Chapter Fifty-one

Rafi Cohen, head of Shin Bet, Israel’s FBI, had Basso and me picked up at Ben-Gurion Airport in Tel-Aviv. The driver called Rafi Memuneh, “The angel through which the universe operates.” Our route took in white stone buildings, green parks, modern, multi-lane highways, well-dressed people, trendy cafés, expensive shops and cars. Order, not chaos. After Egypt’s poverty, Israel’s wealth was striking.

When we arrived at the intelligence agency’s bunker-gray complex, we passed through an X-ray scanner and were escorted to Cohen’s office. A picture of Ben-Gurion and maps of Israel and the Middle East hung on the wall. No family photos or anything that gave a personal touch. Memuneh smiled when he shook my hand. He had grandfatherly tufts of white hair, but when the subject for my visit rose, his face turned to steel.

I gave him a complete account of my conversation with Al-Nasir and why I believed ISIL now possessed dirty bombs. While I spoke, Basso shifted uncomfortably recalling, I suppose, how I strayed from his protection.

Cohen listened with eyes half-closed in contemplation. When I finished, he said, “Transportation of radiological devices would be overland. Our border services have equipment that would detect either an air or sea entry. We need to presume multiple devices are already in Israel.”

I said, “I don’t know that.”

The grandfatherly smile returned. “We plan for the worst and hope for the best.” He clasped his hands. “I’m surprised you survived your meeting with Al-Nasir.”

Basso agreed. “Damn straight.”

I gave Basso a sideward glance. “Blander at the FBI said the same thing.”

Cohen nodded. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists. We assassinate those who want to murder us. Every year our counterterrorism capabilities improve. Still, the attacks come. We rarely catch the enemy in planning, only after they’ve struck.”

I said, “That’s particularly worrisome in a dirty bomb scenario.”

Cohen said, “I wish for well-planned, tidy operations. What I get is the real world.” He spread his hands in explanation. “To the terrorist, I’m a terrorist. Forget about morality. I don’t like the term, ‘collateral damage.’ That’s a dodge. They slay our citizens, and we take out anyone around a jihadist.” He sighed with resignation. “If only we could kill our way to peace.”

I asked, “What’s the answer?”

“One hopes for a better political reality. Until then, my finger is firmly plugged into the dyke, but I’m soaked from the leaks.”

Our flight to Naples was scheduled for later that afternoon. Cohen invited us to a lunch set up in a private dining room with wood paneling, silverware, and white linen napkins. On the table when we entered was a variety of small mezze plates. I mentioned we’d enjoyed the same foods in Turkey and Egypt.

Cohen lifted his Goldstar beer and the three of us clinked bottles. He said, “La heim.” He drank a slug. “If we ever stop to look, we’ll discover how many cultural similarities we have in the Eastern Mediterranean and Middle East.”

Basso asked, “How come nobody serves pasta?”

Cohen said, “Italians acquired noodles from the Chinese.”

“What?” Basso looked offended.

I put my hand on his arm. “The Chinese were the inventors, but Italians perfected pasta.”

Basso nodded but ripped his pita bread like a canceled IOU.

Cohen flashed his kindly smile. I imagined, although he was half Basso’s size, Cohen possessed a ninja move that could kill my companion with just his thumb.

I said, “Your country is quite prosperous. Are Israelis unified?”

Cohen said, “On national security, mostly. About everything else, we argue. Words are our weapons.”

I put several spoonsful of tabbouleh on my plate. Bulgur wheat gave texture to the parsley, mint, tomatoes, and cucumber flavored with lemon juice. I tore off a piece of pita and scooped up tahini, pureed sesame seed and olive oil. The food was excellent, and I thanked my host.

He said, “Blander told me when you leave Israel, you intend to pursue a Russian mobster.”

“He murdered my friend.”

“I see.” He paused before continuing. “I presume you’ve never killed anyone?”

I gave a slight negative shake.

Cohen said, “The Russian would commit crimes you’re incapable of comprehending.”

At the truth of his words, my appetite left me.

Cohen said, “Well, you have Mr. Basso for protection.” He mused. “I suppose sometimes you must roll the dice even if the dice may turn on you.” He scooped up hummus on pita. “I wish you the best.”

#

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