by Yossi Porat
“Yes, really,” Adam snarled. “I want to see some action, not empty words. I’ve got most of my inheritance invested in this! And how is the hologram end of the project?”
“Oh, I decided to put it on hold for the time being, and concentrate on what’s really important. It’s still there if we should need it.”
Adam felt as he had as a boy – helpless and weak as he hid under the staircase of his boyhood mansion, his parents not even aware of his absence. As his father’s wealth and influence grew, his attention to his only son was that much less. Adam’s father, Sir Paul Newton, had started out in the family shipping
business and to this he added a chain of exclusive department stores. He used his great wealth to gain influence in the political and social worlds of his time, eventually becoming both a Member of Parliament and one of the leading lights in the financial city.
Adam, growing up, felt threatened by everything and everyone: his parents, his teachers, his friends, and especially girls. The expectations from him were high, and he was always being reminded that he was not living up to his potential. How could he hope to fill his father’s shoes? He felt helpless in the face of all this. His mother, Mary, did not encourage any softness or weakness in her son and she was not someone that he could turn to. She herself was the daughter of a prominent upper middle-class London family, and maternal warmth was definitely not her strong suit. Adam was left with his desperate efforts to succeed in school and polish his manners in order to please these demanding parents. In his sporadic efforts to assert himself, he found himself a failure: when he asked for a family picnic as his birthday present as a boy of twelve, his parents could not spare the time; a request for a football was met by his father with the stern dictum that football was for hooligans – he would better use his time learning tennis, the game of gentlemen; a request to invite his friends to the house received the harsh allowance of only one friend; and when he wondered why he had no brothers or sisters, his father answered bitterly that one problem child was certainly enough…
His only joy was his friendship with his next-door neighbor, Andrew. Although Andrew’s parents were from the same background and class as Adam’s parents, their relationship with their son could not have been more different. He was the cherished, adored child, and he showed it. He was outgoing, popular with both adults and his peers, an excellent student and athlete. The Newtons even liked the boy and held him up as an example to their own son, “Why can’t you be more like Andrew?” was a question Adam heard frequently. But this did not spoil Adam’s admiration for his friend, and actually drew him more into his charmed circle.
Andrew was also raised to obey his parents, which he did outwardly, while secretly doing whatever he wanted. He would escape from his bedroom window at night to pursue clandestine pleasure, often allowing Adam to join him. When they were younger, they would spend their time in their secret tree house, built down by the stream running through the Newton’s vast property. They called it “Our octagon.” As they got older, their adventures became more daring: spying on couples who had secretly left the fashionable evening parties given by the Newtons to pair up and moan in the bushes. They spied on women in their bedrooms, watching them undress, not realizing that they had an approving audience; they found suggestive pictures and pawed them as they drank cold beer stolen from their parents’ houses. As they grew into adolescence, their talks centered on money and power. When Adam tried to argue that money wasn’t everything, Andrew scoffed, “That’s easy for you to say – you’ve got millions. My family isn’t as well-off as yours, and I’ve got to find a way to make my millions.”
Adam tried to copy Andrew as much as possible, dressing and acting like him; but this did not bring him Andrew’s success. In fact, the outcome was that he was always seen as Andrew’s assistant, his errand boy – never anything more. His loyalty, however, was solid; he never minded covering for Andrew, even when it involved Andrew’s bringing girls to Adam’s bedroom, or when expensive items began to disappear from his parent’s house. He followed Andrew blindly and adoringly.
Adam, feeling tired and defeated, grabbed his briefcase and left the office, heading for his afternoon nap.
Andrew sat up straight and began tapping on his keyboard. “He’s just a stepping-stone for me,” he thought. “I need him to fulfill my dreams.”
Laurie and Sol were whispering together at the reception desk.
“Here’s our chance,” suggested Sol. “Andrew’s alone in the office.”
“Fine,” answered Laurie. “But let’s hurry – we can’t get caught.”
“You go in before me,” Sol urged. “Try to call his attention to the bookshelf on the left and I’ll get the bug on the computer line on the other side of the room.”
Laurie knocked softly on the office door, entered the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. “I’m sorry, sir, but I need to find something on the top shelf. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Andrew kept his eyes glued to his screen, nodding slightly. Laurie made a show of trying to reach the top shelf, dragging a chair over and climbing on it barefoot. Andrew lifted his head to see a lovely behind and long legs displayed before him. He leaned back, folded his hands behind his head, and enjoyed the show.
Sol entered the room silently, happy to see that Laurie had succeeded in drawing Andrew’s attention away from the other side of the room. He picked up the connecting cable from the floor and firmly attached a tiny round bit of metal.
The computer gave a sharp tweet and froze, drawing Andrew’s attention to the screen, “What happened?” But Laurie brought him back to his reverie as she turned to display her voluptuous breasts and hips to him.
“Well, that does happen sometimes.” Andrew remarked casually. “It goes off and on for no reason.”
Laurie asked for his help with the files, saying she felt slightly dizzy. As Andrew approached, she threw herself at him, feigning a complete lack of balance.
“Oh, excuse me,” she breathed. “I didn’t mean to jump all over you.” Andrew knew she was drawn to him, and felt quite satisfied at the thought of another conquest.
They stared into each other’s eyes, while Laurie sensed that Sol had managed to leave the room. After taking the files from Andrew, she sashayed out, remembering her days on undercover duty, walking the streets in a miniskirt and knowing that all the men desired her. She felt a cold tremor down her back.
Sol, standing by the reception desk, nodded to her that the maneuver had succeeded. Now they will be able to see what is really going on in Control. “We’ll report tonight,” Laurie whispered.
Chapter Seven
Menahem Cohen’s Spartan offices in the “pit” of the Defense Ministry in Tel-Aviv accurately reflected his personality. The ancient steel desk covered with its scratched wooden top, the cheap plastic chairs and the empty, faded walls with only a torn, marked-up calendar were all outward signs of Meacham’s lack of interest in anything but his job. He was waiting for his crack team of advisors.
Motioning the small staff to sit, he began drily without polite small talk, “We’ve got a problem. The group in London is progressing, Shlomo has done what we’ve asked and we’re beginning to get a picture of what’s happening in the company. What we don’t know is how they’re doing it. We still don’t have the program code and their algorithms. We don’t know how to crack the programming team. Any ideas?”
“We should double-team them 24/7, with instant analysis of all the collected data,” Yossi, his assistant, pronounced importantly.
Na’ama, head of development, whose feminine exterior hid an iron will, added, “Their potential is enormous. Whoever owns this technology can act undetected. I’m not so concerned with the pranks they’ve been doing, except maybe on an ethical level. But think of what could happen if this gets into the wrong hands!”
“We’ve got to have complete surveillance on this – I suggest we have three full staffs in London immediately,” Yossi declared.
“OK,” Menahem summed up. “Yossi, get your crews out right away and report back to me. Na’ama, try to find out as much as you can from the director’s computers. Try to use Leora and Shlomo sparingly – I don’t want them exposed until it’s absolutely necessary.”
Left alone, Menahem pulled out his satellite phone and sent Shlomo an encrypted message: “Taken care of. You’ll have three surveillance staffs by the end of the day. They’ll be in the Notting Hill safe house.”
Menahem leaned back, feeling that he was caught up in quicksand, pulling him ever downward. “When will this case end?” He wondered. “What would happen if terrorists got hold of it? What about Muslim fundamentalists? We have to act quickly.” He fell asleep, his arms falling to his sides.
His cell-phone brought him to full awareness, and he was brought back to his first days in the service as a beginning investigator. “Menahem? It’s the Prime Minister. Come up to my office in fifteen minutes.”
Menahem was not surprised by this invitation. He had enjoyed unlimited access to the Prime Ministers for years, all of whom preferred to hear directly from him, rather than wait for a summarized account from go-betweens. Menahem raised his arms over his head and stretched, trying to remove the kinks in his back. Before entering the Prime Minister’s office, he glanced down at the busy Tel-Aviv streets. “Ah, how beautiful the car lights look in the evening. All these people, going about their business, not knowing about any of the dangers that we deal with to keep them that way.”
Walking into the Prime Minister’s office, he noticed Avraham Tzur, the head of the Mossad, sitting next to the boss, leaning his head into the Prime Minister’s, as if to emphasize how close he was to the main source of power.
“From tomorrow, we are activating three surveillance teams in London,” he began without waiting for any questions. “We now have a tap on the main computers of the company, so we should be getting important information quickly. But we still don’t have a lead to their proprietary algorithms.”
“Keep up the good work. Thanks and good night,” the Prime Minister dismissed him. “Keep me informed.”
Menahem left the office, confident that the Prime Minister trusted him, knowing that his position was unassailable. The Prime Minister recognized him for the professional he was, and remembered his past accomplishments. On the other hand, Avraham was someone he had to be wary of – always undermining him, himself a weak, dishonest bureaucrat. He knew the Prime Minister felt the same way.
Shlomo looked out the window of their Notting Hill apartment, an avenue of trees hiding the Speakers’ Corner of Hyde Park. He picked up the safe satellite phone and reached Menahem. “All done. You’ll be getting a report soon.”
“Great,” answered Menahem. “I’ll be waiting.”
Menahem thought about his two top agents. Their English perfected by long stays in the country as children, their vast operational experience and their quick and professional responses to all difficulties made them his ideal team. He remembered them in training school, both outstanding in different ways: Leora with the highest grades, her quick and creative thinking; Shlomo with his navigational and leadership skills. Menahem was the first to realize that there was an added element of romantic attraction between the two of them, and when they became a committed couple he was able to convince his superiors that this was all to the good and that Shlomo and Leora were perfect for operational duties in ways his other agents were not.
He compared their successful relationship with his own, dying marriage. Although he and his wife had children and even grandchildren, they no longer communicated or even enjoyed each other’s company very much. “I’ve done so much for this country,” he thought to himself. “Maybe it’s time I retired and gave myself time to do something for myself – try to fix my marriage?” He vowed that after this present mission was completed, he would retire to his family. But deep down, he knew that only a bolt of lightning would finish his career.
…..
“Leora,” Shlomo smiled, “let’s go down to Portobello Road and buy some food. There’s nothing in the house.” He remembered how they would walk the Carmel market in Tel-Aviv, arms entwined, Leora feeding him pastry and wiping the powdered sugar from his lips.
“No, we can’t. It’s dangerous,” Leora answered him.
“You know, I really love calling you Leora and not Laurie,” he said sadly. Leora felt the same, and knew how much Shlomo missed walking with her in public, enjoying themselves freely. But they both knew how dangerous this would be here on the mission.
Shlomo left the room and Leora stretched out on the sofa, watching an old
Western on the TV. She suddenly thought of her father, feeling him near her, enjoying the shoot-’em-up and the galloping horses. She thought, “Shlomo is like my father, in a way. With him I feel as safe as I always did with my father.” She felt protected, sure that Shlomo, like her father, would always be there for her.
Chapter Eight
Deborah relaxed in the wide leather seat, resting her head on the pillow. She was trying to capture all her feelings, flying business class for the first time. She did not want to forget one detail. She was hoping this would not be her last trip this way, as she noticed the tall blond flight attendant approach her.
“What would you like to drink, madam?”
“I thought drinks were served only after take-off,” Deborah replied, confused. The flight attendant haughtily reminded her that this was business class, and she could have whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it. Deborah asked for champagne and chocolate and was delighted to receive a tray with a crystal glass of Cava champagne, a glass of sparkling water, and a bar of Lindt white chocolate.
“Could I have the lunch menu, please?” she asked the flight attendant, and enjoyed the feeling of power she received, making the supercilious blonde wait while she checked off her order.
Deborah removed the satellite phone from its cradle and dialed Lance. “You wouldn’t believe the luxury,” she breathed into the phone. “Even great chocolate!”
“Just the way you like it – every indulgence possible,” Lance replied, sounding tired. “Take care of yourself, darling, and we’ll be together again in two days.”
Her first course was served – pate de fois gras with a side serving of wild berry foam and toast points. Entrecote for the main course, seared to perfection, with steamed Brussels sprouts. Everything was of the highest standard – the silverware, the pure white tablecloth, even the napkins. As the flight attendant removed her tray, she asked politely, “Anything else, madam?” “Could I have a bottle of beer and some chocolate?” Deborah requested.
After the meal, Deborah’s professionalism would not let her rest. She removed the architect’s plans from her briefcase and studied them with interest. She tried to picture this new Rome office, making notes for changes and improvements in red ink on the plan, sipping her cold beer straight from the bottle. “I hope Raphael will approve of all the changes,” she wondered, although she knew that she had never had a problem in convincing him to agree with anything she wanted.
The thought of Raphael suddenly made her cold all over. She covered herself with the blanket, but it did no good. She remembered the last few days with horror. How could she have cheated on Lance? What had come over her?
She remembered the two sexual encounters she had had with her boss. The sexual pleasures, the luxury, the shopping, even the expensive watch she had bought for Lance. She started to shiver, and the passing flight attendant brought her another blanket – but still she shivered in misery.
Waves of nausea were overpowering her. She tried to stand up, forgetting about her seat belt. She threw off her blankets, clumsily removed the seat belt and tried to reach for the bag to be sick in. But the nausea overcame her and she vomited all over her seating area.
Two flight attendants hurried to her. The blond attendant helped her up and led her to the lady’s room, while the other started to clean up, spraying
a lemon scent which banished the sour vomit smell immediately. Deborah was taken care of, even sprayed with a lovely scent of perfume, and led gently beck to her seat, and covered with a clean blanket.
Deborah was angry at herself, afraid that her guilt would continue to haunt her. She could not fall asleep and instead was filled with memories of Raphael. She had twice seen him with other women: once, coming out of a posh London restaurant with Lance, she saw Raphael entering a cab, his hand on the bottom of the woman entering the cab with him, and again, in the company parking,
with a very junior secretary, whose blushing face left no secret as to what was happening. Deborah just hoped that no one else had seen Raphael.
The flight attendants had finished their clean-up and Debora heard their vicious whispers: “Look at the so-called lady. First time in business class, eating and drinking like a pig, throwing up all over the place.”