A Spy in Exile

by Jonathan de Shalit

  Ya’ara paused for a moment to sip from the bottle of water on the floor next to her. There was absolute silence in the room. The light coming through the large windows was weak, pale.

  “The police conducted an investigation, of course. But they came up with nothing, not a single lead. And a few months later, the case fell by the wayside. Inquiries that my parents tried to make yielded nothing. But they couldn’t do much and had very few resources. I was a child and also couldn’t do anything really. Other than travel the entire world in my imagination to find her. And I did, of course. I found her every time. My mother spoke about her until her dying day. She passed away without knowing what happened to her older daughter. That’s my story, and my pain, and I have no intention of talking about it again. And none of you will breathe a word about my sister and her fate ever again—at least not to me.”

  Ya’ara looked at the group of people sitting around her, held silent and still by her words.

  “My parents sent me to a boarding school in Jerusalem. I served in the army for four years and was recruited by the Mossad immediately thereafter. I spent eight years as a field operative. It suited me. Your training course will give you a good idea what that entails. Prolonged periods abroad. Lots of living on the street. Long nights spent on stakeout. Tracking people. Getting close to people. Initiating contact with them. Disappearing from your friends, your family. Making up stories and offering excuses, until they’ve had enough and simply forget about you. Meeting guys and watching them shy away and back off because you aren’t ever there, and they don’t know where you are, and they can never call you, only you them, sometimes, and they don’t know who you’re with and what you’re up to. And you do things you didn’t believe were possible at all, and realize that this is what you can do when all your capabilities and character traits come into play. And you become addicted to this feeling of excitement and sense of ‘I can do anything.’ Omnipotence—that’s how I’d describe it. A sense of superiority, of great power.

  “I had to get away from it all. I needed to be just like everyone else at least once. I took a year off to study, and then added another two years of unpaid leave. And I studied what I had always dreamed of studying—film. It was wonderful, and it was liberating. My final project is almost complete, and no, you can’t see it, not now. Maybe down the road at some point, if I finish it. But only if you promise to be particularly generous and kind.”

  One of the young women in the circle spoke up. “You didn’t say what you did in the army,” she said.

  “Military intelligence,” Ya’ara answered curtly.

  “What you told us at the start, about the murder,” the young woman continued. “You said it happened a year and a half ago. Weren’t you at university at the time?”

  “I was summoned. I dropped everything and reported for duty. I took another break from my studies, and I’m not even going to tell you about the trouble I had with the faculty administration,” she added with a smile that vanished in a flash. “When it all ended, I needed some space and time to myself. I traveled in South America and then the U.S. for a few months. My boyfriend left me. We were going to get married, but I couldn’t promise him that I wouldn’t ever disappear again.

  “My disappearances were a part of me, not just a part of my job. You don’t get used to something like that. So he left,” she said in a clear voice that also held a warning. One of the cadets thought he saw a tear in her eye, but realized it might be the light playing tricks on him.

  “And here we are together now, you and I—and Aslan,” Ya’ara continued. “I’m looking forward to it, to what lies ahead. We’ll take a ten-minute break now and afterward you’ll all have a chance to introduce yourselves. Over and above the profile dossiers we have on all of you, I’m expecting you to be totally open and honest. Ann, you’ll be first. And after you, Sayid.”

  5

  They were milling around the hot water urn, making themselves Turkish coffee in paper cups. Or Taster’s Choice. Milk, a sachet of sugar. The refreshments also included halva cookies.

  “I didn’t expect this,” one of the cadets said. “I didn’t think we’d be talking like this. From the heart, with such intensity. I was pretty stunned by what Ya’ara told us, that story about her sister.”

  “Yes, I need to rethink what I’m going to say,” Ann responded. “I thought it would be something like reading out my CV—date and place of birth, school, university, hobbies—a checklist of sorts.”

  “I’m not sure if I’m up for this. It seems a bit too much, don’t you think? Touchy-feely manipulation.”

  “I don’t know. There’s something very impressive about it.”

  “Everybody’s going back in. You ready to go?”

  The smell of wet earth enveloped them, with rain falling continually and the air turning cooler. The strong wind was blowing the raindrops onto the covered porch. Ann wrapped her arms around herself, clutching the thick, warm sweater that clung to her long and slender torso. She felt alert and happy. She had the sense that she had finally found the thing she had always been looking for. She wondered how she could express that feeling in words, voice it in a manner that everyone would understand.

    • • •

  “Okay, shalom, my name is Ann McFarlane.” Her voice, with its rolling accent, sounded deep and low. She appeared a little embarrassed, but her shyness was accompanied by a beautiful smile. “As you can hear, I’m from England. I came to Israel about three years ago, which feels such a long time ago but also like yesterday. Everything here seems new to me, and I’m never sure if I’m doing the right thing. So please forgive me from now on. It’s not that I’m clumsy or awkward or just a bit dim . . . I’m simply new here.

  “I was born and raised in York, in the north of England. My mother is a stage actress, and still quite the diva today. She wasn’t around much for me as a child because she was on stage in the evenings—or with her lovers. As I learned later. Or her theater group was on tour, in London and many other cities in the UK. My father is a branch manager for Barclays Bank. My relationship with him was always an easier one. He’s conservative, always in a gray suit, but he has a great sense of humor. Even as a child I wasn’t able to understand the connection between them. They were like two strangers in the same house. But I knew he loved her, my sweet father, and she broke his heart so many times. I’m still in touch with him, a lot less with her. It’s much easier when you live overseas, I mean here,” she concluded.

  “I’m not Jewish,” she continued after a deep breath. She felt as if she had dropped a bomb in the room but there was no reaction from the others, who simply kept their eyes on her. “I’m here because of love . . . I love . . . No. To be precise, I’m in love. Still in love. With Daniel. We’ve known each other for seven years now, almost eight. We met at Oxford. I was studying mathematics and the philosophy of science. Daniel was doing his PhD in history. He’s a professor today at Tel Aviv University, and he’s the most adorable lecturer in Israel.”

  “Are you married?” asked one of the young women in the circle, who couldn’t restrain herself.

  “We had a big English wedding. With around eighty guests, perhaps. And yes, I know, that’s considered a small wedding in Israel.” Ann smiled. “Shortly afterward we returned to Israel. Lucky for me, I pick up languages easily. I think my Hebrew is not too bad. I hope so. Otherwise it would have been hell. I also speak French and German. And I know Latin from university. I was in Israel just once before then, with Daniel, and it was one big party. After the wedding, we came for good, forever. And that’s a completely different feeling. There’s something more to that, a commitment of sorts. I suddenly feel I have a responsibility. Daniel is important to me. His family is now my family, too. And they’re important to me as well. I look at you and I feel closer to you than I ever felt to my friends at Balliol College. And I don’t even know you yet.” Ann no longer looked embarrassed. Her cheeks had taken on a slight flush, and her beauty was sudd
enly breathtaking.

  “I have one brother. He’s two years younger than me. He also left York. He’s an English literature student at Dublin University. He also followed his heart. You see, the English aren’t as cold as people say they are. Love, that’s what it’s all about. There’s a movie like that. Hugh Grant is prime minister. For those who like romantic comedies.”

  “Tell me, Ann, did you do anything with the mathematics? Did you ever work in the field?”

  “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue studying toward a PhD or find a job in the City, with an investment firm. To do mathematical analyses of the activity on stock exchanges around the world. I earned a living doing something completely different during my studies. I was a model. Mostly photo shoots. But in the summer, when I wasn’t at university, I did shows, too. To be honest, I hated it. It was easy money, but there I was just a pretty face, legs. It was as if my brain didn’t count for anything. My personality, too. And there’s always going to be someone younger, prettier, thinner in the room, and you show up thousands of times only to be selected occasionally. And you’re surrounded by lowlifes, too. You need to be able to handle them. I can be a bitch or a badass when I need to be. In any event, I decided I would never work in that field again.” Ann smiled, as if to make light of her words.

  “So here I am now, with you. I asked Ya’ara why she offered me a place on the team, and I don’t know if I’m allowed to say . . .” Ya’ara looked at her and nodded. “Ya’ara said: Because you’re a fanatic. You’re absolute. I was very surprised by what she said. I’ve never seen myself as someone like that. I’m hoping the training will allow me to discover things about myself. Anyway, I wanted to tell you something, and I’m not even sure if I’m expressing it very well. This group, the things that lie ahead for us together, even the rain—they all give me a sense that I’ve come to a place that’s me. It’s strange, because I’m not from here. But I’ve never felt so, so at ease as I feel right now. So significant.”

  6

  An email notification appeared on the screen of Ya’ara’s iPhone. She moved away a little from the group, which was gathered once again around the refreshments table, and opened the email. A chill went down her spine. Matthias. She hadn’t heard from him in four years. Another one of those connections that had vanished from her life after she left the Mossad. Connections that had slowly died off would be a more accurate term. Matthias Geller was the head of the BND’s Hamburg station. Clearly aware of the inherent potential of naval personnel and businessmen in terms of reporting on events outside Germany, the country’s Federal Intelligence Service operated a station in the huge port city. Matthias was a vastly experienced naval captain who was recruited by the BND at a relatively advanced age. It didn’t take more than a single brief glance to know that he was a hard and seasoned man of the sea. He had captained huge merchant ships and was said to have docked at every major port in the world, associating effortlessly with hard men like him who chose to live on large oceangoing vessels and remain months on end away from home. Following an abbreviated training period, he rose very quickly through the ranks of the intelligence service. Within three years, he was already overseeing the Hamburg station. To his handful of friends he said with sober irony at the time that his rapid—meteoric, some would say—rise through the ranks had also heralded the termination of his advancement within the organization. He wasn’t going anywhere from there. He knew that the Hamburg post would be his final position in the BND. As head of the service’s naval station, he was in the position that suited him best. He couldn’t picture himself sitting behind a desk at BND headquarters, or at any other station either, any station that didn’t specialize in the sea. He loved the ships, the smell that permeated the ports, the people whose lives were tied to the ocean highways. That rumble, deep and powerful, emanating from the belly of a ship as it sets sail from the harbor. The odor of fuel and machine oil, mixing with the smell of sea salt. The screeching of seagulls, the wake of foam trailing behind the ship. The smell of wet seaweed.

  When Ya’ara first met him, he was already forty-five years old. The Mossad wanted to get to a Russian submarine that was lost in the Baltic Sea, to retrieve secret equipment that had also been supplied to one of the Arab states. Matthias was the German intelligence service’s representative in the operation. And with Matthias’s help, Ya’ara and her team reached the site on board a large ship captained by one of his agents.

  Eight or nine years had gone by since, and they had run into each other now and then during that time. On one occasion, they were again together on the deck of a large ship, waiting as always for the signal to set their operation in motion. The call came in on the satellite phone in the middle of the night. Matthias passed the handset to Ya’ara, who was standing next to him. He saw the blood drain from her face and heard her say, in English, a cold formality in her voice, “Thank you for letting me know. No, I can’t be there right away. We’re in the midst of negotiations. Ask them to wait for me.” She turned to Matthias, buried her head in his chest, and he felt her entire body shake as she sobbed. He stroked her head. They stood like that for several long minutes, the ship cruising slowly in a circular pattern, maintaining its position in the waiting area, the crashing of the sea against the hull rising like a distant echo to the bridge high above. Her tremors finally subsided, and Ya’ara pulled away from him. She wiped away her tears on the sleeve of her sweater, and the apologetic smile she then offered tore his heart. “My mother’s dead,” she said. “I didn’t know it would hurt this much.”

  He held her hand, which suddenly went limp, and they stood like that without a word. “I’m ruining your sweater,” she said a few minutes later, rubbing the tear stains with her hand. He poured her some cognac from the metal hip flask he always carried in his pocket, and there, in silence, facing the purple sea, the sky above dotted with large stars, they stood motionless. Only when it was all over, with the white helicopter approaching the deck with a deafening sound, did they raise a silent toast to the memory of Ya’ara’s mother. Only then did she let go of Matthias’s hand, move toward the helicopter that was hovering about a meter above the deck, throw her bag through its open door, and grab hold of the hand of a crew member, who pulled her inside. As the helicopter rose and turned sharply to the west, she noticed that Matthias had his eyes fixed on her, his long, light hair disheveled.

  They met several more times over the years, unexpectedly becoming friends. Matthias appreciated her operational mind-set, her grit and courage, but it was the wild and dangerous side he saw in her that brought them closer. Her tenacious ferocity was the thing that drew him to her. Since that single occasion, he had never seen her break down like that again, but he knew that the potential to do so existed inside her, that there was an element of softness under the tempered steel. He thought sometimes that she reminded him of something in himself, something that had existed once but was now gone. Matthias and Ya’ara were in direct breach of procedures when they exchanged phone numbers and email addresses and remained in touch now and then. And when they met up, they were like two open and honest individuals whose profound affinity failed to have any bearing on their daily lives. Matthias viewed Ya’ara as a younger sister, and he wasn’t quite sure how she saw him. Still, their connection had faded in recent years. Ya’ara was focused on her film studies, and Matthias felt too old, a part of a different era. And now, out of the blue, his email lit up on her screen. She could picture him as she read his words. His light-colored hair a mess. His face tanned and lined. A man who had spent many a day under the strong sun. Dressed as always in the same thick black sweater.

  The email was almost laconic. “Dear Ya’ara,” it said. “Forgive me for disappearing. I need to see you as soon as possible. Uncle Matthias is about to get married and he needs your blessing. Let me know where and when. Does tomorrow work?”

  Uncle Matthias is about to get married. That’s what it sounds like when a German tries to be funny, Ya’ara thought. He do
esn’t need my blessing, he needs help. Urgently. Otherwise he wouldn’t have suggested tomorrow.

  “Dearest Uncle, I’ve missed you. Of course we can meet. How does the Dan Carmel Hotel sound? Let me know when you’ll be arriving. Your fiancée knows by now that you’re not easy, right? You can’t let her be shocked and surprised. Warm hug. See you.”

  Ya’ara had no idea what kind of help Matthias needed. Had he gotten himself into trouble, and how? She decided not to think about it. Their now-tenuous connection wasn’t going to allow her to make a wise guess. Anyway, she’d know soon enough. Matthias, she assumed, would be in Israel within twenty-four hours.

  7

  When he rose from his seat, the others saw a short, thin, young-looking man. He had a handsome and gentle face, with light eyes. He smiled and his smile wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. “My name is Sayid. Sayid Cohen-Tsedek,” he said. “I was born in Algeria, in the city of Algiers. My mother died when I was a child. My two older sisters married and immigrated to Canada. They’re both still living in a suburb of Montreal. After my sisters had left, my father, may he rest in peace, contracted that awful disease and died within less than three months. I was left alone. I was one of the last Jews in the city. All the others were old. I didn’t want to stay there and I didn’t want to join my sisters. They’re my beloved sisters, but I knew there was nothing for me in Montreal, where I’d always be the little brother, always under their wing. I gathered all my papers and certificates. I asked the university for a certified English and French translation of my curriculum and grade records. I handed the keys of the house to the elderly synagogue caretaker. Perhaps he’d be able to sell it once I was gone. I went to the Jewish cemetery and said good-bye to my parents. And afterward, carrying two suitcases, I boarded a ship bound for Marseilles. From there I continued to Paris by train, took a room in a small hotel in the Seventh Arrondissement, and then reported to the Israeli Consulate. A week and a half later, I landed at Ben-Gurion Airport. I wanted to kiss the ground of the Land of Israel, but there was only a jet bridge displaying advertisements for a bank that led from the airplane to the terminal. I was a young man, just twenty-two. It was the year 2000. That’s a good year to begin a new life.”