Aharon came to an end. A heavy silence fell over the room, its presence palpable and troubling. The president didn’t say a word, his sharp mind processing the information he had just received. He closed his eyes in thought. “But,” the president suddenly said in his deep voice, “you can clearly see the problem, right? We have no idea where he could be. He could be in a key position in the defense establishment, the army, the Mossad, even the Shin Bet internal security service. He could be at the Foreign Ministry, the Defense Ministry, the National Security Council. If we open an investigation, he could get wind of it, and then we’ll never know. He’ll simply drop off the radar and we won’t even know that we’ve walked right by him, right?” The president went quiet for a moment, as if he were talking to himself, his gaze fixed on some point beyond his companion’s shoulder.
“No. We have to handle the matter differently—at this stage at least. Listen, Aharon,” he said, staring directly into Levin’s eyes now, his gaze stern and sharp, “I want you to handle this personally. I, the state president, am charging you with the task of running this investigation. You’ll report to me alone. Use and employ whoever you trust. Set up a team, not a big one, to do the work for you. You know what to do and you know how to do it. No one could do it better. There’s no one else I could trust like I trust you.”
The president paused. It appeared, to the former Mossad chief, that the president wanted to add something, but wasn’t really sure how to do so. “Look, Aharon,” he finally said, “you’re familiar with the big picture, you’re aware of the threats we’re facing. We’re working on a few things. It’s all very complex and expensive, and who knows if any of it will work out. All we know for sure is that we have to maintain the element of surprise. If anything is leaked, none of it will be worth a thing. And in this regard, the superpowers are our adversaries, too. Certainly Russia, which is fighting again for its standing and status in the world, and perhaps even the United States, which wouldn’t want us to take action in a manner that hasn’t been cleared with them. But certainly Russia. Moscow won’t take another demonstration of Israeli superiority in the arena lying down. And certainly when we’re talking about superiority, that would again be based on American arms and weapons systems. Thus, if they get wind of anything, they’ll thwart it. Like me, you know they have many ways of doing so, including the relaying of a detailed and specific warning to our enemies. They could also go public with whatever they reveal, perhaps not in an address by Putin, but in the shape of a well-timed leak to this or the other media outlet, or by means of a thousand other forms of psychological warfare they so excel at. But until we get our hands on the traitor and learn who he is and exactly what he knows and what he passed on, until then, we won’t know if our plans are worth anything. Under the current circumstances—and forgive me, my friend, for not being able to elaborate—what I’m asking you to do is critical. Critical and urgent.”
Aharon gave the president a look that clearly illustrated his understanding of the scope and significance of the task with which he had been charged. He remained silent. The president continued:
“You’ll have one of the funds of the President’s Residence at your disposal. I’ll have the money transferred to an account you’ll open specifically for the purpose of the operation. The fund is earmarked for biotechnology research aimed at boosting crop yields. Seems appropriate, right?” said the president, a momentary glint of mischief in his eyes. They both knew a little humor never hurt, especially at trying times. “We’ll meet once a month and you’ll fill me in. No one but me. Together we’ll know what to do. And of course if anything urgent comes up, when you find something, you’ll contact me immediately. You know how.”
Silence.
“I’m relying on you, Aharon. Like always.”
“Mr. President,” Aharon said, standing up and shaking his host’s wrinkled hand. He left the room and quietly shut the door behind him. He turned toward the exit and continued out into the dark garden. A large olive tree appeared blackened against the dark sky. The temperatures had fallen, and a cold Jerusalem wind gusted suddenly through the courtyard at the entrance to the residence.
13
TEL AVIV, RAMAT AVIV MALL, JANUARY 2013
Michael Turgeman rode up the escalator, the aroma of good, strong Italian coffee there to greet him as he ascended. That’s just how things were with Aharon Levin. For years now Levin hadn’t been his immediate superior; he had left his post as Mossad chief years ago. Even I, Michael thought in a mixture of anger and resignation, even I’ve been out of the organization for more than a year, but when Aharon Levin calls and asks for something in his typically confusing and apologetic manner, I immediately say, “Yes.” Always yes.
“Surely he could have found a better place to meet,” Michael grumbled to himself. Arcaffe at the mall. True, the coffee was great, but the prices always annoyed him, and the idea of paying a fortune to serve oneself seemed a novelty bordering on chutzpah. Thinking about the chain’s regular patrons, and certainly those who frequented the branch at this upscale mall, filled him with an inexplicable sense of animosity. Restored women, in their fifties and sixties, with the bodies of models, dressed in gym outfits that hid the scars of numerous cosmetic surgeries. In general, Michael admitted to himself, he tended to get angry and agitated quite often these days. Every little thing grated on his nerves. He got grumpy and complained all the time. Certainly not very attractive. It had to be reined in. He needed to focus. Focus on the matter at hand, he concluded to himself, pushing the truly important questions to the far reaches of his consciousness. He wondered what the old man wanted this time. Aharon Levin had called him last night, saying, “Hello, hello, hello,” three times, seemingly surprised to have reached him, despite being the one who had called. Typical. “There’s a matter I’d like to consult with you about. When would it suit you?” he’d asked, then responding himself before Michael had a chance. “How about tomorrow morning, seven-thirty, before the mall fills up?”
The meeting was clearly a matter of urgency for him, Michael thought, refusing to be fooled into believing that Aharon really did want to consult with him. Aharon always relied only on himself and his vast intellect. He didn’t need any advice, certainly not from me, Michael thought with a touch of bitterness, but he probably needed something else. Otherwise he wouldn’t have called. That’s how it went, a hierarchy of status and age. That’s how it worked.
Aside from the workers turning on the espresso machines and laying out the cakes and sandwiches on the display shelves, the café really was still empty at that early hour of the morning. He didn’t see Aharon, and Michael, out of years of habit, did a recon of the place, checking to see if Aharon wasn’t actually sitting outside for some reason, and then going back inside and selecting a table that would offer him a broad field of vision, not only over the café itself, but also over the entrance to the mall and the expanse leading from the stairs from the underground parking garage.