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

by Nathan Ronen

  “Good afternoon,” she greeted him. “I’m sorry your meeting didn’t work out. Sir John intended to come down and say hello to you, but he was urgently summoned to 10 Downing Street. This whole Brexit business is driving our entire system crazy. There’s a whole constitutional crisis around it. Sir John is on his way back, and once he arrives, we’ll see if he can make time to see you.”

  Arik sank into a comfortable white armchair and waited. Less than twenty minutes later, Sir John emerged from the elevator. Wearing a big smile, he approached Arik, who was sitting in the waiting area, under the observant eye of the severe-looking security guard.

  “I made a bet with my friend David McBrady, who was at the meeting with the prime minister along with me, that you wouldn’t give up and would be waiting here for me when I returned,” he said jovially, pointing at the armchair in the office’s waiting room.

  “Who’s David McBrady?” Arik asked hesitantly. The name sounded familiar to him.

  “He’s head of MI5, our internal security service, equivalent to your Shin Bet.”

  “What did you wager on?” Arik inquired.

  “A round of drinks at our social club,” Sir John replied. “He thought you’d be offended and take off because I didn’t come in to say hello, and I said he didn’t know you, a son of a bitch who’s not afraid to violate dry English codes of conduct.”

  Arik chuckled. He liked people who could have a laugh at their own expense.

  “But where’s Gideon Perry?” Sir John asked in disappointment, glancing over Arik’s shoulder.

  Arik was surprised by his tone, which he found too familiar, and his eyes expressed it.

  “I’ve known him for a whole generation before I even met you,” Sir John explained his interest in Perry, “along with the story of him and his wife Paula, who used to be an agent of the Securitate, Romania’s secret police, until she met him and was swept off her feet. She served me my first and tastiest mămăligă cornmeal porridge.”

  “I’m sorry,” Arik said. “We’re flying back to Israel tomorrow, and Gideon wanted to make good use of the time and go see the special exhibit about Assyrian culture at the British Museum.”

  “And you, as usual, are stubborn and uncompromising until you attain your goal. It’s that Israeli chutzpah that makes you never take ‘no’ as a final answer, right?” Sir John replied with a distinctly British barb, standing in for an apology. “I actually like that about you Israelis.”

  “You and I have done a few operations together in the past, so I consider myself to be family.” Arik smiled cynically.

  The tall, silver-haired Sir John examined Arik with his watery, nearly transparent, fish-like eyes.

  “True,” he sighed. “But in England, family members call before they come visiting, and also knock on the door before they enter. This isn’t a kibbutz. We have a code of conduct and manners here.”

  “I’m assuming you didn’t step out of the elevator and walk over to invite me to see you just to discuss English table manners or proper conduct,” Bar-Nathan joked. “Or maybe I’m wrong, and you expect me to stand in the corner while you paddle my bottom with a wooden ruler, the kind of discipline I’m sure you experienced at the posh high school where you studied with all your friends from the British aristocracy.”

  Sir John assumed a Cheshire cat grin and ignored the comment.

  “The truth is, I was going to ask you what exactly happened with your boss, the Israeli prime minister?” he said. “What made him come out with that bombastic statement about your brilliant operation of stealing the Iranian uranium in Chad and conveying Iran’s nuclear archive to Israel? What was the purpose of that boasting? I can’t understand it. It was part of an election maneuver, right?”

  Arik had quite a lot to say on the topic. But he always avoided airing dirty laundry in public. He always said what he had to say to the proper addressee in a fearless manner, one on one, and only in Israel. Therefore, he smiled to himself and kept his silence. Sir John, of course, figured out Arik’s opinion on his own.

  He walked over to fetch a bottle of Scottish Macallan whiskey. “On the rocks or not?”

  “Neat, thanks,” Arik said. No warning lights went off in his head due to the sudden ease his host was exhibiting. Both of them went out to the balcony overlooking the river and the view of London. It was protected against snipers by a thick, greenish glass wall. They sat in wicker armchairs, lazing in the feeble rays of the misleading London sun, which made its way through the gray clouds usually characterizing the London sky.

  “Do you already have the results from the investigation into the circumstances of Cornfield’s death?” Sir John asked, taking a little sip. “I actually liked that gruff fellow. He was an extraordinary man.”

  “It was the tragic outcome of a series of unfortunate circumstances,” Arik told him. “Apparently, he interrupted some cattle thieves who, that time, stumbled upon a treasure. Instead of a few paltry sheep or beef calves, they found a stable full of fine, pricey Arabian racehorses. Apparently, Cornfield shot and wounded one of them, and therefore I assume the man retaliated by slaughtering Cornfield with a curved Bedouin knife as if he was a ram.”

  “That’s terribly sad,” Sir John said. “Have they caught them yet?”

  “Unfortunately, not yet,” Bar-Nathan said. “When the Bedouin thieves heard whom they’d murdered, they fled across the border to Jordan. But we’ll catch them and even up the score, I can promise you that.”

  The two high-ranking spies sat side by side for several long minutes, neither of them saying a thing. They slowly sipped the whiskey, letting it glide down their throats.

  Sir John had completely different intel and various hypotheses regarding the circumstances of Cornfield’s death, but he decided to keep his conclusions to himself. The story of the cattle thieves seemed too simplistic to MI6. However, Sir John never volunteered information without demanding a fair price for it. He thought it was an Iranian signal meant for Raya Ron, a kind of warning stating, watch out, we could come to your home, too.

  “So, what’s going on in your neighborhood?” he asked.

  The whiskey imbued Arik with a poetic spirit of sorts. “We live in the Middle East, and we’re a small country surrounded by enemies. Therefore, we recite the following African fable to ourselves every day: ‘Every morning, the impala in the African savanna wakes up, knowing it has to be faster than the swiftest of the lionesses. Otherwise, it will be killed and become the daily prey. Every morning, the African lioness wakes up, knowing it has to be faster than the swiftest impala. Otherwise, it will stay hungry. Whether you’re an impala or a lioness, when the sun rises in the Middle East, you better start running.’”

  Sir John laughed. He liked Arik’s sense of humor.

  “So, what’s going on in London?” Arik asked, fishing for new information.

  “I recently heard from a qualified source that there are rumors that your friend from Morocco is in town,” Sir John said, casually enigmatic.

  “Who would that be?” Arik leaped as if snake-bit.

  “The rumors are that Iman al-Uzbeki was sent here to carry out some job on behalf of the Iranians. We don’t have any information on that son of a bitch. I don’t know if he’s already here or if he’s on his way. I don’t know the target or the timeline. We’re in total blackout mode,” Sir John confided, surprisingly candid.

  “Iman al-Uzbeki?” Arik tensed. “The Al Qaeda arch-terrorist, walking around here in London? We lost track of him in Casablanca after he thought his people had killed the Moroccan king. It was like the ground opened up and swallowed him.”

  “In any case, it’s not my problem, but that of the head of MI5 and Scotland Yard’s Special Branch.” Sir John shook his hands as if trying to get rid of something sticky and disgusting.

  “But you and the Americans nurtured the Taliban in Afghanistan so that they�
��d fight against the Russians, who invaded the country in 1980,” Arik reminded him. “It’s your rebellious offspring who, just like an inflamed appendix, blew up, spreading its venom all through the world, especially in Europe.”

  “And yet he’s not my problem,” Sir John said. “I have enough problems on my hands as is, and I also have a prime minister who might resign tomorrow, because the people will vote against him to support a stupid nationalist resolution to disengage from the European Union, and who knows who might end up replacing him.”

  “But when that murderous maniac surprises you with some mega-attack in London, who are you going to run to?” Arik asked.

  Sir John shrugged.

  Arik felt that their roles had reversed. It was now his turn to berate the pompous Englishman who was shirking responsibility.

  “There’s an old Uzbek proverb that says that the person who put the bell around the tiger’s neck is the only one responsible for taking it off,” he says. “And you’re the ones who hung it there: the British and the Americans.”

  Sir John shook his head conclusively. “I think all these counterattacks against the Taliban, Al Qaeda, or ISIS in response to their terrorist attacks only perpetuate the cycle of violence, and they’ve already warned us that if we don’t stop, they won’t stop either, and that the situation, which is already very bad, will get worse.”

  Arik looked at him in astonishment. “Sir John, the world is changing in front of our eyes, and becoming chaotic and incomprehensible, and these are the circumstances in which we have to act. Moderate Islam is veering out of control, returning to some wild point in time when people with long beards, riding in open jeeps sporting black flags, wielding an assault rifle and a sword, are granted a license to kill, destroy, and chop people’s heads off. Something in that wildness feels like it originated in the TV series Game of Thrones, rather than in the Quran. This reality is attracting thousands of European youths to it like a magnet, sometimes including young women. These are young people who were born and raised in Europe, and deeply despise the Western society in which they were raised.”

  Sir John sighed. “You want to fight millions of Muslims in Europe?”

  “Believe me, when this mess blows up in your face, and the entire media is asking why you didn’t prevent it, the politicians will wake up and tug at your balls hard, so that it hurts,” Arik warned him. “Muslim terrorists don’t think like you do. They’re extremists who truly believe they were chosen to rule the world, and in order to make it happen, they have to subdue the decadent Western world by way of Jihad. Their cause requires total dedication; they consider anything less to be a rebellion against Allah.”

  Sir John directed a cynical gaze at him, merely annoying Arik. “You judge what’s happening in the Arab countries by your democratic standards,” he continued to criticize his host. “It’s almost like judging a tree-climbing competition between a monkey and a goldfish.”

  “But why shouldn’t the more moderate Arab countries handle it? It’s their problem, more than ours,” Sir John protested, looking amused by his interlocutor’s metaphor.

  “Fundamentalism has already spread like a cancer throughout the Arab countries, but the Muslim world lacks any ability, motivation, courage, or desire to fight against their zealots,” Bar-Nathan explained. “They threw their hands up in defeat a long time ago. In Egypt, they’ve even voted in a president from the Muslim Brotherhood. And now I can see, right in front of my eyes, how you Europeans are being passive and tentative. Apparently, you don’t understand that when faced with weakness, radical Islam will only increase its determination, and its fighting spirit will grow and intensify!

  “Look at how history toys with us. In the Middle Ages, during the third crusade, the English King Richard the Lionheart led the crusade following the conquering of Jerusalem by the Muslim warlord Saladin. And now the tables have turned. The Muslims are fighting you, the infidels, on European ground, while you, like good Christians, are turning the other cheek.”

  Sir John looked at him skeptically. He didn’t like the fact that a representative from a small, godforsaken country in the Middle East was challenging him, a senior officer of the British Empire.

  Arik was not deterred by his gaze. “I suspect that, as usual, you’ll expect us Israelis to do your dirty work and kill the terrorists while you sit on the sidelines, reveling in your moral superiority. And then you, along with the Arabs, can cross your legs smugly at the UN Security Council assembly and put the blame on us like you’ve done throughout the history of the Jewish people.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Sir John said. “You Jews, always accusing the entire world of anti-Semitism! Soon maybe you’ll start brandishing the Holocaust at me, like your boss, the Israeli prime minister, has a habit of doing at every state event. It doesn’t work anymore, don’t you understand? It happened in a different world, more than seventy years ago. Two generations have gone by since then.”

  “Pardon me for the impolite question,” Arik said angrily. “I’m sure you’re the son of a lord from whom you inherited your country estate. You probably went to Eton College, like all your friends, and later studied at Oxford, like everyone else. Am I right?”

  “I actually went to the Harrow School and Cambridge University,” Sir John said with open pride, waving his fraternity tie.

  Arik ignored his response, continuing to taunt him. “Like all your friends, you probably go foxhunting in season.”

  Sir John nodded.

  “You might be an excellent fox catcher, my friend,” Arik said, “until the moment you’re required to catch a tiger.”

  The head of the British intelligence service assessed him with a condescending smile, raising an eyebrow, a physical gesture that merely annoyed Arik. He had already realized that in England, the upper class played by different rules than those applying to other people.

  “When it happens to you, and it always happens to you, you’re always surprised,” he continued explaining what he meant. “Then you’ll want someone by your side who not only knows how to track a tiger but also knows how to think like one. Someone who knows what to do in case the tiger turns the tables and starts following you. It’s important to know that the first rule when tracking a predator is that there are no rules. Don’t forget that the terrorists succeed because they’re not limited by laws, and therefore you need the same freedom of action that they have. If you only act in accordance with instructions from your legal advisors, based on law enforcement rules accepted here in the UK, it would indeed be a noble plan, but it’ll end in utter failure.”

  “You’re one of those people who always expect the worst,” Sir John decreed.

  “It prevents me from being disappointed,” Arik chuckled sarcastically. “The problem with you Brits is that despite passing good anti-terrorism laws against the IRA, you continue to act as if terrorists haven’t changed. Today you’re dealing with Islamic terror, which acts according to totally different rules. You were terribly surprised when you were attacked by Muslim suicide bombers who were born in Britain. You couldn’t understand how it had happened to you, and the moment you managed to capture these terrorists, they immediately used the system against you. You just have to lean back and watch them find public defenders, ultimately ending up with ridiculously light sentences that allow them to serve time in prisons with a higher standard of living than the ones they were accustomed to in the third-world countries from which they came. Do they have any reason to complain? They eat three meals a day for the next ten years, learn English, and attend college at your expense while taking advantage of all their appeal time.”

  “When did that happen?” Sir John feigned innocence.

  “On July 7, 2005, a series of terrorist attacks that you call 7/7 took place on the London Tube and on a city bus. The attacks took place while Britain was hosting the G8 conference and resulted in fifty-two casualties and 700 people woun
ded. Now do you remember?”

  “You sound like an Islamophobe!” Sir John raged. “Is your situation any better, with the Palestinian terrorists?”

  “Unfortunately, it isn’t,” Arik admitted. “Israel, too, is a Western country when it comes to its laws. They get pampered in our prisons too, much to my chagrin. And that’s why we try to send as few terrorists as possible to prison. They want to be shahids? They prefer death to life? By all means, I’m all for it. I’m the guy who forges a quick connection between them and Allah. I allow them to ascend to heaven as quickly as possible so they can win the seventy-two virgins who are breathlessly awaiting their arrival.”

  Sir John laughed sarcastically, refilling their glasses. He had a different perspective.

  Arik briefly submerged into nightmarish memories. He had witnessed the extreme barbarism of terrorist groups from up close. He saw what they did to their victims, including women and children. Unfortunately, the human brain did not have a “delete” button. And sometimes, just for a moment, a person needed to forget in order to conduct a normal life.

  “But now you have a country that’s almost seventy years old. You’re behaving more like Sparta than like Athens. For decades now, you’ve been the Palestinian people’s conquerors.” Sir John had to add a final taunt, ending the conversation victoriously.

  “I’m sorry for still inserting the Holocaust into the conversation,” Arik said. “For you, it’s the date of some old historical event that happened a long time ago. Maybe your grandfather or your father was there in some heroic story about protecting Britain in World War Two. But in my home, the dead were very present and real. I’m the son of a family that experienced the Holocaust first-hand in Europe. I can tell you that my parents emerged from World War Two as human skeletons, emotionally wounded, parents who had lost their children and their partners. My parents swore it would never happen again. Israel would never rely on the kindness of others to protect the Jewish people. We’re not Sparta. We don’t sanctify the sword. We also don’t sanctify death. As they emerged from the abyss that had formed and the kind of difficulties my family experienced, they decided to carry on and live a life of action and construction, and we have built a glorious country. I’m a big believer in the Roman saying that those who want peace should prepare for war and carry a big stick, especially in the Middle East.”