A Spy in Exile

by Jonathan de Shalit

  CONSTANT DANGER, LONG MONTHS OF COMPLETE DARKNESS, SAFE RETURN DOUBTFUL, SMALL WAGES

  SENSE OF DIGNITY AND SATISFACTION IN EVENT OF SUCCESS

  Ya’ara looked at the ad she had composed, and it pleased her. It was a paraphrase of the recruitment ad published in 1913 by polar explorer and adventurer Sir Ernest Shackleton during his preparations for the expedition that eventually brought him eternal glory. Funny how that renowned expedition was one that failed at its very outset. Shackleton had aspired to be the first man to cross Antarctica on foot. But the ship in which Shackleton and his crew set out became trapped in pack ice in the frozen South Sea, and they were forced to abandon the vessel. Lost in an endless sea of ice, their quest took on a new objective. Instead of crossing the continent, they were now forced to save themselves. Considering the harsh weather conditions, the vast distance from any other sign of human life, and the awful solitude, they appeared doomed from the very start; but Shackleton, in a display of remarkable leadership that command schools and colleges still teach today, managed to save his crew, every last one of them.

  At the time, Shackleton’s odd and tantalizing ad elicited a flood of some five thousand responses. I wonder, Ya’ara thought to herself, if anyone’s going to respond to the strange challenge more than a century later. Ya’ara posted the ad on two internet message boards and one of the social networks. Her plan was to recruit most of her team by means of the age-old method of “a friend brings a friend,” but she also wanted to poke the digital domain to see if it could cough up some interesting candidates for her.

  She didn’t need that many. Six, eight at most. Certainly no more for the initial setting-up stage. When working with such a small number of individuals, each and every one of them is significant. Any one of them could make the difference. I’m starting to think in American English, she thought, wincing. That language finds its way into everything. Like beach sand.

  Sitting and waiting for Aslan at a small bar in the Levinsky Market, Ya’ara felt completely at ease. She had absolute faith in him, held his capabilities in very high regard, and enjoyed being in his company. She had no doubts at all—she wanted him to join the enterprise, she wanted him with her.

  As always, he materialized unnoticed. His catlike ability to do so scared the life out of most people, but she was accustomed by now to seeing him appear before her, seemingly out of thin air, a powerful and silent tiger, his smile lighting up his face.

  “I can see you’ve set up a command center there,” Aslan said, his eyes alluding to the open silver iPad and the brand-new iPhone that was connected to the device with a cable. “How did you get your hands on that model so quickly? The launch was just a week ago.”

  “Aslan,” she responded, speaking his name with uncharacteristic warmth and standing to embrace him. Droplets of water trickled down the sides of a glass of milky arak filled with ice—a part of the command center. “Can I order one for you, too?”

  Aslan took the seat across the table from her, and Ya’ara gestured to the waitress to bring another arak to the table. She sized him up. His slim, muscular body appeared relaxed. His face, as always, was tanned. And in his eyes, she caught distinct glimmers of joy.

  “You look great,” she declared. “Even though you’re old,” she added with a smile that belied her words. Aslan was one of those people who never seem to age.

  “I can only hope that when you get to my age, you’ll be able to do even half of what I do,” he said.

  Aslan devoted most of his time to extreme sports—mountain climbing, rafting, skydiving, anything and everything dangerous, remote, and in beautiful surroundings.

  “I have neither the inclination nor the ability to compete with you.” Ya’ara showed him the ad. “Would you respond?” she asked.

  “Without a doubt. Crazy ad. Perfect for people like me.”

  Ya’ara told him about her meeting with the prime minister. Aslan didn’t have to ask. It was plain to see that she had taken the job. “It’s like a start-up,” she said. “We can work on it for a few years, until things become too institutionalized. And when that happens, we can make an exit. We’ll pass on the reins to someone responsible and stable, and move on from there.”

  “We, we, we. And who is this we you’re talking about?”

  “You know I’m talking about you. I want us to do this together. I’m asking you,” she added when she saw his gaze harden. “Someone has to do it. You recall our talks about what we’d do were we given the chance to rebuild everything. I’d like to think you were being serious, that we were serious. Because this is it, we have the opportunity to do so now. And opportunities like this come around maybe once in a lifetime. We’ve got hold of its tail. Let’s not let it slip away. We’ve got the chance to ride on the back of a tiger.”

  Aslan leaned forward and listened. She knew she had his attention. Ya’ara enthusiastically outlined the stages she envisioned. First, the recruitment stage. They need to recruit swiftly and aggressively. And then the training stage. We’ll begin abroad from the outset, she said, her eyes fixed on him. The entire team. In the field. We have the required budget. We’ll teach them at the same time how to construct a cover persona. A personal cover story for each of the field operatives. And a cover for the team. And then the missions stage. We’ll begin operating, establishing a dark presence. She seemed to be enveloped by an inner light of enthusiasm as she spoke, and Aslan looked at her and smiled. He was familiar with her other sides, too—the gloomy sides, the dark ones, those that danced with despair and with pain. He loved those sides of her just as much.

  “We already have an operations base, a small apartment, not far from here, on Y. L. Peretz Street. And a company. We’re the International Dried Fruit Import and Export Company.”

  “Dried fruit?”

  “Why not?”

  “True. Why not?”

  “So what do you say?” she asked without shifting her gaze.

  “Look, you know I love action. And this country is still embroiled in its wars. And wherever there’s a fight to be fought, you can count me in, on the good side. But I’ve been elsewhere these past few years. You know about all the things I do. These are the years in which I can still experience things. Even I’m not getting any younger.”

  “I’m not asking you to stop. But I’m offering you a partnership, or some kind of partnership at least. You can still go on your travels. But between them, you’ll be with me, with the unit. You’ll be a part-time field operative. Your experience is important to me, your knowledge. You keep me balanced. You’re more level-headed than I am. I need your advice and experience. And more so”—she paused for a moment and stared at him from the depths of her blue-gray eyes—“I need a brother in arms. Give as much as you can give. But tell me that you’re with me.”

  Aslan had known he was going to say yes to her already on the phone, when they had made the arrangement to meet at the bar. He didn’t know then what he’d be agreeing to, but he sensed it wasn’t going to be just a simple get-together. And now, as she sat there looking at him, her fingertips almost touching his hand, he sipped on his arak and said, “Okay. I’m in. As much as I can be. We’ll do it together.” He sighed. “If only my son could meet someone like you.”

  “Uri’s twenty-two, and I’m an old woman of thirty-four, and he has a girlfriend. You showed me pictures of her.”

  “I know, I know. And you’re so young that it hurts. You have no right to talk about being old. And Uri will still go through many more girlfriends until he finds someone who suits him.”

  “He has all the time in the world. Come, let’s drink to the young ones, whose entire lives lie ahead of them.”

  3

  Their furniture shopping at IKEA took less than two hours. Ya’ara had come armed with a detailed list of everything they needed to turn the apartment into a work base. She had quickly marked off several options for each item they required in the catalog and now bounded joyfully up the escalator. At that moment,
he thought she seemed younger than ever.

  “You’re like a war machine,” Aslan remarked in wonder.

  “More like a shopping machine. I hate these kinds of places,” she confessed. “They frighten me. Get in quickly and get out even faster—that’s what I say. And don’t buy what you hadn’t decided was necessary before getting here. Otherwise you’re just playing into their hands.”

  Their next stop was a business that dealt in safes.

  And then they purchased an espresso machine. “Definitely essential,” Aslan agreed.

    • • •

  Afterward at a bar they went through their lists of contacts again, writing down the name of every friend or acquaintance who they thought might be able to suggest a suitable candidate. And they also searched through their memories for potential members of the unit they were getting off the ground.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” Ya’ara had asked shortly before, as they poured themselves grappa from the bottle kept especially for her in the freezer behind the counter. Something inside her has broken free, has changed, Aslan thought to himself once more. Their meetings in the past had always taken place at trendy wine bars or in hotel lobbies. But here, too, in the Levinsky Market, Ya’ara—with her hair tied up and the string of pearls around her neck—looked at home. He kept his impressions to himself and responded: “Women and men. The team must be diverse. That’s the way to survive on the streets.”

  “Obviously. Exceptional women and men. We’re setting up a very small team. Six to eight individuals. They have to be special.”

  “Smart, intelligent,” Aslan said.

  “Smart and intelligent people are a dime a dozen,” she commented.

  “Brave. Streetwise. Who can work as part of a team, but can also operate alone. Individuals who like to be alone. Who are happy to be so.”

  “Yes,” Ya’ara responded pensively. “Individuals who understand that solitude is strength. That their world is full even without people around them all the time. Know what I mean?” And Aslan thought for a moment that she was talking about herself, but quickly brushed the notion aside and nodded in agreement. He understood. “But I love having a good friend by my side,” she added, looking into his eyes.

  “And the ability to operate under a foreign identity, of course,” he said.

  “Absolute trustworthiness,” Ya’ara said. “They always have to report only the truth, and in full.”

  “There isn’t a man or woman out there without secrets.”

  “True. But when it comes to matters concerning an operation, albeit something indirect or marginal, we must be able to trust them completely. Not for one second will I work with someone who isn’t willing to tell me the whole truth.” Ya’ara knew that sometimes she herself refrained from speaking the whole truth. But when circumstances require doing so, it’s not the same thing as lying, she thought defiantly.

  “And patriotism,” Aslan added.

  “That’s our starting point. That’s a must. We aren’t mercenaries. And the ability to listen. To show empathy. Good interpersonal skills.”

  “Perseverance. Thoroughness.”

  “The ability to carry things out to the end. The very end. The ability to cross the threshold, to cross the Rubicon. To breach the mission.”

  “Now you sound like the guys from the Office. ‘To breach the mission.’ What the hell does that mean anyway?”

  “A lot of good things have come out of the Office. Including innovations in the language. You know, the Office made me what I am today.”

  “I’m not so sure. No one invented you. You made yourself.”

  “It seems to me sometimes that our natures are like Michelangelo’s sculptures. He said, you know, that his sculptures were already there, in the marble, and that he merely exposed them. Allowed them to emerge from the stone.”

  “When you ramble on like that, you lose me,” Aslan responded with a smile, even though Ya’ara knew he understood exactly what she meant. “Please, continue.”

  “They need to be determined. Iron-willed. Imaginative. We’re looking for creativity. The ability to perform at a high level. Optimism. I think that’s crucial—optimism. They must believe they’re going to succeed even if they find themselves up against a wall.” She kept track of the required traits with her fingers.

  “With a list like this,” Aslan said, laughing, “we aren’t going to find anyone. Just look at us. We aren’t people like that.”

  “Obviously no one can be perfect, no one can boast all the right qualities and abilities, but there has to be a critical mass. The right people for us will possess enough of these qualities—and more. Just so you know, I haven’t told you even half of what I want yet.”

  “Basta, genug, no más—enough! How about you tell me your top five, the five things you define as the most critical, so I don’t have to spend the day on this barstool?”

  Ya’ara sipped on her grappa. A small wrinkle appeared on her forehead as she pondered Aslan’s question.

  “Do I have to name only five?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then, here goes—absolute trustworthiness, good interpersonal skills, a cool head, the ability to carry things through, optimism, and a void to fill.”

  “A void to fill? That’s new.”

  “You’re going to say it’s just another one of my strange notions. But yes, a void to fill, a deficiency. We all have to be lacking something. A hole of sorts in our soul, a void we’re constantly trying to fill. Everything we do seeks to make up for that void, that deficiency. To find an answer for it.”

  “I don’t feel I’m lacking anything,” Aslan said, his eyes glinting, his teeth gleaming white.

  Ya’ara thought about it for a moment. “Perhaps you’re the exception to the rule,” she said. “Perhaps you’re so good at what you do because you’re at peace with yourself. But I’m brilliant at what I do because of my empty spaces.” She went silent. “It’s too early for such candor,” she continued with a smile. “It’s not even ten in the morning yet. But I think I’m right. We’ll look for people who are missing a part of their soul.”

  “And yet they must still be trustworthy, stable, cool-headed, and all that.”

  “Yes.”

  “And aside from that, you named six traits. I asked for five.”

  “A deficiency isn’t a trait. It’s something that needs to be filled. You can’t count that.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that one.”

  “I was thinking, Aslan, that we’ll have to take into account just how far the people have already come in their lives. We need to find individuals who have come a long way. Who’ve had to deal with difficulties, with meager beginnings or with significant changes, who’ve already taken a beating, who’ve come out on top. People who’ve learned how to win.”

  “And we’ll be doing all this without a recruiting department, without psychologists, without a list of names of former members of the military’s special forces or dean’s list university graduates . . .”

  “Exactly. Just you and me. We’re the recruiters and the psychologists and the personnel department and the veteran field operatives. That’s just the point.”

  “God help us,” Aslan sighed, pouring himself another shot of grappa.

  “It can’t hurt to have Him on our side. I’m kind of counting on it.”

  4

  They had gathered at a spacious holiday cabin, its living room window offering a view through a curtain of rain of the Western Galilee mountains, steep, towering, and cleaved by deep valleys, large rock formations rising from the earth like lost islands in a thick and tangled sea of greenery.

  There were eight of them—Ya’ara and Aslan, and the six women and men they had recruited over the previous four months. It was the first time everyone had met, and they were sitting in a circle in absolute silence. Ya’ara sized them up one by one before opening her mouth to speak.

  “Shalom,” she began. “As you all already know, my
name’s Ya’ara Stein. And this guy next to me here is Aslan. Amnon Aslan actually, but only his mother still calls him Amnon. Thank you for coming. You’ll be assigned to your rooms later this afternoon. Meanwhile, we’ll start getting to know one another a little. It may take some time. And then we’ll discuss the training that lies ahead and the preparations required beforehand. As I’ve already informed you, the training will take place abroad. In Berlin. It’s going to be cold there for sure, but then again you’ve been promised a long journey in the dark. The cabins here are ours for five days. Today we’ll be dining on the sandwiches we’ve brought along with us. From tomorrow, you’ll be divided into pairs and each pair will be responsible in turn for preparing a light lunch and, primarily, a sumptuous dinner. The winners get free air tickets to Europe . . . and the losers get the same.”

  She looked around the circle, giving each of her cadets a measured smile before continuing. “Let’s begin with me telling you something about myself. And then you’ll each have a turn to do the same. Any questions?”

  Six pairs of eyes remained focused on her. No, there were no questions.

  “About a year and a half ago, I murdered someone. While on active duty. He was a dangerous man. A piece of filth, to be exact, and I have no doubt that he deserved to die. But he still shows up in my nightmares.” An icy chill seemed to blow through the room. One of the cadets took a deep breath. Other than that—absolute silence.

  “But let me go back to the beginning. I was born in Russia. In a small town in Siberia. I was eight when we immigrated to Israel. I grew up in Kiryat Haim and we were immigrants and we were poor. As a young girl, I was a dreamer, and I devoured books in Hebrew and in Russian. My parents struggled to make friends with their new homeland, but I loved the Israeli sunshine and the wonderful fragrances at the end of winter, in those areas where there were still orchards. I can remember the endless noise of the trucks and cars on the road to Haifa. My mother told me stories about Siberia and our life there, and she taught me how to read and write in Russian. I soon lost my accent. I’m not proud of that. I had a brother and a sister. But my sister, Tatiana, who was two years older than me, disappeared when she was sixteen. She simply didn’t return home from school one day. Her story didn’t make waves. Only in the neighborhood, but not in the press. Perhaps because we were new immigrants, or maybe due to rumors that she left home of her own accord. Some twenty years have gone by and, still, no one knows—I don’t know—what happened to her. Not a day goes by without my thinking of her.”