I Am Not a Traitor: A psychological thriller about an army veteran with a huge secret
Page 4
Both of them were told that I had been arrested for some mysterious charge. My wife was forbidden from telling them what it was. Luckily for me, I must add. Treason? Espionage? If they had known, they wouldn’t have signed.
He’s already moved on to the next matter, waving a corrected draft of my indictment in my face. Eight pages of accusations phrased in high legalese. I could not find one reason for his joy in them:
Contact with a foreign agent—
Grave espionage—
Assisting an enemy in its war on Israel—
Relaying information to the enemy with an intent to undermine the security of the State of Israel—
Relaying confidential information to an unauthorized element—
“In short, high treason, good and proper,” my attorney concludes in a jocular tone. He smiles at me. Expects me to smile back. As if we were both sharing a good joke.
When he sees I’m upset, he assumes his expression of wonder. His voice sounds like a victory cry. “Really, you’re letting this get to you? Didn’t I tell you in advance that this was their style? Huh? Did I or didn’t I? They want to scare you, and they’ll use any means at their disposal. First they’ll pile up responsibility for every atrocity in the world on your shoulders, then they come off their high horse and sign a plea bargain with you, and even thank you kindly so long as ultimately, you agree to confess that you parked in a handicapped spot or, God forbid, didn’t pay the parking fee at all.”
His glibness makes me angry. When he sees me circling the charges that seem questionable to me, he waves his hand dismissively. As if these are minor errors in a bill handed to me at a restaurant.
“This is nothing,” he says. “Have you still not realized that these are ‘means to an end’ charges that have nothing to do with you or what you did? The FBI managed to lock up the great Al Capone, head of the Mafia in Chicago, not for the horrific murders he committed but for some minor tax infractions. Did you get that?”
His smile is permanently affixed to his face, which makes me even madder.
I continue to mark the page.
Negligent manslaughter—
I ask him, “Why have they prepared an indictment if they’re still interrogating me?”
“There’s no better sign than that. It’s further proof that they themselves are still uncertain about the charges they’re leveling against you, and their uncertainty is only increasing.”
He continues to be smug. Constantly smug.
I have an explanation of my own for the ongoing interrogations. They’re still digging into me because the puzzle they’ve constructed still doesn’t feel right. The deeper they look into it, cross-referencing more and more items of information, the more they understand that the puzzle is missing two major pieces that preclude forming a comprehensive whole.
One of them is the motive.
Why would someone like me, “salt of the earth,” as they themselves claim, “a true Israeli patriot,” do the things that are being attributed to me? They know I didn’t receive any money, or any other apparent compensation.
They’re left with one unconvincing explanation.
Horniness—
But it doesn’t pass muster either.
They’re not stupid. Sooner or later, they’ll realize that in the “biker affair,” I definitely couldn’t have been operating on my own.
I had a partner. One hell of a partner, in fact.
My dilemma is tearing me apart. If I disclose his identity, I might get out of jail, but then my life as a free man will be brief.
On the other hand, if I continue to keep my mouth shut, I have a shot at getting out of this unharmed, as he himself promised me.
Unharmed?
That’s exactly why I believe the worst is still ahead of me.
* * *
3 The Mossad, meaning “The Institution” in Hebrew, is Israel’s national security agency, responsible for covert operations, gathering intelligence, counterterrorism, and protecting Jewish communities abroad.
Chapter Four
Who’s Afraid of Max Frisch
Three weeks later. Night. The door of the cell opens, and a fresh group of interrogators comes in. My spirits plummet. Not because of them. Because of Marina, who follows them in.
She looks relaxed. Almost smiley. Wearing more formal clothes than usual. It’s true that they’re broad and wave like sails, but this time, their colors are beyond her usual spectrum: they aren’t shades of black.
The spell has expired—
I return to my place at the bottom of the human race’s totem pole.
A pathetic prisoner with no rights—
She scans the stack of CDs I was allowed to bring to my cell.
“May I?” she asks sarcastically.
“Please, go ahead,” I reply.
She picks up several of them, examining them.
“Lots of Brazilian music,” she says. “Is it your favorite?”
“I like it a lot,” I answer happily, with no forethought. “It makes me feel good, happy, optimistic.”
Her eyes then move on to examine my bookshelf.
“Who’s Max Fresch?” she inquires. “You have five of his books here.”
“Frisch, not Fresch,” I explain, seduced by her alluring manner. “Max Frisch.”
“American? What kind of books does he write? Detective novels?”
“No, he’s a Swiss writer who published psychological novels.”
“What’s ‘Montauk’?” she asks, waving one of the books.
I prepare to answer. But she’s already returning the books to the shelf, an expression of disgust on her face. “Swiss? Why Swiss? I can’t stand the Swiss. They’re always sour. Why do you like to read him, of all people?”
“His imaginations appeals to me.”
“Imagination is bad,” she decrees. “Imagination makes you miss out on reality.”
“My reality’s not that great at the moment,” I tell her, smiling. “That’s why I escape to the imagination.”
She chats with me for a bit longer and then leaves. The young interrogators quickly follow her out. As if they are afraid that if they don’t hurry, the heavy door will lock in their faces and they’ll be trapped on my side.
I remain wrapped up in the charm of the little conversation I just had with Marina the Terrible.
My opinion of her has changed completely.
I believe I’ve acquired her trust.
I’m flooded with joy.
Sometimes I’m such an idiot.
◊◊◊
The next day, two guards enter my cell. Nassaradin and Omar. Both Druse. They silently approach the shelves housing the CDs and the books, looking determined. As if they’re hoping to discover a secret tunnel, or at least a digging implement. But there are only books and CDs there, and that’s what they’re looking for. They sort through them. One guard focuses on the books, the other on the CDs.
They don’t answer my questions, and I’m not allowed to approach them.
Finally, they take off.
I don’t need to go near the shelves to know what they’ve taken: books by Max Frisch and Brazilian music CDs.
Marina, that bitch—
They didn’t touch goalie Ray Clemence’s photo. It’s a good thing they don’t know what a good influence he is on me.
I strike the heavy metal door in fury. This is prohibited. So what.
◊◊◊
“How did you meet that Korean whore from the CIA?”
“She’s not a whore.”
“What is she, then?”
“Shin Il Jong is a professor.”
I haven’t been interrogated for a month and a half. No one’s visited me in my cell other than the male psychiatrist and the female psychologist—or maybe it�
��s the other way around. I thought I’d been forgotten in my burrow. My nerves have grown loose. I have no new thoughts to occupy me.
This time, Marina and Jimmy are interrogating me together. Usually, they take turns. I’ve learned that their simultaneous arrival is no coincidence. I declare a state of alert, tensed to the breaking point.
“I’ve already told you a hundred times. Jennifer introduced her to me.”
“The American news reporter?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you meet Jennifer?”
“Because of Johnson.”
“You’re Johnson.”
“The dog.”
“Oh, we forgot you were named after a dog. That’s appropriate. A horndog named after a dog.”
They both laugh mockingly. Marina grows serious. “The Mount of Olives, midnight. Intifada4 all around. What exactly were you looking for there with your Korean whore?”
“Professor Shin Il Jong is not a whore,” I correct her for the hundred thousandth time. “She’s an expert in her field. The head of a research institute at Harvard University.”
“Answer the question!”
“We were gazing out at the view.”
“Burning tires are a view? Calls of ‘allahu akbar’ and ‘itbach al yahud’5 are a view?”
“Jerusalem at night is a view.”
“There was rioting in the area, rocks being thrown and burning tires, and you were standing there watching the view in the middle of the night? You’re expecting me to believe you?”
“Shin liked action.”
“I understand that you were present at other violent incidents in the West Bank. Where?”
“In Ariel, on the Trans-Samaria Highway, at Tapuah Junction.”
“In Ariel? In the terrorist attack where a family was attacked with knives and torches, and everyone was slaughtered other than a little boy and girl?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I already told you. She liked action.”
“How did you know there had been a terror attack?”
“We heard it on the radio.”
“What did you do once you got there?”
“She took pictures.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“Yes. Because she liked action.”
“Did you help her take photos?”
“No.”
“Did she ask you to help her?”
“She did.”
“Why didn’t you help her?”
“It seemed ridiculous to me.”
“What’s ridiculous about it?”
“Her lust for danger.”
“You don’t feel that kind of lust?”
“Not at all.”
“But you joined her.”
“Yes.”
“Who was driving the car?”
“She was.”
“Why not you?”
“It was her car.”
“What did she tell you about the photos? What did she intend to do with them?”
“She said they were for her private album.”
“Did that make sense to you?”
“I didn’t dwell much about her answer.”
“What were you dwelling on?”
“I don’t know.”
“And today, when you know she was a CIA agent, what do you think she did with those photos?”
“I have no idea. What kind of value do they have? Just bodies, crying and burned cars.”
“You have no idea, you frigging zero? ‘Just bodies,’ you piece of fly-shit? Huh? Is that what you’re saying?”
I try to protect my face.
I’m too late and there’s also no point.
The fist she shoots out at me isn’t aimed at my face but straight at my stomach.
I fold over.
I fall.
I grunt. I have no air.
As if someone is blocking my mouth.
But no one is.
In my efforts to inhale, I raise my head up in the air as if I were drowning at sea.
And grunt—
They panic. Rush to lean over me, expressions of concern on their faces. For a moment, they look human. Actual people. They hold me gently. Place me in a seated position. Give me water. I’m allowed to drink the coffee they made themselves. It’s already cold.
They wait a few moments. My breathing grows steady. Marina brings her chair closer to the table.
“Yes, we’re getting to the surprise party for your fiftieth birthday.”
“Can I have some water, please?”
“If I’m pleased with your answers—you get water. If I’m not—you can drink your sweat. Do we understand each other?”
The surprise party for my fiftieth birthday—
This is a critical phase. I can’t stumble. It took place several months ago. It’s as if fifty more years have gone by since then.
“You claim that it was at that party that you first met the Korean whore.”
“Professor Shin Il Jong is an expert in her field. She’s head of a research institute at Harvard University, who came to the Hebrew University of Jerusalem for a year to conduct research.”
“Look how you’re still protecting that awful woman who’s responsible for all the shit in your life.”
“I’m not protecting her. She’s a professor.”
“Let’s assume she is. And today, when you know who she really is? When you know she’s a CIA agent who entrapped you?”
I shrug.
This might be interpreted as apathy or, God forbid, even as sympathy.
That’s not the case.
She continues. “You’ll agree that you, too, realize today that she didn’t see you as an attractive man, as you’d hoped, but as a sucker with his dick sticking out who’s serving in IDF’s most secret unit: the nuclear submarine fleet. You still don’t understand that you were a gift from heaven, as far as she was concerned?”
“This was after I’d already been laid off. I wasn’t serving in the submarine fleet. I was just a cook.”
“When it’s convenient for you, you’re ‘just a cook,’ while sometimes you’re a ‘great chef.’ Shouldn’t you keep your own versions straight?”
I stay silent.
“Did you tell the Korean whore that you were laid off?”
“No.”
“Well, then, as far as she was concerned, you were still serving in the submarine fleet.”
“She didn’t know, and it didn’t mean a thing to her!”
“Man! You still don’t realize that she set her sights on you because of what you were, and not because of who you were? She understood that if she threw in a blowjob here and there, she could milk you dry. What part of this are you still not getting?”
“You’re wrong. She was one hell of a cook. We shared a friendship as well as professional appreciation.”
“She was a spy! A CIA agent!”
“But first and foremost, she was a professor, and our relationship was built on mutual appreciation.”
“I swear, you’re something else. You’re either a perfect idiot or a genius at dissembling. You even managed to confuse someone like me. Let’s go back to today. To today’s reality. When you’re buried alive here in this filthy prison, with no chance of being a free man. Today when you understand she fooled you and ruined your life through and through. What do you think of her today?”
“She was doing her job.”
“Spying against Israel, your homeland, is just ‘doing her job’ to you? Leading you by both the nose and the dick, that’s legitimate to you? Burying you alive in this stinking cell for the rest of your life, you consider that fair play? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“No.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“No!”
“I didn’t hear you! Yell! Yell so hard they can hear you all the way at the hospital where that cunt is lying in a coma now.”
“Noooooo!”
“Did anyone here hear that? No one did. I asked whether it was worth it to ruin your life?! Come on, louder! Answer me, you zero! I didn’t hear you! Come ooooon! I swear on my mother! I’ll tear out your testicles one by one if I don’t hear you do it right! Tear! Out! Your! Testicles! Was it worth it to you or wasn’t it?!”
“Nooo! Noooooo! Noooooooooooooooooo!”
They take a break.
I sit down. I didn’t ask for permission. Whatever happens, happens. Who cares?
My thoughts are drifting—
I’m not surprised by the connection they insist on finding between Shin’s attitude toward me and my work as a cook for the submarine fleet, and I’m also not surprised they’re portraying her as an agent in the American Central Intelligence Agency.
There’s no anger in me. Not at them, and not even at her.
What gives me the right to be angry—
People like us are just doing our jobs. Whether it’s based on ideology, or cold financial calculations, or an insuppressible urge for adventure, or a resignation to a fate we never chose.
All that may express why I chose the least reasonable option of them all.
Missing.
Missing her—
My devil in the flesh.
Every inch of me—of my soul, my body, my being—calls out to her.
Where are you?
Shin—
Shin, Shin, Shin.
Shin, Shin, Shin, Shin, Shin.
What have I done to you, Shin?
And mostly—
And to the same extent—
What have you done to me?
◊◊◊
Marina returns by herself. The first bad sign. She orders me to stand up again. The second bad sign. During the next two hours, she talks nonstop. In an endless assault, she blames me for every injustice committed against the State of Israel in the world.