I Am Not a Traitor: A psychological thriller about an army veteran with a huge secret

by Y. I. Latz

  My heart took a direct hit, although no cannon had fired at it.

  ◊◊◊

  Monday, two weeks later.

  On this day, I was supposed to return to Israel from Kenya.

  My nerves betrayed me. My conscience was bothering me. Pretending had never caused me such agony. It was downright physical.

  I decided to put an end to the masquerade, no matter what happened. I’d go back to the kibbutz, grab Smadar for a conversation, and confess everything, whatever the cost.

  In order not to skip any of my lies in my confession, I wrote them down on a piece of paper, which I tucked in my pocket.

  Being laid off—

  The trip to Kenya that never happened—

  The terrorist attack in Mombasa where I hadn’t been present—

  The thousands of dollars that hadn’t disappeared in the attack—

  The rented apartment on Sheinkin Street—

  I was eager to confess. To spill my guts about everything. And I did mean everything.

  And yet I knew that this time as well, there was one secret I could not reveal to her, the person closest to me in the world.

  The source of the large sum of money she had randomly discovered in my secret account in the bank on the island of Jersey.

  I departed on the bus to Kibbutz Ein Galil in the afternoon. In case something went wrong, my suitcase contained “mementos from Africa,” bought for cheap at a store in Tel Aviv. I had taken care to remove any label indicating they had not been bought in Kenya.

  I was hoping I would not have to hand them out.

  Getting home took quite a while. I only arrived at seven thirty in the evening. I found an empty house. Smadar wasn’t there.

  On the kitchen table, I found a note in her handwriting. “Honey, I had to go to a kibbutz meeting. I’m waiting for you in the dining hall.”

  I grew angry. I had informed her in advance when I would be coming back. I had been gone for two weeks. I’d “survived” a terrorist attack. She had declared repeatedly over the phone how worried she’d been about me. She couldn’t have waited for me?

  I didn’t find any food worthy of consumption in our refrigerator. Not even a single apple. This had never happened before. Irate and reluctant, I turned toward the communal dining hall.

  On my way there, my anger toward her increased even further.

  And yet I was still determined to read her my lies off the sheet of paper in my pocket, which I fingered constantly. As if, without it, I would be unable to recall my collection of lies.

  There was a secret in the air—

  I couldn’t put my finger on what raised my suspicion—

  But the nearer I came to the dining hall, the more strongly I felt that something unusual was going on: the paths of the kibbutz were empty and abandoned, and although it was evening time, I could not hear the bustle usually emanating from the dining hall during meals.

  For a moment, a dark cloud hovered over my head. What if this was a trap, and in a moment, I would be besieged by Military Police investigators?

  I quickly pushed away this idiotic thought.

  And there was the dining hall. A two-story structure standing in the middle of a large lawn. Beyond the glass windows, closed due to the air conditioning, I could see the diners’ heads.

  The usual sight, although it wasn’t quite usual—

  There seemed to be more diners present than usual. For years now, there hadn’t been many of them during the week. They would gather only on special occasions, such as weddings and bar mitzvahs. Even the periodic kibbutz meetings only attracted a handful of members.

  I was short of breath as I arrived. I washed my face at the sink near the entrance, peering at my reflection in the mirror. I was wearing my formal travel clothes, including a tie.

  I extracted the sheet of paper, which had grown crumpled and creased, from my pocket, and took one last look at it. The collection of lies made me feel uncomfortable.

  I hoped she would forgive me—

  I hated myself.

  A fine mess you’ve made, I told myself.

  ◊◊◊

  The inner door between the lobby and the dining hall was closed. It was never closed.

  No sound emerged through it.

  As if the hundreds of diners I’d seen just a minute ago were eating silently.

  Without thinking twice, I opened the door with a vigorous gesture.

  I went in—

  Two images hit me in the face simultaneously:

  One, the dining room was overflowing with people.

  Two, all heads were turned toward me.

  It was also quiet—

  The only noise to break the silence was shushing sounds. “Shhhhh…” “Shush.”

  And then—

  A wave of applause swept through the hall.

  Everyone rose to their feet, clapping enthusiastically.

  I looked around—

  I was standing there alone.

  I got it—

  This was a surprise party.

  And I was the guest of honor.

  ◊◊◊

  Twenty minutes later, the initial excitement had died down. I was enveloped with waves of sympathy. An entire festival had been planned out in honor of my fiftieth birthday. Much more than I had expected. The kibbutz members had taken advantage of my “trip to Africa” in order to enhance the event.

  I was not the first person in the kibbutz to reach the age of fifty. But none of the members who preceded me had received such a major surprise party. It was obvious that they thought highly of me. And more importantly, none of them resented me for the fact that the large sums of money they had attempted to convey to their children through me had not reached their destination. The most important thing to them was that my life had been spared.

  Good people—

  This only intensified my mental anguish.

  I was such a despicable human being. What was I doing to my loved ones?

  And then—

  I saw her.

  She was unmissable.

  No man in the world would have missed someone like her.

  She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my life other than on a movie screen.

  Thirty-five years old, Chinese or Japanese. Slanted eyes and prominent cheekbones, slim as a rope and despite her significant height, strutting proudly on shoes with a high, narrow heel that caused her head to tower above everyone else.

  I stared at her, just like everyone present was doing. Their gazes were overt, direct, as if they were observing a beautiful painting.

  She returned my gaze.

  Smiled—

  At me?!

  Taut skin over prominent cheekbones; gigantic, slanting almond eyes; short honey-colored hair with a diagonal cut; a sheer silk-like blouse that hardly covered a pair of braless breasts, fully exposing her back as well as two prominent ribs; and long legs encased in tight leggings.

  This angel was flanked by two other women: my wife was on her right while Jennifer, the TV reporter, was on her left.

  What was she doing here?

  “Let me introduce you two,” Smadar told me in English, nestling into me before switching to Hebrew. “Sweetie, you remember Jennifer the journalist. And this is Professor Shin Il Jong. She’s Korean. She’s Jennifer’s best friend. The one Jennifer was telling us about, who might be able to help our Neta in Colombia. But the important thing is she’s a wonderful cook. I told her about you. I promised her on your behalf that you’d give her some Israeli recipes and tour the markets with her. So be nice to her for our Neta, like you know how to be nice when you want to be. Okay?”

  I was stunned—

  Frozen in place—

  Hypnotized—

  That was how I looke
d in the video distributed after the event. Smadar and the event organizers saw my reaction as an immense personal achievement—I hadn’t suspected a thing, and they had fully managed to surprise me. What a perfect ambush.

  I am hugged, kissed, congratulated.

  In the video I watched repeatedly, Smadar is seen beaming happily. Cuddling into me, hugging me, kissing me again and again. I remember the circumstances well. Under my smiling façade was quite a different face. Anguished, scheming, wretched. I had realized that once again, the time was not right. My dark secrets would have to wait some more. Why ruin everyone’s joy?

  In the film, Jennifer is seen addressing me and introducing me to her friend, the Korean beauty. Her words are also clearly audible. “Henry’s not only an expert chef. He also commands a military kitchen worthy of three Michelin stars. And the greatest beneficiaries of his enchanting cooking are merely—what a waste—young soldiers from Israel’s nuclear submarine fleet.”

  In those exact words. No one could have missed it: “Nuclear submarine fleet—”

  The beautiful Korean didn’t miss it, either, as evidenced by the fact that she quickly turned to me.

  Her expression was quizzical. Her question was not intercepted by the camera’s microphone, or else it was intercepted and then deleted.

  I remember the question well.

  You don’t forget a question like that.

  “Have you ever sailed on one of those nuclear submarines?”

  I answered her. My reply wasn’t recorded either.

  But my smug expression and my chest swelling like a peacock’s indicate what it was.

  Her narrow eyes narrowed even further.

  Today I know why—

  When the devil smiles at you, that is how his smile looks.

  ◊◊◊

  After the verbal congratulations, the lights went out in the hall.

  A half-hour movie focusing on me and the various stations of my life was projected on a giant screen. At its center were newspaper clippings in assorted languages telling about the Israeli Navy’s submarines, capable of bearing nuclear warheads. The pertinent parts were circled in red, accompanied by a dramatic soundtrack.

  Certain phrases came up frequently:

  Special Forces Flotilla—

  Naval Commando—

  Nuclear submarines—

  The Israeli Mossad—

  Commendation from the chief of general staff—

  The narrator showered me with plenty of compliments.

  I could barely contain my embarrassment. A random viewer could easily have come to the conclusion that I was a daring, illustrious agent, rather than a cook who was merely in charge of filling the submarine fighters’ bellies.

  Once the movie was over, another wave of applause swept over the hall. Some took it further, rising to their feet and calling out enthusiastically, as if they had just watched a show by a beloved performer.

  This was not a trivial matter in a society that tends to be envious, like kibbutz society does.

  Smadar’s eyes were glowing.

  My own eyes were downcast.

  I had exceeded every possible measure of villainy—

  If those good people only knew who I really was.

  ◊◊◊

  The party overflowed onto the lawn in front of our home. A string of colorful bulbs was quickly hung from the branches of the lemon tree, illuminating the guests’ faces in warm hues. They were quickly reinforced with improvised spotlights. Tables were opened, laid out with a variety of sandwiches and soft drinks.

  I was engulfed, hugged and kissed.

  However, my entire being was focused on her.

  Professor Shin—

  The exotic guest with the slim figure and the revealing blouse was bewitching my senses.

  She noticed my gaze and walked over.

  Walked? She was downright floating.

  “What are you two talking about?” Smadar asked in English, joining us before we had time to exchange a single word.

  “I heard your husband was a gifted cook,” Shin told her.

  “He’s a chef,” Smadar corrected her proudly, as she had corrected others before.

  The spell evaporated.

  ◊◊◊

  But not for long.

  I followed the Korean beauty like a shadow. She circulated among the many guests as if she were a native of our godforsaken kibbutz in Israel’s far north. More precisely, it was my eyes that followed her. I didn’t dare leave my spot. My excitement was that great.

  “She’s pretty,” Smadar told me.

  Who, if not my wife, would pick up on my excitement?

  I found no point in denying this. “So what,” I said in an idiotic tone.

  “She promised me she would help us with our Neta,” she added.

  “How could she help?”

  “You can count on her. She has a friend at the American Embassy in Bogota. It’s different when someone from the American Embassy is taking care of you.”

  I didn’t mean to tarnish her joy, and so did not share my opinion that no good would come to us from the angelic-faced guest who had shown up in our front yard and would soon disappear back to wherever she had come from.

  “What’s your take on her?” Smadar asked.

  “What do I know about her, anyway?”

  “She’s crazy sexy, don’t you think?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “I’m not lying!”

  “Look at you. All swollen and flushed. You’re an open book to me, my dear husband. You still haven’t learned that someone like you not only doesn’t know how to lie, but can’t even consider the possibility that sometimes, lying is an option.”

  She pulled me to her and kissed my forehead as if I were her little boy.

  ◊◊◊

  Midnight. The last of the guests said their goodbyes, including Jennifer and Professor Shin Il Jong.

  “Lend me your husband?” the Korean asked my wife, ignoring me. “I’d be happy if he’d give me a tour of the markets in Tel Aviv. By the way, about your daughter. I’ll talk to my friend at our embassy in Bogota again. I’ll make sure the girl can leave the hospital soon, that her passport is returned to her, and she can continue on her trip. When is your husband free?”

  “Whenever you want,” my wife replied, her eyes shining with gratitude.

  Sometimes we dig our graves with our own two hands.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Price of Falling in Love

  That night, a fever took control of me.

  Professor Shin Il Jong—

  I surfed the Web.

  Professor Shin Il Jong—

  Google.

  Professor Shin Il Jong—

  Facebook.

  Professor Shin Il Jong—

  YouTube.

  Professor Shin Il Jong—

  I was eager to read it all. I was insatiable.

  She was born in Seoul, the capital of Korea. When she was two years old, her family immigrated to the United States, settling in Boston. She was labeled as gifted in high school.

  At the age of seventeen, she started college. When she was twenty, she enrolled in the prestigious Harvard School of Medicine, but quit a year later, changing her major to psychology and sociology. She received her PhD at the age of twenty-six and became a professor at age thirty.

  Simultaneously with her thriving academic career at Harvard, she was also a senior associate at several U.S. government research institutes. She published a long series of groundbreaking studies as well as a nonfiction book with a provocative title that received plenty of media exposure: The President Who Was Controlled by His Wife.

  I couldn’t find everything online. I couldn’t find any clues about her private
life and her familial status. Married? Single? Children? I didn’t know why her private life was important to me. But it was. The fact was, I didn’t stop trying to uncover it.

  Per Smadar’s instructions, we met the very next day in Tel Aviv, at the entrance to Carmel Market. The incredibly sexy Korean was revealed to possess many fine personal qualities as impressive as her appealing physical ones. Well educated, a fascinating conversationalist, with rapid speech and a quick wit. Her pleasure was reflected in the sharpening of her already sharp eyes.

  There was one thing to which I couldn’t grow accustomed: she didn’t smile. As if a smile might compromise the taut skin covering her cheekbones.

  I was dizzy—

  Blinded—

  Mesmerized—

  Because of her, I stayed overnight in the rented apartment on Sheinkin Street. I told Smadar over the phone that due to an unexpected state of alert, I would spend the next few nights at the naval base in Haifa. This had happened before, and she didn’t question my assertion.

  There was something else.

  Shin always arrived at our meetings in Tel Aviv cafés wearing the same black pantsuit. Only the scarves around her neck changed. She fastened them in a way unique to her: a sort of butterfly knot, with the large “wings” always cascading to the right.

  She attracted curious looks from every direction. She ignored them as if all those eyes were not fixed on her.

  I guessed what was behind some of those looks:

  What was someone like me doing with her, who was so completely out of my league?

  In some twisted manner, these looks filled me with pride.

  Maybe there’s something to me after all—

  I was a fool and have remained a fool.

  After a single visit to the Carmel Market, we toured no more markets. Despite her genuine affection for food, the Korean professor proved to be addicted to something completely different.

  Terror attacks in Gaza and the West Bank—

  She got a kick out of them.

  Seeing them from up close was her grand passion.