Yosef Bergman is the last one to leave the meeting; Avi Singer and Shlomo Herzl have each gone their separate ways. It being very late, he decides not to phone the director of Mossad tonight. Rather, he will meet with him in his office first thing in the morning. Heading home allows him time to think, before he approaches the director with the idea the three of them have agreed upon.
Yosef Bergman is forty-five years of age, though he looks thirty. His six-foot height, broad shoulders, dark complexion and jet black hair all serve to reinforce his role as a leader within the organization. Bergman is a sabra, a native born Israeli.
In the Yom Kippur War, he saw the Arab armies’ treachery and ruthlessness first hand and made a promise to himself that he would dedicate his life to protecting his country’s security. He did not anticipate that his dedication would consume his whole life, leaving very little time for anything remotely resembling a personal life.
Tonight the pressures of leadership weigh heavily upon his mind. Israel must know what’s really happening inside of Iran. Can we pull it off by sending a couple of desert rats in search of evidence? Can these two obtain the factual proof that Israel must have? Or am I just sending two more Israelis to the slaughter, and probably causing another international incident in the attempt?
In spite of his serious mood, Bergman walks through the streets of Tel Aviv smiling, knowing that even with the constant threat of terrorism, he’s probably safer here than anywhere else in the world. He reaches the door of his apartment, enters, deactivates the security system, turns on the lights and throws his keys on the dining room table. Opening the refrigerator, he takes out a cold beer