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Traitor

Page 21

by Jonathan de Shalit


  He thought again about Martin. One night, and he still a young man at the time, they finished off an entire bottle of vodka together, while eating Beluga caviar with a soup spoon from a large tin. Martin looked very pleased with himself when morning broke—not a drop left in the bottle, the tin shiny and empty, the two of them drunk and kings of the world. That night, as if to shed a heavy load off his chest, he told Martin about Israel’s strategic energy reserves, the quantities of oil and gas in the underground reservoirs, and the rationale underlying the calculation of those reserves, how many days Israel could survive without support and provisions from the outside. He was serving at the time as the young and brilliant aide to the minister of energy and infrastructure, and the minister, a former general, gray-haired, a long scar running from his right eye down to his chin, said to him back then, You see, Alon, someone here needs to be serious, and the seriousness starts here with us. We’ll hold out for as long as we have to, and we’ll have the courage and the perseverance and the patience, and if we’re pushed into a corner we’ll take everyone with us. Get it? I don’t mean another Masada, or Bar Kokhba revolt, or like Saul falling on his sword. I’m talking about the end of the world. And he told Martin not only about the reserves, but about everything else the minister had said to him, too. And Martin sought his advice, asked for his opinion, asked if he didn’t think the numbers had been intentionally exaggerated, and if the minister’s sentiments weren’t somewhat grandiose, and how it all fitted in with his perception of the geostrategic reality. And Alon, who had yet to sink into the embracing fog of the vodka, talked and talked, and Martin allowed himself to take out a small notepad and write some things down, so as not to forget, and rest a strong, fatherly hand on his shoulder.

  Vodka and caviar? Alon asked himself, staring into the blackness of the lake. Just like any good old American, right? But Martin was the last person you’d think was a Soviet secret agent. His openness, humor, no-holds-barred criticism, the scope of his education, his range of knowledge, his love of baseball, for fuck’s sake, the perfect English, with that unique New England accent. Alon had always felt, even if he didn’t really know for sure, that he had a good grasp of Martin. He was a good American, he was willing to bet that he collected baseball cards as a kid. Martin, after all, was an avid admirer of American literature, and would even quote entire lines from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass when the mood took him. How could he have known? He couldn’t have been from the KGB. Alon tried to figure out where it had all gone wrong. Perhaps the transition to the KGB occurred only with Brian? But Brian was a professor and the son of a professor from a prestigious East Coast university. That is, if he wasn’t a CIA officer. But it was the same Brian who was now offering him refuge in Russia. Something here didn’t make sense at all. He had a throbbing pain in his temples and the acid again rose from his stomach and burned through his chest and throat. He inhaled again and the cigar only made things worse.

  48

  HERALDS INN, PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND, MARCH 2013

  It was early evening and Ya’ara was overcome once again by that familiar sense of discomfort, that nagging boredom, that yearning to do something, to be outside, to breathe in fresh air, anything but remain closed up in a standard hotel room, with its wall-to-wall carpeting and a double bed and small desk and an armchair in the corner and a television with nothing on except the incessant drivel of CNN and Fox and ABC and a million other equally tedious stations. She picked up her book again, an old Somerset Maugham novel, and laid it down again a few minutes later. The small, tightly packed letters danced before her eyes. Spying is waiting, apparently, but it drives you crazy sometimes. Waiting, waiting, waiting. For how long? When was something going to happen already? She lay down on the bed, her one bare foot hanging over the edge of the mattress. She stretched and drew her left hand across her breasts. Her other hand slipped into her panties, indifferently stroking the small mound, the mound of Venus, feeling its sweet softness over the hard bone. She could feel the familiar wetness, but she didn’t want to continue. Not alone. She got off the bed and took a shower. She then dressed herself in a pretty, light-colored outfit, put on her pearl necklace, and went down to the bar.

  With a glass of Jack Daniel’s in her hand she went out to the freezing indoor patio, wrapping herself in her coat. The air was cold and crisp just like she wanted, and she felt revitalized. The bourbon warmed her and she felt good all over. Her cheeks were flushed when she went back inside, and the sparks from the fire burning in the large fireplace reflected off her light hair. She asked for another glass of bourbon, something light and pleasant swirled in her head, and she sat down in a huge armchair, one of two positioned on either side of the fireplace. She still sensed she needed to remain in Providence for a few more days. She needed to be patient. She would pay another visit to the Hart family’s home two or three days from now. Ya’ara knew: If she got her timing right, something would transpire. She had sensed the connection that formed between herself and Frances against the backdrop of Frances’s concern and fear for the fate of her husband, who had gotten up in the middle of the night and disappeared without any real explanation. When she held Frances’s hands, when she soothed her with the look in her eyes, she discerned a response of sorts from that elegant, hard, and miserable woman. And now she had to wait. To wait for the right moment. Not yet, she said to herself, a little longer.

  She looked up and smiled at the young man who had sat down in the armchair across from her. She liked the look of him. His hair a little disheveled, a handsome face, a strong chin, a large, straight nose. He ordered a cognac from the waiter who approached him, settled back in his chair, and stretched his legs.

  “It’s nice here, isn’t it? Just like this, doing nothing,” Ya’ara addressed him.

  “I love this fireplace. Yes. What a day I had. You have no idea. I hate lawyers. Hate them.”

  “No offense, but you look a little like a lawyer yourself. That’s what I would have guessed anyway.”

  He sighed. “You’re right. That’s why I can’t bear them. Being with them in endless meetings. Going through clause after clause after clause and constantly squabbling. I’m Don.”

  “Annabelle,” Ya’ara said. That was the name she had registered under at the hotel. Annabelle Eshel, just in case Frances Hart, or Julian Hart perhaps, came looking for her.

  “And what about you? You don’t look like a lawyer to me. Academic researcher? A spy?”

  “A spy only in my free time. But most of my days are taken up with classical studies, and I’m also a consultant to an antiquities dealer.”

  “So you’re one of those smart young women, right?”

  “Spend the evening with me and you’ll find out just how smart I am.”

  • • •

  Ya’ara rested her head on Don’s chest, her light hair, which was partly covering her face, revealing an ever-watchful blue-gray eye. She felt wonderfully relaxed and her body seemed to be brimming with delight. The soft light emanating from the bathroom accentuated her beauty. She rose lightly from the bed, and her body appeared strong and graceful as she walked across the floor. Like a dangerous tigress, Don thought. “It was a wonderful evening,” she said to him. “I’m gonna take a shower now, and then I want to get some sleep. Alone. I hate not getting enough sleep. Good night.” As he made his way to the door, a clearly astounded Don could hear the powerful jet of water splashing against her body. A fragrant mist filled the room.

  49

  ZURICH, MARCH 2013

  Brian walked past the car in which the two counter-surveillance agents were sitting. A young man and woman, who had spent the entire night outside Cobra’s hotel. The woman recognized him and got out of the car. Brian stopped alongside a bench farther down the street and she joined him. He offered her a cigarette, and she took one, along with his offer of a light, both his and her hand shielding the small flame, touching each other momentarily.

  “Nothing,” she said to him. “Sinc
e parting company with you and returning to the hotel, he hasn’t gone out at all. Vasily did a walk-through of the lobby and also had a quick look into the dining room about ten minutes ago, but he wasn’t there. They’ll be serving breakfast for just another twenty minutes, and if he doesn’t come down he’ll miss it.”

  Brian looked at his watch. Eleven minutes past ten. The breakfast was the least of his concerns. “I’ll go in now,” he said. “If he doesn’t come down to the dining room, I’ll wake him. We can’t leave him on his own. He’s had a rough night, and if he’s falling apart, we’ll have to pull him together again. That’s what we are here for. You’re doing a good job, Natasha Petrovna. When are your replacements coming?”

  “At twelve. Don’t worry, we’re keeping an eye on him and won’t let him disappear. In the event of anything out of the ordinary, we’ll let you know. If we spot or sense any danger, we’ll get you out. We’ll get you to the safe house in Geneva and take it from there. In keeping with procedures.”

  Procedures, procedures, procedures. Everything in keeping with procedures. Brian was well aware of the importance of procedures, of the experience and collective wisdom they embodied, yet he couldn’t bear them. Sometimes he’d look at himself from the outside and struggle to recall what a professor of ancient world history at Brown University was doing among all these spies and procedures. It was good of them to afford him a secret trip to Moscow once a year, albeit just for two days—but even that was better than nothing. It was his way of refocusing. He would go off to a conference at the University of Vienna, stay on a few days for meetings and archive work, meet with the courier who gave him a passport and air ticket, and disappear. Forty-eight hours during which he wasn’t Julian Hart or Brian Cox or anyone else. Simply himself. And they welcomed him with open arms on those visits! They spoke to him only in Russian, and he was always amazed by how well he remembered, but felt, too, that his language was a little behind the times. And the meetings with the head of the directorate and the SVR chief. They appreciated his sacrifice. The huge burden of living under two identities. In two worlds. The loneliness. And at the division, at the division he would be briefed and brought up to speed. And there was also the refresher course on how to operate the secret communications system, despite the fact that he’d been using it for years already without any mishaps.

  And the firing range, they always took him to the firing range, shooting practice with a SIG Sauer 9mm pistol. That was the type of pistol they had given him years ago; he kept it stashed away at his home in Rhode Island. Not that you couldn’t purchase a gun in the United States. You could buy yourself a tank or fighter jet as well. But headquarters didn’t want there to be a record anywhere, not even at some remote guns and fishing gear store, of Professor Hart owning a weapon. He was not supposed to use it anyway except in an emergency, and exactly what would constitute an emergency, if one ever arose, wasn’t very clear. As unlikely to actually happen as it was, if called in for questioning or arrested, his explicit instructions were: Your cover is your weapon. It’s so deep and tight that it would be impossible to incriminate you. A cover story and lawyers of the highest order. Don’t ever put up a fight and don’t ever turn your weapon on the American law enforcement authorities, not the police and not the FBI. You’ll achieve your victory by way of the secrecy and the cover. So why a gun then? For unforeseen circumstances, in which the good old gun could offer a more appropriate response. In any event, he enjoyed the ritual of the firing range. He and the hard-assed instructor alongside his handler, all alone at the range. The three of them shooting. And he was not bad, not bad at all, particularly considering the fact that he didn’t do any shooting practice and wasn’t all that young these days. He was steady and composed, and in good physical shape, too, the instructor told him. And after the range, after cleaning the weapons and ensuring again that they were unloaded and the chambers were empty, the instructor would give him a rattling punch on his right shoulder and then embrace him and tell him to take care. See you next year.

  • • •

  He saw Cobra exit the elevator and turn toward the dining room. He looked pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes, but his composure remained intact. Clean-shaven, his clothes pressed. An unstoppable glint of joy flashing through his narrow eyes on spotting Brian. That’s good, he still wants to see me, Brian thought. As long as he’s not falling apart, that’s the main thing, and if he does so, then let it at least happen when I have him under my control.

  “Good morning, may I join you? I’ve eaten already, but I’ll have a cup of coffee.”

  “Good morning. And go ahead. You’re paying in any case.”

  They sat at a small table in the corner of the dining room. An elderly waitress poured them coffee and orange juice. Cobra went to the buffet and returned with a half-empty plate.

  “I’d like to take a walk with you for a while,” Brian said. “There are two or three antiquities stores that I need to visit, and I think we should go see the Paul Klee exhibition. A wonderful show. We can talk there and on the way. And then in our basement. Beer, sausages, and rösti, just like civilized people should eat.”

  “I’m going back tonight. The flight leaves at eleven. I’m all yours until then.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I don’t think you should go back. It’s too risky. The name of the game at this stage is speed. Who’s quicker. Who’s more decisive. We know they’re looking. We don’t know where they are in their search, or if they’re about to get to you. But believe me, if they have something to go on, their motivation is sky high. They won’t stop at anything. And we have to be one step ahead. To act fast. Not fast. Right now. Immediately.” He paused after realizing he had raised his voice. Brian continued, trying to radiate authority and restraint. “We have to ensure that when they do get to you, all they find is a ghost. You’ll be elsewhere by then, safe, out of their reach. Think about it. About their frustration. About outsmarting them once again. About outdoing them again.”

  “Brian, how we ended up in a situation like this was all I thought about all night long. About the fact that you don’t know how to safeguard your secrets. About the fact that you’ve screwed up with respect to safeguarding me. That you’ve been deceiving me all these years.”

  “I could tell you a different story,” Brian responded. “One about how we’ve been looking after you for thirty years. How now, too, we can make sure you aren’t caught, and can go on living a good and secure life. I could remind you of your enormous contribution to the fact that the volatile region in which you live is still in one piece. The Middle East could have sparked three world wars by now, but the balance we’ve managed to create, and the cooperation between ourselves and the United States, have prevented them. We’ve had the wisdom to draw the lines in the right places, to keep tensions in check, to ensure that no one gets too powerful. And you, we, our work together, have played a significant role in doing so. It’s not something I’d belittle, or erase, Alon. You’ve enjoyed tremendous achievements. Historic. Of near epic proportions. Not to mention the financial reward you stand to gain. Eight million dollars await you in an account in Lausanne, not to mention the other accounts. Where’s that money come from? I’m not saying you haven’t earned it or don’t deserve it, but I’m allowed to remind you, now and then, that it came from us. We’ve never failed to keep our promises to you. We’ve always kept our word. So now, in a time of crisis, I think you should listen to us. Listen to me. We want this story to end well. I’m looking out for you, Alon. I value you. I love you as if you were my brother. So listen to me, listen to me.”

  50

  TEL AVIV, MARCH 2013

  Michael and Adi were standing in the kitchen next to the small espresso machine. Michael had brought the red machine to the office just a week ago and everyone was already hooked on it. The clear glass bowl standing on the granite countertop was filled with colorful, shiny capsules, like a collection of assorted candies, enveloped by the
strong aroma of fresh coffee.

  “Tell me,” Michael said, “does the database now include all the material we received from Amir’s friend at the Interior Ministry?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m working on now,” Adi responded. “I’m almost done. I took a coffee break and I’m now adding the remaining data to the Excel spreadsheet. Essentially it’s just a big table, not some sophisticated system. But we may be able to learn something from it. When does Aharon get back?”

  “He’s back already. Arrived yesterday, in the early evening. Still recovering from the flight. He should be here soon.”

 

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