prime minister had just given him a great gift. “Yes,” said the defense minister. “I welcome Ben’s involvement.”
5 – Home
Amit Margolis enjoyed the view north and west over Tel Aviv and its Mediterranean waterfront. The fortieth floor of the Neve Tzedek Tower was commanding. It was a little before 6 p.m. on December 31, 2009, and the last hints of sunlight were rapidly fading away on the western horizon. Amit tried in vain to pick out his apartment home in the Tel Baruch neighborhood five miles to the north. His eyes followed the traffic on Highway 20 north past Mossad’s new office tower on the edge of Camp Rabin, the compound in Tel Aviv that houses the headquarters of the IDF, up toward his exit at Boulevard Keren Kayemet Le-Israel. But from there it was already too dark to pick out his street.
This was Amit’s first visit to the apartment of his long-time friend Dov Hirsch. Like many of the katsa, the professional Mossad spies who find themselves on long-term assignments in foreign, sometimes hostile, lands under assumed identities, Amit spent his free time with his fellow Mossad brethren – or just alone. Dov had served with him in Mossad but had left the Institute four years before to join Rafael Advanced Defense Systems, Ltd., the large Israeli defense contractor. Now a Rafael sales professional, Dov had purchased this three b edroom apartment a year earlier.
Dov walked out of the living room and onto the balcony. He handed a beer to his friend. “Happy New Year,” he said.
Amit raised the bottle to examine the label. “Dancing Camel? Where’s the Goldstar?”
“Just try it,” Dov replied as he smiled. “This beer is fantastic. My favorite now.” Hirsch raised his own bottle of Dancing Camel in salute to Amit.
Margolis tried some. “ Mmm. Not bad.”
“You are getting shit-faced tonight, my friend.” Dov Hirsch was known as a party boy while at Mossad and, as Amit suspected, being in the private sector did nothing to curb this aspect of his personality. “And you are definitely getting lai d.”
Amit laughed and turned his eyes toward the beach, whic h was only a quarter mile away. The white sand and breaking surf was clearly visible in the gathering night. “You haven’t changed a bit. The view here is amazing. How long have you been here?”
“I gave Rachel her get about eighteen months ago.” Hirsch was referring to the writ of divorce that had to be granted from husband to wife under Israeli law. “I bought this place in January. Got a great deal from some guy who had bought three units here on spec in 2007. He rented two of them for less than he expected and couldn’t find a renter for this one. He was sucking wind on the mortgage payments.”
“All right. Are you going to make me ask, asshole? How much?”
Hirsch smiled and looked at his old friend. “I offered him 1.2 million dollars and settled at 1.3 million. You believe that?”
“Sounds like a deal. But to be honest, I’m the last guy to ask about the real estate market here. How did you afford that? Rafael paying you that well?”
“Hell no. I mean, Rafael pays me okay, but … you know my background. My parents were helpful.” Dov Hirsch was the scion of a family that had made a small fortune developing real estate in Tel Aviv and Haifa.
“Ah, yes. Maybe your dad can support me.”
“Hey, I’m lucky. Someone has to be. You are working way too hard, Amit. Still going to Russia all the time?”
“You know I can’t talk about that.”
“I will take that as a definite yes.”
“Come on,” implored the active Mossad agent. He was suddenly uncomfortable. “How’s Rachel and the kids?”
“Okay, okay. No talking about the Institute.” Dov took a deep swig of his beer. “She’s doing great. We had our bitter period. You know how that goes.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess like everyone does. But we are on decent terms now. The kids are doing well – as well as can be
5 – Home
Amit Margolis enjoyed the view north and west over Tel Aviv and its Mediterranean waterfront. The fortieth floor of the Neve Tzedek Tower was commanding. It was a little before 6 p.m. on December 31, 2009, and the last hints of sunlight were rapidly fading away on the western horizon. Amit tried in vain to pick out his apartment home in the Tel Baruch neighborhood five miles to the north. His eyes followed the traffic on Highway 20 north past Mossad’s new office tower on the edge of Camp Rabin, the compound in Tel Aviv that houses the headquarters of the IDF, up toward his exit at Boulevard Keren Kayemet Le-Israel. But from there it was already too dark to pick out his street.
This was Amit’s first visit to the apartment of his long-time friend Dov Hirsch. Like many of the katsa, the professional Mossad spies who find themselves on long-term assignments in foreign, sometimes hostile, lands under assumed identities, Amit spent his free time with his fellow Mossad brethren – or just alone. Dov had served with him in Mossad but had left the Institute four years before to join Rafael Advanced Defense Systems, Ltd., the large Israeli defense contractor. Now a Rafael sales professional, Dov had purchased this three b edroom apartment a year earlier.
Dov walked out of the living room and onto the balcony. He handed a beer to his friend. “Happy New Year,” he said.
Amit raised the bottle to examine the label. “Dancing Camel? Where’s the Goldstar?”
“Just try it,” Dov replied as he smiled. “This beer is fantastic. My favorite now.” Hirsch raised his own bottle of Dancing Camel in salute to Amit.
Margolis tried some. “ Mmm. Not bad.”
“You are getting shit-faced tonight, my friend.” Dov Hirsch was known as a party boy while at Mossad and, as Amit suspected, being in the private sector did nothing to curb this aspect of his personality. “And you are definitely getting lai d.”
Amit laughed and turned his eyes toward the beach, whic h was only a quarter mile away. The white sand and breaking surf was clearly visible in the gathering night. “You haven’t changed a bit. The view here is amazing. How long have you been here?”
“I gave Rachel her get about eighteen months ago.” Hirsch was referring to the writ of divorce that had to be granted from husband to wife under Israeli law. “I bought this place in January. Got a great deal from some guy who had bought three units here on spec in 2007. He rented two of them for less than he expected and couldn’t find a renter for this one. He was sucking wind on the mortgage payments.”
“All right. Are you going to make me ask, asshole? How much?”
Hirsch smiled and looked at his old friend. “I offered him 1.2 million dollars and settled at 1.3 million. You believe that?”
“Sounds like a deal. But to be honest, I’m the last guy to ask about the real estate market here. How did you afford that? Rafael paying you that well?”
“Hell no. I mean, Rafael pays me okay, but … you know my background. My parents were helpful.” Dov Hirsch was the scion of a family that had made a small fortune developing real estate in Tel Aviv and Haifa.
“Ah, yes. Maybe your dad can support me.”
“Hey, I’m lucky. Someone has to be. You are working way too hard, Amit. Still going to Russia all the time?”
“You know I can’t talk about that.”
“I will take that as a definite yes.”
“Come on,” implored the active Mossad agent. He was suddenly uncomfortable. “How’s Rachel and the kids?”
“Okay, okay. No talking about the Institute.” Dov took a deep swig of his beer. “She’s doing great. We had our bitter period. You know how that goes.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess like everyone does. But we are on decent terms now. The kids are doing well – as well as can be
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