Eli Cohen had hoped to skip past Raibani’s resistance, but had instead ignited a furious ten minute debate — really an argument — between two clear factions. The argument was ostensibly about the wisdom of creating a contingency plan, but that was a thin veil. Everyone knew exactly what the discussion was about. As before, Zvi Avner led the arguments in favor with support from his prime minister. Ben Raibani led the arguments against with support from Avi Gresch and an increasingly vocal Danny Stein. Everyone found themselves talking to Mort Yaguda, who was clearly undecided, as if he were the swing vote.
Finally Eli Cohen turned to Yavi Aitan, who had been silently absorbing each argument, his mind processing the issues a dozen steps into the future. “Yavi, you have kept quiet. What do you think?”
Aitan once again leaned forward in his chair. The youngest man in the room had just been vested by his prime minister with tremendous authority. “I think that Iran with nuclear weapons is catastrophic. I think that the State of Israel nuking them may be worse. Ben is right, if we use a nuclear weapon first, we will lose all support and our tiny country will stand utterly alone. I have come to learn and appreciate much in the seat that I currently have the honor to occupy. One thing I have learned is that the last thing I want to see happen is for us to lose the support of the American military and intelligence community.” Aitan was looking directly at his boss. “I am sorry Mister Prime Minister, but I have been thinking through how using nukes would play out and, while the tactical advantage is obvious, I cannot come to a conclusion that is good for us in the long-run.”
Eli Cohen threw his hands up in the air. “May I remind everyone in this room that we are deciding whether or not to allow Iran into the nuclear club.” He looked around the room. “This cannot happen.” He knew that every man in the room at least agreed with that statement. He suddenly relaxed and leaned back into his chair. “Okay, let’s do this. Zvi, come back with the outline of a conventional plan. Let’s go from there. All I ask each man here to do is to think about the alternative if we come to the conclusion that we have no viable conventional plan. Is that a fair request?” Each man in the room nodded in consent.
Raibani turned to his old colleague Avner. “But you have to give your planning group real support. You can’t sabotage their planning or poison the well.” Only he or Cohen could admonish Zvi Avner in this manner.
Cohen did not wait for Avner to reply. “That is a good point, Ben. Why don’t you participate with Zvi and the planning group? Zvi, what do you think?”
Both Avner and Raibani were caught off guard. But Raibani liked the idea and his face showed it. Avner did not, but he recognized that the only way he could come back into this room with a plan that he had concluded was not viable and have it accepted as such was if Raibani had been involved in the process. As Avner’s political mind came to this realization, he knew that the prime minister had just given him a great gift. “Yes,” said the defense minister. “I welcome Ben’s involvement.”
5 — Home
Amit Margolis enjoyed the view north and west over Tel Aviv and its Mediterranean waterfront. The fortieth floor of the Neve Tzedek Tower was commanding. It was a little before 6 p.m. on December 31, 2009, and the last hints of sunlight were rapidly fading away on the western horizon. Amit tried in vain to pick out his apartment home in the Tel Baruch neighborhood five miles to the north. His eyes followed the traffic on Highway 20 north past Mossad’s new office tower on the edge of Camp Rabin, the compound in Tel Aviv that houses the headquarters of the IDF, up toward his exit at Boulevard Keren Kayemet Le-Israel. But from there it was already too dark to pick out his street.
This was Amit’s first visit to the apartment of his long-time friend Dov Hirsch. Like many of the katsa, the professional Mossad spies who find themselves on long-term assignments in foreign, sometimes hostile, lands under assumed identities, Amit spent his free time with his fellow Mossad brethren — or just alone. Dov had served with him in Mossad but had left the Institute four years before to join Rafael Advanced Defense Systems, Ltd., the large Israeli defense contractor. Now a Rafael sales professional, Dov had purchased this three bedroom apartment a year earlier.
Dov walked out of the living room and onto the balcony. He handed a beer to his friend. “Happy New Year,” he said.
Amit raised the bottle to examine the label. “Dancing Camel? Where’s the Goldstar?”
“Just try it,” Dov replied as he smiled. “This beer is fantastic. My favorite now.” Hirsch raised his own bottle of Dancing Camel in salute to Amit.
Margolis tried some. “Mmm. Not bad.”
“You are getting shit-faced tonight, my friend.” Dov Hirsch was known as a party boy while at Mossad and, as Amit suspected, being in the private sector did nothing to curb this aspect of his personality. “And you are definitely getting laid.”
Amit laughed and turned his eyes toward the beach, which was only a quarter mile away. The white sand and breaking surf was clearly visible in the gathering night. “You haven’t changed a bit. The view here is amazing. How long have you been here?”
“I gave Rachel her get about eighteen months ago.” Hirsch was referring to the writ of divorce that had to be granted from husband to wife under Israeli law. “I bought this place in January. Got a great deal from some guy who had bought three units here on spec in 2007. He rented two of them for less than he expected and couldn’t find a renter for this one. He was sucking wind on the mortgage payments.”
“All right. Are you going to make me ask, asshole? How much?”
Hirsch smiled and looked at his old friend. “I offered him 1.2 million dollars and settled at 1.3 million. You believe that?”
“Sounds like a deal. But to be honest, I’m the last guy to ask about the real estate market here. How did you afford that? Rafael paying you that well?”
“Hell no. I mean, Rafael pays me okay, but… you know my background. My parents were helpful.” Dov Hirsch was the scion of a family that had made a small fortune developing real estate in Tel Aviv and Haifa.
“Ah, yes. Maybe your dad can support me.”
“Hey, I’m lucky. Someone has to be. You are working way too hard, Amit. Still going to Russia all the time?”
“You know I can’t talk about that.”
“I will take that as a definite yes.”
“Come on,” implored the active Mossad agent. He was suddenly uncomfortable. “How’s Rachel and the kids?”
“Okay, okay. No talking about the Institute.” Dov took a deep swig of his beer. “She’s doing great. We had our bitter period. You know how that goes.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess like everyone does. But we are on decent terms now. The kids are doing well — as well as can be expected.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“She still lives in our old house in Tel Baruch, not far from you. You should call her, she always liked you.”
“Ah, no. Not going there,” Amit replied to his friend’s suggestion. “What’s the story tonight?”
“Tonight will be legendary my friend. Wait until you see my girlfriend.” Dov made a face as if he were going to whistle, but no sound came out, only a long exhale. “She’s a smokin’ coosit. A fucking twenty-five year old sex machine.”
Amit laughed. “You are totally out of control.”
“She is bringing this one girlfriend of hers, Enya. Oh, man, you are a lucky son-of-a-bitch tonight.” He slapped his friend on the back. “The body on this woman is just mind numbing. I can’t sit here and think about it or I will have to go jackoff.”