The Critical Offer Page 10

  Years later, in the fifty-year-anniversary for the aging Erez class, he asked her, in the corner of the room, of she’d known. “Of course I did. And I loved it just as much as you did…” she said, smiling, and tapped away on her high heels back to her husband.

  “Guy, ask Dahlia to find out about the funeral for the literature professor. And where her family gathering for the ‘Shivah’, the seven days of mourning.”

  “Did you know her, sir?” he asked, hesitantly. Gershon permitted himself a final, long moment of mourning: I’ll get back to Ophira and our childhood after the meeting… odd, how different it all seems this time: No drive for revenge, like I had after Rina’s death. But the pain and the sorrow are murder… We, all of us, have to find some other fundamental solution, some new course...

  “Small country, Guy. And still under construction…” he replied, contemplative, and slid open the curtains on the backseat windows.

  It’s changed so much, he thought, his eyes flickering across the landscape of the broad highway, with its interchanges, its tunnels, the abundance of buildings that had popped up all around, on the road to the disputed capital. The pines covering the slopes were washed and fresh this morning. Blots of sunlight glimmered here and there on the hilltops and in the valleys, and white stone houses shone among the sheets of rain.

  The car sped up toward Jerusalem, Shauli allowing the auto-driver stretch its autonomic muscles. The meeting was officially rescheduled to eleven forty-five. No additional postponement will be granted and the air in the car was becoming uncomfortably stuffy.

  “Shauli! Lower the temperature, we’re choking in here!”

  He cracked open the window. The cold wind and raindrops fluttered on his face, bringing him all the way back to the present, to the impending meeting. The car was now progressing up the glittering highway at 75 mph, to the edge of the capital.

  “Is there any more coffee, Guy?”

  “For you there’s always more coffee, sir,” Guy replied from the front right seat, unscrewing the lid off a silver thermos.

  “Sugar?” he asked, smiling his cryptic smile, which always seemed mocking to Gershon.

  “Never any sugar, man,” he replied, trying to sound hip. “Sugar is the enemy! When you’re my age, that is. Not yours!” he chuckled into his small paper cup. The hot, bitter coffee scorched his tongue. He drank slowly, in small sips, careful not to burn his throat.

  “Can I ask you a question, sir?” asked Guy from the passenger seat.

  “Not unless I know the answer…”

  “No, really, just a simple question, sir.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Look, I was thinking… since it’s nearly impossible to pay my tuition and my rent at the same time, even with my girlfriend Na’ama doing her share, maybe… if we sold even one of those F-35s, a lot of guys our age could be taken care of. Including us, sir…”

  Shauli piped up: “Forget it, Guy. I’ve already registered for the winter semester in Berlin, and rented a flat near the school. The minute summer is over, I’m out of here. Gershon will do fine without me, right, sir?”

  “Calm down, guys. Shauli, eyes on the road – no need to cause an accident over this purely academic debate. Anyway, Guy, of course I cannot comment. But it’s a legitimate question. When I retire we can discuss it… what are you studying?”

  “Middle Eastern studies.”

  “And you, Shauli?”

  “Me, sir, I wanna be rich someday. Economics and computer science…”

  “Good choices, guys. Brawn will not always be stronger than brains. But if you ask me, both of you start learning Mandarin, as soon as possible.”

  They both smiled, looking toward the road. Guy winked at him through the rear-view mirror, nearly imperceptibly.

  “When are you starting school, Guy?”

  “October, like everyone.”

  “Good. The country will still be here in autumn – maybe we’ll even have solved the state’s construction problem!” he said, and already felt his mood improve, a growing optimism regarding the meeting. An appropriate rhyme always made him smile. I said nothing that’s matter, and yet - everything summarized for the better…

  He was calmer now, and mostly content. Having arranged his position and viewpoint on the matter at hand, he could enjoy his coffee, which had already gone lukewarm. Its bitterness reminded him of the coffee at Adam Ben-Ami’s, the taste of falafel, Beethoven’s Für Elise, and his chance encounter with the mysterious and attractive Chinese woman.

  He closed his eyes and for a while melted into the wet, pleasant occasion of their meeting. He could feel the wind and rain again, the smell of fry oil, her brown eyes smiling at him, the mostly unfamiliar scent of jasmine. The recollection of her touch and the memory of her image moving away in the rain had stretched his lips into a serene smile which he failed to catch.

  It was eleven forty when they arrived at Jerusalem. Shauli slammed the brakes, needlessly intervening with the computer’s calculations. The pain in his back stabbed down at his leg, brutally pulling him back to reality.

  “Easy, Shauli! Do you know how to get there?”

  “Affirmative, we’ve been there before. Rest assured, sir.”

  “Okay. I suppose the prime minister’s bureau chief will send someone to escort us.”

  “Last time she forgot and the guards kept us there,” Shauli huffed.

  “Yeah… Guy, ask Sima if there’ll be someone there waiting for us. We’re pretty late as is, they might already be making decisions without us.”

  Sima turned out to be there herself, waiting, expectant and impatient, briefing the guards on who was coming, on Guy and Shauli’s instructions after they’ve parked the Superb – “Take a right down the hall: Second door on the left, before the restroom. That’s the security personnel break room. It has a kitchenette, sofas, a TV and an internal communication system. Touch nothing without express permission! You know how our procedures are,” she finished, her tone commanding.

  Gershon got out of the car and shook her cold hand.

  “Here I am, Sima! How’s her honor doing this morning?”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Is this how they treat schedules at the Mossad, now? You’re expected, and the prime minister is already somewhat unhappy. We’ve been having quite the day here since yesterday morning, let me tell you.”

  “Good morning, Sima! You understand though, we get stuck, we let you know, you coordinate everything, save the day - nothing ever happens in the country without you, Sima!”

  “Walk with me, Gershon,” she said, ignoring his flattery as she strode into the hallway and headed straight for the elevator. Looking at the little red monitor, she pushed the button for the seventh floor.

  “The country isn’t going anywhere, and neither are you two,” he said. “Nothing terrible will happen if the esteemed generals drink some coffee and munch on some government-issued cookies and gossip at our expense. This isn’t the IDF, of course – but it’s still a pleasant organization, huh?”

  “I’m not in the mood for your jokes today, Gershon. It is eleven forty-five, exactly! You don’t have a lot of time. The prime minister is very busy today with the aftermath of the attack. She’s fine, thank god, but don’t you pester her with your national interests bullcrap. At twelve fifteen, sharp, every single one of you is out of this building, you hear?! It’s bad enough that you’re late!”

  “Yes, madam!” he replied, stretching in a tight salute, his heels theatrically clicking.

  The doors of the elevator slid open and they disappeared inside. The little red monitor confirmed that they had reached “The prime minister’s Floor.”

  Decision-Making

  All the participants were already seated at the T-shaped table in the conference room next to the prime minister’s office. Most of them were engaged in animated, hushed conversa
tion when Gershon entered the room. He surveyed the scene:

  The walls were painted a color that was once called off-white; ceramic lighting fixtures emitted a warm glow that was meant to make one feel at home. In one corner stood a sculpture by a well-known Israeli artist, which featured a squashed helmet and a sooty machine gun, a reminder that the battle was not yet won. Around the table stood eight unpretentious wooden chairs and at the head of the table, a high-backed leather chair that was clearly designated for the prime minister. To Gershon’s surprise, he didn’t see the photographs of past prime ministers that had formerly hung on the walls.

  What especially caught his attention was the massive oak table that was totally covered with a heavy sheet of glass. Under the glass was spread a huge colored satellite photograph of the Middle East, with the Euphrates River to the east, the Nile to the west and Israel in the center. The sea coast, the tiny Sea of Galilee and the receding Dead Sea indicated to the interested Israel’s position in the region.

  ...An attractive design feature with a geopolitical message... he said to himself admiringly, as he had on previous occasions when he had entered this room. Then he turned to survey the other participants.

  “Hello, Gershon! The forces of darkness are late today,” the air force commander addressed him humorously.

  Gershon turned and surveyed the commander’s appearance: tall, wearing an ironed sky-blue shirt and navy blue trousers with matching belt, a general’s insignia and flight wings on his chest alongside a paratrooper’s wings and decorations from all the wars. His brown hair was flecked with gray, but still full. Despite his uniform, Gershon noted that a small paunch had already appeared above his belt.

  “Good morning to you all! Hezi, you haven’t changed a bit!” He recalled scenes from the years when they had roomed together in the flight course cadets’ quarters, at Hatzerim Airbase in southern Israel.

  “Good morning!” answered the head of military intelligence, General Itzik Shalem.

  The chief of staff, General Baruch Almozlino, who had only recently taken command of the army, nodded: “It’s already noontime, friends,” and hurriedly added, “hello, Gershon,” without excessive warmth.

  The head of the National Security Council, General (Ret.) Ethan Shlomi, formerly head of the Artillery Corps and wearing a knitted kippah and a thick beard, was seated next to the high-backed leather chair, deep in conversation on his cellphone. He raised his head, stared at Gershon, nodded a slight “hello” and returned to his device.

  “Where’s the First Lady?”

  “Don’t worry, she’s on her way,” answered her military secretary, Yoav Ish-Shalom. “Her head of bureau will escort her in shortly.” The bureau chief nodded in agreement, eyeing Gershon, whom he had not met previously.

  For another few minutes the hushed conversation continued as they all sat on both sides of the long table: the civil servants - head of the National Security Council, the prime minister’s bureau chief and her military secretary on the right, near the large window facing east towards the Judean Desert, and the uniformed high-ranking officers – the chief of staff, the air force commander and the head of intelligence on the left side, with their backs to the large window facing west, towards the sea and the lowlands. Gershon hesitated for a moment: then he walked towards the right side of the table, facing the desert, three chairs down from the prime minister’s military secretary.

  ...I am a civilian standing at the head of a government agency that is subordinate to the prime minister. It’s only fitting for me to sit on the civilian side of the “kingdom”...With that in mind, he sat down on one of the chairs facing the three uniformed officers.

  On the table were two half-empty coffee pots, water, paper cups, sugarless cookies and two baskets of dried Turkish apricots.

  Quite modest… he thought. Some changes have been made since the former government…

  Everyone was silent. The chief of staff drew a document from his pouch and returned his reading glasses to his shirt pocket, his hands at his sides and his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  The head of intelligence opened his laptop that was already connected to the outlet in the middle of the table and began typing on its keyboard.

  The air force commander laid out a series of aerial photos and colored satellite images upside-down on the table, protectively spreading his hands over them.

  The high-backed leather chair at the head of the table and the video screen located on the wall six yards opposite it also waited in anticipation.

  Her head of bureau rose, approached the door to the room and knocked lightly; it opened immediately, and Tamar Rajuan-Berger, who had already served as prime minister for a year and two months now, entered. They all rose, silently pushing back their chairs.

  “Good afternoon to you all,” she said, remaining standing, “Please be seated. We have work to do and must reach a few decisions,” she shot out into the room. “The defense minister cannot attend this meeting because he was rushed to the hospital with appendicitis, so I’ll represent him. I’m sure we all wish him a speedy recovery!”

  Murmurs like “I hope he makes a full recovery”, “God give him strength,” “With the Lord’s help,” and other expressions that people blurt out when faced with the impermanence of life, were heard around the table.

  “Friends, the Shin Bet director will not attend either, due to yesterday’s terrorist attacks. We’re a more limited forum than usual, so I expect a short, business-like discussion. The Security Cabinet has given me power of attorney to approve any decision that we reach. Like many others, this development in Syria has taken us by surprise, so we don’t have much time to respond. Let us begin, gentlemen.”

  The prime minister’s head of bureau routinely introduced the participants to her, with the modest addition of “I’m new here, so most of you don’t know me as yet.”

  Tamar Rajuan-Berger circled the table shaking everyone’s hand, finally taking a seat next to Gershon, leaving the high-backed leather chair to its fate.

  Since assuming the role of prime minister, she had attempted to impart to her office a modest, business-like appearance, as military as possible, and demonstrate that someone entirely different had taken charge. One indication that she was one of the people was her habit of sitting at the side of the table and not at its head, as though she was first among equals. The modest refreshments were also part of her attempt to create an unpretentious image. She knew that everything ultimately ended up in the media, so she made sure to be straightforward, modest and ‘just an ordinary citizen,’ as she would often declare. Accordingly, she chose to play down her hawkish opinions, after she had been known in her past public’s life as an agitator that deliberately stirred up dissension over various matters.

  “Alright, Yoav,” she said, turning to her military secretary, “take charge.”

  “Okay, friends. You have all been briefed about the purpose of this meeting, and why it was supposed to take place yesterday at Gershon’s, but was moved here,” he began in his deep, rather hesitant voice. “We’re talking about the Syrian ground-to-ground missiles that have unexpectedly, and contrary to some of our basic assumptions, fallen into the wrong hands. As ‘right’ as Assad’s hands can be considered…” He smiled. I would like to ask the head of intelligence to present the problem.”

  General Itzik Shalem got to his feet, put on his reading glasses, and typed something on his laptop’s keyboard. After a few seconds a colored video appeared on the screen, which had obviously been filmed by satellite from a high altitude.

  While the prime minister was assuming her movie-watching glasses, Damascus appeared on the giant screen at the rear of the conference room. From there the focus slowly shifted along the main highway eastwards, until arriving at two adjacent runways from which spread out transport routes, many concrete underground fighter jet hangars, and other installations built on the southern airbase
’s desert expanse.

  “Most of the loyalist Syrian Army’s Scud 3-C ground-to-ground missiles - are concentrated here,” he commented, accompanying the presentation with brief explanations, mainly meant for the ears of the prime minister, while pointing out the location of Al-Dumayr on the huge photograph covering the conference room’s table.

  From here he moved on to a scene filmed at ground level. In the background - a brisk Arab march could be heard and the ISIS symbol was spread across the screen. The camera shifted to a strange army formation and to its right an impressive number of civilians, women and children. In the background could be seen a few dozen helicopters, MIGs and Sukhoi jets.

  “Continuing on from the end of the Syrian civil war, which ended more or less seven years ago,” the head of intelligence continued, “most of their ballistic ground-to-ground missile alignment was concentrated here, at Al-Dumayr Airport: four Scud brigades containing a few hundred missiles equipped with the latest Iranian accurate navigating systems. Each missile carries a warhead containing about a thousand pounds of explosives.” He paused and looked at the group, then slightly raised his voice:

  “They are capable of hitting any of our strategic targets with great accuracy. And most importantly: these missiles are powered with solid fuel and mounted on launching vehicles. From the time they receive the command to fire, it would take only thirty minutes until eighty-six missiles, the first round, are launched in our direction. The population shown here includes the launching teams, their families and the administrative ranks, altogether about two thousand five hundred people that are loyal to the regime and a large number of children,” he continued in a rather monotonous tone. “This video, which was produced by ISIS’s propaganda machine, speaks for itself.”