Aslan returned to the table carrying four glasses of beer.
“Any thoughts?” he asked.
“It’s better to be in a warm pub than out on the frozen streets,” Helena responded, a mustache of beer foam adorning her upper lip. Ann looked at her and smiled.
“Something wrong?” Helena asked.
Sayid ran his finger discreetly across his lips, and Helena thanked him silently and licked off the beer mustache with the tip of her tongue.
“I think,” Ann said, “that we should stop wandering these streets aimlessly. I think Sayid should attend the prayer session. That would be the simplest and most direct way to get close to Badawi, to see how this prayer and sermon business is run, if he has bodyguards, how he gets to the mosque, how he leaves.”
“Can you do it?” Aslan asked, directing his question at Sayid.
“I’m familiar with the Quran and the prayers,” Sayid responded. “Growing up in Algeria I was required to study the Quran. I’m not a religious Muslim, of course, and can’t pretend to be one, but I could certainly play the part of a refugee who’s looking to find warmth and meaning and something familiar at the mosque.”
“Are you sure?” Aslan asked. “It’s a risky play.”
“Not for me,” Sayid said. “I’m a genuine Algerian, I know Algiers and Constantine like the back of my hand, and miss it. I have no trouble talking of extremism and atrocities. I’ve read enough reports and blogs and I’ve seen a fair number of pictures. The world is focused these days on Syria, but the jihadists are active in North Africa, too. A large number of refugees come from North African countries. I just need a little time to prepare a precise and detailed cover story. With its focus, in fact, on my time here in London. Where I’m living, what brings me to Bethnal Green, whether I work, doing what, how I got to England, things like that.”
“We’ll help you,” Aslan said, nodding his head to confirm it was the right move. “In any case, the story is mainly for your benefit. To bolster your self-confidence. After all, you don’t have to answer to anyone. You only need to be ready.”
I’m ready, Sayid thought, suddenly realizing for just how long he had been waiting for this moment.
45
BRUSSELS, JANUARY 2015
“What we’re looking for is a weak spot,” Ya’ara said to her cadets. “Information that will allow us to get closer to Hamdan. And we probably have more chance of doing so when he’s on the move, when he’s not guarded by walls and fences and steel gates. Surprise and determination are the elements that will tip the scales in our favor. Our desire to take him out surpasses their will to protect him.”
“I hope they know that, too,” Assaf mumbled.
They were all dressed in designer wear, tailored in neat and clean lines. Batsheva also boasted a necklace of gleaming pearls, and she flashed a smile conveying both enjoyment and self-irony at her reflection in the mirror. “I could get used to this,” she said with a sigh.
“It’s not really that different from the way you always dress,” Assaf said, and Batsheva said yes, perhaps, without going into the small details of the line of the skirt and the name of the designer.
Ya’ara didn’t miss an opportunity to offer them a brief lesson. “In truth,” she said, “it’s practical. These are the uniforms that make it easier for us to blend in. Elegance is a way to observe and not be seen.”
“Okay,” Nufar said, her eyes on the screen, “I need some quiet now. You wanted a weak spot, so give me a moment and stop talking about clothes.”
Ya’ara wondered if she should remark on Nufar’s chutzpah, but decided instead to alter course.
“Let Nufar work,” she declared.
• • •
She finally found what they were looking for.
“Okay, look here,” she said. “They’re in the open while en route from the detention center to the courthouse. As a safeguard, they travel in convoy. A van carrying the prisoners, and two escort vehicles. And they travel along a different route every time. Here, look.” Nufar pointed to a folder belonging to the unit responsible for escorting prisoners. “The computer marks out a different route for every trip, and then relays it to the GPS systems of the vehicles in the convoy. The escort teams don’t have to memorize the route because the GPS directs them. The changes are random, there’s a limited number of ways to go from point A to point B, but even the security personnel themselves are made aware of the route at the last minute.”
“Aside from being able to see their computers, are you able to mess with them, too?” Batsheva felt Ya’ara’s gaze focus on her.
“Go on,” Ya’ara said to Batsheva.
“Because if we’re able to override the computer and feed them a route of our choosing, we can separate the prisoners’ vehicle from the escort vehicles, and lead the prisoners’ vehicle wherever we want. I think that’s what you were talking about earlier, Ya’ara, about the possibility of creating a decisive advantage at a specific point in time and space.”
“That’s an angle of approach with potential,” Ya’ara said with restraint. “Provided Nufar can do it.” Can you, her look inquired.
“Theoretically, I can actively override their system. It just needs to be done at the right time, and in a manner that can’t be detected. If only I had some help here. I need to be able to take a more in-depth look into their system. And to do so with caution, to avoid detection.”
“I want us to be able to run a pilot within a week,” Ya’ara said. “So we can see if this whole concept works. Our goal for the pilot will be to divert the convoy of inmates traveling from the prison to the courthouse next Monday, and to see if things run smoothly, if we manage to pull it off without being detected, if the vehicles do in fact follow the route we’ve plotted for them. We have lots of work to do. Nufar needs to study the system, in depth. We need to get to know the routes and to prepare an alternative path that is going to make sense to them. And already now we also need to start planning the route Hamdan will take on the way to his encounter not with Belgian justice but with ours.”
• • •
She couldn’t fall asleep that night. She still didn’t know whether Hamdan would be the only prisoner in the vehicle, or whether he’d be one of a group of inmates. According to the information they had gathered thus far, the vehicle would contain a driver and probably one escort, perhaps two. All armed. The fundamental planning principles for the operation called for no casualties apart from Hamdan himself. No prison guards and none of the other detainees. And still, the expected confrontation would see her and her team up against armed guards who were tasked with protecting their prisoners or preventing them from escaping.
That said, the element of surprise and the element of determination would play in their favor. The Belgian prison guards weren’t going to be in any hurry to die defending their posts. Particularly if she and her team managed to show them that their lives weren’t in danger, that the threat wasn’t being directed at them. They might also have a small numerical advantage. There’d be four of them. Against three guards. And if Goran kept his promise, they’d be armed with stun grenades, too. But Ya’ara couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d be leading an unskilled team. That they’d be operating in an environment that would soon turn hostile and dangerous. A manhunt for them would begin within minutes.
Should she be launching the operation under such circumstances? Her thoughts became clouded as sleep closed in on her. Before finally dropping off, she pictured a blurred image of the scene of the operation, tinged with the glowing colors of the sunset. She saw the ashen face of Yael Ziv, her large dark eyes. She watched her spiral down into a bottomless pit right there in front of her. She closed her eyes.
46
ENGLAND, APRIL 1948
The letter sent to Raphael’s studio arrived in a thick, fine-quality envelope that was embellished with a crest incorporating a dragon, a unicorn, and a rose. “Dear Mr. Raphael,” read the letter in a green shade o
f ink from a fountain pen, “Our mutual friend, Henry Moore, has spoken to me at length about you. He admires you greatly, and informed me that your work and ideas may be of interest to me. I’d like to put his words to the test. I’d be pleased to have you as a guest at my home over the last weekend of the month. If you can make your way to Morning Meadow on Friday on the 11:43 train from Oxford, I will send a car to get you. We’ll have the entire weekend at our disposal. You can return to your blessed work on Monday. Looking forward to your arrival, Alfred Strong, Viscount.”
The day was surprisingly springlike. The smell of blossoms hung in the air, and the budding young leaves shone as green as green could be. Raphael marveled once again at the incredible power of nature, bursting forth with new life. He was collected at the small village’s train station by a courteous driver of few words. And it wasn’t long before they had said good-bye to the confines of the community, leaving behind its small yellow-stone houses. Towering over the low structures stood the church steeple, gleaming far into the distance, as if an invisible hand were polishing it with gold.
They drove along a country road, lined on both sides by hedges, restricting their fields of vision. Raphael felt as if the perfumed air, thick with the fragrance of blooming flowers, was clinging to him. An avenue of ancient trees showed the way to their destination. When the avenue came to an end, the wide-open landscape was revealed suddenly in all its splendor, and before them stood a small palace, made of red brick, its façade adorned with tall columns. The car sped through a large iron gate and came to a stop in front of the residence. Standing at the top of the stairs leading to the sizable palace doors was an elderly man, his gray hair unkempt, his nose hooked and determined, his eyes twinkling with an inquisitive smile.
“Hello. I’m Alfred Strong. Welcome to Lion’s Slope.”
The name of the residence did indeed do justice to the place: There truly was a slope, a gleaming green stretch of lawn, dotted with thousands of tiny flowers, that trailed gently downward toward the small lake. Raphael wondered if there were lions on the estate, too, and thought he wouldn’t be too surprised to catch sight of one of the majestic predators wandering lazily around the grounds.
“Hello, Sir Alfred. Thank you for the invitation. I’m pleased to be here.”
“Alfred, Alfred. No need for Sir. What should I call you? Joseph?”
“No, Raphael. Just Raphael. That’s best.”
• • •
Dinner was served in the vast semilit dining room. Flickering candles glowed on the antique table, their flames reflected in the large wineglasses. A fire burned in the fireplace at the far end of the room, casting strange patterns of light and shade on the stone floor. Alfred Strong’s young wife joined them.
“This is Lady Sarah, my beautiful wife,” Strong said with obvious pride. Sarah’s dark eyes surveyed Raphael with curiosity. She offered him a fair-skinned, delicate hand, and he couldn’t decide whether to shake or kiss it. During their dinner, Strong told Raphael about his intense interest in the ancient cultures of the Near East. He had studied at Oxford and had even graduated with distinction. He was offered a position at the college he attended, but was forced, so he said, to leave the paradise of academe to take charge of the family’s business affairs. He was a little vague about the exact nature of those business affairs, but spoke more than once about an ammunitions plant, and on another occasion he also mentioned something about financial activity in the City, in London.
Be that as it may, his passion focused on his travels to archaeological sites in Mesopotamia, where he had worked with youthful enthusiasm as a volunteer and self-appointed helper to learned delegation heads. When he spoke of his participation in the expedition to the archaeological dig at the Sumerian Royal Cemetery in the ancient city of Ur, his eyes shone with unconcealed pride. He joined MI5 immediately after the outbreak of the war, and served as a member of the secret team that handled the Nazi spies who were captured on British soil and subsequently used as double agents.
“It’s a very closely guarded secret,” he whispered to Raphael. “It was wonderful, like playing chess on a few dozen boards at the same time.” Raphael was surprised to hear Strong tell him of such things with an air of nonchalance, as if he were discussing a sport or hobby. But he had already learned that the rules of the game by which members of the En-
glish upper classes played were quite different from those that applied to the rest of humanity.
On the way to dinner, they managed to pop into the magnificent library room for a few minutes. Laid out on display among the thousands of books were glass boxes containing small archaeological items. Despite his lack of knowledge on the subject, Raphael felt drawn to the items. He could sense they were unique treasures, memories of lost cultures frozen in time.
“There’s a story behind each and every one of them,” Strong muttered, and Raphael wondered whether his host was actually familiar with the stories, or whether the ancient artifacts, as far as Strong was concerned, were simply additional assets in the framework of all the wealth the family had accumulated over the generations. “Come, have a look at something over here,” his host said, pointing Raphael toward one of the large windows of the library’s west-facing wall. The sun was casting a warm, rich light over the hills and sloping stretch of lawn, coloring the edges of the white clouds with a golden glitter. Visible from the window was a large stone sculpture, an abstract piece. It must have weighed a ton, yet appeared at the same time to convey a strong sense of lightness, elegance, as if it were an expression of an ideal of beauty.
“He knows what he’s doing, our Henry, right?” Strong said in a low voice. Raphael wasn’t able to think of the great Henry Moore as “our Henry,” and besides, he was so moved by the beauty of the sculpture that all he could do was nod in agreement. Yes, he undoubtedly knew what he was doing.
“We have several more wonderful sculptures at this residence, in the garden,” Strong said, waving his hand in a way that was characteristic of nobility, as if to suggest that all of this—this estate, these archaeological treasures, the books, the sculptures, the game meat roast that would soon be served to their table—was no big deal.
“Do you know David Herbert Samuel?” Strong asked, his jaws chewing on the venison as he heaped another teaspoon of red currant sauce into his mouth.
“Do you mean Herbert Louis?”
“No, no, Herbert Louis Samuel was your first high commissioner,” Strong said, and by “your” he was probably referring to the residents of the Land of Israel-Palestine.
“I’m talking about his grandson, David Herbert Samuel. He was born in Palestine and lived there until he moved to England to study. I met him at Oxford. He’s younger than me, of course, but he studied chemistry with Sarah, and when I was courting this beautiful maiden”—he looked at Sarah with deep affection and a smile—“I was also forced to be dragged off to their stupid parties, and that’s how I met him, too.”
“We may have been young,” Sarah said, “but the war made us grow up very fast. David, you know”—Raphael didn’t know if she was addressing her husband or him—“abandoned his studies and joined the army. He saw action in the Far East. He returned to Oxford to complete his studies only after the war. He left England a short while ago. He said he was needed there with you, that there was a war going on.”
Raphael was impressed by the image of David Herbert Samuel that his hosts’ conversation had portrayed thus far.
“He truly is a wonderful young man. He’s also very handsome and striking. You can’t deny that, my darling,” Sarah continued, smiling at Strong warmly. “Did you know he served as military governor in Sumatra?”
Raphael, who until then had never heard of the man, was unfamiliar with that detail, too. But he listened.
“That’s one of the things he got to do during the war. Alfred played his part, too,” she added, gazing at her husband and caressing his hand. “He did some great things, but I’m not allowed to know abou
t them, and certainly can’t breathe a word.”
“Sarah, Sarah, there’s no need to exaggerate.”
“You aren’t awarded the Order of the British Empire for nothing,” she responded vehemently. “The war of minds you waged contributed greatly to the victory.”
Strong absentmindedly caressed her hand.
• • •
“You know I’m a Jewess, right?” Lady Sarah casually said when they met in the large kitchen the following morning.
“No, I didn’t know,” Raphael responded, a large mug of coffee in his hand. “But it makes me happy.”
“And why so?” she asked suspiciously.
“I think it pleases me to know that we share some kind of affinity. A bit like distant family, right?”
“It’s a little pretentious to think that all Jews are one big family. It seems to me sometimes that we are bound by very little, actually. I’m an Englishwoman, that’s my culture, that’s my heritage. But,” she added dolefully, “Adolf Hitler thought differently. Had he managed to get his hands on us, on you and me, all the differences, all the divides, would have counted for nothing. We would have met the same terrible end in no time. We would have been turned into smoke. A large family of incinerated people.”
Raphael could see the sadness in her eyes. He wanted to console her, although he wasn’t quite sure for what, but instead he remained rooted to the spot. Something in her proud posture stopped him from approaching her.
This woman was a collection of contrasts, but the look with which she was fixing him now, defiant and almost wild, brought them closer. He didn’t feel at that precise moment that he himself needed sympathy and a comforting caress, even though most of his family—uncles and cousins, relatives, loved ones—had been murdered by the Nazis. He and his parents had immigrated to the Land of Israel when he was a little boy. Two sisters and a brother were born there. Despite the loving and longing letters his mother would send to relatives who remained behind, letters that turned increasingly desperate, urging them to join the family in Israel, Salonika, which had always been their home, maintained its grip. The brothers, the sisters, their children, down to the very last one, were arrested by the SS and murdered in Auschwitz. Raphael knew the names of all his family members who had perished, their dates of birth and the dates of their deaths. His mother had made him memorize them all. And still, at that moment, all Raphael could feel was a deep sense of compassion toward Sarah, the young, sad woman in whose home he was a guest.
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