A Spy in Exile

by Jonathan de Shalit

  “Sir,” he said when he heard the voice of Superintendent Lewis. “We’ve just received an envelope in the mail that I think you should see.”

    • • •

  Superintendent Lewis opened the envelope in front of Barnes. The staff sergeant watched as the expression on his commander’s face went from one of impatience to one of perplexity, and he remained standing in front of the large desk until Lewis gave him a look that clearly said: That’ll be all. Barnes wanted to ask him about the contents of the envelope, but decided against it. His shift was coming to an end, and besides, Lewis had a reputation for being a grumpy and arrogant character. After Barnes left the room, Lewis called a number at Scotland Yard. “Hello, Henry,” he said. “You’re not going to believe this, but a highly classified document from more than sixty years ago has just landed on my desk. Apparently someone thought it was time to return it to official hands. No, it’s not the kind of document that should be forwarded through the internal mail service. I will bring it to you personally tomorrow afternoon. It’ll remain in my safe until then. I suggest you invite a senior representative from the Defense Ministry’s Department of Information Security to attend the meeting, too. Someone who has clearance on nuclear issues. Yes, certainly, I can stay for a short while after the meeting. Good beer, memories from the Oxford days, constructive gossip. Could it get any better than that?”

  70

  LONDON, MARCH 2015

  Ya’ara stared intently at the paintings hanging in Room 31 of the National Portrait Gallery. The competition was tough, but Ya’ara knew ultimately that it was her favorite museum in London. When she had walked into the modest gallery just off Trafalgar Square for the very first time, still standing in the small, gloomy vestibule, she had done so primarily to escape the cold, stinging rain coming down outside. She expected to encounter hall after hall of portraits of princes in dark clothing with white batiste collars, of kings named George the third, fourth, and fifth, and of heavy-set and unattractive high-born women, their hair a light shade of blue and their cheeks far too rosy. Ya’ara was surprised to discover that the gallery was filled to the rafters with paintings and spectacular photographs of artists and athletes, of scientists and poets, of kings and prime ministers, of industrialists and theater actors and opera singers. Men and women, painted in the style of precise Realism or bold and colorful Expressionism. Textile designer Paul Smith, looking inquisitive and experienced, is immortalized sitting on a chair with a roll of shiny green fabric standing between his legs; a young and determined Queen Elizabeth is wearing an elegant robe adorned with fur trimmings; a black-and-white video clip shows soccer star David Beckham tossing in his sleep, his exposed body a model of perfection; Seamus Heaney, the Irish poet and Nobel laureate, his face plowed with wrinkles, his gaze bold and piercing, a stormy whirlwind of thick layers of paint splashed onto the canvas creating his image out of the chaos. And now she was in the large hall, Room 31, which housed paintings of the greats of the British nation from the first half of the twentieth century—leaders, actors, war heroes, aggressive industrialists, renowned scientists who broke new ground in the world, a black boxer, a beloved children’s authoress. Her breath was taken away by the human richness, the greatness, the immense talent of the heroes and those who had immortalized their images.

  This time, however, she wasn’t simply moved by what she could see. She was troubled in fact, very troubled. Again she had entered the portrait gallery to escape. Not from the rain, but from a continuing sense of unease, from the doubt that was starting to eat away at her from the inside. It had been too long since she last managed to contact the lawyer who was supposed to coordinate between her and the prime minister. It no longer appeared coincidental. True, the prime minister had told her that if forced to do so, he would deny any ties with her. But when it appeared to be actually happening, she felt betrayed and hurt. She hurt all over.

  She read a report on the Ynet news website about a special meeting of the Knesset Foreign Affairs and Defense Committee to which the prime minister was summoned to address the accusations that the State of Israel had carried out the assassinations in Brussels and London. “Israel is closely monitoring the events,” the prime minister was quoted as saying by sources on the committee. “Although we weren’t saddened by the news of the deaths of an extremist preacher and a cruel murderer, Israel has nothing to do with the incidents. We were of course very saddened to hear of the death of the young girl in London. Israel respects the sovereignty of its allies and would never launch an operation on their soil without coordination and approval.” Ya’ara didn’t know why the prime minister’s words, expected and called for under the circumstances, offended her so much. Obviously he was going to say such things. Could he have said anything else? But she felt abandoned and alone.

  You need to be stronger, she told herself. Why is this temporary break in communication troubling you so? It’s an inescapable part of the job, after all. Who promised you that it would be easy? But it was a break that had gone on for another day and then another and then another. All she wanted to do was sleep. But there wasn’t a bed in the world that felt as if it was really hers, in which she could close her eyes peacefully and wake up somewhere safe and familiar. Only temporary beds in hotels, and a bed in an apartment she was renting in Berlin for the time being, and a bed in an apartment with a roommate in Tel Aviv, where she had never been able to feel at home.

  Where is my home, she asked herself, aware of her own misery, and aware, too, of the fact that the only thing she could do was to let the time pass and play its healing role. And in the meantime, she’d have to suffer, and deal with it. It wasn’t the first time. The excitement she had felt on seeing the magnificent portraits had subsided, replaced by the feeling of emptiness spreading inside her. She wanted Michael by her side, Matthias, Hagai. It been so long since she last thought of the man with whom she had shared her life in the past. But she knew that none of them was thinking of her at that moment, not one of them had any idea just how much she needed him. She felt alone in the world.

  With the last of her strength, she sat down on a bench in the hall and leaned forward, doubled over, a sour taste rising from her throat into her mouth. Her eyes closed tight, and black and red spots pulsed on her eyelids, inside her head. “Are you okay, my dear?” She heard the muffled voice of the elderly guard who had approached her. Ya’ara groaned out loud, but forced herself to sit up straight and open her eyes. “Yes, yes, everything’s fine,” she said to her. “I’m just fine,” she added quickly, before getting up and leaving the room, still a little unsteady on her feet, and heading toward the stairs. She didn’t have the strength to deal with the guard’s kindness. She just wanted to get out of there.

  71

  LONDON, MARCH 2015

  Had anyone asked her, Ya’ara wouldn’t have been able to say how and under what circumstances she had made it to her hotel room in Paddington. It was a small, old-fashioned hotel, one out of a row of shabby guesthouses adjacent to one another in a long trainlike structure. When she got there, the reception desk was unmanned, and she struggled her way up the steep stairs to the third floor. She flopped onto the narrow bed still in her clothes, managing to position her head over the trash bin squeezed between the edge of the bed and the rickety writing desk, and threw up a bitter yellowish liquid. Her body was bathed in sticky perspiration. She sank into a fitful sleep, tossing in her bed, covering herself with the thick blanket.

  When the chambermaid knocked on her door in the morning, Ya’ara shouted from the other side of the door that she wasn’t to come in, and the chambermaid relented. Ya’ara knew in her stupor that her clothes were damp and her hair wet and sticky.

  It wasn’t until evening, when darkness had fallen, that she managed to get up and drink some water from the plastic cup in the small bathroom. She undressed and left her clothes in a dirty pile in the middle of the room, her bare feet recoiling from the cold feel of the white ceramic flooring. She rinsed
her mouth out with the ice-cold water she collected in the palm of her hand, remains of toothpaste she had applied with her finger still smeared on her face, and collapsed naked onto the bed, onto the sour-smelling sheets, her eyes closed and burning.

  She asked the chambermaid not to enter the following day, too, fending off her anxious questions from behind the closed door and declaring that everything was okay. She was just a little tired.

    • • •

  Only on the third day did she sit up straight on her bed, wrapped in a thin, worn-out towel that had been washed far too many times, her body smelling of the cheap liquid soap she had found in the bathroom. She felt better. At least that awful, bitter, metallic taste in her mouth was gone. She checked her email again. A blue dot suddenly appeared. Mail from the production company in Israel. Attorney Ben-Atar had renewed the contact that had been inexplicably broken.

  72

  BERLIN, MARCH 2015

  Aslan looked thinner than she remembered. She had seen him, after all, in Newcastle just a little more than two weeks ago. His winter quest across the breadth of England must have been demanding and harsh. But his eyes smiled at her. They settled into the two comfortable armchairs positioned in the far corner of the café, near the door leading to the establishment’s small courtyard at the back. During the summer, the yard was filled with people, bursting with music and an exuberant joie de vivre. It stood empty of people now, filled only with heaps of dirty snow that refused to melt.

  “I have something for you,” Ya’ara said, retrieving a wrapped package from her backpack and handing it carefully to Aslan.

  “Should I open it?”

  “Of course.”

  He tore off the wrapping paper and then the layer of bubble wrap protecting whatever lay underneath. He revealed a large beer mug, long and slender, made from painted blue clay and bearing the crest of a noble house drawn by the hand of an artist.

  “For your collection.” She smiled at him.

  “Wow! It must have cost a fortune. It’s beautiful.”

  “From the eighteenth century. Seventeen hundred and something. It’s written on the bottom. Enjoy!”

  Aslan stood up and kissed her on the cheek. He had no idea how she knew about his collection. In all the years they had known each other, she had never been to his home.

  “Tell me,” he said, sitting back down in his armchair, “have you had any contact with the management?” They had yet to decide how to refer to their relationship of sorts with the prime minister. Aslan liked to speak of “the management”; she preferred the language of movie mobsters, like in The Godfather. “The consigliere did in fact disappear for a few days,” she said nonchalantly, without a hint of the sense of spiraling out of control and waywardness that had befallen her. “But the contact has been renewed. And the boss wants to see me in the coming weeks. You should come along, too. We can give him an update on the cadets. We’ll get some guidance from him.”

  “Perhaps you should meet in private. Apparently you speak the same language. I don’t do that well in those situations.”

  “I can’t think of a single situation in which you don’t do well. I thought it would be good for you to meet him face-to-face, too. To be there to keep me on an even keel. You of all people know that my responses can sometimes be a little too hasty. And besides, if something were to happen to me, and you know as well as I do that that’s entirely possible, it’s important for there to be continuity, for there to be a way to press on with this thing that we’re doing.”

  “What’s going to happen to you? You’re like a cat with nine lives.”

  “I still haven’t worked out how many I’ve used up already,” she responded, smiling but thoughtful, “and besides, you always think the worst. What would happen if I were to get married and go to the Caribbean for three months? Would that be it? Would our unit be left without a commander? Or do you not think I’m good enough for that?”

  “Okay now, I couldn’t even begin to imagine such a catastrophe. The poor guy, the poor guy,” Aslan said, thinking that there were very few men capable of being a worthy partner for Ya’ara. Men who wouldn’t only be dependent on her, but whom she’d need, too; men she’d treat as equals, whom she could devote herself to and allow herself to be imperfect around. “Have you seen Michael Turgeman recently?” he asked out of the blue, wondering if there could have been something between them. If there had been.

  “No, don’t be crazy,” she responded, lying without hesitation, and wondering why she was doing so and not telling Aslan, in general terms at least, about Michael’s trip and their encounter. “But maybe I’ll give him a call the next time we’re in Israel.” She paused for a moment. “You can’t imagine that . . .”

  “I don’t imagine a thing. But he’s a very serious man, you should know. I think very highly of him. If you need someone to back you up in this matter, of the squad, perhaps you can bring him on board. I’d be very happy to work with him. He may add a touch of levelheadedness and responsibility to what we’re doing.”

  “That’s exactly the thing that worries me. He has too many red lines, restraints,” Ya’ara said, thinking she was fortunate not to have shared more than she had with Aslan. As Sarah had told her, everyone needs a few secrets.

  “He’s exactly the kind of person we need,” Aslan said. “Maybe it would be a way of extending our shelf life. We’ll get to carry out more operations. You can look at it from that angle, too.”

  “All the cadets returned to base safely,” Ya’ara commented with a dryness that replaced the light mood between them. She understood that Aslan had yet to forgive her for the operation in Brussels, for the assassination of Hamdan. He had told her that she had taken unreasonable risks, and she knew deep down that she had operated on the very edge. But that’s how you win, she retorted to herself in defiance.

  “You know what,” she said to Aslan, “maybe there is something to what you’re saying. Let me think about it. In any event, Michael Turgeman is an interesting candidate. Do you have any idea what happened with his plans to open a law firm?” Aslan shook his head.

  During all the time she had just spent with Michael, she hadn’t spoken to him about his life at all. In his company, she had been like a little girl, needing only his embrace, his protection. She tried to push her memories of those days, in Oxford and Liverpool, to the back of her mind. Only in the mountains of Scotland, with Sarah Strong, had she felt herself again, like the woman she really was. Aware of and open to the world. And suddenly she realized why Michael had led her to the Torridon Hills, and it wasn’t only because of his ancient intelligence mystery. He had helped her to emerge from the shell into which she had crawled, to find interest and passion, to remember that the world is a wide-open place and the layers that compose it are alive and kicking. Don’t underestimate him, she berated herself, that’s your mistake. After all, there are things he’s forgotten that you’ve yet to learn. And in her mind, she bowed her head in appreciation before Michael. Appreciation and esteem. If she felt anything more than that, she was quick to expel the emotion. It never was and never could be. That was not the kind of relationship they shared. She brushed aside the image in her thoughts of Michael looking into her eyes and giving her one of his cautious smiles. She returned to Aslan.

  “So what do you think about the cadets?” she asked. “It’s time to get them certified, right? To complete the course and start working.”

  “They’re all getting through as far as you’re concerned?”

  “At the end of the day, yes. Everyone is getting through. I’d take any one of them along on a mission. But they’re obviously not all at the same level. The men, actually, Sayid and Assaf, are the ones who are lagging behind a little. They’re less independent at this point, and less creative. But Sayid displayed a great deal of courage by going into the mosque undercover, and I think the work is allowing him to find a side of himself that’s new to him, and that he wants to adopt. And he’s got the perfect
cover story, of course. And Assaf, Assaf’s a good guy, and decent, and you can count on him.”

  “The way you put it, it sounds like a list of drawbacks.”

  “No, not at all. He has a very good foundation. I’m sure that when it comes to military combat, he’s brave and professional, and that people follow him. Our challenge is to complete his transformation to a covert fighter.”

  “You know yourself that there’s nothing trivial about that transformation. And it doesn’t always work.”

  “I know. But I want to run the process through to the end. I see him as a late bloomer of sorts. I believe in him.”

  “And the women?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think they’re excellent. Helena is a war machine. And Ann, she’ll be a great combatant. Her seriousness, that English composure.”

  “Nufar? Batsheva?”

  “You were with them in Brussels, so you have a broader perspective. But as far as I can tell, they’re both undoubtedly exceptional. Nufar is very skilled with computers, she’s certainly outspoken but accepts authority, and she’s a very, very quick thinker. She radiates intelligence. She’s too competitive, but that can be toned down, I think. And Batsheva, she’s a character. She’s already fully formed. Brave, independent, takes responsibility, original, interesting. She’s come to us to learn the technique only, the professional skills. That aside, she’s already fully cooked. But”—Aslan hesitated—“I get the sense that under all the glitter, there’s also a dark and somber side to her.”

  “I agree,” Ya’ara said. “She hides it well, but it’s there. Personally, however, I prefer people who have some of that darkness,” she concluded. Aslan nodded, despite having very different thoughts on the subject. The darkness in Ya’ara, particularly that revealed to him in recent months, deterred him.