Traitor

by Jonathan de Shalit

  “Adi,” Aharon asked, “are you able to join me? Would that work with your son?”

  “Not a son. A daughter. Two daughters, Tamar and Michal. And yes, it’ll be okay. I’ll speak to my husband and my mother and the nanny and we’ll work it out. Provided we get back quickly.”

  Aharon, of course, had no idea how you work things out with a husband and a mother and a nanny, let alone two young children, so he simply offered a perfunctory mumble of satisfaction, and then asked Adi to purchase tickets for them on the Internet, or “however it is that you do it,” he said. “I’m going to call Thomas,” he announced. “Thomas Mueller, the Federal Police chief. Former chief. Former for sure. Like some of us here—on the junk heap,” he added somewhat bitterly, resigned to his fate. He disappeared into the other room and then returned to rummage in his bag and retrieve one of the three cell phones he carried with him everywhere. Needing quiet, Aharon closed the door behind him again. “Hello, hello,” they could hear him saying, his voice muffled but oozing vitality, turning on the charm for Thomas in Switzerland, a charm still warm and captivating even though its wielder was well into retirement.

  • • •

  Ya’ara packed methodically but swiftly. She was traveling light, so all she had with her was a small trolley and an elegant black and brown Louis Vuitton bag. It had cost her an unbelievable sum, but she loved it. It made her feel special. She checked every drawer, every closet, made sure she hadn’t left anything in the bathroom. Nothing would happen even if she left something behind, but years of training and fieldwork took charge. This was how you did your stuff. This was being professional. And right now she was in the most important operation of her career, even if it was unofficial, even if she was loose, on her own. Totally deniable. A cab would pick her up from Heralds Inn in fifteen minutes. She would take it directly to Logan Airport in Boston. Expensive, but she wanted to make good time. She had to be back in Tel Aviv as soon as possible. She had a strong feeling things would start happening very quickly from now on. And she had to be there to make sure that they responded accordingly. She knew Aharon Levin was vastly experienced and extremely intelligent. She admired Michael’s sensibility and clear mind. Yet, for too many years they had been off the streets. And she suspected that sometimes the high command positions that they held drove them to oversophistication, where decisiveness and ruthlessness were required instead. She told herself she was being vain, that she probably didn’t know everything better than the others, but then something inside her revolted: Why? Why? Why couldn’t she be smarter than the others? Why couldn’t she know better than them? Because they were older? Because they were men? Fuck them.

  In the cab she calmed down. The scenery was dull and gray. The highway was open, and the driver was focused and confident. She liked his driving. He was around fifty, he had both of his hands on the wheel, and he shut up. She did not lose her sense of urgency, but now she was moving, she was doing something, she felt in control. Finding the details of the antique shop in Zurich validated her stay in Providence. She knew she had to hang around and wait, and she was right. The patience of the hunter now gave way to the energy from a burst of action. She was now on her way back home. They were getting close. An old Bob Dylan song was playing in her mind, and she let it continue, as they grew swiftly closer to Boston, to the huge planes taking off, disappearing in the low clouds, burning fuel and gaining altitude, flying to distant places.

  56

  ZURICH, MARCH 2013

  Brian and Cobra had drunk a couple of beers and eaten quite a few sausages, and Brian leaned back, sighed, and asked: “So, Alon, you’re sticking with me then?”

  Alon took his time before answering. “Look,” he said. “This isn’t an easy decision. And that’s an understatement of British proportions. The truth is that it’s the hardest decision of my life. Yes, harder even than my decision to do what I chose to do. In Rome.” And as he spoke, Alon was hit once again with the realization that the people he had wanted to work with from the outset, in Rome, were Americans, and that his fate now lay in the hands of the Russians. He hadn’t quite grasped from Brian when the handover had occurred so unobtrusively. And in a few moments of absolute self-honesty he wondered if he really had realized only now that he’d been working for the KGB and its successors. Hadn’t he known, or at least suspected so, for years already? His uncertainty riled him, and his anger and mistrust toward his handler rose to the surface again. “I’m not entirely convinced that I have to make that decision right now. If I run, there’ll be no way back for me. A move like that would be irreversible. And self-destructive, from my perspective. It’s my understanding that you, too, don’t know how close they are to me, if at all. If what you’ve told me is even true, then they know there’s a top-level source somewhere high up in the Israeli government establishment, those are the words you used. I get it that they are motivated to find the source, I also get it that their motivation is extremely high. I know them. When the Shin Bet really wants something, it leaves no stone unturned. It has the bite and tenacity of a pit bull. But I’m hoping that you know what you’re doing, too. You haven’t explained to me how the fact that there’s a key agent high up in the Israeli establishment was leaked. But I’m hoping that you have been able to keep my identity under wraps. And if you’ve done your job the way you should have, there’s a chance they won’t get to me. As opposed to assured exposure and disgrace, in the event I openly cross the lines, there’s a chance—if I go back now—I’ll be able to go on with my life as usual. Maybe I’ll even be able to continue working with you. I don’t think they have any proof against me. Certainly not legal evidence. Without a confession, they can’t touch me. And they won’t get anything out of me. Don’t worry, Brian. You look uptight all of a sudden . . .”

  “I’m worried because you have no idea. You’re not a kid, Alon. ‘They won’t get anything out of me.’ Do you know how many people have said the exact same thing before going on to sign a full and detailed confession? Why do you always think you’re better than everyone else? That you’re different? You have no idea what they’re capable of doing to you during the course of an interrogation, even in a democracy, which you aren’t really—and I apologize if I’ve hurt your feelings. And even when it comes to high-profile suspects, there’s no immunity and no holding back. Two or three days in their hands and there’ll be nothing left of you. After not sleeping for seventy-two hours, and after having no choice but to piss your pants, and after realizing that the high-pitched tones they’re going to subject you to incessantly in your detention cell are driving you out of your mind—and that’s only the beginning—after all of that you’re no longer going to think that you’re the senior advisor whom no one can touch. You’ll be a nothing. A rag. And after two weeks of the same, you’ll be willing to tell them everything—if only they will stop. If they’d just let you sleep like a human being. If the shrieking in your head would just end. If they’d simply let you shower properly. You’re not the hero you think you are. You’ll go back and you’ll never know if you’re really home and free. You’ll never know if and when they’ll come knocking on your door in the middle of the night. Already now, even without being arrested, you’ll never have a good night’s sleep again. Unless you’re with us, under our support and protection. Think, Alon, think.”

  For the first time in their relationship Brian was losing his composure. He was careful not to raise his voice in the busy pub, but Alon noticed nevertheless that his cheeks were flushed, and not merely from the beer. And the more stressed Brian appeared, the calmer Alon became. He had wormed his way out of quite a few tricky and dangerous situations in his life. He would escape unscathed this time, too. And in a calm and almost tranquil tone he said, “I don’t buy your scenario. You’ve told a horror story, and throughout my life, I’ve refused to act in keeping with the worst-case scenario. If that’s your approach to things, you leave yourself paralyzed.”

  “It’s not the worst-case scenario, my
dear. What I’ve just described to you is the likely scenario.”

  “I hear you, Brian. You know I admire you. And that I love you. But you have to give me time. I need to think. And I can’t make the decision on my own either. My wife has to know what’s going on with me. Na’ama has no clue at all about our relationship.”

  Brian wanted to ask what exactly Cobra’s wife thought with respect to the money at their disposal all through the years and where it had come from, particularly when they were students and during Cobra’s time as a junior civil servant—one with promise, but still, just setting out. But he restrained himself.

  “I’m leaving tonight,” Alon said, “and I’ll be doing some serious thinking for the next little while. I suggest we meet again in exactly four months. Here, in Zurich, in keeping with normal procedures. If I decide I want to cross over to you”—he was still avoiding the word defection, acting as if all his options remained open—“I’ll come prepared. I’ll make all the necessary arrangements, below the surface, obviously. Discreetly. And I suggest I suspend my covert activities until then. No more copying of computer files, no more copying of documents, nothing out of the ordinary for the time being. Nothing at all. I won’t convene strategic discussion forums, I won’t make requests for theoretical papers, background papers, position papers, unless I’m instructed to do so by the prime minister, at his initiative. And even then I’ll insist that my time is very limited due to my other activities. A low profile. And if I get the sense that there’s a real threat, an imminent one, we’ll put the predetermined escape procedure into motion. And I hope it will in fact be available to me in the event of an emergency and is not merely theoretical.”

  Cobra was referring to the procedure they’d always reviewed in fine detail during each and every round of meetings, pertaining to a scenario in which he’d be unable to leave Israel officially. Both parties, he and his handlers, could initiate the emergency procedure, by way of an encrypted message on the Internet and also by leaving a prearranged sign as backup. Once confirmation was received, also via the Internet and by means of a second marking on the wall, they’d have a twenty-four-hour window in which a getaway remained possible. Cobra would have to make his way at least one hour after sunset to a natural harbor at a prearranged location on the coast between Ashdod and Ashkelon, where he’d be met by a rescue team with a motorboat. As soon as they made contact, following the exchange of passwords, he was supposed to surrender to them and they were supposed to deliver him safe and sound to a larger vessel, a fishing boat or yacht or merchant ship—he wasn’t told which it would be—that would take him on board and carry him to safer shores.

  “The plan remains in effect. We conduct regular drills, and it is fully operational. And the rendezvous point on the coast is reserved for you alone. We don’t have any other asset who knows about it. Come, I’ll take you to your hotel and you can go on from there to the airport. My only suggestion is that we leave just two months rather than four for the meeting option. Things can change, and quickly.”

  They drove in silence to Cobra’s hotel.

  Sitting later at the airport, at the bar overlooking the tarmac, after having already checked in, Alon watched as a large Swiss jet touched down on the runway, its wheels spraying up the rain that had been falling incessantly for the past hour. He saw the promise offered by the aircraft. It had come from somewhere far away, Canada, perhaps, maybe South America. And from Zurich it would fly out again to a different destination. To another continent. Alon could buy a ticket, get on board, and disappear. No one would know where he was. Not Brian and not Na’ama or anyone else. But Alon knew it was impossible to truly disappear for any significant length of time in this world. Certainly not without assistance. He forcibly erased the image of the lush green island surrounded by white beaches and a turquoise sea that had popped into his head. Feeling agitated, and with a bitter taste in his mouth, Alon began making his way to the gate for the flight to Tel Aviv. Less than an hour after he was due to land, former Mossad chief Aharon Levin would take his seat in the economy section of the very same aircraft, inching forward like a bloodhound on the scent, determined to capture his prey.

  57

  ZURICH, MARCH 2013

  A bearish man, broad and large, his blond—almost white—hair cropped short, Thomas Mueller greeted Aharon at the terminal with a firm hug. Aharon and Adi had just exited through the green customs channel, and Adi picked up on the genuine warmth in the embrace shared by the two elderly men. When Aharon introduced him to Adi, Thomas said she reminded him of his daughter and almost hugged her, too. It was morning in Zurich, but the sky was a steely opaque gray, and Aharon and Thomas used the drive from the airport into the city to catch up on each other’s exploits, mixing personal gossip with chitchat from the world of international espionage. They reminisced about the nights they had spent together on stakeout in an ice-cold car with only the coffee prepared for them by Thomas’s wife on hand to save them from freezing completely. And Thomas talked with obvious pride about his two grandchildren, to the accompaniment of some indistinct hems and haws from Aharon. Adi sat in the back, looking out the window, wondering what was inside the large trucks that Thomas’s BMW flashed past with a low growl.

  “You’re staying for at least one night, right?” Thomas asked. “You’re welcome like always to stay with us, in Bern. But being a little familiar with you, Aharon, I’ve reserved two rooms for you at Frau Adler’s hotel that you like so much.”

  Aharon almost took offense at his friend Thomas’s assumption that they’d need two rooms, but was quick to recognize, all by himself, the absurdity of such a reaction. “Most appreciated!” he said. “How’s dear Frau Adler? Still helping you from time to time, with your operations?”

  “I’ve been out of the game for a long time already, and I thought, mistakenly I guess, that the same went for you. So I’m not really up to speed on operations, and Frau Adler isn’t either any longer, I believe. Things were different back then, right? Those meetings we conducted at her hotel! She’s a very discreet woman, and I think, too, that she had a thing for me,” he said somewhat bashfully. “She used to be very beautiful, like a movie star. Today, like all of us, she’s falling apart a little.”

  They reached the city, and the BMW began making its way up toward the mountain overlooking the lake. “Let’s go for a little walk in the forest. The cold air will clear our heads, and we can discuss the matter you’re here for. I promise we’ll end up at that charming café in that cabin—remember, Aharon? The one that looks as if it could have come from a particularly frightening fairy tale? But their coffee is excellent, and they’re happy to add a kick to it even in the mornings. And for the young girl, a hot chocolate,” he added with a smile.

  “Hot chocolate with ice-cold vodka works for me,” Adi responded, and Thomas said, “I apologize, Fräulein. You’ve put me in my place, and rightly so.”

  “Frau, not Fräulein. I’m a mother of two small children. But I’ll take it as a compliment.” Nothing fazes her, that young woman, Aharon thought to himself with pride.

  They reached the summit. Gray clouds hung below them, and they were enveloped by the pure fresh scent of pine trees. Thomas and Aharon walked side by side along the path that wound its way through the trees. Adi followed a short way behind them, overwhelmed by the sudden sense of freedom that filled her.

  Their cups of coffee stood on the table in front of them, a bottle of clear schnapps in the middle. The early hour meant the café was still empty. And the fire ablaze in the fireplace added warmth and a pleasant aroma to the expanse. Aharon briefed Thomas in general terms about the hunt he’d been orchestrating in recent weeks. He told him about the Israeli person of interest, whose crimes he refrained from labeling explicitly; he focused on the American lead, who had turned up all of a sudden at the Bernhard & Sons antiquities store, here in Zurich. That was the lead he wanted to follow, to see where it took him. Thomas listened intently, a thoughtful look on his face.r />
  “I can still ask for a few favors here in Zurich. The police chief of the canton used to work under me, and he could be of assistance. It would be wise to refrain from doing anything rash like approaching the storeowner directly. We need to check first if he appears anywhere in our records. He may be connected to some sort of criminal activity or something else. And your American—Hart, right?—may not have turned up at that particular antiquities store by chance. Perhaps Herr Bernhard is involved somehow in Hart’s covert activities. Maybe he’s a courier of sorts himself, a contact, or maybe his store is a secure location at which Hart can leave something for someone else to pick up. If that’s the case, we wouldn’t want Bernhard’s first move to be a message warning Hart.

  “To begin with, we can ask Bernhard for the store’s security footage from the past week, with a cover story about an antiquities forgery affair that’s currently under investigation by Interpol, in which we, the Zurich Police, that is, are providing assistance. We’re looking for someone who appears to have visited several antiquities stores in Zurich in the past week, and we’re trying to identify the individual by comparing images from the leading stores in the city. This will require the police to request security footage from a number of businesses, and concerns regarding forgeries will convince them to cooperate. In their line of business, reputability has a significant bearing on sales,” Thomas said. “They obviously speak to one another, all those antiquities traders, and Bernhard can’t know that we’re focused on him alone. Hmmm,” Thomas hummed and added, “it’ll take some doing, but Alexander owes me one. I hope he remembers who awarded him his promotion.”

  • • •

  Adi was sitting in her small room, on the second floor of Frau Adler’s hotel. It was early evening, and the dim light of a streetlamp illuminated the cobblestone alleyway across the way, but Adi wasn’t tempted into keeping an indifferent eye on the view from the window. Frau Adler herself had greeted them on arrival, flirting shamelessly with Aharon Levin, her makeup thick and overdone, or so Adi had thought to herself, and her voice deep and raspy from decades of smoking. She had insisted on referring to Adi as Aharon’s “niece,” and Adi couldn’t figure out if it carried an insult of sorts, and she also failed to comprehend the narrow-eyed look Frau Adler had given her.