When Shadows Collide (An Arik Bar Nathan Novel Book 1)

by Nathan Ronen

  Arik looked at his beloved Eva, appalled. Her face was still swollen. The bruises were now blue-yellow-black as a result of the hematomas. Her eye socket looked bad, swollen as if it had sustained a well-aimed punch. Her eyebrow was stitched with black thread, the adhesive bandage above it soaked with blood. Eva was connected to a variety of tubes and pumps. Her broken arm was in a cast, tied to her body in a brace of sorts that was connected to her neck.

  He listened to the beeps rising from the monitors to which she was connected, looking at Eva’s chest, which was rising and falling with the aid of the ventilator. As if hypnotized, he tracked the drops of fluid dripping from several IV bags. He felt that this place was giving him the true scale of the fragility of life.

  Prof. Gensburger came in and placed a gentle hand on Arik’s shoulder. He was head of the unit and a religious man, summoned to the hospital despite the Sabbath to handle a different emergency. Gensburger had walked about two miles from his home in order not to violate the Sabbath.

  “What are you expecting to find, medically speaking?” Arik asked apprehensively.

  “We’re about to wean your wife off the sedatives, and she’s supposed to wake up within a few hours. I want to prepare you for the fact that there are all kinds of symptoms,” the professor explained. “First, severe stomachaches as a result of the C-section carried out under emergency conditions in the ambulance. Most patients do not experience complications due to the sedation, but a few of them do experience light, transitory symptoms.”

  Arik waited tensely for the professor to continue.

  “In your wife’s case, since she also hit her head, there might also be symptoms of a concussion,” Gensburger added. “She might suffer from confusion, lack of spatial orientation, attention and focus issues, nausea and vomiting, tremors, and a sore throat due to the ventilator. There may also be symptoms that are eventually expressed as cognitive decline, memory issues, changes in behavior, and even depression.”

  Arik felt his heart sinking.

  “How long do you think these phenomena might go on?” he asked anxiously.

  “In my experience, they might last between a few hours and a few months. We know how to induce sedation, but we still don’t understand exactly how it operates,” Prof. Gensburger admitted. “I can’t really tell you what to expect, but based on her vital signs, I’m optimistic.”

  Arik put his head in his hands, keeping quiet.

  Prof. Gensburger rose and stood across from him, placed his hand on his shoulder, and quietly said, “Do you want to join me for the Mincha afternoon prayer?”

  “I’m not a religious Jew. I don’t know how to pray and I’m secular…” Arik said, flustered.

  “Are you trying to tell me that you don’t believe in God at all?” asked Gensburger, who was wearing a yarmulke, indicating his religious faith.

  Arik shook his head. “I’m sure I don’t need to teach you who the French philosopher and theologian Blaise Pascal was,” he said. “In the seventeenth century, Pascal said that there were two options: either there is a God or there isn’t a God. If there is no God and you don’t believe in Him, nothing happens and there’s no problem. But what happens if there is a God, and you don’t believe in Him and don’t adhere to religious law? Seemingly, you’re in trouble, right?”

  “Well, then, the logical conclusion, according to game theory, is that betting on religion is the more logical bet,” Gensburger said with a victorious smile.

  “But only seemingly,” Arik said cynically, “because anyone who uses calculations of probability regarding his faith is, in my opinion, not a believer but an opportunist.”

  The professor was clearly displeased with the conclusion of their conversation. He handed Arik the Siddur prayer book, pointing at the text.

  “This is the Refuah Shlema prayer, or the Prayer for Healing, also referred to as Refaenu. It’s part of the Mincha prayer that Jews say every day. It is the eighth blessing in the Shemoneh Esrei (meaning eighteen) prayer. I think you’ll feel better after you recite it. Sometimes, ‘Though not done for a holy purpose, the holy purpose comes to pass.’ And if it doesn’t help, it certainly won’t hurt,” he concluded, and began to walk away.

  Arik had no idea what Gensburger had meant and felt awkward. He didn’t know what to do, and therefore decided to join him. To his surprise, the hospital’s small chapel was full of medical staff and family members of the Jewish patients. Across from him was a Muslim hall of worship, and next to it, a Christian one.

  Arik looked at the words. He read them for the first time casually, and suddenly found himself reading the ancient text again, increasingly moved. He found himself crying, raising his arms to heaven in a heartfelt prayer, begging for a full recovery for his beloved:

  “Heal us, O God, and we shall be healed;

  save us and we shall be saved, for You indeed are our praise.

  Lift us up and heal the wounds of our body and spirit,

  For You are the almighty King, who is a faithful and merciful healer.

  Blessed are You, O God, who heals the sick of Your People Israel.”

  A black-clad, gangling figure, wearing a large Borsalino brimmed hat, heard Arik’s heart-rending prayer, uttered through his tears, and sat down next to him.

  “Honorable sir, I ask that you honor me with a mitzvah, a good deed. With your permission, I’d like to recite a personal Prayer for Healing for your wife,” the rabbi requested in French.

  Arik looked at him, uncomprehending. The rabbi placed his hand on Arik’s head, closed his eyes, and said, with great intention, loudly and in Hebrew, “May it be your will, Our Lord God and the God of Our Fathers, to send rapid and complete healing from heaven, spiritual healing and bodily healing, for the patient…”

  He looked at Arik, hoping he would provide the patient’s name for the prayer.

  “Eva von Kesselring,” Arik said quietly.

  “Daughter of?” the rabbi asked, and Arik replied, “Daughter of Brigitte.”

  “May the Lord bless her with good health among the others who are ill within the people of Israel,” the rabbi said, concluding his prayer.

  The entire congregation echoed after him, loudly and wholeheartedly, “Amen and amen.”

  The chapel emptied. Arik remained sitting in the small hall, haunted with terrifying thoughts. He felt weak at the knees. Which Eva would he find tomorrow? Would she wake up with brain damage? Would she ever resume being the sexy beauty, the intellectual girl who had won acclaim and awards for her research and work, the mother of his two children, or would she remain a wreck for whom he would have to care for the rest of his life? He had already decided. Regardless of the answer, he would stay by her side.

  Arik rose and returned to the ICU. He gazed at Eva for quite a while, falling asleep in the armchair beside her. He dreamt of his mother, who, due to Alzheimer’s disease, had been bedridden for the last eight years of her life. The disease had utterly deprived her of her personality and wits. She lay staring vacantly at the ceiling, motionless, connected to an IV that fed her through an opening directly into her stomach, a pathetic shadow of herself. He would always note that his mother had died twice: once when the hard disc in her head was deleted, and she no longer remembered who she was or who her children were, and again when she passed away due to an infection resulting from bedsores.

  In his dream, Arik wanted to console and stroke his mother, but suddenly, her face was replaced with Eva’s battered face, as she lay in her bed with her eyes open to the heavens, motionless.

  He woke up with a shout, a wave of cold sweat sweeping his body.

  He went out to the spacious balcony overlooking the large park for some air. At the edge of the horizon, the Eiffel Tower glittered in a colorful light show. At the end of the corridor, he spotted the mysterious figure that had tracked him to the embassy, turning its hat-clad head away from him
.

  Chapter 16

  The Security Cabinet Meeting in Jerusalem

  In preparation for the Security Cabinet meeting, the new-old Mossad director was asked to come to Jerusalem, where he was to report to the cabinet on Operation Bakery, in which yellowcakes were stolen from the Iranians.

  Cornfield decided to take along Tal Ronen, who had commanded the operation. On his way to Jerusalem, he tried to coach Tal, giving him a quick course on how to handle politicians.

  Cornfield sensed that Tal was nervous. It was true that in the past, he had been commander of the Naval Commando, fought on the battlefield, and dived into freezing water in utter darkness in hostile territory. But the man described as having ice water running in his veins had never felt so anxious. Appearing before the Security Cabinet and its policymakers was, for him, swimming in utterly unfamiliar territory, which he felt to be teeming with crocodiles.

  “Don’t worry, I’m right behind you, totally watching your back,” Cornfield said. He placed a large hand on Tal’s shoulder, adding, “As someone who’s been burned by politicians before, I have just three words for you: cover your ass.”

  Tal’s unreadable expression indicated that he did not understand exactly what to expect.

  “When facts are suppressed and wisdom is sedated, the populist monsters awaken,” the head of the Mossad explained. “And I think no one around that Security Cabinet table has the power or the guts to stop Ehud Tzur.”

  Tal drank down his mentor’s sermon thirstily. But he wasn’t certain he understood its full implications.

  “Let me quote you what Voltaire said in the eighteenth century about politicians,” Cornfield tried to explain his intention. “In life, there are two kinds of thieves: the common thief who steals your wallet, watch, and money, and the political thief who steals your future, your dreams, your knowledge, your salary, your health, your strength, your education, and so on.

  “You know what the difference between those two kinds of thieves is?” Cornfield continued with a question. Tal shook his head. “The difference is that the common thief is the one who chooses you, in order to steal your property. While with the political thief, you’re the one who elects him so he can rob you,” the Mossad director explained. “And, in summary, one major important difference is that the common thief is prosecuted by the police, while the political thief is usually protected by a police detail.”

  Tal smiled, feigning understanding. “I’m going to keep my mouth shut unless they ask me to talk,” he summed up the quick-and-dirty lesson he had just received regarding politicians.

  “That’s exactly right,” his commander agreed. “Don’t ever argue with fools or politicians—they’ll bring you down to their level and then beat you with their experience. Being a politician is a profession, too, but mostly a matter of character.”

  They entered the government meeting room together. The Prime Minister’s Office security officer confiscated their cellular devices and pistols, which were placed in a special locker outside the conference room. The room was provisioned with anti-surveillance and anti-transmitting equipment. The Cabinet Secretariat was the only party recording the meetings for purposes of historic documentation. Members of the Security Cabinet, along with the heads of the security agencies, were already sitting and awaiting the prime minister’s arrival; he was habitually late.

  Tzur stormed into the room half an hour after the scheduled time. He sat down and immediately went on the offensive. “I had decided I want to campaign on the strength of my financial accomplishments,” he stated, “but detailed surveys conducted on my behalf clearly indicate that I’m deficient in an area that’s very important to the Israeli voting public, which is the defense issue. I’m considering disclosing Operation Bakery to the public, both in order to reveal Iran’s criminal intentions of becoming a nuclear entity, in complete violation of the nuclear arrangement signed with the superpowers, and in order to deter it.”

  Cornfield leapt up from his seat as if snake-bitten. “I believe that would be a fatal, disastrous mistake!” he interjected angrily while the prime minister was still speaking. “Let’s not confound hush-hush business with show business. That would be unnecessarily provoking our rival. I suggest we stick to zipping our lips. A perfect intelligence operation is never disclosed. The enemy—or an ally being targeted—doesn’t even need to know it’s been stung, and if it does realize it, shouldn’t know who stung it.”

  The cabinet members stared at Cornfield in disbelief. The head of an intelligence agency interrupting his boss in public, fearlessly, was not a common occurrence.

  Ehud Tzur’s gaze did not bode well, but Cornfield did not flinch, staring into his eyes.

  “Sir, I apologize for my lack of manners and for interrupting you.” He softened his tone somewhat. “But with all due respect, I know how often you quote Winston Churchill. Therefore, I want to remind everyone here of the ‘Coventry Dilemma’ Winston Churchill was facing the moment they managed to decipher the secret of the Enigma, the German encryption device. On November 14, 1940, Churchill didn’t want the Germans to know that he knew in advance they were planning to attack the industrial town of Coventry. As a leader, he performed a rational adjusted calculation of cost versus benefit and was willing to pay the price in order to keep the secret. And Britain did indeed pay with the destruction of its industrial infrastructure and with 600 casualties and 1,000 wounded: a high price by any estimate in order to conceal an important secret. To make an analogy with our current situation, Mr. Prime Minister, it has never occurred to the enemy that yesterday was any different than the day before it, and that as of today, it might be a good idea to change the code, or to scramble communications, or to search for an Israeli mole. Unnecessary disclosure might neutralize the benefit of the operation, given the risks and resources it entailed.”

  Tzur continued to stare at him, his gaze becoming scheming.

  “I want to remind the honorable prime minister that only covert successes established the renown of Sayeret Matkal, as well as the Military Intelligence Directorate and the Mossad’s technological units,” Cornfield resumed his speech. “Those noisy operations that are the basis for the battle heritage of IDF’s combat units, the Paratrooper Brigade, Golani Brigade,17 and the Armored Corps aren’t right for us. They might make good headlines, but don’t serve our mission.”

  A cynical smile spread across Tzur’s face.

  “As an alternative, I might suggest an indirect channel to publicize the operation,” Cornfield said, making an effort to give the prime minister the feeling that he was meeting him halfway. “Publication that wouldn’t come from us, but from a prestigious journalistic source such as the New York Times. We’ll use the ‘leak and berate’ method without boasting of our ability to do whatever we want to the Iranians or proving to them that we can act within Teheran as if it were our home turf. That’s an unnecessary provocation that would make them oppose us in a massive way.”

  “Stop! Enough! Quit babbling!” Ehud Tzur barked out.

  “With all due respect, sir, I won’t stop babbling!” Cornfield insisted. “I know, it’s inconvenient and it’s not sexy to hear criticism from some geezer like me. But I’m a gatekeeper for the State of Israel and my commitment is solely to my country. I won’t bow my head and submit to your need to exploit an intelligence achievement for your political survival!”

  Tzur swallowed down the insult and decided to change tactics. He blatantly ignored Cornfield, turning to Tal Ronen with a smile. “Actually, maybe the time has come for you to update us on Operation Bakery, for which, for once, I have nothing but praise.”

  He redirected his gaze to Cornfield, who asked Tal Ronen, head of Caesarea, to stand up and update the cabinet on the tremendous achievement of obtaining the yellowcakes.

  Tal spoke laconically, without going into details. He merely conveyed the fact that 200 tons of enriched uranium were curre
ntly under the supervision of the State of Israel, while not forgetting to credit his boss, Arik Bar-Nathan, the originator of the idea and the mastermind of the operation.

  Ehud Tzur appeared highly pleased. Secretly, he was thinking how he could take advantage of the accomplishment to portray himself as “Mr. Defense” in preparation for the elections.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, I agree with the opinion of the head of the Mossad and think we should stay quiet about this,” Tal Ronen said in summary. “The Iranians will have a hard time tolerating another public humiliation that would make them out to be fools, especially if the Americans view concealing the uranium as a kind of fraud, and the American president might renege on the nuclear agreement with Iran, and once again impose severe financial sanctions on it. On the other hand, if we keep it quiet, the assessment is that they would be willing to sustain a tactical blow of the kind that’s acceptable between bitter rivals.”

  “I disagree with you both,” Ehud Tzur said, “and I want to remind you that the government is your boss and I head the government, and not the other way around.”

  Cornfield rose to his full six feet, five inches, rested his hands on the table and thundered out in his loud bass voice, “I’m speaking on the record! I’m warning you, once again, we can’t speak out on the topic of the yellowcakes! You don’t stick your finger in your enemy’s eye just to squeeze out a few more votes at the poles. And in contrast, I want to ask why the Prime Minister’s Office didn’t publicize the fact that Arik Bar-Nathan, deputy director of the Mossad, received the French Legion of Honor medal?!”

  Tzur snorted at him in derision. “You’ve never understood a thing about politics. You’ll always be a muzik, a country bumpkin.”

  “I’m actually proud of the fact that I’m not an expert on politics,” the Mossad director challenged him. “But I still want to know why you didn’t publicize the fact that a Mossad operative was the recipient of the French Legion of Honor decoration, without revealing his name. It’s a significant achievement. In my humble opinion, we can reveal it to the public without going into too many details, right? After all, the French approved it for publication.”