a nasal grunt and stood up, but with no hint of apology.
Sharett lowered himself into the seat next to Colin’s with a shrug that did not quite amount to doing a Raful. He was irritated by his spat with Van Tonder.
“So,” Colin said. “A long time. New York, I seem to remember?”
“As I recall.” Raful smiled. “Thanks for defending my seat. You look well.”
Colin grunted. “Sorry if I woke you this morning,” he said after a pause, and his voice was low. “I was feeling—”
“I know.”
Raful’s mouth wrinkled into a smile; he held up both forefingers to pursed lips. Both men lapsed into silence. Colin picked up his magazine again. Raful settled himself low in his seat and tried to clear his head, but disturbing images had been aroused there and he could not concentrate. He kept remembering how Colin had twice asked Van Tonder, “What are you doing here?”
The same question had been put to him years ago in a similarly challenging tone, and the unwanted memory grated in his brain, much as the airline’s salted peanuts were going to scrape his ulcer raw.
1974: JERUSALEM
The year 1973 had been a bad one for Mossad Bitachon Leumi, Israel’s Institute of State Security, better known simply as “the Mossad”: first there was the Norwegian business at Lillehammer when they killed the wrong Arab, then came the series of high-level intelligence reports—lofty in more ways than one—that new Syrian troop concentrations were merely routine. Unfortunately, however, far from being routine, they turned out to be the first stages of the Yom Kippur War.
Once the dust had settled, there was time for the big men to sit down and decide who to break, who to make. Eliahu Zeira, head of Aman, Israel’s military intelligence, had to go, of course; Memuneh Zamir was also for the chop. As new intelligence supremo they appointed Major General Yitzhak Hofi, commander of the northern front during the 1973 war, and a national hero. So the game of musical chairs began. Raful Sharett, trailing in the wake of half a dozen bigger players, moved rapidly from Political Action and Liaison to the Collection Department, himself collecting a promotion to the rank of
aluf mishne,
or colonel, on the way. When in the summer of 1974 the music finally stopped—and after the various debacles of 1973 the band played on for a long time—he found himself Director of the Operational Planning Division, which was exactly where he’d wanted to be ever since they’d blown up his daughter in London, five years before.
Avshalom Gazit, young Yigal’s father, had seen through him. He was the only man who ever could. “Why are you here?” he’d asked, that famous day in the summer of 1974.
“What are you doing here?”
“We moved office in 1967,” Raful had answered disingenuously.
“That
year in Jerusalem; down the highway from Tel Aviv, you make a left at—”
Avshalom lowered himself into the chair opposite and tapped gently on the desk, calling for silence. Raful complied, in itself a telling measure of his companion’s authority.
“You could have stayed in Tel Aviv.”
This was true. The Ministry of Defense had remained in Hakirya, avoiding the general migration to Jerusalem, and Aman was under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Defense. When Avshalom became number two in Aman he’d invited Raful to join his staff, with better pay immediately and the prospect of promotion in a few years’ time, but although Raful would have relished becoming a major general he had declined the offer.
“You
should
have stayed in Tel Aviv,” Avshalom added.
This was not so much true as debatable. Aman lacked an executive arm operating outside Israel. Raful now required certain facilities—good neutral word, “facilities"—beyond those supplied by military intelligence, facilities such as kidnapping, torture, every kind of sudden and unwelcome death; these were to be the tools of his trade. So on balance he was glad he had not stayed
Sharett lowered himself into the seat next to Colin’s with a shrug that did not quite amount to doing a Raful. He was irritated by his spat with Van Tonder.
“So,” Colin said. “A long time. New York, I seem to remember?”
“As I recall.” Raful smiled. “Thanks for defending my seat. You look well.”
Colin grunted. “Sorry if I woke you this morning,” he said after a pause, and his voice was low. “I was feeling—”
“I know.”
Raful’s mouth wrinkled into a smile; he held up both forefingers to pursed lips. Both men lapsed into silence. Colin picked up his magazine again. Raful settled himself low in his seat and tried to clear his head, but disturbing images had been aroused there and he could not concentrate. He kept remembering how Colin had twice asked Van Tonder, “What are you doing here?”
The same question had been put to him years ago in a similarly challenging tone, and the unwanted memory grated in his brain, much as the airline’s salted peanuts were going to scrape his ulcer raw.
1974: JERUSALEM
The year 1973 had been a bad one for Mossad Bitachon Leumi, Israel’s Institute of State Security, better known simply as “the Mossad”: first there was the Norwegian business at Lillehammer when they killed the wrong Arab, then came the series of high-level intelligence reports—lofty in more ways than one—that new Syrian troop concentrations were merely routine. Unfortunately, however, far from being routine, they turned out to be the first stages of the Yom Kippur War.
Once the dust had settled, there was time for the big men to sit down and decide who to break, who to make. Eliahu Zeira, head of Aman, Israel’s military intelligence, had to go, of course; Memuneh Zamir was also for the chop. As new intelligence supremo they appointed Major General Yitzhak Hofi, commander of the northern front during the 1973 war, and a national hero. So the game of musical chairs began. Raful Sharett, trailing in the wake of half a dozen bigger players, moved rapidly from Political Action and Liaison to the Collection Department, himself collecting a promotion to the rank of
aluf mishne,
or colonel, on the way. When in the summer of 1974 the music finally stopped—and after the various debacles of 1973 the band played on for a long time—he found himself Director of the Operational Planning Division, which was exactly where he’d wanted to be ever since they’d blown up his daughter in London, five years before.
Avshalom Gazit, young Yigal’s father, had seen through him. He was the only man who ever could. “Why are you here?” he’d asked, that famous day in the summer of 1974.
“What are you doing here?”
“We moved office in 1967,” Raful had answered disingenuously.
“That
year in Jerusalem; down the highway from Tel Aviv, you make a left at—”
Avshalom lowered himself into the chair opposite and tapped gently on the desk, calling for silence. Raful complied, in itself a telling measure of his companion’s authority.
“You could have stayed in Tel Aviv.”
This was true. The Ministry of Defense had remained in Hakirya, avoiding the general migration to Jerusalem, and Aman was under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Defense. When Avshalom became number two in Aman he’d invited Raful to join his staff, with better pay immediately and the prospect of promotion in a few years’ time, but although Raful would have relished becoming a major general he had declined the offer.
“You
should
have stayed in Tel Aviv,” Avshalom added.
This was not so much true as debatable. Aman lacked an executive arm operating outside Israel. Raful now required certain facilities—good neutral word, “facilities"—beyond those supplied by military intelligence, facilities such as kidnapping, torture, every kind of sudden and unwelcome death; these were to be the tools of his trade. So on balance he was glad he had not stayed
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