Batsheva was a tall and handsome woman, but that hadn’t stopped her from wearing very fashionable and beautiful high-heeled shoes. And anyone who knew anything about shoes knew, too, that they were frighteningly expensive ones. The dark red silk of her dress complemented her. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but the diamond earrings she had on were spectacular.
“My parents were born in Czechoslovakia,” she continued, “and my Czech is excellent. At the age of sixteen, and a year later at seventeen, too, I did some work in Prague and Budapest for Nativ, the liaison organization that maintained contact with Jews living in the Eastern Bloc during the Cold War and encouraged immigration to Israel—under the guise of being there to visit family and tour around. I was there during the final days of the Iron Curtain. I was naïve and enthusiastic enough to do foolish things, and the honorable gentlemen at Nativ were simply insane. Taking a young girl and allowing her to carry out secret tasks, to convey instructions and relay money. They had no limits and were certainly not God-fearing individuals. I, by the way, was and still am.” She smiled again, clearly aware of the impression her words were making.
“I’d like to confess to something,” she continued in a soft voice. “Outwardly, I may appear to be someone who treads a fine line, the religious woman who’s constantly seeking her limits. Perhaps it suits me to have people see me in that way, but I know there are still barriers that I haven’t dared to cross. Those barriers are important, I respect them and they mean a lot to me. My way of life is a part of me; my faith, and please excuse the dramatics, is a guiding light in my life. The value system according to which I was raised and have raised my own children is not something I wish to challenge—on the contrary. But now I want to do something I’ve never dared to do before.”
She looked around the room, lingering briefly on Sayid.
“I believe that my faith needs to be expressed not only in the form of leading a religious life. I need to do something real for the sake of our existence here. My husband and children have served in the army, and still do so. Religious women can’t serve in combat roles in the army. But here, I can. And it feels right for me.” She paused, and her eyes clouded over with sadness. “I’m sorry, I’m usually a lot clearer and more eloquent.” She shook her head, as if she was shaking off drops of water. “Anyway, we’re about to get going, and that’s the main thing. I’m happy to be here, with you, and I’ll keep you all in line. Like I said, it’s my job to be the responsible adult.”
She straightened her dress and the gleam returned to her beautiful eyes. “I’m done,” Batsheva said.
12
Ya’ara stood outside, listening to the ebb and flow of the world around her. The sky was a purplish shade of blue, solitary raindrops still fell from the leaves of the plants, and rivulets of rainwater trickled across the ground, their soft murmurings clearly audible from every direction. The concrete path shone with moisture, and she was enveloped by the intoxicating odor of earth and water and rain-washed vegetation. Her thoughts carried her back to the field operatives course she had undergone years ago at the Mossad. She remembered how excited and amazed she had felt to know that she was in, that she belonged. She knew her cadets were feeling the same right now. Two of them had gone to the nearby village to purchase groceries for dinner. The others had dispersed to their respective rooms. She wondered if her urgency was justified. Was she doing the right thing by insisting on getting to Berlin as soon as Thursday evening and thereby cutting short the weeks of preparation that she and Aslan had worked out so meticulously? It’ll do the cadets the world of good, she thought. A chance for them from the very beginning to get used to the fact that things move quickly, that plans change, that they need to think on the move. Yes, but you’re trying to rationalize it, she responded, conducting an internal debate with herself. If rocking the cadets’ boat like this from the very outset was the right thing to do, you would have planned it that way. But that’s not the real reason. The truth is you want to be in the field already. We have to act swiftly. She who hesitates is lost.
More so than anything else, she sensed the same prickling of danger that Matthias felt. Something wasn’t right. Yes, it appeared on the surface to be nothing more than an affair between a middle-aged man and a younger woman, a failed romance that had come to an expected and inevitable end. But something was telling her to think otherwise. Coincidences of that nature simply don’t exist. Neither the Law of Large Numbers nor any other law at all could explain how the station chief of an intelligence service and the granddaughter of a terrorist would suddenly fall in love. And even if the love affair had blossomed purely by chance and was indeed real, Ya’ara couldn’t come to terms with Martina’s sudden disappearance. I want to be in Germany already, she thought. She had kept her distance from active fieldwork for too long, and training her group of rookies was only something that simulated the real thing in the interim—even if the order had come from above. She closed her eyes and pictured the figure of Matthias, not as he was in the present but rather as she remembered him from their first encounter, when he, unlike many others, had seen and recognized her worth. Martina’s twenty-nine years old, she thought. I’m just five years older than her. Was their love affair really so ludicrous, doomed to failure? She remembered that night when she and Matthias had almost crossed that line—from colleagues to lovers. Who backed off first? The answer wasn’t all that clear all of a sudden.
“Coming in for a coffee?” She almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of the voice, but managed to maintain her composure. Aslan had crept up on her again unnoticed.
“One of these days you’re going to give me a heart attack. You need to give me a heads-up when you’re approaching. You can’t keep doing that.”
“That’s just me, you know.”
“You’re unbearable.” She calmed down. “Let’s get something hot to drink, I’m freezing.”
“Good idea. And the cadets meanwhile can show us what they can cook.”
13
“So what do you think?”
They were driving down the steep, winding road toward Deir al-Asad, hoping to find an open mini-market or grocery store.
“About what?”
“About all of this. About the group. About how quickly things are moving. About the fact that we’re going to be in another country in three days’ time.”
The tone of his voice was soft, almost intimate. She kept the conversation on official lines.
“I’m still thinking things over. Despite all the dramatic stories.”
“It’s like we’ve been selected based on our personal tragedies.”
“Or the manner in which we overcame them.”
“So you’re not just a pretty face . . .”
“Assaf, or whatever your name may be, don’t come on to me like that. It’s offensive.”
“My name’s Assaf Tidhar. I apologize. It just popped out automatically. To tell you the truth, you don’t look like a woman who can be won over with clichés.”
“Do you mean to say some can be? Okay, I’ll ask: What kind of woman do I look like?”
“What can I say? You don’t want me to say it, but how can I not? You have a face that isn’t easily forgotten, you’re sort of elegant, a little stern-faced . . .”
“Stern-faced?! Seriously?”
“Well, a little—like those women in the movies, with their hair pulled back, glasses with thick black frames, blouses modestly buttoned to the very top . . .”
“You aren’t going to keep this up, right? As I see things, you’re not good-looking enough to be that stupid.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what’s got into me. I don’t usually talk such nonsense. So please, tell me about yourself.”
Helena remained silent for a short while. She was focused on the road, the sharp curves. She was an excellent driver.
“I’m Helena, but that you already know. Helena Stepanov. My family immigrated to Israel from Russia—which you can hear in my
accent, perhaps. Although I’ve been here since the age of seven. We lived in St. Petersburg before moving to Israel.”
“Do you remember anything from there?”
“Of course. And I’ve been back to visit three, no, four times since. It’s a beautiful and hard city,” she sighed. “Were you born in Israel?” She glanced at him, his fair hair blowing wild in the wind. She suspected it was always like that.
“Yes. At Kibbutz Gonen. I left the country for the first time only after my military service. I did the big postarmy trip and ended up staying in South America for almost eight years. I worked as a bodyguard for businessmen in Panama, and then in Mexico, before taking over the running of one of the companies’ security divisions.”
“Why did you come back?”
“It’s a long story. But without any drama. It just seemed to be a dead end. Too much money. Too many women. How can one live like that?”
“Do you always respond in this manner? Always resort to cynicism? But I won’t bother you right now. We need to find somewhere open. Can you cook?”
“I make a wonderful mushroom soup. That’s exactly what I’m going to make this evening. A mushroom soup befitting a winter’s day. As long as we can find some mushrooms, of course.” He looked around as if he was thinking about stopping and heading out into the woods around them to pick the wild variety. At that specific moment in time, Helena thought he seemed almost tolerable.
“Unlike you, I’m not much of a cook at all. I can make just a few things I learned from my grandmother. My mother didn’t cook at all. She worked at the academy from morning till late in the evening. She hasn’t changed. I was required to excel in many areas, but was spared the need to shine at cooking.”
“I just hope we aren’t going to be tested on our kitchen skills, on our ability to produce a three-course gourmet meal,” Assaf said, cautiously adding: “You said your mother worked at the academy . . . ?”
“Not that kind of an academy. An institute. The Weizmann Institute, Assaf, the Weizmann Institute. Israelis are so ignorant sometimes. Those associations are simply insulting. My mother is a well-known scientist and I’ve never met her standards.”
Helena refrained from looking at Assaf and focused her gaze on the road, her nose pointing straight ahead in defiance, her eyes ablaze, her lower lip aquiver. But she bit down on it and managed to conceal the subtle tremor.
• • •
Assaf’s mushroom soup was as wonderful as he had promised. Helena prepared a beef stroganoff from a recipe she found online. “If you’re as good in the field as you are in the kitchen, we’ll be just fine,” Ya’ara commented. “But more important, what’s for dessert?”
”You’re not going to believe it. We came back with a hundred Mallomars.”
“A hundred?!”
“Based on ten per person, with a few extras for anyone who may feel deprived.”
“We’d better get our act together—and quickly. Otherwise it’s not going to end well at all.”
Batsheva tried to remember the last time she had eaten one of those chocolate-coated marshmallow treats, while Aslan leaned over to Ya’ara and whispered, “We’ll meet later and have a drink. An adult dessert.”
“Lucky you’re here,” she replied in a low voice. “It’s not going to be easy.”
14
LONDON, DECEMBER 1947
Yosef Raphael left his studio. He was wearing a thick sweater, and over it a long woolen coat, which he quickly buttoned up to ward off the biting and unexpected cold. His studio was equipped with a good coal heater, and he hadn’t felt the chill that was lurking outdoors. His hair sparkled with marble dust, and he ran his hand over his head in a well-practiced motion, brushing it out. A shower of shimmering stone particles rained down around him, and for a brief moment he appeared to have a halo of light as he made his way along the sidewalk. He was a very handsome man, and knew it, too, comfortably accepting the perks and privileges that came his way as a result. It hadn’t always been the case. He wasn’t particularly aware of his good looks when he was younger, and he was certainly oblivious to the effect they had on other people, women and men alike.
As a young man at Slade, the renowned school of fine art, he couldn’t understand the fuss he created, and besides, he wanted others to take an interest in him because of his sculptures, his ideas, and not his looks. Over the years, however, he became accustomed to the effect he created, which stemmed presumably from a combination of everything—his outlandish and immensely powerful works of art, his abundant charisma, his intellectual depth, and his resolute face, its features the epitome of masculine beauty. His studio had once served as a small foundry and he loved its concrete floor, the steel beams that supported the ceiling, the open expanse, and the light that shone through the high windows. The surrounding area had grown since into a bustling neighborhood, complete with a mixture of small businesses and apartment buildings—a colorful and disadvantaged neighborhood in the heart of a gray city that was still licking its wounds from a war that had left it scarred and in ruins. A train passed over the street on a bridge leading to the west. Steam rose from vents in the sidewalk, evidence of the vast and winding world of the underground rail network, of the deep and narrow tunnels, of the escalators descending into dim-lit caverns, the masses of people bunched together, moving like a single entity along the narrow platforms, waiting for the gust of air and then the lights that heralded an approaching train. There’s an entire world living down there, Raphael thought, an almost ghostly world. The cold was turning his breath into vapor. It was two in the afternoon, but the light was pale. It would be evening soon, Christmas was approaching, but it wouldn’t be one of joy and festivities this year; victory, too, exacts a heavy price, he thought, not just defeat.
Elhanan was already waiting for him at the pub adjacent to Camden Town Station, a large glass of Guinness on the table in front of him.
“I can’t seem to stomach that stuff,” Raphael said as he approached the table.
“It’s instead of food, and allows me to skip lunch.”
“Oh, well, the things we must do for the state in the making.”
“How’s the sculpturing coming along? Making progress?” Elhanan asked in an effort to show interest.
“I’m doing something different now,” Raphael said, hanging his coat over the back of the chair next to him. “I’m working with white marble, and through it I’m trying to capture the traditions of Greek sculpture, classical sculpture. You see, I am indeed going back to the roots, albeit not the roots as you imagine them. It’ll work well for the figure of Absalom as I picture him. The image of the rebel. Spectacular beauty, a youthful and muscular physique. No, the fundamentals of the Canaanites won’t work this time. It’s most definitely not going to be a Canaanite sculpture. My Absalom will be something different. Beautiful and menacing.”
Elhanan’s thoughts began to wander. “I suppose the state’s going to need artists, too,” he said, consoling himself, “not only fighters, construction engineers, and farmers. I’d like to come to your studio one day, to see what you’re doing.”
“Whenever you like.” Raphael reached under his sweater to retrieve a large brown envelope. “Here, she gave this to me yesterday. She said she’s doing what she’s doing primarily to exact revenge on her neglectful husband. And less so for us. She doesn’t particularly like Jews, she made a point of saying.”
“Doesn’t like Jews, yet spends the night with you when her husband is away at their country estate. Does she not know you’re a Jew?”
“Of course she knows. Only she says I don’t look like one. And besides, it’s further retribution against her husband, he’s a big anti-Semite.”
She screws her husband by having a Jew screw her, Elhanan thought, reflecting on the warped nature of the human psyche but keeping the workings of his mind to himself. He had no intention of sharing his notions with Raphael. He’s probably too delicate for such vulgarity. He’s an artist, after all
. But thanks to him, they have access to the British Foreign Office’s most confidential documents, and that’s the main thing. It’s vital that they know what those bastards are planning, when and how they plan to withdraw from the Land of Israel, which forces will pull out and when, what they intend to leave behind for the Arabs, what they plan to do with their substantial weapons depots. Bringing Raphael back to London was a smart move, Elhanan thought. He has the perfect cover, he’s well connected, and he thinks right.
“Elhanan” was second in command to “Yanai,” who had set up and headed the European division of SHAI, the Haganah’s intelligence and counterespionage service. Ben-Gurion himself had given the order: We need to establish an intelligence infrastructure throughout the world that in due course will become part of the intelligence service of the State of Israel, after the state is established. “You must gather information,” the old man said in his booming voice during the secret meeting at SHAI headquarters. “You have to acquire arms and get them to Israel, you need to construct a network of discreet connections for the sake of the Zionist cause!” Ben-Gurion slammed his hand down on the table. “War has many faces,” he continued, his large head tilted forward, “and you will dig your trenches in the Arab states, in the soil of Europe, and in India and China, too, if necessary!” India and China, yeah, right, thought Elhanan, who was sitting behind Isser Harel, ready to carry out any order his commander might choose to whisper in his ear. India and China. There Ben-Gurion goes again, getting all carried away. “I’ll be expecting your first reports within three months,” he said, before collecting his papers and exiting the room in haste, his aide, a young Shimon Peres, following quickly in his wake.
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