A Long Night in Paris: The must-read thriller from the new master of spy fiction

by Dov Alfon

  “Does Yermi have a hobby?”

  “His parents’ dream was for him to become a professional chess player, and his father used to drive him to a prestigious chess class in town every evening. When Yermi was twelve, he joined a chess club in Tel Aviv, and his father took him back and forth almost every day. At some point during khativat beynaiym, around the age of thirteen or fourteen, Yermi rebelled and he has not played chess since. Even in the long night shifts at his old base up north, when the other soldier on shift begged him to play, Yermi always refused.”

  It was not hard to imagine how much work it had taken to gather these pieces of information. For a team lacking actual experience in complex covert investigations, they were doing a pretty good job. She dreaded the moment when she’d have to tell Boris that in everything he had gathered there was not a single useful fragment.

  “Is there anything in his youth connecting him to France?”

  “On the contrary. When he started learning languages, his teacher recommended French and arranged private lessons with one of the teachers, but it did not appeal to him.”

  Oriana picked up on this possible lead.

  “What do you mean ‘started to learn languages’?”

  “After the chess insanity, he went through a period of teaching himself languages. First Slavic languages, then Italian and then German. It went on until the ninth grade, when he got over that obsession and, following the advice of one of the teachers who spoke to me, he agreed to focus on one language and study it in depth.”

  “And which language was that?”

  “Chinese,” Boris said. A dim note of victory accompanied his statement. “From the age of fourteen on, Yerminski studied only Chinese. Since there wasn’t a Chinese option in his school, he studied it by himself online, and his father drove him to the exam at a secondary school in Rishon LeZion.”

  “What exam?”

  “The matriculation exam. Only ten students majored in Chinese, and he was one of them. I spoke to the exam department at the Ministry of Education, and they all remember him over there. He got a perfect score, and even corrected a spelling mistake on their form. They say he knew Chinese better than the examiner.”

  “You know it yourself. It’s the only way the facts connect,” Abadi had told her. She tried to hold on to the facts, but they kept slipping through her fingers like ice cubes, melting and disappearing one after the other. The soldiers continued to sit in their circle around her, waiting for instructions. But Oriana remained silent.

  It was 6.25 p.m., Monday, April 16.

  Chapter 50

  If we were to observe rue Rabelais from high above, analysing the data from that evening, we would easily spot Chico, marching in clumsy yet brisk steps towards the embassy. His red hair betrays him, as does the barcode on his I.D. badge, the unique signal of his mobile even when it is switched off, the discrete signal emitted by his remote car key as he locks his vehicle.

  But, most obviously, the way he walks betrays him. Had he been walking along a completely different street, in a different city and in a different country, military and private intelligence agencies would still be able to identify him by his walk.

  So what of it, Chico would probably ask, I have nothing to hide, let them follow me if they want. But Chico doesn’t ask, because in the back of his mind he’s aware of the reality and he doesn’t dwell on it. Trying to undermine the algorithms would be a Sisyphean task and he determines that it’s not worth his effort. At the moment, he’s busy lumbering ahead, presenting his badge to the officers, who salute him and open the gate. The officers don’t log Chico’s name because he has a permanent entry permit, a small gesture that both saves him time and permits him the illusion, at least, of freedom and privacy.

  A tiny street like Rabelais produces more than a million data items every hour, each one of them documented, transferred, backed up, catalogued, classified and analysed. Not only Chico’s entrance to the street, but every telephone call from the Israeli embassy, every e-mail sent from the office building, each credit card transaction at the corner kiosk and each licence plate from each passing car. A million data items an hour, and those who held the puppet strings were demanding a billion more.

  In the back of his mind Chico is aware of all this, and ignores it. So when he spots the embassy’s head of security, who has just stepped outside the building for a smoke, he walks briskly over to him and says, “They found him. They’re taking him to Léger at police headquarters. He was at his mother’s, in a Jewish suburb in the south-east.”

  “Who, this Abadi character?”

  “Aluf Mishne Abadi, to you.”

  “Aluf Mishne, my ass. I knew from the beginning he was up to something. What are they going to do with him?”

  “I don’t know,” Chico said. “But they were eager to get their hands on him. I was afraid they’d want to arrest me too, but they’re only looking for him.”

  “He’s still sticking to his lunatic theory that they intended to kidnap a different Israeli?”

  “I think so. He got the list from El Al’s security officer without my knowledge.”

  “And he left the code room here a moment after making the call, also without your knowledge.”

  “It’s not my job to handle these things. It’s your job,” Chico said.

  As if awaking from a dream, the embassy’s security officer tossed away his cigarette and said, “We’re not supposed to talk about this outside.” The two walked towards the embassy.

  In the office building opposite, in the space rented out just three hours earlier, the Chinese radio operator drew the antenna back inside, removed the Trimble monitor and once again read the sentences that flashed on the automatic translation screen. He could not understand exactly what had been said at the entrance to the Israeli embassy, but he understood enough to press the button on the radio they had left him.

  In the giant pool of Hôtel Molitor, He Xiangu was working on her strokes, which were as precise as they had been when she was very young.

  Her form looked perfect. Kick, pull, breathe. Kick, pull, breathe. He Xiangu was determined to honour her pool time, under water she could detach from the world. Persuaded that there was nothing harder than butterfly, she sliced through the surface more forcefully, the smooth line of her body dispelling any trace of effort. Leap after leap, breath after breath, she counted and moved forward.

  It was a breathtakingly beautiful fifty-metre pool, listed in the registry of Paris’ historical monuments but He Xiangu’s eye was on the white tile at the end of the lane and her turn – she was determined to achieve a personal best.

  However, when she touched the wall just before the twenty-third lap, she saw her bodyguard standing above her, signalling her with the radio she had entrusted to him.

  “Leader of Team Three thinks he has something,” he said, and handed her a towel. He Xiangu kicked the water in a fury and pulled herself out of the pool. She rejected the towel and tried to understand, dripping and shivering, the meaning of the recording.

  Speaker A: They found him. They take light to police down. He was at mother his, at Jewish suburb south-east.

  Speaker B: Who? The Abadi this?

  Speaker A: It is for you, Colonel Abadi.

  Speaker B: He was in my ass, I knew from beginning above something. What will they do to it?”

  Speaker A: I do not know, but they were complete hot to his hand. I fear they arrest, but they only looking for him.

  Speaker B: Is he still glue to crackers idea? Maybe want different Israeli?

  Speaker A: I see yes. He got list from officer Hallal without I knowing.

  Speaker B: Minute after call left treasure room here you without knowledge too.

  Speaker A: It is not my profession to knob these things. It is your profession.

  Speaker B: We are not apparent talk this outside.

  This was certainly important, she had no doubt, but it was also incomprehensible. It probably was not the best idea
to base an operative mission – or any kind of mission – on an automatic translation algorithm. “What treasure room? What crackers? Who’s arresting whom?” she typed. The reply quickly followed: “It is not clear at the moment.”

  “And who is Colonel Abadi?” she typed, and the team replied that there was someone by that name in the central system’s file, but he was not supposed to be active, so they would have to double-check.

  She sighed in despair. As always in situations like these, she asked herself where Erlang Shen was, and recalled that she had sent him to take care of the stupid blonde who had seduced the wrong Israeli.

  “When’s the backup arriving from London?”

  “They’re supposed to land in ten minutes,” the team leader texted back.

  “Do they have any Hebrew translators with them?”

  “Yes, Commander, two.”

  “Drive them straight to the team by the embassy and have them listen to the recording. How soon can I expect a normal translation?”

  “A little under an hour,” the leader of Team Three estimated.

  He Xiangu confirmed and handed the radio back to the bodyguard before jumping into the pool. Kick, pull, breathe. Her strokes now seemed far less precise and far more nervous.

  Chapter 51

  Oriana switched to Tomer’s computer. The open questions he had spent the past two hours toiling over had changed, and were now displayed on the big board in the middle of the section.

  Had Rav Turai Yerminski travelled to Paris of his own free will?

  Was he the real abduction target of the Chinese commando unit this morning?

  Is his disappearance connected to his service in Unit 8200’s El Dorado department?

  Her instinct was to answer yes to all of them, and to focus on the next question: how can we find the soldier before the Chinese do?

  She would have liked to tackle that question on her own, to stay alone in the section, just her and the investigator at the actual scene of the crime, who only happened to be her commander, just her and Abadi and maybe Rachel, who could come in the morning with bagels. That’s what she loved most about this job, that she could crack any case on her own.

  But she had grown used to managing others. She had grown used to managing their times, determining their priorities, defining their targets, sharing her deliberations with them, she encouraged and guided and motivated and demonstrated and reprimanded and warned and taught and did so many other things that at times she asked herself whether all these efforts were really worth it. And it was in moments like these that she wanted to work alone, alone with Abadi, and maybe Rachel.

  She thought about sending some of the soldiers home, but none of them wanted to miss participating in a real investigation, the first in Special Section since they had joined it. She split them into teams with designated telephone tasks: tracking down neighbours, the parents’ neighbours, relatives, Chinese teachers, friends yet to be found. They all opened the conversation with the vague phrase, “We’re contacting you from the army,” which was not untrue. While they were not met with any refusals to cooperate, they did not glean any information that might shed light on Vladislav Yerminski’s reason for being in Paris.

  Boris’ team went back to the soldiers who had served with him, this time with a completely different set of questions. Questions about love and a possible bride were set aside for the more exotic: did he ever talk about China? Did you ever hear him speak Chinese on the telephone? Did he ever speak about Chinese friends? And above all, did he ever exhibit odd behaviour?

  “Commander, do you want to add anything?” Tomer asked hesitantly and pointed at the board. She awoke from her thoughts and stared at the three open questions he had drafted. She had a million more. She also wanted to ask him why he and Rachel called her Commander, and how he had discovered that her computer was unsecured. Instead, she asked loudly, “Who wants pizza? I’m going to the mall.”

  They called out their orders. Three soldiers wanted black olives, two green, one mushroom, and one pineapple, which was vetoed by the others. Oriana patiently let the squabble run its course. The tradition of bringing in take-away during investigations pre-dated her appointment as commander, and granted her temporary respite from running the section’s kindergarten, where the question of toppings always triggered heated discussion.

  “O.K., so it’s settled, three olive and three mushroom?” Oriana said. By now she understood that soldiers only compromised when under threat of a mushroom pizza. And indeed, Alma immediately protested and within less than a minute had organised a list far more detailed than the Chief of Intelligence’s Most Wanted list, including exotic requests such as half pineapple and corn and half strawberry and extra mozzarella.

  “Should I come with you?” Tomer said. Oriana would have relished some time alone, but she realised she would need help with the pizza boxes, not to mention the order. “Come on,” she said, and led him to her car.

  They were waiting for her a little after the memorial wall, just before the turn: a police car and a civilian jeep. The policemen signalled to her to pull over, but it was the two men in civilian dress who approached once she had lowered the window.

  “Segen Oriana Talmor?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “We’re from the General Security Agency. We’d like a brief word.”

  They were both a bit older than the Shabak men she knew. One was plump and wore a kippah. The other was not exceedingly thin, but still they looked like Laurel and Hardy, maybe because both were wearing black from head to toe.

  “I need to get food for my soldiers, they’re on an urgent mission.”

  “It’ll take less than fifteen minutes. You can leave your vehicle here and we’ll drive you back.”

  “I can’t answer any of your questions without the authorisation of the head of Unit 8200.”

  “We haven’t been able to locate him, but we have the authorisation of the Chief of Intelligence, so I assume it’s O.K.”

  Oriana assumed the same; there was no point in being clever, and she had no time to waste. She handed Tomer the list of pizzas and sent him on his way.

  “It won’t really take fifteen minutes,” she said when he insisted on waiting. Taking her service revolver from the glove compartment, she took a last look at her beloved jungle of antennae and got into the jeep.

  Chapter 52

  A single makroudh, bathed in honey-soaked solitude, remained on the desk in Commissaire Léger’s office. It was too hot. Every so often Léger got up to turn the knob of the radiator to the left or right, without apparent conviction. Abadi could not tell whether his host was actually trying to lower the heat or to break up the predictability of the questioning.

  It was one of those meetings in which both sides assume the same tired and predictable roles, but neither is at liberty to forgo the ceremony and get straight to the point. Abadi was being interrogated under caution on suspicion of leaking investigation materials, and his passport had been confiscated. Refusing to answer the questions, he admitted only to being an Israeli military officer on holiday.

  To the commissaire’s left sat a police officer at a small desk, typing out Léger’s predictable questions and Abadi’s no less predictable responses. On the wall above him hung a giant whiteboard with the victims’ details and time of death. The names of Meidan, one Chinese corpse and one Chinese missing person on the bridge were scribbled in compact handwriting at the top of the board, presumably to leave room for future victims.

  “It seems you don’t appreciate the gravity of your actions,” Léger declared for the umpteenth time.

  “These are not my actions, Commissaire.”

  “Leaking material from an ongoing case is a serious criminal offence in France.”

  “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Whoever gave that footage to an Israeli television channel, the juge d’instruction has instructed me to locate and prosecute him.”

  “Commissaire, I explained
to you twenty minutes ago, the urgent task right now is not to identify the leaker but to locate the next Israeli who’s going to be kidnapped. I gave you every detail I have about Vladislav Yerminski, and you refuse to update me on the measures you’ve taken to find him, if indeed you have taken any at all.”

  “I don’t have to update you on anything. The chutzpah of you people is simply unbelievable.”

  “Chutzpah is a national trait in Israel, a little like elegance in France.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Not one bit! But you have to help me track down Vladislav Yerminski in one of the city’s hotels before you find his body in your river.”

  Abadi walked over to the window, standing with his back to Léger. The river flowed peacefully below, transporting ducks, bateaux mouches and balloons that had strayed from some birthday party.

  “The representative of the Israeli police is the one who needs to transfer that request to us,” Léger said. “You have no status here, apart from that of a suspect in a criminal investigation.”

  “I have no need for any status. I’m simply a tourist.”

  “A tourist who happens to serve in a sensitive intelligence unit of the Israeli army.”

  “I’m just a security officer, a type of policeman.”

  “For a type of policeman you’re certainly mentioned a lot on the internet.”

  “Trust me, Commissaire, if we don’t make any headway with this conversation, you’ll be making headlines yourself on the internet soon enough.”

  Léger fell silent. “That’s all for today,” he said at last to the stenographer, who saluted him and quickly left the office.

  Chapter 53

  “What we need to understand right off is that we’re on the same side,” the first Shabak officer said. He held the door open to let Oriana in first, a gesture that was both clumsy and insincere.

  They took her to a meeting room on the convention floor of a big business hotel, on Herzliya beach. No-one addressed her during the journey, so she made use of the time to resume her as yet unsuccessful telepathic efforts; but she had no-one to turn to. Abadi was too far away, or too busy, or was refusing to heed her mental calls. Her father had always had time for her when she needed him, and she looked up at the sky, the presumed location from which he watched over her. This situation would not have made sense to him in the army that he knew.