Deadly Ties

by Aaron Ben-Shahar

  ***

  One word threw the entire system in turmoil. A spy satellite way up in the sky, some three hundred miles over Tehran, picked up the phrase ‘Thanks.’ Much like the other material it had picked up, it was relayed in the original Farsi. All the material received was simultaneously translated, along with other similarly collected data, into Hebrew, using a special software developed by Israeli computer experts.

  All this material was compiled and further relayed to the Mossad intelligence, interpretation and control center somewhere in Tel Aviv that is operational 24/7. There, systems analysts, intelligence-savvy team members and special ops personnel worked on it tirelessly.

  When they came across the term ‘Thanks,’ they were beside themselves. They used all sorts of data analysis and interpretation programs to determine that this message came from Revolutionary Guard HQ in Tehran. According to procedure, any material that came from that particular location was to be immediately sent to the relevant branch chief, whose duty was to monitor the Revolutionary Guard.

  This branch chief then convened a special emergency meeting of all the best and the brightest within the department dedicated to Iran. They concluded that the ‘Thanks’ message was sent to Israel!

  At this point, they updated the head of the department and forwarded him all the data and the resulting conclusion. He in turn quickly informed the head of Mossad, who was of the opinion this turn of events was so unusual the data has to be shared with the chief of Israel’s General Security Service (GSS).

  A joint meeting of Mossad and GSS focused on the burning questions: who sent this troubling message, why was it sent, and to whom at what address in Israel. Ever suspicious, the people from the GSS were of the opinion this was a serious matter.

  In line with the GSS recommendation, a joint taskforce was quickly assembled, with the directive to report to both service chiefs and apprise them of the progress of the investigation on a daily basis. Dozens of analysts, the very best both organizations mustered, worked to crack this case wide open. Mossad and GSS also employed cutting edge electronic and software means – but to no avail. The mystery of the identity of the person within Israel, for whom the message of thanks was meant, and from Iran’s Revolutionary Guard, remained unsolved.

  ***

  Tammy joined the IDF shortly after turning eighteen, as is compulsory for her fellow young Israeli men and women. After basic training, she was assigned to the State Archive, and upon the successful completion of her security clearance and after signing the Israeli version of the Official Secrets Act, she began serving as assistant filing clerk at the government archive’s ‘Top Secret’ section.

  Hundreds of messages arrived each day to the government secretary. After being sorted, addressed, and handled, a copy would be sent over to the archive to be filed and preserved. Some of these messages were digital, and some in print. Tammy’s job was to file the digital and printed messages properly. She would scan the digital messages and file them in the recently established digital archive, whereas typed or written messages were first digitized and then filed in both the general archive and the digital archive. Documents Tammy did not know where to file she set aside and, on occasion, asked her superior, Mira, where to file the unidentified material.

  Another uneventful day was drawing to a close with a few documents remaining to be filed. A document that came by email was at the top of the pile. It was empty, except for one word, ‘Merci.’ The bottom of the page had unclear figures. Tammy glanced at her iPhone and saw that she might be running late for her weekly Pilates class, so she rose from her desk and hurried to the lesson, promising herself she’d get it done the following day.

  Come morning, Tammy took the curious piece of paper and went over to Mira’s office. Her superior was sitting there with David, a veteran clerk at the archive, and had her morning coffee with him. Tammy welcomed their invitation to join, as she really could use a cup of strong Joe.

  “Look,” she told Mira as she sipped her coffee. “I have this file with only one word, ‘Merci.’ Where shall I file it?

  “It is probably some thank-you note a new immigrant from France must have sent the prime minister. File it in the general folder,” Mira replied.

  “But why French, necessarily?” David intervened. “It could be Farsi.”

  “Why Farsi? ‘Merci’ means thanks. That’s the first French word I learned in the course I took at the French embassy,” she told him.

  “I bet it is Farsi,” David would not relent. “You people are always talking down and belittling everything and everyone from the Orient, so I will have you know that Farsi is one of the world’s oldest languages, and the origin of many terms in European languages, as well as Hebrew, for instance, names of fruits, colors, all sorts of things. You’ll be surprised how many words came to us from Farsi.”

  “Nevertheless,” Mira retorted, “the word ‘Merci’ is still in French.”

  “No!” David insisted. It first came from Farsi. It means “Thanks.”

  And at that moment, Mira had her own ‘eureka’ moment. She rushed over to the office of the man in charge of security. “You were looking for the word ‘Thanks,’ weren’t you? Well, I think we’ve found it!” She tossed the piece of paper onto his desk.

  ***

  There was no end to the excitement among the members of the special joint team. They forwarded the numbers at the bottom of the page to be processed at the IDF unit akin to NSA in the USA. They soon sent their reply, “These are code numbers. They were recently used on two occasions: one, in a phone call from Paris to Tehran, and the other, a few days later, in a call from Tehran to a phone within the prime minister’s office in Jerusalem, Israel.”

  The joint team further learned that the translated message arrived at the control desk somewhat garbled. But it was the original that arrived in its entirety at the State Archive.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Bonnie felt like he was walking inside a narrow, dry strip of land with huge waves on either side, about to engulf him whole, much like the story of how Moses parted the Red Sea and allowed the Hebrews to cross safely. But unlike those ancient Israelites, he knew he wasn’t going to make it safely to the other side. He was in for a life-changing turmoil.

  Ever since he had returned from his meeting with his biological father, Bonnie had known his days were numbered. He somehow managed to spend his so-called ‘borrowed time’ running the Ministry of Science, which he headed, encouraging investments in the high-tech industry, endorsing entrepreneurs to advance surprising new ideas in the fields of cyber and computing, touring academic and research institutions, and generally striving to promote science in Israel.

  From time to time, Bonnie was also invited to attend the meetings of the government’s select security and diplomacy cabinet. It was during one of those meetings that the members of cabinet were informed that the Mossad had not succeeded in eliminating Mehdi Mohammadi, but that they had succeeded in foiling the major terrorist attack the Revolutionary Guard had been planning to mount against the State of Israel. Bonnie, Minister Fiddlemann, always kept silent during these meetings, avoiding any involvement in the matters on the agenda, a large part of which was related to the Iranian threat on Israel.

  After his day at his ministry, Bonnie would return to his hotel suite, which the Science Ministry made available to him during the working week, which he spent in Jerusalem, Israel’s capital. Bonnie preferred to spend most of his time there, agonizing all by himself in his hotel over the impossible predicament he was in.

  Bonnie found himself spending a great deal of his time thinking about his biological father and what he must be going through. ‘I wonder how much he laments the impossible situation fate threw both him and me into.’ After all, he had spent a lifetime not even knowing about his biological father until destiny had intervened, forcing a rude awakening.

  ‘I feel this
great affinity with this man, of whose existence I didn’t even know for nearly four decades,’ he realized all of a sudden. ‘These past few months since I discovered him have been filled with such emotion, such longing,’ he thought as he took in the months he and Mehdi spent trying to make up for years of not being in touch. What made things all the more terrible and perplexing was the oath of office to which he had pledged when he was appointed minister in the government of his beloved homeland.

  Those nights at his cold and impersonal hotel were rough on Bonnie. He spent many a night tossing and turning, mulling over the impossible dilemma thrust upon him: ‘I know I cannot keep up this double life for much longer.’ He spent his weekends at his home in the village, where, whenever his troubled soul kept him from falling asleep, he would pour himself a glass of wine, venture out onto his porch and share his turbulent temperament with the night sky and the nocturnal creatures: from the foxes, whose lantern-like eyes peered at him through the bushes, through the rodents’ nightly foraging and the sounds of the mongooses. All this did take the edge off, a little. Once, he even caught a glimpse of a female Indian crested porcupine leading her three little offspring and teaching them the art of plucking spice roots in search of delectable grub.

  Bonnie’s true nighttime companion was the barn owl. It had built a nesting home in the oak tree his parents had planted when he was born. The nest featured a round hole and a front sill like a tiny bench. The barn owl that elected to make this its home was truly beautiful, sporting white, heart-shaped feathers on its front and a golden-brown back. It slept most of the day, and when darkness descended, it came out of its nesting hole, turned its head full circle and yawned, announcing it was good and ready for the new day. Then, it stretched its wings, squinted in a yellow gaze and looked for breakfast, seeking out a mouse that happened to hop in the grass in search of a mate. The barn owl would then pounce like lighting, grab the poor prey with its sharp claws and take it up to the nest, where it would dine to its heart’s content. Once done, the barn owl would return to its sentry, perched on the sill, watching its neighbor down below.

  Bonnie wondered what the barn owl might be doing when he was away in Jerusalem. He knew very well what it was doing when he was back at his own deck. High above his head, sitting by the glow of the porch light, fearless, it looked straight into his eyes with its own sad and wise eyes, as if he were an open book.

  Bonnie would watch the barn owl until he regained his composure and inner peace, and then he would return to his own bed, ready to face the rest of the night.

  ***

  Minister Binyamin Pladot was summoned to Yakir Yavnieli, head of security at the prime minister’s office. A tall, silver-haired man, Yavnieli cut an impressive figure. Smiling warmly, he rose to greet the minister and shake his hand. Bonnie noticed another man was there, peering at him behind his glasses. This man had a pointed face and thin hair.

  “May I present Zelig,” Yavnieli made the introduction, without telling Bonnie what this man’s job description or even title was. Zelig held out his hand for a polite, faint shake.

  ‘His name sure matches his appearance,’ Bonnie told himself.

  “On occasion,” Yavnieli explained, “we hold a security briefing here for ministers and other seniors. This is why I’ve asked you here today.”

  They exchanged further pleasantries, followed by a direct question the security branch chief put to Bonnie, “So, how was Paris, minister?”

  “Paris is always fun, although five days is too short for a visit. I wouldn’t mind spending more time there had I not been so swamped with things at my ministry.”

  They continued to chat, and finally, Yavnieli asked him, “Do you have anything to add?”

  “No,” replied the minister. “Everything is hunky-dory.”

  Bonnie took his leave smiling. He avoided shaking hands with Zelig, who did not utter a word during the minister’s entire exchange with Yavnieli.

  Six days later, Bonnie was summoned to another meeting at the security chief’s office. This time, an additional man was there besides Yavnieli and Zelig. “I would like you to meet Amitay,” the chief said.

  Contrary to Zelig, Amitay was an impressive man in dark pants and matching striped shirt and with a stern look and piercing gaze. Very early on, Yavnieli apologized for having to leave early in the meeting, but an urgent matter had to be attended to, leaving Bonnie with those two, which made the minister uncomfortable.

  “May I know who you two are?”

  Zelig responded adamantly, “We ask the questions here.”

  Amitay, ‘the good cop,’ responded in a pleasant manner. “We are investigators on behalf of the General Security Service. We’d be happy to show you our credentials.”

  Bonnie felt a chill running up his spine. “No, that will not be necessary. I believe you. How may I be of service, gentlemen?”

  “May I know what you were up to during those five days in Paris?” Zelig asked.

  ‘This here is another Zelig from the one I met before,’ Bonnie thought to himself, observing the man’s prominent, bespectacled, forehead. Zelig’s jaw tightened, as did his eyes. Bonnie could swear he seemed taller, too.

  “What does one do in Paris?” Bonnie feigned ‘whimsy.’ “I was here and there, like any tourist...” He gave them a list of Paris’s most familiar tourist attractions.

  “Cut the BS,” Zelig frowned. “Consider your answer before you give it. Tell us exactly what you were doing in Paris for five days.”

  Bonnie could feel his apprehension tuning into a clear sense of danger, paralyzing him with fear as it crept up his spine. ‘He can’t be called Zelig,’ he warned himself, ‘He probably goes by a different name.’

  “I’ve already told you. I may have forgotten a few details... Maybe I haven’t been to Notre Dame, perhaps it was the catacombs or the crypt at Île de la Cité.”

  “You’re lying!” the other investigator pounced, the one who was supposedly, ‘the good cop.’ “We know you were in Paris for only three days. Where were you during those two other days?”

  Bonnie was stunned. The pressure of the interrogations was too hard for him.

  “I have but one question for you,” Zelig assumed the lead again. He put the following sixty-four-thousand-dollar question to Bonnie: “Who in Iran’s Revolutionary Guard owes you? What did he thank you for?”

  Bonnie collapsed. He, the epitome of an upstanding citizen, panicked. He was in shock. The sweat pouring down his face was a sure sign for his investigators they were close. They knew full well even the best, most experienced liar could not control their sweating.

  They paused the interrogation. They lifted Bonnie and took him through the cargo elevator down to their car in the basement of the security branch building. The car, whose windows were dark and sealed, drove for an hour or so. Bonnie, in his state, on the verge of blacking out, could not follow the route. He did not even try.

  The car entered this basement of a house that seemed completely deserted. They asked him to get out of the car, and he obliged. Zelig and Amitay led him down a narrow corridor into a shabby looking room and asked him to take a seat in a chair that looked very old and worn out and left him by himself.

  About fifteen minutes later, a man in black trousers and a white shirt came in. He placed a typed statement in front of Bonnie.

  It said as follows:

  Attn., the Prime Minister,

  I, the undersigned, Minister of Science Binyamin Pladot, hereby inform you of my resignation from the Knesset and the government, due to personal reasons. My resignation is effective immediately.

  Yours sincerely,

  Binyamin Pladot

  “Kindly sign this,” the man in the white shirt told him politely.

  Bonnie did not hesitate for a moment. As soon as he signed, an immense sense of relief descended on him. The man took the signed lett
er and left the room.

  Then, a young man entered, and asked Bonnie to follow. He led Bonnie into an adjacent room that had a bed, a small toilet, a desk and a chair. There were no curtains. ‘This room is obviously below the ground,’ Bonnie quickly realized.

  Bonnie spent the following three days alone in this room. The young man, never exchanging a single word with him, brought in a small lunch three times a day.

  Three days after he was first brought there and had signed his letter of resignation, Bonnie was taken to the room where he had been asked to sign. Zelig and Amitay were already there, waiting for him. They greeted him and sat right in front of him, motionless and silent.

  “Save your breath, I will tell you everything,” Bonnie beat them to the punch. A recording device was placed on the desk. Out came the camera, into plain sight.

  Bonnie talked for three days and three nights straight. He barely touched his food. Water seemed to be enough for him. He did not refer to his interrogators and did not even notice they took turns and had continuous shifts in the course of those three days. He did not speak to them but only to himself and about himself.

  Bonnie spoke about his days in preschool; his kindergarten teacher’s name was Eve. He recounted everything from childhood to the very last moments of collapsing the other day, when he realized his double life had been exposed.

  He spoke into the recording device the same way he communed with the barn owl back home, speaking to someone or something that listened. The more he spoke, the greater he became relieved. He felt his life was beginning to make more and more sense. The words displaced his distress, his suffering, his sense of loss and dead-end.

  Once he was done, his head slumped into the chair as he fell asleep. This was the first time Bonnie had slept soundly ever since he had opened his mother’s letter to him. When he awoke in bed, he found himself in the sealed room. They told him he had slept twenty-four hours straight.