Traitor

by Jonathan de Shalit

  35

  TEL AVIV, FEBRUARY 2013

  “Drama, such drama,” Aharon declared to the team members sitting around him. “Ya’ara and Aslan’s trip has yielded outstanding progress! Hagar Beit-Hallahmi’s gut feeling has been confirmed. Her suspicions concerning a link between the mysterious woman, Katrina Geifman, and the Cobra affair have been verified!”

  “Let’s do this in an orderly fashion,” Michael said. “You’ve all received a copy of Ya’ara’s report. Now let’s see what we’ve learned. Adi?”

  “Okay, here goes,” Adi began. “In the late 1980s and early nineties, the KGB was running a top-level Israeli agent code-named Cobra. He may still be active today, but that we don’t know.

  “Cobra’s handler went by the name of Brian Cox—or rather, he used a Canadian passport in that name for his trips to Israel to meet with and brief Cobra. The name in all likelihood isn’t his real one or even the name under which he lives or operates in the framework of his permanent cover, since Katrina told Ya’ara that after arriving in Europe they’d receive new passports with which to travel to Israel for their mission. Brian Cox is a Russian KGB officer who is living deep undercover in the United States. He has the ability to pass himself off as an American for all intents and purposes. He lived at the time in a region of the United States in which the Christmas period is cold and snowy. He may still be living there today. My guess is that he lived on the East Coast, but that’s just a gut feeling. There are several other cold and snowy places in America, but not with renowned schools. So we’re probably looking for a professor of ancient history, of the Near East perhaps, maybe even of art history, at a prestigious university in the eastern United States.

  “Cobra in the late 1980s was probably in his thirties, or early forties perhaps. Average height, slim, straight dark hair. Katrina’s description. It doesn’t tell us much. It could fit thousands of people.”

  “Cobra has a birthday in late January or early February,” Ya’ara added. “And we know that he traveled at least once to Geneva, Switzerland, to meet with his handlers.”

  “Cobra was in Geneva in late March or early April of 1989,” Adi said.

  “How do we know that?” Michael asked.

  “According to Hagar, Igor Abramovich traveled abroad just twice after immigrating to Israel,” Adi responded. “Once with his wife to Cyprus, and once, in the late 1980s, to Germany. That second trip corresponds with the time and place of Brian Cox’s series of meetings with Cobra in Geneva. Katrina met up with Igor in Heidelberg, Germany, immediately after Geneva. I found Igor’s passport in one of the boxes Ya’ara received from his daughter. Based on the stamps, he left Israel and entered Germany on April 5, 1989. He returned to Israel a week later, on April 12. The meetings with Cobra took place just before then, either at the end of March or the beginning of April 1989.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” said Ya’ara. “I think the feelings Katrina displayed to me were authentic. I think that she really tried through me to touch on that deep love she shared with Igor Abramovich. It appears in the operational report. Katrina knew from the very first moment that I wasn’t who I had said I was. She knew right away that I wasn’t Igor’s daughter. She even said so in no uncertain terms.”

  “And what does that tell you, Ya’ara?” Michael asked, as if to test her.

  “That we were lucky. Katrina had her own reasons for speaking to me—revenge or anger, perhaps a desire to make amends. In any event, I think it tells us that we’re in a race against time. At some point, very soon, the Russians will learn that we’re after their man. It could already be happening as we speak. I’m not saying that Katrina is going to speak to someone about me, about us. But she herself knows. It’s like the gun in Chekhov’s play. It has already appeared and will be fired in one of the coming acts.”

  “I can see that your theater studies have had an effect on you,” Aharon remarked dryly, and Ya’ara remained silent, choosing not to remind him that she was studying film. “But you do have a point.”

  “And don’t forget the black car that showed up in operational mode to stake out Katrina’s residence,” Aslan said. “That only reinforces what Ya’ara’s been saying. Although we did manage to leave Russia without any problems, making sure, too, that no one was on our tail. Sticking to our cover story, we went on to Kazan and then returned to Moscow. We checked ourselves in both cities and we were clean. It may take them a while to check all the facts, Katrina may not be helping them, things may move slowly there. But if they have started to sniff around, they’ll realize eventually that something is going on. If they’re still in contact with Cobra, they may warn him. We need to move fast.”

  “So what are we doing now?” Michael asked, his gaze taking in the full team.

  “I’m making progress with the database of potential suspects,” Adi said. “Theoretically, we can now start checking the names against dates of birth. Late January, early February; I’d say from January 15 to February 15, 1950, through to 1960. Remember, Cobra, according to Katrina, was thirty to forty years old in the late 1980s. We can also check who left the country during the two weeks leading up to April 5, 1989. After all, we know Cobra was in Switzerland at that time.”

  “What do you mean by being able to start running the check in theory? Why only theoretically?”

  “Only theoretically because we don’t have access to the Interior Ministry computers. We’re undercover, remember?”

  “It may be less theoretical than it appears,” Amir said. “I have a friend, not really a friend, more like a contact, at the Interior Ministry. He’ll do my bidding, or he’ll try to at least. After all, we’re two Tiberias boys who served together in the army in a support company.” He smiled.

  “Excellent, excellent,” Aharon Levin declared, appearing to suddenly shake himself from another world somewhere. “Very important. And I think the time has come for a short trip to the U.S. The American side to the story is critical. We have to try to get to this professor, Cobra’s handler. This Brian Cox guy. Maybe the CIA has a lead that’s linked to our case. I’ll meet with Bill and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Who’s Bill?”

  “It’s a long story. A single evening wouldn’t nearly suffice to tell it all. In short, however, Bill is William Ahab Pemberton. He was the CIA’s station chief in Moscow in the 1990s. He served for more than a decade at one station—unprecedented. He subsequently served in other positions, including as head of the Psychological Warfare Unit. His final post was head of the Russia Division at CIA headquarters. He retired just a few months ago. He was rumored to be too old and too extreme for some people’s tastes. A somewhat strange man, an odd man for sure. A fanatic, belligerent. Very devout, American style. A confirmed bachelor. Interested only in his agents. And ancient religious texts. A self-taught aficionado, but very knowledgeable on the subject, and a real expert in early Christianity. That may also have been something that connected him to us. Anyway, we ended up working together on several occasions. He had a great deal of interest in a certain contact of mine in the Soviet Union. We spent many nights in each other’s company, the two of us and a bottle of Wild Turkey, of which nothing much remained come morning. The Soviet Union fascinated him, but he was strictly a bourbon man when it came to alcohol, not vodka. Yes, we need to meet with him as soon as possible. Ya’ara and Michael, I want you to come with me.”

  They nodded, their faces serious.

  “And Amir. Find out if your contact can run a check on the list of names Adi’s compiling. How many do you have so far?”

  “Several hundred. It’s a shot in the dark. I’m trying to draw up a list of people who could fit the definition of a top-level asset in Israel. It’s a list, actually, of officeholders. I’m then adding the particulars I find on the Net. It’s pretty disheartening, to be honest. I have no idea of my chances of coming up with a hit. Cobra, after all, could also be an aide to an aide of someone on the list. And if so, he won’t even
show up on the list at all.”

  “But then you’d hardly call him a top-level agent.”

  “We don’t really know how the KGB defines its agents. Or how the head of the First Directorate selected the agents to be run by the Tactical Planning Division.”

  “True,” Aharon said, “a lot of what we’re doing is guesswork and supposition. But A, without any additional concrete information, we have no choice. And B, the intuition of experienced and wise individuals is something I hold in very high regard.”

  “QV Aharon Levin,” Michael mumbled.

  “I heard that,” Aharon said, raising his eyebrows theatrically. “But yes, even the intuition of an old man like me still counts for something. Don’t underestimate us old folk.” He said “old folk” in a somewhat shaky voice, and Michael couldn’t tell if he was joking or had simply decided to adopt a new manner of speech to befit his status. “But I really mean this,” Aharon continued, “I look at this team I’ve selected, and I know we can do it. We’re on the scent now and it will lead us forward, until we get our hands on that piece of filth. And the scent is now taking me to Virginia.”

  And a few minutes later he announced to everyone: “I’ve spoken to Bill. He’s expecting us. I told him to put out two extra glasses. The bourbon’s on us.”

  36

  DIMITROVGRAD, FEBRUARY 2013

  They made her wait for almost an hour. It was already five to nine, and the meeting had been scheduled for eight. FSB headquarters in Dimitrovgrad were located in a relatively small three-story office block. It looked ostensibly very much like the neighboring buildings, which were fronted by small businesses offering tools and spare parts for agricultural equipment. Aside from the guard post at the entrance and the barred windows on the first floor, it wasn’t readily distinguishable from the adjacent structures. The flag of the Russian Federation flew unobtrusively on the wall of the building.

  Katrina could guess what was coming next when the phone rang all of a sudden on Thursday afternoon. No, no, said a courteous voice, it isn’t urgent. A routine inquiry, standard procedure. They hadn’t been in touch with her for some two years, and now, immediately in the wake of a visit from someone who had presented herself as Igor’s daughter, she was called in for a routine talk. Or a routine inquiry. It didn’t really matter what they called it, especially since everyone clearly knew it was going to be an interrogation by the security services. Katrina tried to think who could have seen the young woman who had visited her and who had reported them to the local FSB office. She knew from experience that it could have been anyone. The taxi driver who had driven the young woman to her home, the neighbors across the street. Anyone could have reported seeing Katrina the recluse getting a visit at her home from a pretty young woman who could hardly have been her daughter or granddaughter. True, gone were the days when every second individual throughout the empire was an informer. The KGB’s iron fist had been gloved in fur and leather. But Katrina wasn’t a rank-and-file citizen. She had been banished to that remote city and had no doubt that the security organizations, even if they had changed their names, were keeping an eye on her. She didn’t think she was under round-the-clock surveillance, that would surely be an unnecessary expense. But her phone was probably being tapped, sporadically at least, and the little mail she received was probably being checked, too. And the neighbors must have been instructed to report anything out of the ordinary in the life of their quiet neighbor.

  She waited without a fuss. No one took the trouble to keep her posted on what was happening or to apologize for the delay. At nine-thirty, she noticed a man walking toward her. She knew him by name, Alexei Volkov, from her years spent working at the local office. They had never exchanged more than a few polite words, when passing one another in the corridor or standing in line at the cafeteria. He was fat and unkempt, his hair greasy and in need of a cut, his shirt crying out to be ironed. “Good morning,” he said to her, not missing a stride, his right hand clutching a steaming cup of tea, a cardboard dossier tucked under his left armpit. “Come with me, please.” They walked into an empty dusty office, and Alexei gestured for her to sit down. He circled the metal desk and sat down across from her with a grunt, his oversized stomach pressing against the edge of the piece of furniture and pushing it toward her. He opened the dossier and said, “Yes, yes. Katrina Geifman. Well, how’s life been treating you since your retirement? I envy you. I still have a good few years to go before I can retire. And then only if the powers that be grant me permission. Anyway, you aren’t here to listen to my problems.” With an air of exaggerated importance, he retrieved a pen from his shirt pocket, reached for a notepad, cleared his throat, and said, “As you’ve already been told, this is merely a routine inquiry for some clarifications. We received a report last week about a foreign couple who had checked in to Hotel Lenin. Dimitrovgrad isn’t a small town and it gets its fair share of visitors, but they were the only foreign couple staying at the hotel at this time of the year. Two guests from Israel. We’d have been guilty of gross negligence had their presence not caught our attention. We checked with our usual sources, the kind you’re familiar with—you worked here for years, after all. And we learned via the taxi company that the woman had been to see you. You, Katrina Geifman. A stranger, from another country, comes to see you, a former employee of the Federal Security Service. She comes all the way to Dimitrovgrad in the dead of winter to see you. That’s unusual. And it certainly warrants a report, Katrina. And you didn’t make one.”

  “I haven’t had a chance yet to report it,” Katrina responded apologetically. “And there really is nothing to report. She’s the daughter of someone I once knew. It’s all there in my personal file, there isn’t anything new to add. But the issue is classified. In any event, the man died years ago. His daughter contacted me only now. She was coming to Russia anyway. A business trip to Moscow. Something concerning her family in Kazan. I was happy to see her, we reminisced about her father. That’s all.”

  “Did she tell you anything about her partner?”

  “Not much. They’re coworkers and they’re involved with each other. I don’t really know her very well at all. I knew her father. I wanted to hear about him. I’ve wondered for many years what became of him.”

  “Is there anything else I should know? Did she want something from you? Did she offer you anything? Did you make any arrangements with her, another meeting at some point in the future perhaps?”

  “No. We spoke in general terms about keeping in touch. Of course she didn’t ask me for anything. What could I have to offer her? A pleasant young woman, polite. That’s all.”

  Alexei scratched his head, scribbled a few lines on the piece of paper in front of him, and said: “Okay, Katrina. But the next time you make contact with a foreigner, or a foreigner contacts you, make sure you inform us before we come to you. I realize that you don’t view such things as matters of urgency, but procedures apply to pensioners, too. You know that and have signed all the relevant documentation accordingly. Have a good day, and if you remember anything I may need to know,” he said, before pausing for a few seconds with a stern look on his face, “if you remember anything, call and let me know. I’m sure you still remember the central telephone number.”

  37

  VIRGINIA, FEBRUARY 2013

  Michael drove. Ya’ara was in the front next to him. And Aharon dozed at the back, his head against the window. The road narrowed after they turned off the freeway, embracing the contours of the hills, densely packed gray, bare trees rising skyward along its edges. Patches of pure white snow shone from time to time from within the woodland, but the earth was brown and muddy. Strange not to come across any other cars, Michael thought. A sudden curve caused him to turn sharply to the left. He could feel he’d been driving a little too fast. The car’s tires lost their grip for a moment, and the vehicle began drifting to the right. Michael pressed his foot down on the gas, and the car accelerated and straightened out. He exhaled, his eyes now fixed on
the road. “Good driving,” Ya’ara remarked. And from the back Aharon mumbled something like, “There’d be no need for good driving if you were going a little slower. What’s the rush? Do you think he’s running away? We’ve got the whisky, don’t forget.”

  “I wonder what this Ahab is like,” Ya’ara said.

  “Bill. His name’s Bill. What’s he like? You’ll see soon enough.”

  The woodland gave way to fruit orchards. “Apples or pears?” Ya’ara wondered out loud. “Apples,” Aharon responded. “The blossoms in April and May are spectacular. This entire valley turns white.” And then the trees were back, closing in on the road again. A raccoon raced across the narrow stretch of tarmac. Michael had cracked open his window and cold, clean air was blowing into the car. If it weren’t colorless, it would surely have been a light shade of blue, its unadulterated crispness like fire in the lungs.