Mirage

by James Follett

  ‘I don’t doubt it, Lucky,’ Braden remarked drily.

  13

  WINTERTHUR

  Bernard and Anita Hellerman arrived in Winterthur in a hired car and took a three-month lease on a modest apartment off Museum Strasse. Despite what their passports said, they weren’t married and they were not Swiss citizens despite their local-accented fluent German. They were Mossad agents. Their task was to assess the possibilities of penetrating Sulzer Brothers or Luftech and report back to Tel Aviv.

  They spent their first week getting to know the feel of the town and scanning through all the local papers and municipal records in the library. To the locals they got to know, they were a pleasant, childless couple in their early fifties. Despite their close study of the jobs columns in the local papers, vacancies in Sulzers’ or in Luftech’s drawing offices never appeared. It was during the fourth week of their stay that Bernard decided that they would have to settle for less. He telephoned Luftech’s personnel office and secured an interview for the post of a progress clerk in their commercial technical publications department.

  The personnel manager was more than happy with Bernard’s qualifications, and his references seemed to be in order.

  Bernard settled into a humdrum office routine. Through casual conversation with his colleagues he learned that Luftech’s staff recruiting for their defence contracts was carried out through colleges and universities. Senior posts were filled by Luftech’s own specialized recruitment agency which screened applicants back at least three generations. Bernard’s guess was that such screening was also carried out by the military.

  The job was nothing more than a toe in the door and remained just that because Bernard discovered that although the conversion work on the Mirage drawings was definitely handled by Luftech, his department had no dealings with those departments handling Sulzers’ sub-contract work. They were not on the same floor and didn’t even share the same canteen facilities. There was little chance of making friends and establishing the right contacts in departments other than his own without arousing suspicions.

  Anita did her best on the outside to learn something about Sulzers. Local bars and restaurants weren’t much help simply because there weren’t any near the main factories. Hordes of employees jumped into their cars at lunchtimes and distributed themselves to the many eating and drinking establishments in the town. True, there were a number of favourite spots but a woman alone was at a disadvantage when trying to penetrate the men’s world of lunchtime laughter and lager.

  The couple made some progress when they discovered the name of Luftech’s military contracts general manager. From that it was easy to find out where he lived: a smart house to the west of the town overlooking Lindberg Park in Oberwinterthur. Anita and Bernard explored the neighbourhood. To move into that area would require new agents with new identities to reflect the social background of Oberwinterthur. Mossad’s success had been largely due to Emil’s insistence on one careful step at a time. Anita and Bernard decided that they had taken the first ‘one careful step’ and could do no more. Shortly before Christmas, Bernard gave Luftech a week’s notice, explaining that he wasn’t happy in the job. The couple returned the keys of their apartment to the letting agent and returned to Israel via Stuttgart.

  14

  LONDON January 1968

  Raquel was barely recognizable beneath the duffel coat with its hood pulled tightly around her face as protection against the cold east wind gusting down Brewer Street. It was 4.30pm, dark, and miserably wet. She dismounted from her Moulton and wheeled it across the pavement.

  She was about to shoulder it into the entrance to the flat when a familiar voice spoke: ‘Good evening, Miss Gibbons.’

  Raquel wheeled around and stared in dismay at the fat figure of McNaill. He was examining the goods in the television shop window.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  McNaill looked hurt. ‘I’ve missed you, honey. Forever hanging up on me when I call you.’

  Anywhere else Raquel would’ve made a scene. Here, with Daniel so close, she kept her voice down to a venomous hiss. ‘Listen, fatso, when is it going to sink into that brain of yours, or whatever it is you use for one, that Daniel’s not whoever or whatever you think he is. He just a regular guy doing a regular job. Now why don’t you piss off?’

  McNaill’s jaws champed thoughtfully on his chewing gum. ‘Just dropped by to see how you’re doing, honey.’

  ‘I’m doing just fine.’

  The CIA man took a step nearer her. ‘You’re fond of him. Right? Maybe more than that?’

  ‘It’s none of your business, Mister McNaill.’

  ‘I guess not. But if our Danny Boy does get up to anything, it might be in his interests for you to keep me informed.’

  Under normal circumstances Raquel would have given McNaill a verbal blasting but she knew that no amount of insults could get through his rhinoceros hide. Moreover she was tired, wet and hungry. Agreeing with him was the best way of getting rid of him. ‘Okay, Mister McNaill. I’ll keep in touch. Can I go in now?’ McNaill regarded her for some moments. ‘I wish you’d remind yourself now and again that I’m a friend, Raquel.’ With that the fat American turned on his heel and walked away.

  Raquel rescued an afternoon post letter from the wire rack inside the door. It was addressed to Daniel. US stamp and a Philadelphia postmark. Daniel came out of their flat and helped her up the stairs with the Moulton.

  ‘Leher hor you,’ she said, gripping the letter between her teeth. ‘What?’

  ‘Leher hor you!’

  Daniel laughed and took the letter out of her mouth. Their kiss was interrupted by Susan with a query in her own inimitable style.

  ‘Are you two berks gonna block the passage all night with your bleeding bike?’

  Raquel peeled off her duffel coat and flopped into an easy chair. ‘Jesus - what a day I’ve had with that ace prat.’

  Daniel put the kettle on to make coffee. He knew that she was talking about the Member of Parliament she occasionally did some unpaid work for.

  ‘Half the girls are off with ’flu so he had me running about all day.’ Daniel made no reply. After three months living together he had learned the hard way that she liked to let off steam as soon as she got in from work. There was always someone who had annoyed her during the day. He often wondered if not being annoyed by anyone would annoy her even more. Three months was just about the right length of time for a couple to have completed the complex adjustments so necessary for living together in reasonable harmony. At first he had complained about her untidiness. Now he gathered up her coat and hung it up while waiting for the coffee to boil. By the time he had poured out two cups of coffee and sat down beside her she was once again his loving, responsive Raquel ready to listen to the latest album he had bought on his way home from the office or discuss what they would do that evening.

  ‘Who’s the letter from, Daniel?’ she asked as he sat beside her.

  He looked blank for a moment. ‘Oh - that.’ He pulled the letter from his pocket and looked in surprise at the stamp and postmark. His surprise changed to a look of astonishment as he read through the envelope’s contents. It was from the Mahal Association.

  Dear Mr Kalen,

  W7e apologize for the delay in processing your application. Thank you for authorizing us to see your medical reports. In view of the injuries you sustained when you crashed your airplane during the Six Day War and the profound affect this has had on your career in the IDF, the Mahal Association is proud to send the enclosed check. This is our maximum disability payment and is a token of our appreciation of the sacrifice you have made in the defence of our beloved Israel.

  Please return the receipt in the envelope provided.

  The extraordinary letter was signed by Walter C. Kramer, who described himself as a fellow ex-flier for Israel. Attached to it were a number of papers that included a leaflet on the activities of the Mahal Association. Smallest of the documents was a cheque
for $125,000.

  15

  Later that night Raquel lay awake staring up into the darkness. Daniel stirred beside her and turned over to face her. The rapport between them that was strengthening each day they were together told him that she was awake. Normally she went asleep immediately after making love.

  ‘Rac?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Good. I’ll go back to sleep then.’

  ‘You said that you injured your foot in a crash.’ There was an accusing note in her voice.

  ‘That was true, Rac.’

  Raquel turned on the bedside light, blinking her cat-like eyes until they adjusted to the light. ‘You never said it was an aeroplane crash, Daniel. That was a deliberate piece of disinformation.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rac. It’s just that we’re not supposed to talk about our service activities. And I don’t particularly like talking about it anyway.’

  Raquel thought about the monumental piece of deception she had practised on Daniel and realized that she had no right to be angry with him. At least he had a valid reason for misleading her. ‘Won’t you tell me about it now?’ She pulled herself on to her knees and looked down at him, drawing the eiderdown around her shoulders because the bedroom was icy.

  ‘There’s not much to tell.’

  ‘Daniel - no one hands out a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for nothing.’

  His face clouded. ‘That’s exactly what it is, isn’t it? A handout.’

  ‘Oh for Chrissake, Daniel, you idiot - you’ve got to accept it.’

  ‘I can’t, Rac.’

  ‘Oh fuck your stupid pride! Listen, Daniel - this Mahal Association - there’s hundreds of organizations like them all over America. Holding annual conventions; giving fund-raising dinners; mailing thousands of letters. They do it because they want to;

  because they’re basically decent people doing something they’re proud of. Giving you that money is their big thing. It would be inhuman to throw it back at them. If you want to stamp on anything stamp on hate and prejudice and everything else that adds to the sum total of misery in this world. But don’t stamp on love, compassion, generosity. Christ - there’ll be enough of our boys who’ll need it when that God-awful mess in Vietnam is over.’ Raquel’s outburst took Daniel by surprise but there was no denying the truth and good sense in what she said. He thought carefully about the matter for a few moments and eventually nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll write them a thank-you letter tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll stand over you while you do it. So tell me what you did to earn this windfall.’

  In broad terms, giving no more information than had appeared in press reports, Daniel described his actions during the Six Day War ending with his aircraft being shot down by a Syrian SAM missile battery on the last day of the war. He did not tell her what type of aircraft he was flying other than that it was a jet, and he was careful to make no mention of the attack on the USS Liberty.

  ‘And your foot?’ Raquel queried.

  ‘A lump of steel.’

  ‘You mean the surgeons couldn’t get it out?’

  ‘No. No. They put it in.’ Daniel looked up into her eyes and was both embarrassed and touched by the concern he saw. He chucked her playfully under the chin in an attempt to trivialize the situation. ‘And they told me I’d never be able to do the Mexican hat dance again.’

  Raquel tried to maintain her serious expression and failed. They both burst out laughing.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. What will you do with it?’

  ‘Well... let me see now. I know this fabulous brunette. I could set her up in an apartment so that’s she’s always available whenever I feel like making love to her ... Which will be most of the time, of course.’ ‘Ha! That cheque wouldn’t fill my jewellery box.’

  Daniel opened his eyes wide. ‘Who said anything about you being the brunette?’

  Raquel hit him with a pillow. ‘Try and be serious, Daniel.’ ‘Okay then. What would you do with it?’

  ‘Daniel - be serious for once. It’s a lot of money.’

  He propped himself up on his pillow. ‘I’m being very serious, Rac. If you had a hundred and twenty-five thousand, what would you do with it?’

  ‘Turn it into a two hundred and fifty thousand, of course.’ ‘How?’

  Raquel became thoughtful. ‘I told you I once ran a bar, didn’t I?’ ‘You did.’

  ‘I was good at it.’

  Daniel grinned and nodded. ‘You’re brilliant. But what’s that got to do with running a bar?’

  Raquel threw back her head and laughed. ‘I was good at running the bar. I doubled its turnover.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By being friendly to the customers. There’s was one guy who came in every night for a week. It turned out that he owned a rival bar. He offered me a job at double my pay but I’ve got these crazy, old-fashioned ideas about loyalty. He told me that the secret of my success was that I made every man feel that I wanted to go to bed with him. So ... that’s what I’d do - open a bar and become the sex fantasy of a thousand tired businessmen.’

  Daniel had a sudden mental picture of the lunchtime office girls queueing at the mobile delicatessen outside Sulzers and the cars racing off to the town. ‘A bar!’ he yelled. ‘That’s it! We’ll open a bar! ’ He jumped into a kneeling position on the bed and gave Raquel a resounding kiss. ‘You’re brilliant, Rac! Brilliant!’

  Raquel opened her mouth to speak but was too late: Daniel bounced excitedly off the bed and darted naked into the living- room. He returned waving the cheque and leapt on to the bed, nearly knocking Raquel on to the floor.

  ‘Ouch - oh shit!’ He winced in pain as his foot objected to the treatment.

  ‘Daniel—’

  ‘Kiss it, Rac!’ said Daniel, bobbing up and down.

  ‘The hell I will. Control your animal passions, young man.’

  ‘The cheque!’ He waved it under her nose. ‘Kiss it!’

  ‘What? Daniel - what the hell—’

  ‘Kiss it!’ He bounced up and down. The bed creaked protests at being used as a trampoline.

  ‘Why should I kiss a cheque, you crazy gook!’

  ‘Because it’s our future!’

  16

  Kurt Harriman was one of the most junior officials in the Overseas Trade Department of the Swiss Embassy; therefore he was given the job of processing Daniel’s strange letter. He looked up from the completed application forms before him. Daniel and Raquel were sitting opposite him in the embassy interview room.

  ‘Do you have evidence of this payment you have received, Mr Kalen?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve not yet paid it in to my bank account here.’ Daniel reached into his pocket and handed Harriman the cheque from the Mahal Association.

  ‘Just as well,’ Harriman commented, studying the cheque and making some notes. ‘Otherwise it will be subject to UK taxation. You’re not a UK citizen therefore there is nothing illegal in you holding an overseas bank account. But I’m sure you’ve thought of that.’

  ‘I hadn’t,’ Daniel admitted. When he first approached the Swiss, he decided to be open and honest in his dealings with them. Up to a point, that is.

  ‘Your passports, please.’

  Raquel and Daniel handed them over. Harriman checked that the details Daniel had entered on the application forms were accurate and passed them back.

  ‘And your IDF discharge papers please, Mr Kalen.’

  Harriman unfolded the sheaf of documents. ‘Honourable Discharge’ was stamped on them in English and Hebrew. He returned them without comment and regarded the young couple sitting on the other side of the desk. Switzerland had no hard and fast rules governing the admission of aliens and their business aspirations. Each case was judged on its own merits in the light of recommendations made by the embassy staff dealing with the application. The guidelines included general requirements
that would-be residents should have a suitable social standing and that they should import their own funds into Switzerland. Such funds should be sufficient to meet all their likely needs for the duration of their residential permit. In other words - no problems if you’ve got money. The social standing of this young couple was reasonably acceptable: a US citizen working in the UK as a parliamentary research assistant, and an honourably discharged officer in the Israeli air force. Hardly a pair of hippies. It was the amount of money this young couple had that made them a borderline case. Harriman decided that he needed more information from them.

  ‘How much do you expect to spend on setting up this bar or diner?’ he asked.

  ‘About fifty per cent of our capital,’ Daniel replied.

  ‘Have you looked at the cost of setting up in business in Switzerland?’

  ‘No,’ said Raquel quickly, seeing Daniel hesitate. ‘We know it’s going to be a long path so we thought it might as well start here as anywhere. What we’re thinking of is something fairly small to start with. About forty square metres - roughly the size of a high street snackbar.’

  Harriman nodded. ‘It will have to be leasehold, of course.’

  ‘Because foreigners can’t buy property until they’ve lived in the country seven years,’ said Raquel. ‘Yes - we’ve read the booklet you sent us, Mr Harriman. We’ll look for a five-year lease with an option to renew.’

  ‘Why do you think you will succeed, Miss Gibbons?’

  ‘Because hard work and providing customers with what they want at a reasonable price always succeeds,’ Raquel answered.

  Harriman’s expression gave no clue as to what he was thinking. He produced an official card and handed it to Daniel. ‘Your next step, Mr Kalen, is to visit Switzerland and open a bank account with your cheque. As you hope to use the finance in the setting up of a business, I suggest you use a local bank of commerce. They are very helpful but they will charge you for their advice. Tell the bank to telex me direct if there are any problems. Bring me all your details on the account once the cheque has been cleared. While you’re in Switzerland, it would do no harm if you were to approach real estate agents. They too can be extremely helpful.’ He signalled the end of the interview by gathering up his papers.