Mishka Ben-David - Forbidden Love in St. Petersburg

Towards seven in the evening we deployed ourselves around the hotel. At exactly seven Abu Ali Fayyad was waiting outside the entrance. I had a choice; either hope that his host would be delayed for a couple of minutes in the heavy Parisian traffic or embark on a long, drawn-out pursuit until I managed to find another opportunity.

The street was dark with very few passers-by. Around Fayyad himself there was no one to be seen. I decided to gamble. My car was parked on the other side of the road, opposite the hotel.

I’m going for it, I said to Josh, my driver on this occasion. Turn on the ignition and prepare for a rapid getaway. I notified the team over the communications system, got out of the car, crossed the road in the direction of the hotel, and from a distance of two metres drew my pistol and fired three shots at his chest. The bullets sent him flying as if he’d taken a powerful blow and he fell flat on his back.

According to the intelligence we had, Fayyad was likely to be wearing a flak jacket and I was to complete the task by firing at his head. But I heard a crack as his skull hit the ground and a pool of blood began to spread around his head as well as trickling from the sides of his mouth.

Apparently I lingered there aimlessly for a few seconds. Then, from the waiting car, its engine running, the horn blasted, waking me up to reality. I turned and re-crossed the road as a number of passers-by rushed towards the slain man. A cacophony of voices could be heard behind me followed by the sound of running and shouting. I saw Josh getting out of the car, drawing a pistol, and taking aim.

The footsteps halted. As I reached Josh, still unhurried, he pushed me in the direction of the car, returning to it by walking backwards while continuing to point his gun at those following me. Only when he heard my door closing did he get into the car, press down hard on the accelerator, and close his door as the vehicle sped away.

You gone crazy or what? he fumed. You fell asleep there? They nearly caught you! But I didn’t respond. Some time after we merged with the Paris traffic, I asked Josh to stop the car. I opened the door and spewed out my very soul.

I think we’ve reached the end of the road, Udi told me, sounding dejected, as we sat together in his office after the debriefings. When I add up all that has happened during the last few operations, it’s pretty clear that you can’t go abroad anymore. You’re not focused, you are slow, you don’t finish the job–something that’s been part of your behaviour since the first missions–and worst of all, you put yourself and whoever’s around you at risk. Josh is sure that you were in a state of total shock and that even the possibility of being caught didn’t bother you.

The truth was actually worse. When I re-crossed the road, walking slowly, and heard the voices, I knew that one of them might belong to the French intelligence officer who’d come to pick up his guest. I could feel the bullets hitting my spine, my heart and my neck. I continued crossing slowly, heard the footsteps and voices getting nearer and nearer, and expected a volley of bullets, or at least a pair of hands to grab me by the shoulder. Slumped shoulders; powerless to resist.

When I didn’t react, Udi, still speaking softly said: and as far as the operational orders are concerned, you know they weren’t good. You heard what the guys had to say. Various details were omitted and the plan was far too conventional. The vision, creativity, brilliance and meticulousness that were once your hallmark have vanished. You weren’t concentrating and didn’t visualize the possible scenarios. You wrote the orders like an automaton. I doubt that it would be right for you to continue as head of the planning department.

He seemed to be expecting an acrimonious response from me. But he didn’t get one. Wasn’t that what I’d been saying for a year or more?

Perhaps you returned to active service too quickly and you need more time to recover, Udi said finally. The head of the Mossad wants to speak to you but he’s on a trip to South America and won’t be back till next week.

He’s with the guys? I asked.

Yes. A new arena. Netzach wants to be there in person to give the final go-ahead. It’s not like it was when you and I opened up places left, right and centre and they simply trusted us, he added amiably.

I looked at him. Since we first met, Udi had become completely bald. If there was any hair left on his head he’d made sure to shave it off. The little paunch he’d developed since he ceased being in the field and began spending his time in conferences, the black rings around his eyes–perhaps the outcome of a chronic lack of sleep–and the reading glasses dangling on his chest, made him look like a bureaucrat. How, I wondered, had his family coped with the decades of active service, beginning with his years as a naval commando and then in the Mossad? What kind of a home does he return to each night? To what kind of woman does he return? An unwritten hierarchical social code makes anyone in the Mossad who wishes to socialize after work do so with others of the same rank. I never wanted any part of that, and in any case Udi was always a rank above me so that I knew nothing about his ‘other’ life, if he even had one.

That’s absolutely OK with me, I said. And until he’s back?

I’m not dismissing you. Until then carry on as usual unless you want a vacation.

If I were able to sleep for a week, I would have opted for a vacation. But in my solitary state I wouldn’t know how to be idle in Tel Aviv, and returning to the village for a break wasn’t an option.

For the time being I’ll carry on as usual. And after I’ve gone I hope you’ll appoint Levanon. You don’t have many people who are as highly professional as he is and at the same time courageous, modest and sensitive. Determined is not a bad word, certainly not after my lack of tenacity.

Udi smiled. He’d already expressed to me his opinion of Levanon, but in the present constellation Levanon’s chances were good.

I had no particular expectations of my meeting with the head of the Mossad. I didn’t know if I wanted to be released, I also had no wish to be assigned to any particular role I knew of. The Chief pointed to a comfortable sitting area in a corner at the far end of his office, rose from his desk, and joined me there. He greeted me with a two-handed handshake, a simple gesture that warmed my heart. We had met many times, mainly when he came to final briefings before an operation. Since becoming head of the planning department I’d also gone to his office on a number of occasions when we presented plans for his approval. Netzach looked a bit like an exaggerated impersonation of me, though shorter and broader. I thought that the similarity in our physical appearances also created some sort of an affinity between us.

I’ve spoken about you a great deal and thought a lot about you, he said. And we’ve also known each other for a number of years. You are one of the best people we’ve ever had and you still have a great deal to contribute. But I think I know where you stand and what you’re experiencing just now.

So explain it to me, I said, and he burst out laughing. I wasn’t really joking.

I have an idea, he continued. At one time you opened up the Far East for us. It was pretty violent because a great deal of terrorist activity had found its way into that area and a vast number of arms deals were signed there. Now there is another area that we want to open up in an orderly way because the signs are that it will be active in the coming years. The area I have in mind is Russia and the former Republics of the Soviet Union.