by Nathan Ronen
“Please get me Sir John,” Arik asked Etty Levkovich, manager of the control room.
“Talk!” Etty instructed him.
“Hello, Arik, how are you?” Rachel Cunningham, Sir John’s longtime administrative assistant, asked him pleasantly.
“I need an urgent meeting with Sir John,” Arik said, his voice solemn.
“I’m sorry. He’s very busy these days. The prime minister is leaving for the United States to meet the new president, and Sir John is coming along. They’re leaving England tomorrow.”
“I’m talking about a very short meeting,” he insisted. “Tell Sir John I’m holding three of your people as hostages captured during a hostile action against us…”
“I can’t believe you’re seriously saying that!” Rachel protested, on the verge of tears.
“Tell him to meet me at the ‘little house between the lakes.’ He’ll know what I mean. And that he should come alone. It’s a ten-minute brisk walk from 10 Downing Street.”
“I’ll let him know right now. But what time are you talking about?” Rachel asked.
“In an hour. I’ll wait half an hour and then take off. If he doesn’t show up, I’m not responsible for what happens to your people.”
Rachel almost swallowed her tongue. She wasn’t used to anyone speaking about Sir John in such a blunt, disrespectful manner.
“Rachel, I apologize for not being in a diplomatic state of mind, and I know I’m not speaking nicely. But this is really urgent, and I’m asking him to come alone. I emphasize, alone!” Arik said, about as charming as a bowl of sour kimchi.
Arik then called David McBrady, head of the British Security Service, and asked him whether he had known about Sir John’s manipulation. McBrady was briefly silent, then admitted to Arik that he had heard retroactively about Sir John’s plan and hadn’t liked it from the start. But despite all his respect and personal esteem for Arik, he held a senior government position, with all the attendant responsibility, and could not refuse to cooperate with his colleague.
“Just explain to me, what was the purpose of that dirty trick?” Arik asked furiously.
“The person who needs to answer that is Sir John,” McBrady said after a long silence. “I didn’t like it, and told him so, too. I understand that you’re angry, and I’m sorry, old chap. But you, more than anyone, know that we live in a world of compulsion and violence. Our profession forces us to wallow in the shit of those who drag us there, and to make unsavory deals with them. There are no saints or sinners in our profession. Our entire world is in the gray zone.”
Arik didn’t like McBrady’s explanation but ceased his protests.
“I have a little gift for you,” he said. “In the parking lot across from Westminster Bridge, by the statue of Celtic Queen Boadicea, we’ve left a few illegal immigrants from Gaza restrained in a green van. They’ve been sedated with a Ketamine injection. I’m sure you’ll be interested in hearing how they entered England and who provided them with documents at your Ministry of the Interior. Some of them were laborers and others arrived here as shahids. There are also a few Lebanese I’ll be hosting on my flight home for further interrogation regarding the attack tunnels they’ve apparently been digging in northern Israel, beyond the Lebanese border.”
Silence stretched out between them. Arik didn’t know what else to say to the redheaded Scot. An appropriate comment might have concerned his reluctance to judge McBrady for staying loyal to the United Kingdom. A cynical statement might have accused him of having more interest in the challenge of the game than in the moral equation and of betraying a friend. In any case, he felt no desire to discuss the topic with McBrady any further.
“I don’t think we’re done with Iman al-Uzbeki,” Arik finally blurted out. “If I were you, I’d instruct the Metropolitan Police to increase security at all Jewish institutions in London. Ask Sir John to let you interrogate Ali Baba. I believe they’re concealing collaborators and suicide bombers in safe houses in London and its surroundings. We saw their explosive vests at the mosque. And I’m also releasing one of your people we caught at the mosque.”
He ended the conversation on a formal note, unaware of the fact that McBrady was deeply embroiled in the plot along with Sir John.
The members of the Mossad’s four operational cells, Dr. Yuli Ebenstein and the members of his Cyber Division, all Kidon agents, control center technicians, and Tarzan’s people at the Mossad’s London extension were all sitting quietly along with Tal Ronen. They saw Arik’s growing rage, heard the gist of his conversation with the Brits, and sympathized with his feelings of betrayal. The operation to capture Iman al-Uzbeki had failed.
Arik stood across from them, looking at them affectionately. He felt very close to them. They were his subordinates. He had mentored and educated the long-timers among them. He remembered himself as a Kidon field agent and commander, after his discharge from the naval commando, nearly a generation ago. He looked at their faces, both young and old. Every single one of them had his or her own ways of dealing with fear, with being far from home in a hostile environment. Each of them had their own unique combination of courage, cleverness, nimbleness, judgment, whims, and eccentricities. Someone normal would never last in a thankless job like this, which no one on the outside even knew you were performing.
A special sort of spark was necessary in order to carry out this work, day after day, under pressure and with patience. The synergy between all of the crews’ warriors, the team spirit, the belief in the justness of their cause, the mutual emotional support, and the faith that everyone here would always stand by their friends all factored into their level of performance, which evoked envy among intelligence agencies throughout the world.
“Friends, the Brits have betrayed us and exploited us,” he began. “I still don’t understand why, and I intend to go off and confront Sir John shortly. I’m asking all of you to wrap it up here and disperse in accordance with operational procedures, handle any loose ends, and return all the equipment to Yoram Bardugo, aka Tarzan, at the embassy. I want to particularly thank Tal Ronen for his excellent work, and I want to apologize to you if I was sometimes a bastard, forgetting myself and not taking care to delegate authority. I’m aware of being a control freak and it’s not always a matter of ego, but the effects of cumulative life experience. I want to thank you all for your good work.”
He also wanted to tell them that they were allowed to take some time off, and that he would approve it, but decided to leave that to their direct boss, the head of Caesarea.
Tal Ronen rose from his seat and said, “A detailed debriefing will take place in Israel in precisely a week at nine a.m. in the conference room of the Operations Division I head. Till then, you’re all free.”
A murmur of excitement passed through the members of the operational and Special Measures teams. Technological Division personnel began to pack up the computers and other equipment. Etty Levkovich and Masha Kramer remained sitting, feeling there were things that Arik had yet to say.
They knew him very well and had been by his side for many years. Masha wanted to tell him something but decided to keep it to herself so as not to add to his anguish. She sensed there was still something he was hiding.
***
The embassy vehicle dropped Arik off on Horse Guard Palace grounds, on the eastern side of St. James Park near the residence of the queen’s guards and the government buildings at Whitehall. Arik crossed the park at a rapid stride, heading for the lodge known as Duck Island Cottage, situated between two lakes and accessed through small wooden bridges. It was a little hut concealed by high reeds, a meeting spot for people who did not want to be seen.
Sir John was obviously deeply embarrassed. He extended his hand to be shaken, but Arik ignored it.
“I hear you kidnapped my people here in London and beat them up,” Sir John went on the offensive. “Have you lost your mind? With a fl
ick of my finger, I could have you and your people arrested, or even instruct that you all be eliminated.”
“Don’t try to scare me,” Arik replied with a dismissive smile. “Leave that bullshit performance to your friends in the Arab world. Just tell me straight, did you use me as bait?”
“I did. So what?” Sir John’s poker face revealed no regret. “Any means is justified to attain my goal, which is the elimination of Iman al-Uzbeki, and you were supposed to be my subcontractor. The one who was supposed to dispose of him here, due to the legal limitations I’ve already explained to you.”
Arik stood there, shaking with suppressed rage.
“I heard from Rachel that you were upset,” Sir John continued. “And I have to tell you, I’m surprised. In our line of work, we can’t make it personal since there’s no point carrying the whole world upon your shoulders; otherwise, you’ll start drinking too much, or find yourself sucking on the barrel of a gun.”
Arik gazed at him silently. He forced himself to slip on a mask of self-control expressing infinite patience, although inherently, he was an extremely impatient person. For a moment, he was distracted by his awareness of this pretense. It was a habit that had accompanied him all his life, to automatically conceal any feelings of irritation, frustration, anger, fear, or doubt. This habit had served him so well that he had begun to believe it was a professional skill or technique. However, it was essentially his way of dealing with life. Ever since he remembered himself as an overweight, asthmatic boy in the low-income Halisa neighborhood in Haifa, he had felt the need to hide his emotions from those around him in order not to expose his weakness. He had learned this mode of behavior from his parents, who had survived the Nazi work camps in Poland. Anyone who weakened was immediately sent to be exterminated.
“You know, if heaven is only intended for people who are free of all sin, it must be completely empty,” Sir John chuckled, looking at Arik and hoping to evoke some empathy within him.
“Don’t start with your lofty sayings,” Arik broke his silence. “Save it for your friends in the halls of Whitehall, or at your social club.”
Sir John finally stopped speaking.
“You and I have been in the death business for many years,” Arik continued. “Obviously, anyone in this business of ops and espionage thinks about death. We live it, we expect it, and some of us even want it. But deep in our heart, we want a fair death, a dignified, justified death. It’s me against death and may the best of us win. If we’re doomed to die, we want it to be meaningful. If one of my warriors loses his life just because an English allied force stabbed him in the back, to me, that’s an unbearable humiliation. The worst insult. Can you understand how I feel at this moment?”
“But it’s just business,” Sir John said with a false smile.
Arik continued glaring at him furiously.
“Okay, I apologize for using you as bait,” Sir John finally sighed. “We’re both spies, and the world of masks and shadows is our playground. In the intelligence business, just like in life, there’s no choice but to interact with people whose hands aren’t clean. Just like when you’re trying to catch a big thief, and you grant immunity to a smaller thief.”
Arik was highly annoyed by the implication that the Israelis were merely a “small thief” to Sir John.
“I still don’t understand your plan, and I’m angry that you didn’t share it with me,” he said,
“I thought that if Iman al-Uzbeki found out you were here, he’d emerge from his hiding place and try to kill you and the Israelis tracking him,” Sir John explained. “And I knew that if he emerged from his hiding spot, either you would kill him or we would catch him, and that’s why we sent our people to track you.”
He was still trying to conceal the elaborate puzzle he had come up with, in which he was playing a sophisticated game of chess and was willing to sacrifice some insignificant pieces. He did not reveal to Arik that he was the one handling Ali Baba and instructing him to disclose the presence of Mossad agents in London to Iman al-Uzbeki. He also did not tell Arik that the entire purpose of his actions was to try and get him to kill al-Uzbeki and most of the members of his network, in order to elevate Ali Baba within the hierarchy of the global Al Qaeda organization. He thus planned to procure a valuable asset: a British agent who had a high ranking within a terrorist organization. This was definitely a winning hand within the Western intelligence world.
“So, what’s the story with you and Ali Baba?” Arik asked.
“He’s been my man for quite a while,” Sir John finally admitted, but said no more.
“So why did you need us Israelis? After all, he would have allowed you to expose Iman al-Uzbeki’s location and kill him on your own.”
Sir John chuckled bitterly. “I’ve already tried to explain to you that the legal climate in England, the cradle of democracy, is such that if we had captured Iman al-Uzbeki, we would have been forced to conduct a lengthy trial, and I’m not sure we would have been able to prove everything we know about him, for fear of exposing agents and sources. So that ultimately, he would have been acquitted due to insufficient evidence, or else he would have received a ridiculously light sentence for entering Britain illegally. Al Qaeda’s people would have kidnapped our soldiers in Iraq or Afghanistan, and our spineless politicians wouldn’t have been able to withstand the pressure and would have ended up releasing him after unofficial negotiations.”
Sir John concealed the fact that a terrorist attack by Iman al-Uzbeki’s people targeting the Jewish cultural center in Golders Green had been orchestrated in order to provide Ali Baba with the operational prestige he needed before he escaped Britain, with British support. His network and team would be left behind to be killed by Special Branch units, who were supposed to be waiting in the parking lot of the Brent Cross Shopping Centre about 500 yards away. Ali Baba’s random wounding by the Israelis actually served as an excellent cover story for a commander wounded in operational activity in the field. In the attack, he would sacrifice British Muslims who had volunteered to take part in Jihad activity, identified and trained for the past two months by experts on brainwashing.
Even as they spoke, a team of three Islamic terrorists was attacking the Jewish Community Centre in Golders Green. They opened fire as they burst into the synagogue, which was empty of worshippers. The moment the shooting in the synagogue began and grenades were thrown, British Special Forces units sprang into action. Skilled personnel wearing black uniforms, helmets and face coverings expertly eliminated the three stunned terrorists in the courtyard adjacent to the synagogue. The press release reported that British Special Forces found Kalashnikov 56 assault rifles manufactured in China, eight full magazines, and several Russian hand grenades in the terrorists’ cars. As the investigation progressed, it was revealed that they had planned to leave behind an old Bentley in the disabled parking spot next to the synagogue. Its trunk contained six homemade pipe bombs, allegedly set to explode simultaneously during the Sabbath prayer. Their activation would have been triggered by a single phone call from a cheap new cellular device found on one of the terrorist’s bodies.
In the miniscule device tucked into his ear, Arik received an excited report from Tal Ronen, who had watched the entire event take place live on TV.
He lost his equanimity, yelling at Sir John, “Did you know about this?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his colleague played innocent. “I’m just as surprised as you are.”
“You’re a cold-blooded son of a bitch!” Bar-Nathan said. “But you just don’t know us Jews and underestimate our survival instincts. We’re one of the most ancient nations in the world. Throughout our history, they’ve tried to bury us in the ground, but they didn’t know that we were seeds. When you try to bury us in a mound of trash, we actually sprout and grow.”
“Listen, Arik,” Sir John tried to assume a friendly tone, to the extent he
was capable of doing so. “You’re a small country whose interests are limited to your region. But the power games among the superpowers are like a circumcision ceremony.”
Sir John paused briefly in order to emphasize the punchline, adding, “The little ones get their privates snipped, while the grownups eat cake.”
“I don’t find that funny!” Arik said, slipping on his mask of indifference. He felt the rage contained within his body flow into his hand, which became an iron fist. He felt like punching the sanctimonious face of the patronizing Englishman standing across from him. However, his analytical mind maintained a strained grip over his emotions. He knew the importance of the intelligence cooperation between the two countries was infinitely greater than the personal problem between himself and Sir John. The intelligence material received from the ECHELON83 network, comprised of British surveillance stations and those belonging to their allies throughout the world, especially the ones in Cyprus, was significant and contributed greatly to the State of Israel’s security.
He had to calm himself down before he lost control. Therefore, he employed a tactic his mother had taught him when he was a child and had been frightened of seeing the dentist. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his pants and pinched his thigh to the point of pain, hiding his immense anger with a fake smile and self-soothing. He breathed quietly and deeply, emotionally detaching himself from his anger at Sir John’s treachery, just like at a class for Kidon field agents at the College of Intelligence Studies, where had had learned techniques intended to help him deal with severe physical torture and cheat a polygraph,
“You know, Sir John, you always call me by my first name, and up till now, I’ve never asked you what your full name is.”
“Andrew John McCall,” Sir John said.
His cell phone rang. He looked at it and said, “I’m sorry, but I have to get back to the Prime Minister’s Office.”
He turned on his heels, heading out, but suddenly turned back and asked, “You’re releasing my people, right?”
