The Critical Offer Page 9

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thus the meeting was adjourned.

  And Chun Chang continued his studies in the Ulpan – the intensive Hebrew School for diplomats in the Simfonia Hotel by the sea – where the beautiful Li-Lan, economics and commerce attaché and queen of his secret desires, was already attending her third year.

  He began supplementing his studies with private, swift, nightly visits to the numerous bars and clubs of northern Tel Aviv, always making sure to remain unnoticed. The young Israeli women made his head spin: – an acne-riddled Chinese youth, short and ambitious, still reluctantly attached to his virginity.

  And suddenly, two months after the meeting, the CSO ordered him to prepare a detailed layout of his plan!

  The acquisition requests were transferred to the powers that be, the one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-ton container ship Shangri-La honked mightily as she left the Victoria harbor in Hong Kong, and again ten days later, as she docked at the Port of Ashdod, south of Tel Aviv.

  Four large wooden crates were unloaded onto the sidewalk from the truck double-parked in front of 222 Ben Yehuda St. next to the two black Passat TSIs parked near the guard booth at the Chinese Embassy’s gate. The traffic jam had been inevitable.

  Two considerably-sized men from the former USSR unloaded the crates languidly and without hurry. The process was accompanied by the furious honking of drivers and the indifferent looks of the embassy security guards. The truck eventually departed, its considerable men once more nestled inside, lighting cigarettes and heading north with cavalier indolence, ignoring the commotion left in their wake.

  Chun’s big day had finally come.

  The crates were hastily brought up to the top floor and carefully opened. He retrieved their contents as if raising hidden riches from a treasure chest. His dark eyes glittered behind the round, black-rimmed glasses like a child receiving the best present he could ever wish for:

  Eight huge OLED screens, computers and serves, an auto-piloting system to guide the aircrafts and enslave their cameras to the commands of the operator, image processors, spare parts, long-range microphones and other toys.

  The crowning glory was only revealed in the very end: Two large drones, each equipped with four cameras, two large mics and four powerful and astoundingly silent electric rotors. One was painted a pale grayish-blue, making it difficult to spot from the ground. The other was painted a dull black, for the same purpose. The paint on the drones was both radar-absorbent and photoelectric, refilling the battery during daytime flights. They were nearly undetectable, nearly unrecognizable.

  The drones belonged to the most recent and secret model produced by Chinese aerospace industries. Each pair of tilt-rotors was mounted on a long vertical wing, capable of turning on its axis and reaching a completely horizontal state, similar to the American V-22 Osprey. In their horizontal state, the four rotors provided the small beasts with a speed of up to one hundred and sixty miles per hour – appropriate for tracking reckless drivers without revealing themselves, as well as disappearing from the scene without being discovered. China was already selling them to selected customers, equipped with tiny laser cannon, capable of neutralizing a human target from up to 550 yards.

  Chun hurried to stick on the labels he had prepared in advance: “White Dragon” for the day-drone and “Black Dragon” for the night one.

  He conserved his creativity for more important matters…

  The Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Beijing approved his project: If he succeeds, he would expand its use to other Chinese embassies around the globe.

  And so, with the assistance of the Israel-China foreign relation effort, and massive pressure applied to the Israeli authorities, the meticulous process of vetting and licensing the drones was completed without a hitch.

  The excuse for the Chinese request had been the licensed creation of aerial photographs of cultural and religious sites of Jewish history database, intended for the Ministry of Tourism in Beijing. The photos would be employed in an aggressive promotion to direct massive Chinese tourism toward Israel. Even the Israeli police, which habitually scoffed at any aerial activity they did not directly control, was forced to comply; and the project was underway.

  His dragons successfully passed their test flights and he excitedly awaited their operational maiden voyage, now the proud owner of an operating license from the IAA - Israeli civilian aviation authority.

  Within a week, Chun completed setting up the secret eight-screened control room in his spacious office. No one knew of its existence, apart from the ambassador, the CSO, and he himself; moreover, no one asked.

  On the roof, under the red flag with the large golden star and four smaller ones surrounding it, the mic- and camera-laden plastic birds lurked, waiting for their time. They slept in their wooden caves: the day-drone in the white cave and the night-drone in the black one. In a sky teeming with police drones, building-violation-detection drones and pirate drones, no one suspected that these clever plastic animals would deviate from their approved parameters.

  The quiet, short, young Chinese man who almost never shaved, armed with his round John Lennon sunglasses, his oily hair covering his forehead and his cheeks covered in pimples, now had access to one of the most state-of-the-art tracking systems on the planet.

  And when he wasn’t monitoring his colleges or random passersby on his eight screens, he consoled himself by binging hardcore Japanese hentai porn, wholly ignoring a thousand years of Chinese-Japanese hatred. And still, his favorite pastime remained his nightly excursion to the bars of northern Tel Aviv: he spent all day waiting for the evenings and the Israeli waitresses or bartenders leaning toward him to take his order or place his glass in front of him, their tight shirts reveling far more than they conceal.

  And when he returned to his small apartment near the Chinese Embassy and lay in his bed, he visualized them stooping over him in his bed, again and again. And in the mornings he would take his pencil and draw off their flimsy tank tops in the pages of his red block, memory and lascivious imagination working as one.

  His diary began to fill up...

  Stuck

  February 27th, 2025

  They left the next morning from his house in Green Marom toward the Prime Minister’s Office in Jerusalem.

  Again, the meeting was scheduled for eleven AM; again, it was raining. And again, there were traffic collisions, despite all those autonomic cars.

  His quiet neighborhood had been a home for many a retired air force pilot and their families. Over the years, investors had wisely bought several of the modest duplexes from said pilots and turned them into massive, three-storied fortresses with well-kept back yards. Gershon had never felt the need to upgrade his own house. Not even after Nechama and the twins vanished into Or-Sameach, the Jerusalem ‘Pilots and Bougies’ Yeshiva, as they nicknamed it back in the previous century.

  The road from his house to Highway One all the way to the capital - was already jammed. The silver Superb and the black Savannah on its heels, trudges through the sluggish herd of cars flowing east, above the first Interchange. The Waze GPS application clearly noted three traffic collisions along their rout to Jerusalem.

  He glanced at his old Omega: Shit! At this rate it’ll be 11:45 by the time we get to the prime minister’s office...

  “Fuck this morning!” he muttered quietly. “Shauli!” he called out to his driver and bodyguard through the dark curtains dividing the car. “Tell Dahlia we’re running late. Ask her to call the prime minister’s office and coordinate postponing to eleven forty-five. Yeah, and please give my sincere apologies.”

  In the front right hand seat, Guy raised his gaze toward the rear-view mirror, caught Gershon’s eye and smirked to himself.

  “Next time the prime minister’s hosting, maybe we should talk to the Air Force, see if a chopper could get us there on time… huh, Shauli?” he added, seemingly glib.


  “Affirmative, sir. They should teach me to fly it, too…” Shauli chuckled.

  “Yeah, well. What’re you goanna do. This country’s still under construction…” he said, mostly to himself, but loud enough so his guards could hear.

  He then took off his shoes, stretched out across his seat and fixed the pillow under his neck. These curtains, detaching me from the world… maybe they’ll provide me with a brief period of grace...

  He half-listened to Shauli’s talk with Dahlia and was relieved to hear that most participants would also be late to this morning’s meeting.

  Now, following days of discussions and deliberations with his own people regarding the surprise attack ISIS had carried out supposedly “against all odds,” he decided on the following formulation of his recommendation to the forum, and particularly the PM:

  A – Four hundred Scud missiles will not defeat the State of Israel.

  B – It is unlikely that said missiles will be launched at Israel in the foreseeable future.

  C – It therefore makes no sense to destroy the missiles at this point. An assault will lead to the slaughter of the base personnel and their families by ISIS. We cannot be held responsible for a disaster like this, not even indirectly… We don’t need another “Sabra and Shatila” massacre now. Best to avoid harming Assad and his rehabilitated Syria, seeing how he’d gone out of his way to look after the Druze and the Golan Heights for us, for the last fifty-seven years… he cynically mused.

  D – Holding off the attack would only be done under the condition of a Syrian, Iranian and Russian guarantee that no more missiles or advanced anti-air weaponry will be sent to Hezbollah. No pointing in demanding more, at this point. He resolved, decisively.

  He was calmed by the neatness and simplicity of his arguments.

  The reason for the long traffic jam that stretched two and a half miles south from the renovated entrance to Sha’ar HaGai, the final stretch of highway before the capital, was soon revealed: it was an old tractor harnessed to a cart full of building debris. It was lying wheels-up in a ditch next to the rock wall, two police cars flashing red and blue beside it. The drivers who had already passed the hazard slowed down to watch, text, and mutter “Goddamn idiots” or some other phrase, slowing traffic further.

  “Shauli, keep driving! Nothing to see here. And watch out for those damn texters!”

  “Don’t panic and fear, sir, Shauli is here!” came the response in heavily-accented English, and both his guards laughed. He was smiling, as well. This was ridiculous, after all – Highway 1, the twenty-first century, and traffic is being held up by a tractor and a cart. At least it wasn’t an ice-wagon with a horse and a bell...

  When no new ideas sprung to mind regarding the upcoming meeting, he gave in to the gentle rocking of the car lazily driving up to the capital. The motion swayed him into a dazed half-sleep, back to his distant youth, to the day he was given his driver’s license.

  A group of them were standing there, members of the kibbutz in faded work clothes and sixteen-year-old driving fanatics like him, gathered by the scorching dirt road at the edge of the kibbutz for the national examination: the tractor-driving license test!

  ‘Mister’ Chaim Schwartz, the tester sent by the Ministry of Transport, came from Haifa, wearing his finest clothes for the occasion: long khakis, polished brown loafers, a long-sleeved shirt and Foreign Legion style cap. A Romanian Jew, speaking bad Hebrew, who immigrated after the war, like my parents... He smiled at the memory, shifting slightly in his seat as he tried to get comfortable.

  Mr. Schwartz silently scanned the eager candidates, and then called out his instructions loudly and with a thick Romanian accent:

  “One! No copying on written theory examination!

  Two! Who climb in tractor, must also wear shoes and also wear shirt!” Next came the sanction: “who knock down two barrels, makes repeat test with me!” he cautioned. “Who fail test two times can go cry at motor vehicle license in Haifa! So, you better smart to do exactly like Chaim Schwartz tell you to do!”

  A resentful murmur rose from the crowd, most of which were wearing sandals in the heavy summer heat.

  Schwartz was unimpressed. He went on, warning the assembled crowd that only those who passed the written exam, which were printed on cheap stencil paper and handed out by him, could continue to the ultimate challenge – the driving test itself.

  Raising his voice, he added: “I trust you because you are members of Hashomer Hatzair: you honest, standing guard on truth, always vigilant, as they say in your Commandments, yes? I trust you make direct my instructions. No make bluff! No try copy those who do know!”

  Some giggled quietly, others laughed outright. Gershon was silent.

  The practical test was comprised of driving back and forth at a low speed between eight barrels which stood on the dirt road at 10 yard intervals. It was meant to demonstrate the prospective driver’s skill to the eyes of the State of Israel – represented here by the eyes of Mr. Chaim Schwartz – as well as the critical eyes of the other kibbutznik examinees…

  As was common in the socialist-communist approach, when vision and pragmatism collide, the practical method prevails. And so the principle of mutual-assistance overcame that of truth and honesty, and no one failed the written exam. Even a dummy like old Michael Warshavski couldn’t help but properly recognize the signals and traffic laws…

  After the written exam was carried out, in considerable chaos, Mr. Schwartz began calling on the candidates, one by one, in order of age. Each in turn climbed into the old John Deere to attempt the daunting obstacle course, between the eight barrels standing on the scalding road.

  Gershon was last, being youngest. He boarded the tractor, bubbling with excited and restrained anxiety, shifted into first gear, then second, and started slowly moving between the barrels in the improvised slalom. When he’s passed the whole thing, he stopped.

  And then, with false indifference, following a dramatic five-second break, he put it in reverse and backed up between the barrels in a regal inverse of the short course, to the sound of applause from the small audience. The barrels remained standing and his grin broadened to split his entire face in half. He had joined the ranks of driver-license-owners, sanctioned by the State of Israel itself! For the first time in his life he felt actual pride: I’ve shown them, shown those cocky kibbutznikim what I’m worth!

  Years later, serving as a fighter and a commander, he would recall that nervousness he felt when he climbed the tractor as a defining moment: the fear, for the first time, of failing in front of his comrades. A terror that had nothing to do with his own well-being, and everything to do with the shame of failing to perform, of failing his mission...

  “Today the whole ordeal seems like such an irresponsible mess. Just letting us prance around in those motorized oxcarts – which adhered to no regulations whatsoever – a cart shafted to a tractor with no side mirrors and no driver’s cabin, no seat belts, no break lights… but we built a country that way, and had the audacity to think of ourselves as the pioneers of the chosen people!” He’d often say, explaining the ancient heritage of the fabled ‘trust-me-it’ll-be-fine’ attitude, upon which the very foundation of the Jewish state was constructed...

  * * *

  The phone rang through the car’s speakers, startling him awake.

  It was Dahlia, asking whether they could be there on time regardless the traffic. It is a personal request from the prime minister’s Military Secretary.

  “Tell him we’re still in the traffic jam,” he yelled irritably into the microphone in the Superb’s dashboard. “According to the state of traffic and the Waze data, there’s no way we’ll get there in time. “

  “Roger, Chief,” she tossed back, and hung up.

  The pain in his back was projecting into his left leg, relentless. He was never truly comfortable in the backseat of a car �
�� they had the tendency to heighten his old pains.

  “Turn on the news, Shauli. Let’s hear what going on out there. “

  The news gave them what they always did after a terror attack: The victims, the attackers, the condemnations, the hearts going out to the wounded and the victims’ families, the compliments to the emergency teams, the latest outburst of opposition against the government, the interviews with bereaved parents, the various commentators on the news, and so on and so forth, the usual routine of an attack. Just one among many.

  The news anchor was reading the names of the dead, but they meant nothing to him. And suddenly: “Ophira Zuriel-Aloni, literature professor at the Hebrew University.”

  The name kicked him. Ophira...The beautiful Outside Kid from his class.

  “Okay, Shauli, that enough. I’m getting some shut-eye. Resume quiet mode.”

  A great sadness descended on him. The car crept on. The soft vibrations, coupled with the sound of the tires on the road and the patter of rain brought back a distant memory, despite the growing, pulsing pain in his back.

  Ophira arrived at Giv’on when she was thirteen and assign to “Erez” class. His parents sent him to Giv’on the year after that, and he was assigned to the same class. Her parents, Abe and Hadassah Firestone, liberal Zionists from America, made their ‘Aliyah’ and settled in Jerusalem. Oprah and her younger sister were sent to the kibbutz, as was commonplace back then. Erez class decided by majority vote that Oprah would become “Ophira” and Firestone would become “Zuriel” – a near-translation. Aloni didn’t join until years later.

  They lived in the schoolhouse, in an elongated old cabin with five tiny rooms, connected by a long concrete balcony. Three classmates slept in each mixed-sex bedroom. No one cared much about that sort of thing, back then…

  As he dozed in the backseat, the dark curtains separating him from the world, once again he was sixteen, anxiously awaiting the magical moments in the room of his boyhood, before lights-out, when he’d peek from beneath his blanket, pretending to be asleep as Ophira got ready for bed: Slowly she would take off her shirt and her simple, white bra, and in the dim glow of the night-light her full, glorious breasts took his breath away. Her nipples were reddish-pink and slightly erect, her bluish veins drawing delicate patterns on the soft whiteness of her skin – all this stirred a pulsing unrest in his young loins. Soon she would then wear her pajama top, turn off the light, and the magic would be gone. Until the next night, at least.