9 — Cutting Deals
Amit Margolis entered the lobby of the meeting hotel a few minutes after the noon hour. He had been dropped off by taxi a couple of blocks away and had walked in with his real suitcase in tow. He warmed up quickly, the glare of two FSB agents adding their own heat. Both men had been chewed out for losing track of Margolis the prior day. It was a mistake they wouldn’t make twice, so Margolis was heading home after this meeting. The Mossad agent headed up to his room on the second floor.
Exactly an hour later, Dmitri Arkanov knocked on Amit’s door. The Israeli turned off the TV and opened the door. “Welcome,” he said. Both men sat in the same seats as the prior day. Amit wore the same gloves.
“It must be nice to be back home,” said Arkanov.
“I am always happy to be in Moscow.”
“Did you visit relatives last night?”
“No. I spent the night right here. Slept well. I appreciate your concern.”
Arkanov did not like being ridiculed. But he had to admit that the man he knew only as Lev Cohen had won the prior day’s exercise in spy craft. He moved on. “Have you had the opportunity to discuss our request with the right authority?”
“Yes, I have. Unfortunately your request is not acceptable, but I do have a suggestion that I think you may find to have equal or greater value to your country.”
“I am listening.”
“We have supplied Georgia with unmanned aerial vehicles.”
“Yes. The Hermes UAV.” Arkanov was interested.
“We can supply you with the communications codes. You will be able to see what they see in real time.”
Arkanov had briefed the Russian President the prior evening and had a good idea as to what would please his boss. He knew his boss would be very pleased with this outcome. Whatever they got from this deal was pure gravy — they had already decided not to sell the S-300 to Iran as a result of intense pressure from the U.S. “I was fully prepared for a long afternoon. But I believe we have an agreement,” he said. He reached over to shake the Israeli’s hand.
“I believe we do.”
The agreement would not appear on any treaty or paperwork, the word of these two men being the only formal recognition. Russia knew that if it broke its word, cooperation on Chechen terrorists would end and the codes being used by Georgia would be suddenly changed. Israel believed that if it failed to deliver, then S-300 missile batteries would be shipped to Iran. Both sides had good and valuable consideration to maintain their obligations.
On Friday, January 8, 2010, Shlomo Fiegelbaum did something rare; he left the offices of Mossad to travel to Ben Gurion International Airport to meet a returning Mossad agent. As Amit Margolis exited the customs doors in Terminal 3, Shlomo stepped forward. “How about a ride?” he said as he extended his hand. “Welcome home. I’m very proud of you.”
Only twenty feet away, two young Mossad agents with bulges in their jackets carefully watched over the aging deputy director. The two guards followed their charges outside to a waiting black GMC Suburban for the ride to the Kirya Tower in Tel Aviv. The armored Suburban was quickly on Highway 1 headed into town. The dialogue between the two principal men in the car was not substantial, only the exchange of pleasantries.
A half hour later, Fiegelbaum led Amit Margolis towards a conference room on the 41 floor of the Kirya Tower adjacent to Camp Rabin, known within the IDF as HaKirya, or the Campus. He stopped for a second just after the pair passed through the lobby’s security doors. “The prime minister wants to meet you,” he said.
Margolis was surprised and not sure how to react. “Why?” It was the only response that came to him.
“You will soon learn. The director is in there as well.”
“I hope I’m not in trouble.”
“Don’t worry.”
Outside the conference room several of the prime minister’s security detail were seated in the hallway. Fiegelbaum entered the room with Margolis following. Eli Cohen stood up and walked over to the young Mossad katsa before the director of collections could say anything. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Margolis.” Cohen extended his hand.
“Mister Prime Minister.” The pair shook hands vigorously. Margolis was self conscious, feeling as if he was being treated like a war hero, which he was not.
“Please have a seat.”
Before he sat down, Margolis walked over to the far side of the table where Ami Levy sat. Margolis shook his hand. “Director,” he said.
Through the multiple layers of windows that were separated by vacuum, the view of Tel Aviv looking south towards Herzliya reminded Margolis of the views from Dov Hirsch’s balcony and the beautiful woman he had not seen since Sunday afternoon. He had told her that he had a business trip to Canada and would be unable to communicate until he got back. He was eager to talk to her, but it had to wait for now.
“Welcome home, Amit. Have a seat.” Levy pulled on the back of the chair next to him. Margolis sat down where told while the prime minister sat down at the head of the table. Fiegelbaum sat across from Amit.
“I knew your father well,” Cohen said. “You know he prevented world war three.”
Margolis first heard this tale from his mother. During his time at Mossad, his father was occasionally talked about, especially by the few old timers who were around. Amit never quite knew what to make of the stories. He heard different versions and they all seemed so improbable. He still remembered the visit to their home by Prime Minister Menachem Begin in the summer of 1983. What he didn’t learn about that visit until he joined Mossad was that Begin had posthumously and secretly awarded his father the Israeli Medal of Valor, the highest decoration in Israel. The medal was now in Amit’s possession, secured in a safe deposit box in Tel Aviv. But despite all of this, Amit had remained unsure. “Perhaps, Mister Prime Minister, you can tell me about it someday.”
“When the day comes, Amit, it will be my honor.” Cohen opened a bottle of water that had been sitting on the table. “Water?”
“No, thank you sir.”
“Please tell us about your trip.”
Margolis spent only a few minutes reviewing his two meetings with Arkanov. The next twenty minutes were taken up by a discussion on what was required for Israel to honor its side of the deal and the ramifications of the deal itself. During this time, the dialogue was almost entirely between Cohen and Margolis, with the prime minister quizzing the Mossad agent on his opinions and analysis. When they were done, Cohen asked Margolis to leave the room for a minute.
Four minutes later, Shlomo Fiegelbaum opened the conference room door. “Amit,” he called out. Margolis stood and walked into the room. He returned to the same seat.
“We have a new assignment for you Amit,” said the prime minister. “But unlike what you are used to, there will be no danger and not much travel. I want you to join a planning team that is based right here on the Campus. Before I tell you what it is for, is this something that would interest you?”
“Sir, I have taken an oath to serve Israel as my father did. That oath is in my heart and in my soul. I will serve in whatever capacity you ask of me.”
“I can feel the emotion you have. I must say you inspire me, Amit. Consider yourself part of Yahalom Group. You will spend the next six months planning the attack on Iran’s nuclear program.”
Amit Margolis was shocked. This was not at all what he expected or even suspected. This was a military operation and the only military experience he had was his mandatory three years in the IDF. “I am confused. Why would you want me to do this?”