Marseille, France.
Mohammed loved Marseille. Although it was France’s second largest city and biggest port, he never felt he was in France. Marseille people saw themselves first and foremost as Marseillais and then perhaps French. Its poor reputation, almost entirely due to the movie with Gene Hackman, ‘The French Connection’, was entirely unjustified. Certainly in the twenty first century, the city was almost indistinguishable from what it had been forty years earlier but the spirit, he knew, remained the same.
Deif sat on his rooftop balcony. He had booked a villa in the 7th Arrondissement, the Bompard, and thanks to its elevated position, he could observe the ships, as they plied their trade in and out of the busy port. He had been waiting two days for the ship to appear and almost cried out as his binoculars picked up the rusty freighter that was making its way between the small islands of Frioul and the Chateau D’If, made famous in Alexander Dumas’ ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’, just in front of Marseille. He waited for the name to become visible and yes, that was it, Akram had arrived.
Mohammed made his way downstairs, boarded his scooter and taking his life in his hands, headed towards the port. Marseille drivers were almost as crazy as the roads and after avoiding a number of life threatening crashes, he thankfully dismounted the scooter and awaited his friend’s arrival. The two containers that would complete the weapon lay alongside the Quay with the two men who had spent the previous year assembling, checking and then disassembling the equipment. They had found what they needed in Malta, a relic left to rot after World War II. However, Malta was too small for their highly covert operation, so everything had been moved to France where her relatively unpopulated South offered plenty of privacy.
As the boat pulled in to dock, Akram and Deif greeted each other as brothers. This was the last stop before they made history and as the second container swung aboard, the small crew could be heard cheering. In the Captain’s cabin, Deif and Akram went over the charts with the navigator. Neither really knew what they were looking at, other than the timeline, the only thing they cared about. At eighteen knots, they would be in position in eight days. They were still on time and it left them the luxury of one choice. Were they going to time it for midnight Yom Kippur in Israel or midnight, Yom Kippur in America?
“Simple,” replied Deif. “Whichever causes the most casualties!”
Both laughed as they then discussed which it would be midnight or 6.00 am US time.
Deif and Akram prayed together before Deif left and watched as the freighter pulled out of port and began her momentous voyage. He boarded the scooter for the last time, praying that Allah would keep him safe again and headed for the Gare de Marseille-Saint-Charles train station where his train to Saint Raphael and his well deserved break awaited him.
Had Deif learned more about Marseille than its links to the Muslim world, he may have discovered that Marseille was quite literally a melting pot of cultures and communities. It not only had one of the largest Muslim populations in Europe, it was also home to the third largest Jewish community. Almost 1 in 10 Marseillais were Jewish. Of course, they were far less visible than their Muslim neighbors and far less vocal, so this was a fact easily missed by the passing traveller.
Another traveller, however, was fully aware of this. He was a born and bred Marseillais but at the age of 18 had followed his heart and joined the military. He had flown to Israel and enlisted in the IDF. His talents as a linguist had not gone unnoticed and he was soon transferred to Mossad. Over the years, he had proved his worth and become Head of the Paris Mossad station. Had it not been for his mother’s birthday and a quick trip down to see her, he would have missed the man who he instantly recognized as a person of interest to Israel. Unfortunately and slightly embarrassingly for him, he couldn’t quite identify him. As the trip was a personal one, he had left his laptop at home and with nothing other than a mere visual recognition, he could do nothing more than follow the man.
He watched the man board the train bound for Nice and then once he had settled into his seat, he joined the same train. From a carriage behind, he kept an eye on Deif, careful to maintain his cover. By the time they both disembarked in Saint Raphael, he was certain Deif was not in the least suspicious nor aware that he was being followed. In fact, Deif was so brazen that the Head of the Paris Station began to think that he might be following an innocent man. Deif grabbed a taxi from the front of the station. This left the Paris Head with a dilemma. Follow and risk being spotted or wait for the taxi to drop him off and find out where he had been dropped. He elected for the latter, noting down the taxi registration. He knew he’d be back soon enough. He knew from experience that this was the only taxi rank in Saint Raphael.
He began to think he had made the wrong choice when after an hour the taxi had failed to return. Just as he was thinking the worst, it reappeared and the Paris Head, having secured a healthy sum of money from a nearby ATM, jumped in the passenger seat.
“I’m sorry, Sir but you must take the taxi at the front of the queue,” protested the taxi driver.
He handed the taxi driver a €50 note. “But I really like yours!”
The taxi driver looked at the wad of €50 notes in the passenger’s hand and took off to a blaze of horns from his colleagues.
After two minutes of talking to the taxi driver, it became apparent that the man he had followed was far from innocent. The taxi driver had dropped him off at one address but with no room to turn around, the taxi driver had been forced to drive further down the road before being able to complete a U-turn. When he had driven back, he saw his passenger disappearing into an entirely different property. With the address in hand, the Paris Head made a decision. Paris by train was at least five hours away but he was only thirty minutes from Nice and a ninety minute plane journey.
A little over three hours later, he was sitting in his subordinates car at Paris Charles de Gaulle airport looking through the Wanted List of photos he had instructed he bring with him. After five photos, he found the man he had just followed and hoped to God for his career that the man was where he had left him. Mohammed Deif had been found. Well, he had been four hours earlier. The Paris Head of Station just prayed he was still there as he dialed Ben Meir’s number. It was his number listed as contact, should the man be sighted.