THE LAST ARK

CHAPTER 24: MANIPULATION

Ashdod Marina, Israeli Coast T h ree Days Before Temple Ceremony

Yuri Yankovic pours Mola Brahms another vodka, coaxing out the unspoken frustrations of the Mossad General. “Th e peace deal may be dead already,” bemoans Mola, clearly frustrated. One hand tightens into a loose fi st while the other pounds down a drink. General of Mossad Counter Intelligence, Mola was a protégé of the late Ehud Barak, who trained Mola to use any necessary tools to achieve Israel’s objectives, such as a viable peace and military alliance to deter Iranian nuclear aggression. “I am surprised. Th ey have already announced a ceremony. What happened?” Decades of diplomatic Machiavellianism have taught Yuri to care about the circumstances on the ground in order to discover a way to insert himself. One cannot be a problem solver unless one fi rst appreciates the nuances of the problem. “The former US president,” Mola replies with a groan. “He and the Saudis push new demands.” “Such as?” prompts Yuri. “Greater Palestinian political representation and investment, which prompted Jordan to demand compensation for giving up control of the WAQF. T hen the former president requested permanent asylum.” Mola chuckles over the last demand. “Risky to intermingle a personal agenda,” Yuri says. “What happens if the deal fails?” “Everyone loses,” Mola complains, sipping his vodka more slowly and leaning back. Yuri needs to change asylum from Israel to Moscow, so he probes further. “Who will invest in the Palestinian areas?” “Per the proposal by the crown prince, sorry the Saudi king, the funds will come from the inheritance of the Israeli people,” he replies with a raised eyebrow, teasing out the information. Yuri raises an eyebrow, wondering what that could mean. “Do I need to ask?” “Think of it this way,” Mola explains with a smirk. “The peace deal is essentially a single-state solution with a military alliance against Iran. If the West Bank becomes a part of Israel, then Israel can excavate the temple treasures of Solomon buried under the ruins of Qumran. We’re talking dozens of tons of gold and silver, maybe more, worth tens of billions. Those treasures will ransom the Temple Mount away from the Muslims, build a third temple, and rebuild the Palestinian areas without costing the Israeli taxpayer a single shekel.” Yuri sips his drink. “Quite creative. The issues then boil down to greater representation and asylum. I take it from your mood that the Knesset resists.” Mola shakes his head. “There may be room to negotiate over the Palestinians, but no one wants to host the former president in Israel or give him a shekel. T he man may be popular with the people, but he’s a loose cannon, known for his lies and disloyalty. Besides, it would seriously complicate our relationship with America. To make matters worse, the Ayatollah loathes the man. His presence will only escalate the already hot-cold war with Iran.” “Is a temple still on the table?” Yuri questions. Mola hesitates. His eyes have fallen on a beautiful young woman on the deck of a nearby superyacht removing her summer dress in order to lounge. “Yes, the new Saudi king has expressed a willingness to allow the third temple, assuming King Hussein gives up control of the WAQF. Nothing more than a grand historic gesture. The Knesset is lukewarm on the gesture.” Mola lifts his eyes away from his young beauty to meet Yuri’s gaze. “Which gets me to a few of my own questions. Why are you here?” Yuri smiles and sips his drink, teasing out the moment. “Maybe we can help each other.” Mola laughs, sips his drink, and returns his lusty gaze to the voluptuous young woman with thick dark hair, full pouting lips, and a slender shape of curves in a barely legal bathing suit. Laying a towel on a lounge chair, she coats her skin with sunscreen, oblivious to her admirer. “How do you propose to help me?” “Moscow would like to offer the former US president asylum,” Yuri replies. “Which will close the gap to a deal.” Mola laughs aloud then finishes his drink, setting down his glass, clearly stalling for time to think. “The global intelligence community will spiral into a frenzy. Everyone will knee-jerk into isolation, too terrified to share anything with the Americans. It would turn Israel into a pariah, like Russia. How will that help us win a lasting peace?” “The former president will choose St. Petersburg over Tel Aviv, allowing the Israeli government to rage publicly while you quietly celebrate.” Yuri reaches for the mixer to refresh the glasses. “Regarding peace. I’m sure you know that a delegate from Hezbollah came to Moscow in April 2021 to beg for guided missiles. We promised to consider the proposal. Access to the former president for an assurance to thwart Hezbollah seems a fair trade.” “It sounds more like extortion,” Mola replies as his eyes once again return to the sunbathing beauty two yacht decks away. “Iran will threaten an attack, but thanks to the new American administration, we have a multi-billion AI upgrade to our Iron Dome defense and the Iron Beam in development.” Yuri bites his tongue. The Americans are good at buying loyalty with weapons, not unlike the Chinese. He stays silent, avoiding the temptation to oversell, allowing the notion to take root within Mola. “It would be easier to sell if the Kremlin guaranteed Iran would never develop nuclear arms.” Mola turns to read Yuri’s eyes. “I will forward your concerns,” Yuri offers. They both know few can influence Putin, and not even Putin has much influence over the Ayatollah, but these are negotiations. “I’ll meet with the prime minister later tonight,” Mola says. “But there are a few complications you should consider.” He picks up a nearby set of binoculars. T he woman has removed her top to sunbathe. “Such as?” prompts Yuri, refilling Mola’s glass. “An American Secret Service agent named Rhodes stays in Jerusalem pending a diplomatic resolution to extradition,” Mola says. “In addition, the daughter of the late Admiral Scott arrived this morning to visit with the US Embassy and requested a meeting with the former president.” Yuri suppresses a grin over his fantastic fortune. An unexpected opportunity to clean up loose ends. “My friend, allow me to take care of those concerns for y ou.” Mola nods his head, wearing an emotionless poker face. Intelligence and espionage are a silent war with victories and losses, sacrifices, trade-offs, and civilian casualties. Like all of those seasoned in the game, Yuri knows that Mola currently performs a mental calculation of those risks and rewards. Yuri suppresses a grin. “Enough talk for now. Let’s invite that young lady to join us,” Mola suggests. “You read my mind,” Yuri smiles widely. What he doesn’t tell Mola is that her name is Nala, a sixteen-year-old model from Belarus who works in Yuri’s agency. A favorite of President Erdogan.