Game of silence, p.19
Game of Silence, page 19
“All of a sudden, one of the detainees in the basement came to me. A kid. I estimated he was not more than twelve years old. With teary and pleading eyes he lifted his handcuffed hands and presented them to me. They started to turn blue. The prison guard, who wanted to punish him, closed the handcuffs too tightly. I immediately opened the handcuffs using the method I had just learned. We were now four prisoners without handcuffs.
“While I was leaning against the wall, five more children came to me. I stood up and released their handcuffs too. The fact that only a small portion of the prisoners were without handcuffs was too suspicious, and I thought to myself that if a few more asked me – I will open their handcuffs as well. I didn’t even consider that more and more prisoners in the basement will soon stand in line for the ‘handcuff releaser’.
“In complete silence, with pleading eyes and a great deal of gratitude and blessings, the short releasing ceremony which lasted less than ten seconds for each handcuffed person, was conducted. I bowed before every prisoner who approached me, said my name: ‘Gilad Levin’, and each in turn bowed back in a ‘Namaste’ courtesy and said their name, and when the handcuffs were released, their eyes lit up. Knowing that they will be able to eat lunch with dignity meant a great deal more to them than I imagined. Eating with your hands tied is not only uncomfortable, but also humiliating.
“After a few minutes I released everyone. I felt the backlash very quickly. The officer who was the shift supervisor that day came to check on the basement. The yelling at the poor prison guard made his lack of joy, from the fact of seeing unbound prisoners in front of him, quite evident. I didn’t have to understand Turkish in order to realize what was going on. The poor prison guard swore he handcuffed everyone, but to no avail: He received a heavy steam of rage, and immediately went to handcuff everyone again.
“Suddenly Vassili walked into the basement. He hugged me with great joy. The judge decided to release him today. As the prison guard left, I pulled out the pin from my belt buckle, very seriously closed my eyes and removed his handcuffs. Vassili was left astounded. And while he was too amazed to chuckle his usual ‘inspiration’ word, the handcuff releasing ritual repeated itself, and once again I released all the prisoners in the basement as I bowed down to them saying ‘Gilad Levin’.
Lunch was actually one long tray of a rice and meat mixture, in a quantity that couldn’t have been enough for everyone. In this situation, only the fittest survive. I stood at a safe distance and watched. As the tray was placed, dozens of pairs of famished hands were all over it.
“The roar that was suddenly sounded accompanied by a burst of curses froze everyone. Just like in the game ‘Simon says’. It was the Turkish arch-criminal. All looks were directed at him, but he looked at me. He gestured with his hand at the food, smiled an inviting smile, and just like the parting of the seas his hand movement opened the way for me to the tray. Everyone backed off and waited for me to approach the tray. The situation embarrassed me, but I had to honor his gesture. I took a little of the rice and meat in my hands, and quickly rushed to the side as the sea of hungry hands closed behind me.
“When the meal ended and the prison guard came in again to retrieve the tray, his face turned white at the fact that once again everyone was without handcuffs. He did what was expected of him, and hurried to handcuff everyone for the third time.
“I parted with Vassili, and was taken by the prison guards to the ambulance in order to return to the hospital. The cardiology test results obviously showed that there was nothing wrong with me, and after a few hours I was returned to prison.
“The moment of truth came at the entrance to the prison. I arrived at the first X-ray machine and the pin hidden in the buckle was put to the test. I was finding it hard to stifle the sigh of relief that came out of me when it proved to pass the X-ray without being noticed.
“Now I had to make it to the foreigners’ wing. On the way to the wing a person has to cross a wide corridor which constituted the living space of the Turkish prisoners. The prison was populated by about 1,500 prisoners. When I was about to enter the corridor, one of the children I released, in his youthful folly started clapping his hands calling: ‘Gil-ad, Gil-ad’. By now the call was sounded from additional cells and very soon spread like wildfire across the entire prison. Prisoners who returned from the courthouse told their friends about the Israeli Mossad agent, who opened their handcuffs and released them. The rumor had spread, told by prisoners who foretold of my magical abilities, spicing their stories using superlatives and grand traits they bestowed on me.
“I walked through the corridor, and to my right and left I could recognize some of the faces I saw in the basement. Hands reached out from the cells, and people applauded in an increasing beat that within seconds turned uniform: ‘Gil-ad, Gil-ad’. The electrifying sensation in the air at that moment was etched in my mind as the most powerful experience I have ever had. A flow of energy that swept 1,500 prisoners after it, and united everyone together to pay me respect. I knew that rumors in prison were passed along quickly, but nothing prepared me for that sweeping spontaneous response evoked by the kid. It seemed as if for one brief moment, the entire prison came together to say thank you.”
The explosive sound of the three-volley salute brought me back to the reality of the Cypress grove paved with graves. Yaron was buried. Just like father was buried years before him. All the wonders of a man who impacted those around him were stored inside the loose soil, from which nothing came out of. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t fathom that I will never feel his large gorilla hand on my shoulders, that his beloved laughter was now buried inside the ground instead of rolling on top of it. I couldn’t believe that father’s bones have been crumbling for years for the benefit of a few hungry worms, and not having fun being sturdy and healthy on some beach in Thailand or a monastery in Tibet. Father, who gave me a ride on his motorcycle in the middle of the night to the highest hill in the area to see a lunar eclipse; Yaron, who would say at the end of every buffing ceremony of his bike with a paste: “who’s the prettiest girl in town”; Father, who taught me the rowing swim style and to take a breath every three strokes, in order to know what was the status of the competitors on both sides; Yaron, who at every event he D.J’ed would dedicate the song “Modedet” (measurer) to his mythological ex; Father, who in honor of my first day in first grade, bought me a compass as a gift, so that if I would ever get confused – I could immediately find the right direction. For the first time after many years of sweeping it under the rug, the tears just rolled down, flowing like a stream, all on their own.
14.
Poke the bear
The wide open window failed to disburse the cigar smell which spread throughout Meir’s chambers. They smoked Cohiba cigars - which were the Prime Minister’s favorite, and the joy of smoking was accompanied by the drinking of whiskey from the Scottish island of Islay which had aged for eighteen long years in Madeira aging barrels. They did this secretly, more like teenagers in hiding rather than being the top brass of the country. After all, they are supposed to set an example, and smoking in the rooms was considered outside the realm of giving an example.
The events of the past few days intensified a fresh sense of youthful folly in them. Youthful folly which tested the boundaries as a derivative of life in the shadow of death. It never passed, only slipped into a coma in the face of liability. The three of them knew the severity of the situation better than anyone else, and that the entire responsibility rested on their shoulders. The end of the current operation was the mark of the break they desperately needed. They allowed themselves to celebrate the event even before they continued in the race against the clock of the impending war.
It was the Prime Minister’s idea to retire to Meir Harari’s chambers, along with the Defense Minister immediately after the end of the operation. Although their wives were accustomed to sleeping diagonally on nights of hectic activities, this time they didn’t even bother to call and update them. In front of them now spread the urban view of Tel Aviv, bordering the sea to the west. The blue waves were seen through the window of Meir’s chambers in the Mossad headquarters, located on a lone hill, caressing the golden beach which spreads under the high-rise buildings, new and old alike. In them now, sleeping their carefree slumber, were civilians unaware of the magnitude of the foreseen danger.
When they finished smoking and drinking, concluding and celebrating, and wondering and worrying about the next day, the three lay silent on the couches in the chambers and in a few minutes dived into sleep.
A loud knock on the door disturbed their sleep at six-thirty in the morning. It was the Prime Minister’s head of staff. Meir Harari woke up first, opened a crack in the door – he had no intention to let his secretaries view the Minister of Defense and Prime Minister sleeping on the couches in his chambers.
Erez Salhov walked in, and in a voice full of energy, which did not match the sleepy atmosphere in the room, said: “Good morning kids, I brought you coffee and pastry.”
“It was much more fun before you arrived,” said the Prime Minister in friendly sarcasm while sitting up, “but since you’re already here – it’s good that you got coffee. This will make sure at least one good thing comes out of you this morning.” Tsoli squeezed out half a smile from his head of staff, and with a wide yawn he turned to sip from his morning coffee, facing his two colleagues who were busy stretching their limbs.
I am glad you found at least one good quality in me, I am honored, and be careful not to let your coffee burn your tongue,” said Salhov and smiled. “While you were asleep, news came from our Anglo-Saxon friends. They asked if by any chance we found a missile battery in our backyard. They quickly realized we are the only ones holding the technology.” His gaze had a kind of playfulness reserved only for kids who stole the toy that everyone wanted.
“Great news,” replied Meir, “I always wanted to make an exchange for the Big Ben.”
“I thought we agreed on the Statue of Liberty,” Bezalel Nativ continued the course with abysmal seriousness, and without waiting for a reaction he turned to Salhov and said: Close the deal for the Statue of Liberty, the Big Ben, and throw in the Trump Tower, without it, no battery.”
“No problem,” said Erez Salhov, and instantly asked with a smile: “And what about a few spaceships?”
“We don’t need spaceships, we have plenty. But one crispy McChicken with fries will go well,” said Prime Minister Nativ, and contributed a little more to the joking atmosphere in the room, which continued to the silent sipping of coffee. He disturbed the minute of silence with a slightly agitated tone. “I am surprised I didn’t receive a phone call from Vadim Tachenko yet,” he said.
“As a matter of fact you did,” updated Salhov. “I told him you will call him back in a few hours. I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“But you did anyway,” said Bezalel Nativ and smiled, “so come on, it’s time to talk to him.”
Meir Harari pressed the orange button on the phone placed on the table before them. Sarah Chizik, his private secretary for more than a decade was on the other end of the line. “Sarah, please get me Vadim Tachenko,” he told her.
Ever since the defense coordination with the Russians began in respect of Israel’s aerial activities over Syrian airspace, the red hotline had become quite active.
The phone, which was nicknamed the red line, was a simple looking device manufactured by Panasonic, and had special means installed in it that made it especially secure. Unlike its nickname, it was never red.
After a few minutes the voice of Sarah Chizik was heard: “President Tachenko is on the line. I am putting him through.”
Meir turned on the speaker, so everyone could hear the conversation.
“Hello,” A thick Russian accent was heard on the other side of the line.
“Good morning Mr. Tachenko, have you been looking for me? Sorry for the delay, we had a long night,” fake courtesy was evident in the Prime Minister’s voice, which indicated slight mockery.
“We can skip the polite conversation,” Tachenko replied in response, “you have stolen something that belongs to me and I want it back in twenty four hours.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Tachenko.” Bezalel Nativ replied.
“You know very well what I am talking about, and I expect to get it back. Return the brains of the battery.”
“It is yours?” The Prime Minister responded with false wonderment, “and I honestly thought you said to me in our last meeting two weeks ago that there were no Russian soldiers on Syrian soil. Certainly not the kind who operate batteries that can harm our planes.”
The cat was out of the bag.
“Enough games!” Vadim Tachenko raised his voice, and it was evident that his icy exterior had cracked. “I want that battery back within twenty four hours!”
“We cannot afford to be taken hostage by anyone,” the Prime Minister replied with his own firm tone of voice. “Your double play with the Iranians must end as we agreed. What did you think would happen? That we will just let it slide? We will not allow any harm to come to our aerial capabilities of dealing with the Iranians who are basing themselves on our border, not at any cost.”
“You realize that you’re playing with fire,” said Vadim Tachenko in a threatening tone.
Prime Minister Tsoli Nativ didn’t panic. “What I understand, is that the fate of the Jewish country I am responsible for is at stake, and although for you it’s a game, even if it is with fire, for us it is most certainly not a game. For us it’s live or die. At the same time I also understand that you are supplying our biggest enemy with weapons against us, the kind that will allow it to take over the border and turn the Golan Heights into a second Lebanon, and this I will not allow at any cost, not to mention the agreement that we had again.”
He took a slight breath, and as the silence continued on the other end of the line he continued: “Nevertheless, I also understand that the Jewish people have much respect for the Russian people. After all, those who established our country, already in 1882, were the Russian Jews. It’s a country, mind you, that has more than a million and a half Russian citizens, your language is spoken everywhere and people are living the Russian culture. There isn’t another country like this in the world. I also understand that I personally gave the order not to harm a single hair on the heads of the Russian soldiers – all out of respect for you – and so it was. But I will not allow an Iranian entrenchment in Syria, at any price and for no one.”
Prime Minister Nativ knew he had to walk a tight rope stretched between an all-out confrontation which will turn the Russian President into an enemy, and drawing a red line which will clarify what it means to work with Iran in our neighborhood. He wanted the president to know that he was creating a coalition of sanctions against him.
“Just between us,” Prime Minister Bezalel Nativ continued, “the real reason we took the missile battery as a souvenir was that I am afraid you will try to run for president in Israel. With a million and a half Russian votes, you will win hands down. It’s better for me if they thought you were the enemy.”
The other side of the line was silent. It lasted for a few awkward moments. The Russian President understood the joke, but he didn’t find it funny.
Finally he said: “By the end of the week we will coordinate a meeting between our Defense Ministers, and see what we can do in order to preserve your interests with the Iranians. But in the meantime, start packing our equipment for shipment.
The conversation ended not particularly diplomatic. “Good day to you too,” said the Prime Minister to the silent earpiece with a slightly amused tone, and turned to Harari and Kolkin with a question: “What do you think he’s up to?”
“It’s very difficult to know with this guy,” said Kolkin, the Defense Minister, “he can be deceiving. Always keeping his cards close to his chest, and he’s full of surprises. We already know him well enough to know he will not give up, and that it’s all part of his power games with us. One thing is for sure: he respects strength, and we have demonstrated muscle, the kind that probably surprised even him. The fact that we managed to engage a coalition with the Americans and the British in such a short time, and to completely neutralize the biggest threat placed before us, requires him to re-think his strategy in our region.”
“Totally,” Meir Harari stepped into the conversation. “We had to step on what pains him. His anger only shows us his weakness. Up until now we avoided stepping on the Russian Bear’s toes, and rightfully so. But we mustn’t fold under any circumstances. If we don’t fold – he will move his pressure to the Iranians. That is my assessment. He wants quiet in the region, to preserve his achievements in Syria. He has no other way to collect the fruits of his efforts. He has a clear interest in maintaining stability.
“If so, then it’s settled,” said Prime Minister Nativ and turned to Minister of Defense Kolkin, “you will go on a visit to Russia in the next few days. I want you to go alone. Keep a low profile, no entourage, an unpublicized visit. Do it as soon as you leave the Shiva at the family of the combat soldier killed in the operation. It’s a tight schedule, but there’s nothing more we can do.” He stood up to stretch his legs, walked around the room while drinking the rest of his coffee, and then turned to Meir and asked as if by the way: “how are we doing in the Saudi arena?”
“I started giving you the headlines earlier,” said Meir, “yesterday we received the information we needed from the Saudis regarding the Iranian messenger network, their routes, refueling and refreshments stops, where they live, how many messengers there are, and what motorcycles they use. Some of the details still need more clarifications before we present you with the operation’s action plan. We’re working on it. The basic idea, as I told you in our last meeting, is to find a way to replace one of the Iranian messengers with a messenger of our own. If it succeeds, we will be sitting on a first-grade pipeline of information.”
