CHAPTER 11

THREE MONTHS LATER

YAEL DIAMONDS, ANTWERP, BELGIUM—APRIL 30, 2018—18:20 / 6:20 P.M. CEST

Nir kept the video stream on pause as Mila set two ceramic mugs on his glass-topped desk in his office. Around to his left, he’d dragged one of the two leather chairs that normally sat opposite him so she would have a view of his computer screen as well. As she sat, he prepared to click Play, but the aroma from the mugs caught his attention. He turned and saw a tower of whipped cream dusted with cocoa powder. A sprig of some sort of greenery gave a splash of color to the concoction.

“That is not the coffee I asked for.”

“Oh, really?” Mila answered innocently, never taking her eyes from the screen. She was tall, thin, and fair-skinned with hair she kept short and tight. Several years ago, her husband, deciding that 28 and blond were more interesting than 50-something and salt-and-pepper, had left. Not long after that, Nir was looking for a new receptionist/executive assistant/office manager/personal barista.

Mila Wooters came walking through his office door and ticked every box—everything he’d hoped for with the bonus of being an exceptional baker, a well-schooled city historian, and a self-appointed life coach. That last gift had led to his giving her the nickname Aunt Mila. But even though she could be a little intrusive at times, it was nice to know that someone in Antwerp cared about him.

“Yes, really. Coffee has caffeine, which I could desperately use right now. This has about half a kilo of sugar, and that will put me to sleep in the next thirty minutes.”

She slid a mug toward him. “Oh, hush and drink your cocoa. Besides, that whole caffeine thing is a myth.”

“It’s a… What?”

But Mila just waved her hand toward the computer screen.

Giving up, Nir clicked Play, and the frozen image of Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu began moving. He spoke in Hebrew, and it took the English translation a moment to sync in.

“Good evening. Tonight, we’re going to show you something that the world has never seen before. Tonight, we are going to reveal new and conclusive proof of the secret nuclear weapons program that Iran has been hiding for years from the international community in its secret atomic archive.”

“Secret atomic archive,” repeated Mila. “Sounds very James Bond-y. I wonder if the ayatollahs have a lair.”

Nir hushed her and took a sip of the cocoa. For a moment he forgot everything happening on the screen. The liquid in the mug was so thick and creamy, as if it had been made from the milk of a butter-fed cow. And the chocolate? Well, they were in Belgium, after all.

“Oh, where’s my coffee?” Mila quietly mocked him.

Realizing he’d missed some of what the prime minister had said, he backed up the video.

“…to show you Iran’s secret nuclear files. You may well know that Iran’s leaders repeatedly deny ever pursuing nuclear weapons. You can listen to…”

The prime minister continued his detailed presentation, complete with slides and charts. Nir had received a heads-up a few days ago, telling him Netanyahu was ready to go public with everything learned from Operation Deep Sleep. But because he already had a full day of work planned, Nir hadn’t been able to watch it live.

Yael Diamonds was Nir’s business venture and served as his European cover. He’d started the business in 2012 with a little financial help from the Mossad, and it had quickly taken off. Soon he was able to pay back the Israeli government’s loan, and now he owned the business free and clear.

Nir’s plan was to finish most of his work, then watch the video on YouTube. When Mila heard what the video was about, she decided to stay late too. Sometimes Nir thought she had to suspect his other life, particularly when he disappeared for days or weeks at a time. But she never asked questions, and more than anything else, that made her a keeper.

“A few weeks ago, in a great intelligence achievement, Israel obtained half a ton of the material inside these vaults. And here’s what we got. Fifty-five thousand pages. Another 55,000 files on 183 CDs.”

“Breaking into vaults and stealing secret files? It doesn’t even sound real,” Mila said.

Nir grunted his affirmation as he watched the prime minister revealing shelves full of binders and rows of CDs affixed to a large poster-board. His mind drifted back to the helplessness he’d felt when Nicole was in trouble. Then he thought about how, when he’d finally seen her again, he’d somehow taken a terrible situation and made it worse.

From what he’d been told, once the South African Department of International Affairs and Cooperation had become involved, the wheels had moved quickly. An angry call from the South African ambassador in Tehran reached the right person in Iran’s government, and within five hours Nicole was on a plane home to Milan.

It took Nir a little longer to extract himself from his team in Azerbaijan. Three days passed before he caught up with Nicole at her flat.

When she answered the door, he couldn’t believe what he saw. The left side of her face was darkly colored with blue, purple, and black. Her left eye was swollen and bloodshot, but at least it was open.

“Nicole,” he’d said as he wrapped her in his arms. He wanted to just hold her, but after a few seconds, she pulled away.

“Come on in. Sorry for the way I look. It hurts to put on makeup.” She walked past her kitchen and eased herself down onto the soft sectional. Nir closed the door and followed.

“No, please. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I tried to get here sooner, but there was no way.”

When he sat next to her, she turned toward him, hugging a pillow as a fluffy wall between them. He was getting a weird vibe from her, but he figured it was from the trauma. Who could blame her after what she’d gone through?

“You got here as soon as you could, I’m sure.”

An awkward silence followed, something that rarely occurred between them. He wanted to fill it with something. “I got the run-down, and it sounds like you were amazing. I can’t believe how hard you fought.”

“Why can’t you believe it? What do you think I should have done?” she asked, for some reason defensive.

“I mean I was just surprised that you broke a policeman’s nose.” He felt like he was tumbling down a deep hole in this conversation, but he couldn’t keep from adding, “You could have ended up in prison or who knows what.”

“You think I don’t know that? Trust me, they made the options very clear to me. But you weren’t there, were you? You don’t know what you would have done up against that car or chained to that metal chair.” Her eyes were beginning to flare as she pulled the pillow tighter against her body.

“No, I wasn’t there, and I don’t know. I’m just saying it was a huge risk.”

“Well, I made it, didn’t I? And I brought out the information.”

If they were being technical, she didn’t bring out any information. She just helped the team acquire it. But given her reaction to nearly everything he uttered, that was a point he should probably leave unaddressed.

“Listen, Nicole. I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I said to send this conversation sideways. I’m just so glad you’re safe. And just so you know, there’s no way I’m going to let you take that kind of risk again.”

It quickly became evident that of all the wrong things he could have said, that was the wrong-est.

Standing quickly, Nicole sidestepped the coffee table and backed away from the couch. “Let? You won’t let me?”

Nir stood just as quickly. “I’m sorry. Wrong choice—”

“Who are you to let me do anything? Are you my husband? Are you my father?”

Nir made another attempt to defend the indefensible, but it was no use. So much fear and pain and grief and anger had built up in her, and all it needed to pour out was a target. His poor choice of words had put the bull’s-eye squarely on his chest. He stood there silent while she ranted for a good two to three minutes before turning and stomping into her bedroom, then slamming the door. Stunned at what was coming out of her mouth—not all of it truly directed at him—he remained standing in the same spot, unsure of what to do before finally walking out of her flat.

He’d tried calling her a couple of times in the past three months. The first time she hadn’t picked up. The second time she’d answered, but her hostile one-word answers to his questions had made him wish she’d just let his call go to voice mail.

“Following the new directive of Iran’s Minister of Defense, the work would be split into two parts, covert and overt. A key part of the plan was to form new organizations to continue the work. This is how Dr. Mohsen Fakhrizadeh, head of Project Amad, put it. Remember that name, Fakhrizadeh. So here’s his directive, right here. And he says: ‘The general aim is to announce the closure of Project Amad,’ but then he adds, ‘Special activities’— you know what that is—‘Special activities will be carried out under the title of scientific know-how developments.’ And in fact, that is exactly what Iran proceeded to do.”

“Okay, he just lost me there,” Mila said. “What’s this Project Amad?”

“Project Amad was Iran’s nuclear program they claimed to have shut down something like fifteen years ago. ‘Really, we promise. No more nuclear program for us. Scout’s honor.’ The UN and the international community immediately bought into it, because, especially for the UN, anything Israel hates they love.”

“But the prime minister is saying it wasn’t shut down. And this Farky-guy is the one who kept heading it up.”

Nir chuckled. “It’s Fakhrizadeh. He’s known as the Father of the Iranian Bomb.”

“That’s quite the title.”

“He’s earned it. Bibi is saying that despite the fact Fakhrizadeh said they shut down the program, they just hid it and kept it going. Which is what Israel has been saying all along. Now we have the proof.”

“…lies and Iranian deception. One hundred thousand files right here prove that they lied. So here’s the bottom line. Iran continues to lie. Just last week, Zarif said this: ‘We never wanted to produce a bomb.’ Again: ‘We never wanted to produce a bomb.’ Yes you did. Yes you do. And the atomic archive proves it.”

Nir took another draw from his mug, both savoring and regretting its contents.

Mila had obviously checked out as Netanyahu wrapped up. She caught him looking at her and said, “I was just trying to imagine what it would be like to have the threat of a nuclear bomb hanging over your head like your family in Israel would if Iran developed a nuclear bomb. I grew up in the Soviet era. We’d have drills where we’d all duck under our desks in school as if that would help anything. But we always figured that if Brezhnev or Andropov detonated a bomb, it would be on the Americans. We’re too close here in Belgium. All the fallout would eventually blow into Moscow.”

“I do think of that,” Nir said, admitting the truth. “But not often. In Israel, when you grow up surrounded by countries filled with people who hate you—even want to kill you—you kind of get used to the feeling. But you’re right. With the nukes, it’s different. We’ve been able to fight off the armies that have attacked us. But there’s not much you can do if a nuclear bomb detonates in Tel Aviv.”

“And you really think it would happen?”

“One hundred percent. Whether by Iran itself or one of their proxy militias. The ayatollahs get the bomb, it’s going to make its way to Israel.”

Mila stood and collected the mugs. “Well, then, that prime minister of yours better get off his backside and do something about it.”

I wish it were that easy, he thought. I’m proud of what we pulled off at that warehouse. But what did we really accomplish? This only proved what everybody already knew. The U.S. president will probably pull out of the JCPOA, but the rest of the West is committed to that terrible Iran nuclear deal. Even the missions the Mossad operates only temporarily slow down Iran’s progress. We’re dealing with symptoms, not the disease. Somehow, we need to do something that will make a real difference.

Nir shuffled some papers around on his desk, trying to focus on his work. Mila walked back in, and, after chastising Nir for working late too often, she said good night and left him alone. Rather than working, though, he sat and brooded—first about Nicole, then about a nuclear Iran, then about Nicole again.

He briefly considered trying to call her, but then he decided taking the train to his neighborhood, strolling to his favorite pub, and spending the next few hours doing his best to forget all about the woman was a much more sensible idea.

Still, as he got up and walked to the door, he knew that there were some things in life that even a pint and a game of darts couldn’t block out of your mind. Nicole was number one on that list.