Esther's Sling (14 page)

“The Americans will allow that?” responded Avner.

“As is clear in the planning, we have assumed American knowledge and support for Block G, even though they will not know about Esther’s Sling. We need their support. Otherwise the risks in this plan are too great. They have to know when we go. We can’t cover the distance from here to there without their knowledge and we will need IFF codes on the way.”

Avner nodded in agreement and then a question occurred to him. “What if the Americans get angry in reaction to Esther’s Sling? What if they back out and retract their IFF codes?”

“We have discussed that as a group,” replied Schechter. “The best answer is in the timing of Esther’s Sling. By the time anyone figures out what it is we did, IAF strike units will have made it to their targets. At the time of the initial attacks, our strike aircraft will be over American controlled airspace and it will be too late for them to back out even if they fully understood Esther’s Sling. But the simple fact is that it will take them hours to figure out what we did in Esther’s Sling.”

Avner nodded as he thought through the scenario. “Yes, I see what
you are saying. Amit, you agree with the theory, right?”

Margolis was fast with his response. “Yes, sir. Completely.”

Schechter continued. “The second way to retrieve downed crew will be having Flying Cat units in Azerbaijan. This also supports Operation Northwind, which we will talk about next.

“The third and perhaps the most probable route to success is the use of the Iranian network run by Mossad. We know from prior planning that Mossad has a network in Iran they are comfortable with. Many of the people in this underground railroad are Kurds and other oppressed minorities and most of the targets are in the right areas for these people. We still have to work out contact information and, of course, the crews who go down first have to escape and evade before they can attempt contact. Some crews will bail out over cities like Tehran. For them, capture is almost certain. So, Mister Prime Minister, we ask that you consider what you are willing to do for those men who are captured.”

“By ‘to do’ you mean what am I willing to trade?” Cohen asked.

“Yes, sir, that is what I mean.”

“A lot.” Cohen pondered the scenario for a moment. He had not previously thought about it. “The bastards will want money.” His mind ran off in a maze of possibilities.

“Not something we need an answer to now, sir,” Schechter
said.

Cohen looked at his old friend, Defense Minister Avner. “Zvi, what do you think of the ten percent estimate?”

Avner cocked his head to the side. “We are going into well defended airspace that is a long way from home. The Persians will throw everything they have into the air while we are overhead. Ten percent is high, but possible. Just at the high end.”

“What is your guess then?” probed the prime minister.

“I certainly hope it will not be that high. But for purposes of planning, I think General Schechter is making the right type of assumption.”

Eli Cohen turned and looked at an empty white grease board, his eyes focusing on nothing. Perhaps for the first time his mind contemplated the costs and the possibility of true disaster.

“Does Director Levy know about Esther’s Sling?” asked Margolis, his question directed to the prime minister.

Cohen snapped out of his thoughts. “Levy? Not unless you have told him.”

“No, Mister Prime Minister. The only people I have ever discussed Esther’s Sling with are in this room or the other members of Yahalom Group.”

“Good. Keep it that way. I have decided … no, let me rephrase that.” The prime minister gathered his thoughts for a moment. “The Kitchen Cabinet has unanimously decided that Director Levy does not have a need to know about Esther’s Sling. Of course, he will be in the loop about the general airstrike and timing. Esther’s Sling, however, must stay outside of
Mossad. The organization has too many contacts, too much wheeling and dealing. I want Esther’s Sling to be run by the military – by you guys. Understand?”

“I understand, sir,” replied Margolis. “Of course I am not military.”

“Yes, yes.” Cohen waved his hand through the air. “You know what I mean.”

Margolis nodded his assent.

“General,” the voice was that of Zvi Avner, “what is Northwind?” He was talking to Schechter.

“Ah, yes. Operation Northwind is a deception plan. This we think Mossad can be very involved in. The one unit … um … Amit, what is it called?”

“LAP,” Cohen responded before Margolis could speak. LAP is the disinformation and psychological warfare group within Mossad.

“Yes, that’s it,” Schechter
continued. “The goal of the operation is to get the Iranians thinking that we will use airbases in Azerbaijan to launch the attack.”

“Azerbaijan?” exclaimed Avner. “That makes no sense at all. The Russians would know everything we did. Hell, they would call the Persians with details of our strike packages an hour before we crossed into Persian airspace.”

“Militarily, no, it makes no sense. But the more we can get the Iranians nervous about it, the better. Any air defense unit transferred to the border with Azerbaijan is a positive for us. The added benefit is pulling Azerbaijan and Iran apart and even getting the Russians to chase their tails in Azerbaijan.”

Cohen looked at Avner, who nodded his head. Cohen spoke. “Okay, give the plan to Director Levy and let Mossad handle that. I like it. What else?”

General Schechter opened a manila folder and pulled out two original and identical letters, each two pages in length. “I have taken the liberty, Mister Prime Minister, to draw up a letter of authorization for Project Block G. I have two originals here. They are and will remain, of course, under the highest classification.”

“Let me see that,” said Cohen as Avner also reached out with his hand. Schechter gave one copy to each man.

Avner grew mad as he read the letter. “Who authorized this?”

Prime Minister Cohen reached out with his left hand and touched the right forearm of the defense minister. “Calm down, Zvi. Just read it.”

A couple of minutes later Cohen continued. “I understand this. I would prepare the same thing in your shoes. Where were you intending to keep these letters?”

“I assume, sir, that you will take one and I will retain one on behalf of Yahalom Group.”

“And you will keep this letter where?”

“In a safety deposit box here in Tel Aviv.”

“You know we have been working on this with such a small team and for so long now that I had not thought of the legal process of making this operational,” said Cohen. “We are clearly outside of the normal chain for military operations and we have to stay that way as long as we can. I think what you have drafted here is entirely appropriate. We will sign this and you will keep your copy. If this works, we are all heroes and you can sell your copy some day at Christie’s in New York. If we fail, there is not a man in this room who will survive the fallout.” Cohen paused for effect. “These are the stakes, gentlemen. If you want out, now is the time.”

General Fishel spoke up. “Can I at least read the letter?” The request was light-hearted.

Cohen laughed. “Yes, Natan. Read it and then sign it. Who has a pen?”

Cohen, Avner and Fishel signed each letter where indicated. Israel had committed itself to a course of action.

Defense Minister Avner spoke next. “Yahalom Group has done its job. The planning is done and the group is officially dissolved. I want to relocate the team to a hidden bunker complex at Sde Dov Airport. You will now be referred to as Olympus and your new location will be known as Mount Olympus.” Sde Dov was right on the Mediterranean and just north of Tel Aviv. It was convenient for all of the men who would now form a growing combat command to be known as Olympus. The bunker complex had been secretly constructed between 2002 and 2005, one of many built around the country in reaction to the growing vulnerability of Israel to massive attack. It had been designed as an emergency command post in the event of the destruction of the Campus and it had all of the communications necessary to exercise operational command of Project Block G.

“Is that it for this morning?” asked Cohen. No one offered any dissenting opinion. “If I don’t see you, I wish each of you
Shanah Tovah.” Rosh Hashanah was two nights away.

On November 8, 2010, a Russian businessman walked out of the Dubai offices of the prestigious law firm of Heinrik, Waddington & Smythe LLP in the Dubai International Financial Centre. The man’s name was Gennady Masrov and his navy pin-striped double-breasted Savile Row suit was hand tailored by Gieves & Hawkes at a cost of £4,750. The business card that he left behind had a London address, a serviced rent-an-office building in the upscale business neighborhood of Belgravia. He opened the rear door of his hired black Mercedes S600 sedan and was quickly driven away to the Armani Hotel. The middle-aged man carried himself with all of the confidence and arrogance of his role in life. As the trusted confidante of one of Russia’s billionaire tycoons, Masrov lived the lifestyle of modern royalty, confident in the knowledge that as long as his patron stayed on good terms with Vladimir Putin, the money would roll in as if on an endless conveyor belt.

The meeting was to finalize the terms and corporate governance structure of a new entity to be created by the lawyers. Its name would be
“Swiss-Arab Air Cargo FZE” and it would be established in the Ras Al-Khaimah Free Trade Zone in and around the Ras Al-Khaimah International Airport. The new entity would be a wholly-owned subsidiary of a Swiss company named SAC Holdings AG. SAC Holdings was, in turn, owned by Gennady Masrov. But he had very intentionally and repeatedly dropped the name of his very wealthy patron, making it clear to the two attorneys in the meeting exactly who it was who would be the real capital behind Swiss-Arab Air Cargo.

One week later, Masrov returned to Dubai on a direct flight from London’s Heathrow
Airport and checked back into the Armani Hotel, occupying a Signature Suite as he had the week before. The next day Masrov strolled into the lobby of the HSBC Middle East Bank. He asked for Branch Manager Mukhtar Al-Zubaidy. Within moments an excited banker emerged from his office, eager to meet the client who had been referred to him by the attorneys at Heinrik Waddington.

“Welcome to Dubai, Mister Masrov.” Al-Zubaidy extended his hand and quickly ushered the Russian into his office. Tea was prepared and waiting, the banker offering to pour Masrov a cup. The Russian accepted and several minutes of introductory conversation over tea followed. The men spoke in English, the accepted language of business in the Middle East. The banker’s English was perfect. He had been educated in England at the University of East London.

As Masrov finished his tea, he was ready for business. “Thank you for tea. Now, let’s get this done. Do you have the account paperwork ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Al-Zubaidy
responded. “I was instructed to prepare for two accounts. Is this correct?”

“Yes. A checking account for the business and a sweep account.” The latter account would automatically sweep all funds in the checking account greater than $50,000 into a money market account.

“Exactly. I regret that rates are so low.” Al-Zubaidy looked at Masrov as he opened a file folder in front of the Russian. “Just to confirm, this is to be a dollar denominated account, correct?”

“Yes.” Masrov started to review the documents. The corporate resolutions had been prepared by Heinrik Waddington and were more thorough than the standard pre-printed form typically provided by the bank. “When will the accounts be open?”
he asked as he simultaneously pulled a fat roll of money from his pocket. He removed ten crisp new $100 notes. As he folded the roll back up, the banker noticed that Masrov had at least another twenty or so $100 notes wrapped by larger £100 notes, the entire wad forming a stack a couple of inches thick when folded over. This was not uncommon for the types of customers that Al-Zubaidy took care of every day.

Masrov placed $1,000 on the desk. “Please open the accounts with this.”

“Your accounts will be in our system tomorrow.”

“Okay, I will wire fifty million dollars into the account tomorrow from Union Bank Switzerland.”

Al-Zubaidy’s eyes opened wider. The reaction was involuntarily. “Yes, sir.” He put all his effort into maintaining a professional demeanor. “Please have the wire instructions list our street address and me as your contact.”

“Excellent.”

Masrov spent the next five minutes signing his name as the banker indicated what each form was for and where to sign. As soon as he was done, Masrov stood and thanked his host. He had an appointment to get to.

Thirty-five minutes later
, Masrov was in the lobby of the Fortune Tower on Sheikh Zayed Road waiting to meet a real estate agent who was running late. After five minutes, Kara Livingston, a stunning British expatriate, walked into the lobby. She spotted Masrov instantly and strode across the lobby effortlessly. Her business attire and four inch pumps appeared completely out of place among the Muslim ethics of the United Arab Emirates. Masrov had been referred to her by Al-Zubaidy, being told that she was the top commercial real estate broker in Dubai.

As she walked up, Masrov realized she was looking at him eye to eye, matching his 5-foot 11-inch height. She was breaking every norm expected by the conservative Arab businessmen in the city. But her niche was finding office space and apartment rentals for the plethora of European, Asian and North American business people setting up shop in Dubai as
their Middle East headquarters.

“Mister Masrov,” Livingston
extended her hand. “What a pleasure to meet you.” If she was self-conscious about being late, she showed no sign.

The Russian was pleasantly surprised, his eye quickly scanning her left hand and seeing no ring on her finger. “Miss Livingston. The pleasure
is mine.” The pair shook hands.

“Please call me Kara. Shall we head on up?”

“Of course.” Masrov said, smiling. He stepped to the side and swung his arm out. “After you.”

The elevator ride to the 32
nd
floor took only seconds. Livingston bantered with her new client, not quite sure whether the discussion had passed over into flirtation. Walking off the elevator, she turned to her left and used a white scanner card to pass through the glass doors and into an unoccupied lobby that featured Persian rugs and a granite and mahogany reception desk.

“As you can see, everything in this building is one hundred percent first class, on par with the finest office buildings in London, New York or Moscow.” She added the last city in deference to her client. “You have 3,130 square feet in the northeast corner. The views are phenomenal.” She walked through a lobby door and down a short hallway. “Let me show you your new office.” She opened a three inch thick mahogany door hung on four gold-plated hinges. “Viola,” she said as she stepped in and out of the way of
Masrov’s view.

The Russian stepped in and stopped. “Wow.” The corner office had floor to ceiling glass windows that formed an arced flowing corner. Outside, the many office and residential towers of the
Jumeirah Lake area of Dubai formed the rapidly growing skyline of the most modern city in the Middle East. In the distance, the blue waters of the Persian Gulf shimmered in the afternoon sun.

“Fantastic isn’t it? You can see the Palm
Jumeirah and the marina. This is the hottest area in Dubai.”

“What are the asking terms?”

“Eighty-eight dirhams per foot, escalating at four percent per year for five years. In dollars that’s about twenty-four dollars a foot to start.”

The Russian laughed. “The owners must think we are still in 2005. If they want to have a tenant in here then they better get real.” Masrov thought about the asking price, doing some math in his head. “If you can get me eighteen dollars U.S. per foot, I will take the space. And I want the first six months free.”

“I will take that to the landlord and see what they say.”

“Like I said, if they aren’t interested, I will see if I can get lucky with some of the other millions of square feet of empty office space in Dubai.”

The Russian started to walk out but stopped and looked at Livingston. “Are you are free this evening?”

Livingston laughed. “Um, right then … that was an abrupt change of topic.”

“I am Russian. This is the way we think.”

“Oh. What is it you are thinking?”

Now Masrov laughed. “Perhaps we should share that over some champagne. I am sure you can recommend an appropriate location.”

“You are being very presumptive, Mister Masrov.”

“You are not saying no, Miss Livingston.”

Kara Livingston blushed slightly and turned her eyes toward the view of the Gulf. “Touché.”

“Seven o’clock? I will pick you up.”

“Seven-thirty. I will meet you at Vu’s. Your driver will know where it is.”

The real estate agent turned to walk out of the office and back down the hall. “Did you want to see the rest of the space?”

“I have a good feel for what I am getting,” he replied.

“Now it is my turn to ask you something. How is it your English is so good?”

“Many years in London now.”

“But your accent is American.”

Masrov laughed. “Touché.” He was following her toward the elevator, enjoying the way she filled out her tight skirt. “I attended business school in America.”

“I see.” She turned right and passed through the glass doors dividing the lobby from the elevator landing. She held the door for her client.

“I am betting that you would not have guessed that,” Masrov responded.

Livingston nodded her head as she pressed the elevator call button. Her hair was shoulder length and had been dyed a sandy blonde, no doubt, thought Masrov, to cover any gray hairs that were always an unwelcome visitor. He judged her to be somewhere around 40, give or take a couple of years.

She stepped to the side, waiting for the elevator to arrive. She looked at the Russian. “Are you married? I won’t go out with married men.”

Masrov raised his left hand. There was no ring and no white line from a recently removed ring. “Are we going out, then?”

She looked him in the eye. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I am not married. I can assure you of that.”

She smiled as the bell
rang, indicating the arrival of their carriage. “Neither am I. Please call me Kara.”