens continued to live on the prison grounds after retirement, in tiny apartments, in a kind of community, a leftover from Communist times…

  For a long moment he watched a flock of cranes flying over Independence Park and called to the closed window: “This morning, my friends, I’ve discovered the winning card! And she, that haughty beauty, will pay for it dearly…” And from there he continued to expand:

  “Maybe I can convince Wang to set up an art gallery in the prison staff’s living quarters?” he whispered to passersby on Ben Yehuda Street, seven floors below him. “We’ll sell paintings. He and his old woman will have a good reason to get up in the morning and I’ll start weaving my web from there,” he said, a schemer’s smile on his lips, his greasy hair falling over his glasses. “A successful morning!” he yelled at the cranes disappearing southwards, his back to the deactivated cameras and microphones in his office.

  * * *

  The Chief Security Officer agreed reluctantly to Chun’s request, but the ambassador was enthusiastic and approved the budget. Li-Lan minded her own business, Gershon issued some operational orders and worried about his health, and Lt. Gen. Wang Chi-Lai informed his wife that they would be collecting Chun Chang from Beijing International Airport, when he arrived on a direct flight from Israel.

  “Wang Chi-Lai, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship…” Chun murmured, some eighty-three years after Humphrey Bogart, and began visualizing his new paintings.

  The Light Beyond

  March 16th, 2025

  Gershon was stretched out on the green couch in his workroom, attempting somewhat to ease the pain in his vertebrae.

  ...Professor Marwan Sultani is due to arrive in ten minutes. Let’s see what he has to say. I must have a second opinion… He adjusted his pillow slightly, bent his knees, closed his eyes and began breathing slowly, activating his diaphragm by inhaling and exhaling deeply, as he had learned years before in a meditation and yoga workshop in Singapore.

  …It’s impossible to continue like this. I have no choice but to meet the prime minister again and request that she release me from my post. Together we will find the appropriate wording. Many beady eyes are fixed on my job and I hope she will know how to choose wisely…

  Unexpectedly, a kind of peace fell on him. He knew what he should do, but had not yet considered what kind of life he would have outside the system, without the people that depended on him for their lives, the power of authority, and the sense of purpose, of mission… But I have nothing to lose. As long as I’m not in pain, I’ll give myself permission to finally enjoy life a little. It’s now or never… Then he returned to dwell on Li-Lan’s lips and their tense, sad parting, and dozed off.

  When Professor Marwan Sultani arrived, Guy woke him by lightly tapping on his door:

  “Hey, Chief. Are you awake? When will Adam and Dahlia be arriving?”

  Shaking himself awake, he saw his friend Professor Sultani standing above him. The doctor looked tired.

  “Listen, Doc, it’s only nine in the evening and I invited Adam for nine-thirty. Dahlia will probably arrive at the same time.” He was now totally awake.

  “What’s this? Are you planning a military coup? Why aren’t you resting after a hard day’s work, General Shalit?” Marwan said mockingly.

  “Doctor, I work all the time, even when I’m not working. Calm down. I have no political intentions at present…” he lowered his voice ruminatively.

  “Too bad. You seem to me just the man to influence what’s going on here.”

  “Thanks, Doc. I’ll take that as a compliment. And regarding the matter at hand, do you have any answers for me?”

  “Listen, Gershon, my friend! The Syrians will never allow you to infringe on Syrian sovereignty and their missile power, which they see as a strategic insurance policy. And definitely not eight years after the end of the civil war, when Syria is being rehabilitated by funds and interests of China, Russia and Iran, and masses of refugees are returning home. But that’s only my personal opinion, Chief.”

  “Ah, and the climate there, in Syria?”

  “You don’t understand the nature of Arab pride. They feel on top of the world. Human life is not a problem for someone who wiped out five hundred thousand, wounded two million and caused eleven million to be uprooted and become refugees, even if some have returned to Syria...” Marwan hesitated, “They have to solve the problem themselves, even at the cost of a few thousands more killed.”

  “Fair enough. I agree, but I must rely on facts. Tomorrow I will relay that message, mainly to the prime minister and the chief of staff… I’ve got it, Marwan. And if in any case we decide to resolve the matter?”

  “Then you’ll drag the whole region into a new conflict, in which you, that is, we, will be hard hit.”

  “I understand. Okay. So what’s new with our friend, the professor from Dubai?”

  “He was a bit friendlier this time. It was very pleasant. He was born in a Palestinian refugee camp in Lebanon; at least that’s what he claimed. But when we said goodbye, before everyone left for the airport, he tossed out as he got into the taxi: ‘Professor, at the end of the day, you’ll have to decide which side you’re on. We’ll be waiting for you…’”

  “I see. Alright, Marwan, then you’re burned out over there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me something else, Doc. What are they thinking in the Arab World? Things have been too quiet these last few weeks. What is the reason that escapes me, the real reason for the sudden peace that has fallen on us?”

  “Listen, Gershon. We’ve been friends for many years, haven’t we? Don’t involve me with people who don’t live here. I’m not the Arab world, okay?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean it. I actually control all the tools that should enable me to evaluate and judge. But I always ask you for an additional opinion, some Ifcha mistabra of what I hear from my people.

  “What is this ‘Ifcha’ stuff?”

  “It’s an ancient Aramaic idiom meaning the opposing opinion, contrary to the consensus.”

  “Aha, okay. But contrary to what, Gershon, my friend?”

  “To what my people are telling me.”

  “Good. Then please turn off all the electronic bells and whistles that you have installed here.”

  “They’re all turned off. We’re without any recording, hidden cameras or bugging. Speak!”


  “Look, I think the guys on the Palestinian side are getting tired. Nowadays they’re aiming at an economic settlement through you, the Israelis, through foreign investment or by any other means. For example, take the new city, Rawabi. So matters have calmed down and will continue to do so in future.”

  “And in Lebanon and in Gaza?”

  “It’s just a matter of time. It seems they are all beginning to accept the existence in the region of a strong Israel with a Jewish majority. Everybody is fed up. We the Israeli Arabs have also understood this principle a long time ago and are acting accordingly. You know, we and the Arabs in general are smart and patient. But the fact that we’ve accepted reality doesn’t mean that we’ve accepted Zionism.” He smiled. “And I’ll tell you something else: In actual fact, I am the embodiment of Israeli-of-the-future: Maybe not today, and apparently not tomorrow, but in coming decades.”

  “What do you mean, professor?”

  “Look, my friend. I’m the son of a Jewish mother, a member of your kibbutz who converted to Islam and moved to an Arab village. I’m a proud Arab who is also proud to be an Israeli. The mixing and blending of the nations is unavoidable. It will gradually increase, despite how the conflict is resolved: one state or separation into two states or into three states or some kind of autonomy, with or without unoccupied regions of the Sinai Desert. The Arabs will never be cut off from their brothers and will never agree to accept a situation in which Israel is a totally Jewish state.”

  “So what kind of future do you visualize, professor?”

  “Consider this, Gershon: In time the whole area between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea will be totally blended together. We, the Arabs, are already the majority in this area and in future we will have an absolute majority. Assimilation between Jews and Arabs will intensify even if only bit by bit. For me, that is the light beyond the dark tunnel of conflict. We, the rational Palestinian and Israeli Arabs, prefer a one-state-solution. In the meantime, and only in the meantime, we accept you, the Jews, as the leaders. But then, when such a state becomes a reality, it will no longer be the Jewish state that you visualized and dreamed of…” He paused for a moment. “The big question is whether that state will be democratic, ethical and just…” He took a sip of water and lowered his eyes. “The problem is that these are prolonged, unavoidable and bloody processes. Much blood, Gershon, will be spilled on both sides!” Drops of perspiration appeared on his bald head.