Snap Shot

by A. J. Quinnell

  Their relationship though had puzzled him. He could easily identify the disparity in their characters and personalities, and through his agent’s surveillance of Duff he knew that he often had casual affairs while on assignments. It had puzzled Walter, for to him Ruth represented the epitome of feminine beauty and grace. He also admired her determination. After the Turkish invasion an orphanage had been opened in Platres for children of the Greek casualties. Ruth had offered her services and with her training in psychology these had been eagerly accepted. She had thrown herself into the work, even studying for several hours a day to improve her already good Greek. Walter had concluded that perhaps Duff was not keeping her physically satisfied and this conclusion was strengthened a year later when she paid a visit to Israel.

  Duff had been on an extended assignment to photograph the Kurdish resistance to both Iraq and Iran and Ruth decided to take a holiday and see the Holy Land. Naturally Walter had put the services of his Tel Aviv office at her disposal, and also the apartment he maintained there. He also had her discreetly watched for he did not know whether she was party to Duff’s clandestine activities. The report that landed on his desk a few days later evidenced that from the day of her arrival she was discreetly meeting a certain Gideon Galili who, it turned out, was a captain in the Israeli Air Force. Alarm bells immediately rang, but further investigation revealed that the relationship had nothing to do with intelligence. It was, the report stated, primarily carnal. It appeared that she had met Galili while he was on leave a few months before in Cyprus. They had met in the Forest Park Hotel of all places, during a dinner dance. Duff had been away and Ruth had gone to the dance with friends. There had been an immediate attraction and the agent who finally questioned Galili was of the opinion that they were genuinely in love. She had discussed leaving her husband for Galili but it was a decision she was not yet ready to take. In the first place, she did in a way still love Duff. Secondly, Galili was four years her junior and she was not sure whether his attachment for her would last. Since then she had made another trip to Israel and he had once more visited Cyprus. Walter guessed that the time was fast approaching when she would have to make up her mind.

  He forked the last morsel of liver into his mouth and, right on cue, the waiter appeared with a large pot of coffee. After the serious business of eating it was Walter’s habit to sit for half an hour over his coffee and survey the scene and the people around him. On this morning however, there was no one of real interest on the terrace not even an attractive woman to admire. So Walter’s thoughts turned back to Ruth and Duff. She had surprised him six months ago by coming straight out and asking his advice. It was during one of her shopping trips to Limassol and Walter had taken her to lunch at the Amathus. He had felt a curious pleasure walking into the place with a beautiful woman on his arm who, by her bearing and demeanour, had obviously not been paid for.

  She had been subdued during lunch and then suddenly asked if he minded whether she asked his advice. Like her he was Jewish, maybe he would understand. She had opened up and poured out her troubles. It took an effort for him not to show that he already knew about Gideon Galili. His first priority though was to ascertain whether she was aware of Duffs intelligence work. He probed gently, saying that maybe the rigours of his job made him difficult to live with. It soon became obvious that to her his sole ‘job’ was being a combat photographer. Walter had felt relief that whatever advice he might offer would be free from intelligence considerations. She had decided that she would leave Duff. Yes, in a way she loved him, but strangely more as a child than a husband. He was such a romantic, and definitely naive. He was brilliant at his job but too much of his life centred on it. She felt no guilt about her affair with Gideon. Long before that started she had learned of Duffs infidelities. She hardly blamed him - it was part of his nature, just like his frequent lies. Finally it boiled down to his weakness. Maybe Walter could not see it, but Duff was a weak man. Hence the lies and the numerous affairs. He loved her, but he was too weak to translate that love into something positive and lasting and inviolate. Somehow he always found it hard to say no.

  Walter did not want to get in the middle. He liked them both. Nevertheless, he found it significant that Duff had never told her that he was a spy. With such a secret to hold how could his love flower? How could he confide and share in only one aspect of his life?

  He asked her instead about Gideon. Was she sure of his feelings? She was. She was positive that he loved her. In a way the strength and intensity of it frightened her. He was a man with enormous energy and an almost obsessive single-mindedness. Up to now his energy and purpose had been directed solely towards his career. He told her that he had never been in love before. Had hardly considered the possibility. He had explained it in simple terms. It was like a man, deaf all his life who suddenly and clearly hears a Chopin sonata. She herself thought it more akin to an atheist discovering a new and exotic religion. Gideon had the fervour of a convert and it was disquieting; He wanted her to divorce Duff and marry him. It was her own feelings that confused her. He was everything that Duff was not: honest, forthright and very protective and practical. But in her life she had learned well of the power physical beauty has to bend a man’s mind. Gideon was still young and in spite of his practicality he was impressionable. She did not want to go through the same problems again with someone else.

  ‘What about children?’ Walter had asked and she had shrugged resignedly. She and Duff had wanted children; soon after they arrived in Cyprus she had stopped taking the pill. After a year with no result she had gone for a check-up and been assured that physically there was no reason why she could not conceive. She had asked Duff to go for a check-up but he had refused. She did not push it. She was a psychologist and could guess that in a way he felt his manhood threatened. That was like Duff, she explained. In his weakness he preferred not to have to face up to it. She had mentioned it to Gideon and immediately he himself had gone for a check-up and told her that there was no reason that they could not have children. It was another factor in the equation.

  Walter had been in a quandary. He would have liked to offer advice. To let Ruth lean on his shoulder, take strength from him, but two factors were against it. Firstly: he genuinely did not wish to interpose himself between two friends or take sides in any way at all. Secondly: his feelings for Ruth were more than platonic. Of course, he never seriously entertained the idea that she might feel for him anything more than affection. He had, from an early age, learned that his appearance was not attractive to young and beautiful women. His purely physical pleasures had always been satisfied by a series of highly-paid mistresses. Nevertheless he could dream, and one of his fantasies was that one day a minor miracle might occur and Ruth would see and come to love his virtues of mind and character and be blind to the fact that he was a gross, fat glutton. It was only a dream but it precluded him from advising her to leave her husband and go off with a young, handsome, dashing fighter pilot. So he merely suggested that she give it more time and certainly not do anything precipitous.

  She had obviously decided to wait, for she had not mentioned the problem since. Tonight he would have the opportunity to observe the state of their relationship for Duff was home for a few days and Walter was invited for dinner. Ruth was going to cook duck braised in red cabbage and, in spite of his recent breakfast, Walter’s mouth watered at the prospect. He decided he would only have a moderate lunch: perhaps a small chicken and just half of one of the lemon pies the chef made so well.

  Then his thoughts turned again to his own problems. It had been two years since that momentous meeting with General Hofti. Already the first phase of Walter’s operation was completed. Unfortunately completed and unsuccessful. During the whole of 1976 and the first months of 1977 Walter had orchestrated a campaign to persuade the French Government not to supply the nuclear research reactor to the Iraqis. It had been done on two levels. The strongest possible diplomatic pressure had been allied with a huge effort to persuade
French public opinion against the deal. The Elyseé Palace had been presented with a thick dossier showing that the Iraqis would try to use the reactor to produce nuclear weapons. It contained dozens of quotations from Saddam Hussein and other Iraqi leaders to the effect that they would proceed. At one time Giscard d’Estaing appeared to weaken, publicly proclaiming that he had not been given full details of the deal. The Iraqis, however, had moved swiftly, threatening to cancel billions of dollars of associated orders and even hinting at an oil embargo, not only by them but joined by other Arab states. So the commercial facts of life prevailed and the contract was to be honoured. The campaign to arouse French public opinion was also a failure. France has never had a very active anti-nuclear movement and all of Walter’s efforts failed to create one. Even now he knew that the construction of the reactor was on schedule. His one major success had been in planting an agent in the factory at La Seyne-sur-Mer near Toulon. Three days earlier that agent had reported that all things being equal the reactor would be ready for shipment within sixteen to twenty months. Walter intended that all things would not be equal.

  For Walter the end justified the means only when the end could be equated with the survival of the Jewish people - and ultimately that meant the Jewish, state. Walter could envisage just such a situation developing over the coming two years. He knew that if the reactor was shipped and installed any methods he adopted would be justified, but this knowledge was disquieting for Walter was facing a severe problem in the forthcoming theatre of operations. In simple terms he had few agents on the ground in Iraq and the surrounding countries.

  During the sixties Mossad had achieved incredible successes in penetrating the Arab states. Successes which had laid the groundwork for the Six Day War. Eli Cohen in Syria had almost been made Defence Minister before being unluckily caught. In Egypt, Wolfgang Lotz had become the confidante of the entire Egyptian General Staff and was only finally discovered in a routine check-up of West Germans before the visit to Cairo of Walter Ulbricht in 1965. Since those heady days, however, the hard-line Arab states had improved their counter intelligence with the aid of the KGB.

  Mossad found it increasingly difficult to build up viable networks. In Iraq Walter had only one good agent. He was a member of the Special Intelligence Office - the Mukhabarat - albeit in a lowly position. However, he worked at Kasr al Nihayathe ‘Palace of the end’, which was once a residence of the royal family. It was now the Mukhabarat’s centre for detention and interrogation. He was able to report on the in-fighting among the Ba’ath party but he was not senior enough to have access to those who planned and executed policy. He was also disinclined to take the risk of building up his own network. He had originally been recruited because he was appalled at the regime’s treatment of the Kurds. He was a Shia Moslem himself and already antagonistic towards the dominant Sunnis in Iraq. He was also an intellectual and a humanist and as he witnessed the torture of various Kurdish rebels in the ‘Palace of the end’ his spirit had revolted. His answer had been to turn to the enemy who could strike the hardest blow at what he conceived to be the devils now running his country, but, try as they could, Mossad had never been able to persuade him to build up a network. He would remain with the Mukhabarat, he told them, distasteful as that might be, and report what he heard and saw. He would do no more. It was enough to satisfy his conscience. To Walter it was infinitely frustrating. He knew that in time he would need a strong presence in Iraq and that time was not far off.

  It was the classic frustration of the thinker, unable to realise his schemes and aspirations. It was one of the few occasions when he deeply regretted his own physique and appearance. He would love to work in the field; to be in on the nuts and bolts of operations. It was ludicrous of course. An agent had to be unobtrusive; able to melt into shadows; to be a master of stealth and capable of being just another head in a crowd. Walter was nothing if not wildly visible. The thought irritated him intensely. Made him feel like a man with no limbs, just a fat torso and a brain. He reviewed the options he had for creating a network in Iraq. A network that would allow him, if necessary, to attack the reactor if and when it was installed. The options were bleak. He had on call dozens of skilled and dedicated agents, but getting them into Iraq and in a position to be effective created insurmountable problems. Ever since 1966, when Mossad had persuaded an Iraqi Air Force officer to defect along with his MIG21, the Mukhabarat had been on the alert to prevent something similar. Walter could not see any of his present agents being able to penetrate their defences.

  He sighed and drained the last of his coffee, his good mood dissipated by his latest thoughts. With a grunt he pushed himself away from the table and stood up. Behind a row of pines another man was having breakfast. As he lumbered past, Walter caught a glimpse of him - an impression: a beard, long hair, very blue eyes. He moved into the lounge heading towards reception but the impression lingered and there was something else: a startled look in those blue eyes. Walter came to a quivering halt, his mind racing, his memory cataloguing. Then he swung on his heel and headed back to the terrace. The man was preparing to leave, though there was still an egg and some bacon left on his plate. He looked up as Walter reappeared - a resigned expression came into his eyes.

  ‘It is,’ Walter said, nodding in satisfaction. ‘Somewhat more hirsute but definitely . . . it’s Dave Munger!’

  He chose to wait until after dinner. He did not want anything to divert attention from the food. As expected it was delicious, the duck preceded by goose liver made perfect by the accompanying pureed potatoes. Walter had sent up a case of Chateau Latour ‘59 the week before. Duff, although professing a knowledge and love of wine, would certainly have chosen something more obvious and less compatible. The last time Walter had been invited to dinner, an Italian Barolo had been served with salt beef and latkas. This time Walter had taken no chances. He was a good enough friend for the gesture to be appreciated without the hint causing offence.

  During dinner Duff had talked at length about the situation in Lebanon and whether President Elias Sarkis would be able to control the leftists. Walter listened with half an ear, occasionally grunting in agreement with some of Duffs points. His senses were primarily occupied with the food, the wine and Ruth. She had lost weight, he decided, although this had not detracted from her beauty. She wore her black hair pulled back into a chignon. The style accentuated her high cheekbones and olive skin. It was a sad face, made more melancholy by the fine lines, gently narrowed cheeks and full lips. Walter found it inexplicable that Duff could or would not direct all his energy into making her happy.

  They were sitting in a dining room furnished in formal style. It was adjacent to a lounge a couple of steps below. Beyond that, French windows were open onto a patio surrounded by trees and shrubs which were gently illuminated by discreet spotlights. The lounge had bookcases against two walls, a grouping of comfortable leather chairs around a low coffee table and a wall unit holding a number of framed photographs and various souvenirs Duff had picked up on his travels. In one corner, at the apex of the bookcases, was another small but tall table. Almost a pedestal. There was only one object on it, covered by a glass dome. It was Munger’s camera the Nikon FTN. Somehow it dominated the room. Walter knew that no one was ever allowed to touch it. Even the maid was forbidden to dust it. Every month Duff would take it down, dismantle it and lovingly clean it. Very occasionally he would show close friends how it worked and how it had been used, but they were never allowed to touch it. Walter savoured the coming moment when he dropped his bombshell. In the meantime he decided that he had listened enough to the outlines of US foreign policy as it applied to the Lebanon so he asked Ruth how she was getting along at the orphanage. Immediately a spark came into her eyes and she talked about the children and their progress. Now even the youngest were of an age when they could be placed in foster homes. Of course, there were difficult cases and her work was concentrated on these. It had been nearly three years since the war but some of the children ret
ained deep mental scars. There was one boy of six who had seen his parents casually shot. Ruth was determined that the boy would lead a normal existence. Walter listened attentively but Duff’s face showed signs of impatience. He had heard it all before and in his work had seen enough similar cases to have become inured. Walter sensed his impatience and, as the maid cleared the dishes, decided it was time.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, with the utmost casualness. ‘I saw Dave Munger this morning.’

  Duff’s jaw literally dropped and the fingers of his hands closed up into fists. There was a silence until the maid left. Ruth was looking curiously at her husband. The question, when it came, was one choked word:

  ‘Where?’

  Walter smiled and pushed himself to his feet. Of Ruth he asked: ‘Are we taking coffee in the lounge?’

  She nodded and smiled tentatively and started to get up.

  ‘Where? Dammit!’

  Duffs voice was harsh, demanding. Walter looked down at him benignly.

  ‘Here in Platres, at the Forest Park Hotel. Come Duff, I’ll tell you over coffee.’

  They moved to the lounge and Walter settled himself comfortably while the maid poured coffee and put a large plate of peppermint chocolates next to him. Duff stood in the centre of the room, legs apart, his face a mirror of impatience, his eyes darting between Walter and the camera. Finally, after Walter had taken a sip of his coffee and consumed three chocolates, he smiled again at Duff and told him the story. /