Book Read Free

Traitor

Page 6

by Jonathan de Shalit


  • • •

  Levin filled in the president on what he had heard from the former German intelligence services chief. “You know,” he said, “there doesn’t appear to be anything very clear or of much substance here. It’s all inferential, vague. What do we have, exactly? An old East German woman, sick and bitter, whose entire world suddenly caved in on her, without warning. Someone by the name of Gunther. Unrequited love. We don’t even know if he really was killed, and even if he was, it’s far more likely that it actually was an accident, and not a murder made to look like one. Moreover, the KGB didn’t carry out targeted killings very often, and certainly not of its people and its allies. Not in the late 1980s. Nevertheless,” Levin continued, pensive, his eyes half closed, “my experience tells me we’re onto something big here. Huge. After all, we’re never going to get anything more than this, more than a hint, a glimmer, which we may even fail to notice if we aren’t vigilant. Mr. President,” Levin said, “from this moment forward, we have to assume that the Russians have a spy in the corridors of power in Israel, and that he’s an important enough cog in the system to warrant his removal by force from the hands of the Stasi, important enough to warrant the murder of one of the East German intelligence service’s top handlers. This has to be our working hypothesis. This has to be our starting point. Only information that refutes this new basic assumption will be able to lay it to rest.”

  Aharon came to an end. A heavy silence fell over the room, its presence palpable and troubling. The president didn’t say a word, his sharp mind processing the information he had just received. He closed his eyes in thought. “But,” the president suddenly said in his deep voice, “you can clearly see the problem, right? We have no idea where he could be. He could be in a key position in the defense establishment, the army, the Mossad, even the Shin Bet internal security service. He could be at the Foreign Ministry, the Defense Ministry, the National Security Council. If we open an investigation, he could get wind of it, and then we’ll never know. He’ll simply drop off the radar and we won’t even know that we’ve walked right by him, right?” The president went quiet for a moment, as if he were talking to himself, his gaze fixed on some point beyond his companion’s shoulder.

  “No. We have to handle the matter differently—at this stage at least. Listen, Aharon,” he said, staring directly into Levin’s eyes now, his gaze stern and sharp, “I want you to handle this personally. I, the state president, am charging you with the task of running this investigation. You’ll report to me alone. Use and employ whoever you trust. Set up a team, not a big one, to do the work for you. You know what to do and you know how to do it. No one could do it better. There’s no one else I could trust like I trust you.”

  The president paused. It appeared, to the former Mossad chief, that the president wanted to add something, but wasn’t really sure how to do so. “Look, Aharon,” he finally said, “you’re familiar with the big picture, you’re aware of the threats we’re facing. We’re working on a few things. It’s all very complex and expensive, and who knows if any of it will work out. All we know for sure is that we have to maintain the element of surprise. If anything is leaked, none of it will be worth a thing. And in this regard, the superpowers are our adversaries, too. Certainly Russia, which is fighting again for its standing and status in the world, and perhaps even the United States, which wouldn’t want us to take action in a manner that hasn’t been cleared with them. But certainly Russia. Moscow won’t take another demonstration of Israeli superiority in the arena lying down. And certainly when we’re talking about superiority, that would again be based on American arms and weapons systems. Thus, if they get wind of anything, they’ll thwart it. Like me, you know they have many ways of doing so, including the relaying of a detailed and specific warning to our enemies. They could also go public with whatever they reveal, perhaps not in an address by Putin, but in the shape of a well-timed leak to this or the other media outlet, or by means of a thousand other forms of psychological warfare they so excel at. But until we get our hands on the traitor and learn who he is and exactly what he knows and what he passed on, until then, we won’t know if our plans are worth anything. Under the current circumstances—and forgive me, my friend, for not being able to elaborate—what I’m asking you to do is critical. Critical and urgent.”

  Aharon gave the president a look that clearly illustrated his understanding of the scope and significance of the task with which he had been charged. He remained silent. The president continued:

  “You’ll have one of the funds of the President’s Residence at your disposal. I’ll have the money transferred to an account you’ll open specifically for the purpose of the operation. The fund is earmarked for biotechnology research aimed at boosting crop yields. Seems appropriate, right?” said the president, a momentary glint of mischief in his eyes. They both knew a little humor never hurt, especially at trying times. “We’ll meet once a month and you’ll fill me in. No one but me. Together we’ll know what to do. And of course if anything urgent comes up, when you find something, you’ll contact me immediately. You know how.”

  Silence.

  “I’m relying on you, Aharon. Like always.”

  “Mr. President,” Aharon said, standing up and shaking his host’s wrinkled hand. He left the room and quietly shut the door behind him. He turned toward the exit and continued out into the dark garden. A large olive tree appeared blackened against the dark sky. The temperatures had fallen, and a cold Jerusalem wind gusted suddenly through the courtyard at the entrance to the residence.

  13

  TEL AVIV, RAMAT AVIV MALL, JANUARY 2013

  Michael Turgeman rode up the escalator, the aroma of good, strong Italian coffee there to greet him as he ascended. That’s just how things were with Aharon Levin. For years now Levin hadn’t been his immediate superior; he had left his post as Mossad chief years ago. Even I, Michael thought in a mixture of anger and resignation, even I’ve been out of the organization for more than a year, but when Aharon Levin calls and asks for something in his typically confusing and apologetic manner, I immediately say, “Yes.” Always yes.

  “Surely he could have found a better place to meet,” Michael grumbled to himself. Arcaffe at the mall. True, the coffee was great, but the prices always annoyed him, and the idea of paying a fortune to serve oneself seemed a novelty bordering on chutzpah. Thinking about the chain’s regular patrons, and certainly those who frequented the branch at this upscale mall, filled him with an inexplicable sense of animosity. Restored women, in their fifties and sixties, with the bodies of models, dressed in gym outfits that hid the scars of numerous cosmetic surgeries. In general, Michael admitted to himself, he tended to get angry and agitated quite often these days. Every little thing grated on his nerves. He got grumpy and complained all the time. Certainly not very attractive. It had to be reined in. He needed to focus. Focus on the matter at hand, he concluded to himself, pushing the truly important questions to the far reaches of his consciousness. He wondered what the old man wanted this time. Aharon Levin had called him last night, saying, “Hello, hello, hello,” three times, seemingly surprised to have reached him, despite being the one who had called. Typical. “There’s a matter I’d like to consult with you about. When would it suit you?” he’d asked, then responding himself before Michael had a chance. “How about tomorrow morning, seven-thirty, before the mall fills up?”

  The meeting was clearly a matter of urgency for him, Michael thought, refusing to be fooled into believing that Aharon really did want to consult with him. Aharon always relied only on himself and his vast intellect. He didn’t need any advice, certainly not from me, Michael thought with a touch of bitterness, but he probably needed something else. Otherwise he wouldn’t have called. That’s how it went, a hierarchy of status and age. That’s how it worked.

  Aside from the workers turning on the espresso machines and laying out the cakes and sandwiches on the display shelves, the café really was still empty at that early
hour of the morning. He didn’t see Aharon, and Michael, out of years of habit, did a recon of the place, checking to see if Aharon wasn’t actually sitting outside for some reason, and then going back inside and selecting a table that would offer him a broad field of vision, not only over the café itself, but also over the entrance to the mall and the expanse leading from the stairs from the underground parking garage.

  Aharon, as always, was a few minutes late, his coat disheveled and all his attention on the umbrella in his hand, which had again, diabolically, collapsed inside out. He, too, scanned the café, nodding his head almost imperceptibly on spotting Michael. “You’re getting thinner and thinner all the time,” he said to him, “you need to eat something. A double espresso?”

  He returned carrying a somewhat shaky tray, a cup of espresso and a mug of tea perched precariously on its surface. “We’re still waiting for a croissant,” he said. “They’ll call us.”

  “Yaakov!” the guy behind the bar called out two or three minutes later. “Yaakov, that’s me,” Aharon said with a smile, and returned a moment later with a warm almond croissant, his face aglow in triumph. “Eat something, eat. I need you healthy and strong. At your best!” And that’s when the former Mossad chief suddenly turned serious and stern-faced, businesslike and focused, the semblance of the absentminded professor disappearing in a flash.

  Aharon told him about his meeting with the former head of the German intelligence agency and of his meeting with the president. Not for a moment, according to him, did he consider failing to comply with the president’s instructions. “How could I say no to him? And I need you, Michael, as the leader of the team we’re going to set up. I know,” he continued, not letting up for a second and not allowing Michael to get even a single word in, “that you’ve just opened your own law practice, but don’t fret, you’re only in the initial stages after all and nothing’s going to happen to you if you put things on hold for a short while. You weren’t a lawyer for some twenty-five years, so it can wait a little longer. Avigdor Feldman will go on handling civil rights cases. You’ll join the fray in a few months’ time, no harm done. Civil rights are important, but let’s first get our hands on this awful man. I know he exists, my old bones tell me that he’s out there plotting and sowing the seeds of evil. Like a venomous snake. I can hear his scales scratching along the ground, I can feel his venom burning and spreading. We’ll take him out!” he declared abruptly, and Michael could feel how the image of the reptile, with its cold blood and the deadly venom in its fangs, became etched in his mind, too. And still he remained silent.

  “Tell me,” Aharon continued, “how many rooms do you have in that apartment you’ve leased as an office? Three? Yes, that should suffice. On Nahmani Street? Excellent, excellent. There we go, we have a team leader and a safe house from which to conduct operations. Tell me, has anyone come to mind? Who else should we bring in?”

  And thus, without giving his consent, and without actually being asked at all to do so, Michael Turgeman saw his life take another small twist, saw himself being shoved down a new path, the road not taken, he thought to himself with a touch of irony, like in that poem by Robert Frost that he still remembered from his school days. But he didn’t say a word to Aharon. There wouldn’t be much point in doing so.

  And perhaps he had already made his choice some twenty-six years ago, when he first began the Mossad’s screening process, his very participation in which offered him a taste of secrecy and sense of vocation that warmed his heart, truly so, and led him to see himself as special in relation to all his friends, other fourth-year law students. While they were planning their integration into Israel’s leading law firms or postgraduate studies at the finest American universities, he was at the start of a long road that would end with him joining that world-renowned yet elusive and mysterious organization—the Mossad, the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations.

  A long time had passed since then. A lengthy screening and recruitment process followed by twenty-five years of service. Years and years of dealing with the recruitment and handling of agents. When Michael started out as a young intelligence-gathering officer, a case officer, as the profession was known in intelligence organizations around the world, Aharon Levin was the commander of the Mossad’s operations in Europe. There they would occasionally meet and spend time together, long hours and days on end, no less, waiting for an object to fall into their clutches, waiting for an agent to show up for a face-to-face rendezvous for the first time in several months. As a senior commander, Aharon wouldn’t of course accompany him on all his operations, but when it came to an interesting one, something different from the other operations, when a particularly high-value and important agent was coming, Aharon would then tag along, taking charge of events with the aid of his experience, wisdom, and profound understanding of the human psyche, and the soul of the enemy they were facing. Some ten years later, after the prolonged hunting season the length and breadth of Europe, Aharon was appointed to the post of Mossad chief. He asked Michael to serve as his senior personal assistant, and as always he said, “Yes, at your command.” They worked together for three years, with an intimacy born out of sixteen and sometimes eighteen hours of close collaboration a day, every day. The trust between them was forged from secrets that very few knew, from times of rage and of weakness, from crises as much so as from moments of undisclosed glory. It wasn’t a partnership between equals. In terms of responsibility, authority, age, and life experience, there was a distinct gap between the two. And Michael knew that in his own amiable, educated, and highly charming manner, Aharon was using him, just as he had used everyone who had accompanied him on his meteoric path.

  When he summoned him now, shaking him without hesitation from the law office he had just started to get off the ground, as if it meant nothing, Aharon was banking on his absolute loyalty. That in addition to his reliability, the high level of intelligence he possessed, and his practical skills. Michael had an uncommonly honest perception of his own qualities, just as they were undoubtedly worded and summarized in the confidential psychological evaluation documents in his personal file. Weaknesses were listed there, too—not few and not to be dismissed. “We’re all human,” he’d always quote his commander. In any event, the brilliance, the profound understanding, and the leaps of faith they’d need further down the road would stem only from Aharon himself. Such was Aharon’s way, and Michael knew so, too. That was the way he had worked throughout the years, and that’s how he was going into battle now. Michael was simply his lackey, a loyal and courageous servant, a vital yet somewhat technical component in the compact and efficient machine that Aharon was starting to piece together for the purpose of conquering the objective.

  14

  Michael called Amir and told him he’d like to see him that same day, preferably in the afternoon, before the eve of the Sabbath. He’d come to his place, to the moshav. He asked Ya’ara to meet him at Café Bueno, just off the highway, on the way from Tel Aviv to Netanya. Now. He’d be there in an hour. Yes, it was very important.

  He hadn’t seen Ya’ara for several years. Strange, yet the thing that stood out in his memory from their last meeting was the muted sheen of the pearls around her neck. Ya’ara was a combat-trained field operative and part of a special ops squad. She was blessed with courage and composure, and in her own restrained manner was always up for a fight, always came to life when a complex and dangerous mission came her way. She was smart and sensible, dressed in clothing he viewed as conservative and mature for her young age, her light hair meticulously arranged, boasting jewelry that alluded to a refined taste and understated wealth. They had worked together on three or four operations over the years, and she had always performed flawlessly, fulfilling her tasks to perfection. When they needed someone to get his or her hands on this or the other piece of information about the object they were dealing with, when they needed someone to get into places where others wouldn’t even make it past the doorman in the lobby, when th
ey needed someone to spend hours on end through a long cold night on stakeout, Ya’ara was just the right person for the job. She was extraordinary, special. Nobody had ever once suspected that she, an attractive and composed young woman, so meticulous about her attire and behavior, could be a Mossad combatant. Michael had never witnessed a display of intense emotion from her—excitement, fear, or elation. Even on one oppressively humid and fragrance-filled night in Shanghai, as he waited for her in an expensive dark car, its lights off and its powerful engine humming softly, even then, when she slid into the seat next to him and slipped the small pistol into the elegant bag in her hand, even then, just thirty seconds after firing three .22 slugs into the head of a North Korean arms dealer, she hadn’t shown any emotion at all. Her breathing was easy and regular, her light hair pulled back. “Everything’s okay,” she said in a deep and quiet voice. “Drive.”

  They had last seen each other some four or five years ago. They had met in his office. She walked in, and the first thing he noticed was the string of large pearls around her neck. He got up from behind his oversized desk and gestured toward the comfortable seating area in the corner of the office. He always did this when he wanted to demonstrate a lack of formality and a certain degree of intimacy. Ya’ara had come to seek his approval for a lengthy period of unpaid leave. She wanted to study film, she said, and she wanted to find someone to love at long last. She was tired of the endless string of men who couldn’t come to terms with her absences, her erratic traveling, their inability to pick up the phone and call her whenever they wanted. They weren’t satisfied with the fact that at strange hours, from remote unnamed locations, dead tired and almost blatantly indifferent, she did them the favor of calling to ask what was up. She couldn’t even find the will or strength to say “I miss you.”

 

‹ Prev