The Righteous Spy

by Merle Nygate

  She stood in the all-white reception area while the man behind the desk, who looked as if he’d used pumice stone to shave, wrote out a visitor’s badge and slipped it into a plastic sleeve.

  ‘There you are, Miss, if you just take a seat, I’ll tell them you’re here.’

  It hadn’t been hard getting the interview. Not when Petra had said that London Finance was doing a series about leading CEOs. The PR department had leapt at the opportunity to give Canadell a four-page spread in the independent journal.

  Five minutes later Petra was shepherded to the twentieth floor and was sitting in Canadell’s office overlooking London. The room smelt of wood polish and subdued wealth. Across the desk, Canadell sat framed by a floor-to-ceiling window with the Shard in the background.

  Petra glanced down at the list of questions she’d prepared for the CEO; there was nothing too extreme on the list. Nothing that might make Canadell baulk at what she was saying or end the interview.

  ‘Before you took over Gomax Pharmaceuticals you worked in the drinks industry,’ Petra said. ‘How do you feel your expertise has transferred?’

  Canadell leaned back in his chair, his face was florid and his shirt collar was too small. In another life Petra could have seen him in a Hogarth etching with a wig askew. In this life he tugged a yellow patterned tie over his white shirt as if the strip of fabric would conceal his gut. On the left lapel of his suit Petra saw an enamel badge and noted the design of both tie and badge in her notes. The tie was a gift from someone he liked but who didn’t know him well; it was too bright and too cheap. The badge was more complex; Petra clicked her camera pen to support her notes.

  ‘Good question,’ Canadell said. ‘There are certainly transferable skills and indeed, these are both people businesses. I value...’

  Petra nodded, smiling with demure respect and memorised the room. She divided it into sections and noted the artefacts and objects. Later on these would be analysed to consider what they might say about Canadell and the report she produced would be sent to his business competitors. Behind him, on a small side table there was the ubiquitous family portrait, with what looked like wife number two – or perhaps even three. There was also a portrait of a school-age child on the desk. From what Petra could see, the CEO’s wife was not quintessentially Anglo-Saxon; she had dark hair and high cheekbones. Perhaps Slavic; perhaps Native American. That might prove to be interesting, but so far, in this particular interview there were slim pickings. Not much to interest Canadell’s business competitor who had commissioned the report.

  To the right of Canadell, on a wood-panelled wall there was a further display of photographs. They showed Canadell posing with various politicians across the political and historical spectrum. There were also pictures of him with the most accessible royal as well as a series at various sporting events. But, Petra noted, no horse racing so possibly no gambling.

  Closer, Canadell’s colossus of a desk was clear; yet mighty though the desk might be, it was functional. Tidy. Precise. Two laptops were open and as he spoke, he kept glancing in their direction.

  ‘And I see you’re a Londoner and support the culture of the capital in many ways,’ Petra said.

  ‘Yes, yes, we recently initiated a programme to take young people to opera rehearsals. Although we may have missed it for this season.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Petra said, smiling with great understanding.

  ‘Timing,’ he shifted in his seat, as if he was trying to get comfortable on the deep padded leather.

  That was interesting. What was it about the question that made Canadell display an anxiety tell? Was it personal or professional?

  ‘Of course,’ Petra said. ‘These programmes have to be organised so far in advance. But you must be keen to continue, having done so much good with these initiatives.’

  Canadell nodded, ‘We have. So many young people helped. So many young lives enhanced by the power of music. It makes me very proud.’

  ‘I can see that. Who is involved? Would I be able to speak to someone from the charity and get a quote? I think it’s something that people would find fascinating.’

  In answer, Canadell pushed the desk so that his chair shifted back, ‘Of course,’ he said. Of course not, he meant.

  Yes, there were inconsistencies about Canadell. He looked like a rugby player gone to seed. At a guess, Canadell was using the opera charity for either personal reasons or financial; in other words, the usual: sex or money. Meanwhile, her part was coming to an end.

  Petra uncrossed her legs, leaned forward and switched off the Zoom audio recorder. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said. ‘I’m very grateful. I’ll send the copy to your PR department and will wait for your approval.’

  Canadell nodded, but he wasn’t listening; he was looking at his laptop and frowning.

  Petra stood up and walked around the desk to shake hands with Canadell. She was able to see the screen; it was a live update of the Hang Seng. ‘It’s been great to meet you,’ she said.

  Glancing at her watch, she made a note of the time to feed into her report. The geeks back at the office might be able to work out what was disturbing Canadell. There couldn’t be that many options on the Hang Seng screen at that particular time. And her role was over; she’d write up both the article and the private report. The article would contain the superficial information about Canadell; the do-gooding CEO that would appear in London Finance. And her report, the one commissioned by Canadell’s business competitor that contained detailed thoughts and recommendations for further action, would go to her employers, the security company.

  7

  Palestinian Territories – Two Weeks Later

  Today I was moved to an amazing room, the walls are purple and painted with verses from the Koran and green birds. It’s so beautiful. The birds are painted in shades of turquoise, lapis lazuli and emerald. They represent the flock that carries the souls of martyrs to Allah and soon, inshallah, they will bear my soul to Jannah.

  I stroke the wings of a bird and feel paint and plaster under my fingertips. I’d be lying if I said that I’m not thinking about what I’m leaving behind. Sometimes I ache in my stomach when I hear the children laughing as they knock around a ball in the dusty courtyard outside. But in Jannah the children won’t have been displaced; they won’t know poverty and disease, they won’t have been bombed and cut down and injured and mutilated. They won’t be like the broken babies I nursed at the hospital, day after day after day.

  Would it be different if I had my own children? Of course it would. For one thing, if I were a mother the Martyrs Committee wouldn’t have accepted me. Neither would I have been chosen if I were the sole support for my own mother who will, when the time comes, receive a good pension and be honoured.

  Knowing what I’m doing for my mother makes me so happy. At last she’ll have a reason to be proud of me – her divorced and barren daughter. At last she’ll be able to talk of me with pride because I’ll be the one keeping her secure and in comfort for all of her days.

  For a moment I remember how we used to have picnics on the beach in Gaza. In summer we stayed indoors during the day hiding from the heat. But when it got dark and a few degrees cooler we’d come outside and bundle into my uncle’s rickety pick-up truck, the car with the blue number plates that identified us. Once we got to the beach we’d settle ourselves on sand still warm from the day and eat the kibbe, tehina and tabbouleh that my mother and her sisters had made. Sometimes I’d sit with my feet in the cool sea eating watermelon, seeing just how far I could spit the seeds into the darkness. And then we’d sing the whole way home as the truck rattled and rumbled through the night.

  I always tried to sit near the back of the pick-up so I could feel the night air cool my arms. Usually I’d have the sleeping weight of one of the little ones on my knee. If I was lucky it would be Amira, holding her tight, holding her safe, holding her close to my heart. If I was less lucky it would be my little brother Wasim who was like a puppy, alwa
ys looking around, squirming to get out of my arms and lean out of the back of the open pick-up.

  ‘Kun Hadhira,’ my mother’s voice would be shrill with fear from the depths of the truck. ‘Be careful.’ A lot easier said than done with a metre of slithering, squirming, laughing little boy on your lap who wanted to see and be, and howl at the moon with the sheer joy of life.

  I swallow hard thinking of that time. That good time in the past.

  Outside the window I can hear the sound of the wind, like the distant roar of the sea and then a clatter of a metal pot that hasn’t been secured. It must be rolling around outside. The window is spattered with shapes like little sandy clouds and the sky beyond is yellow, murky, dark. Sadly, it’s not simply the sand and the heat that’s the problem in Khamsim weather, it’s the pollution. Poor Mawmia – her asthma will be torturing her. I can see her fingering and clutching her inhaler in her gnarled arthritic hands, frightened to put it down, frightened not to have it close by, frightened that she will suffocate. I always made sure there was a spare inhaler in the kitchen dresser drawer – I hope she remembers – or that someone else does.

  The door opens and Abu Muhunnad stands framed, as if in a picture, ready to come in.

  It must be time.

  ‘Salaam alechem. May we enter?’

  ‘Marhaba. Al’afw.’

  Behind Abu Muhunnad there’s another man. I haven’t seen him before. He’s younger and paler and harder-faced beneath his beard and behind his glasses.

  Abu Muhunnad moves towards the single chair and the new man stands slightly behind him. I feel like he’s examining me and feel uncomfortable.

  But Abu Muhunnad’s voice is warm and soothing, ‘We have something important to discuss with you.’

  Of course I’m nervous but I also feel a surge of exultation and relief. At last the waiting is over. I sit on the edge of the bed upright, feet together, trying to breathe slowly.

  ‘I am blessed,’ I manage to say. ‘And honoured to have been chosen.’

  Abu Muhunnad’s hands are folded across his black clad belly. ‘My child, we’re here to tell you that you’re not going on the mission that we have been training you to accomplish.’

  What is this? For a few seconds I wonder if I have heard wrongly, misunderstood what Abu Muhunnad is saying. Not going? That can’t be right.

  I massage my forehead as if the action will help me to absorb the information. Perhaps this is some final test to see if I’ve got the faith to complete my mission or whether at the last moment I will fail. I must convince Abu Muhunnad and the other man.

  ‘I’m ready Abu. I’ve memorised the map of the target. I know the bus stops on the corner of Dizengoff and Ester Halmalka. I know the café is two hundred metres away on the right-hand side. I know there are two orange trees in front of it. I’ve got a copy of American Vogue to carry to show I’m interested in fashion. And I know I must sit exactly in the middle of the café to make the maximum impact.’

  ‘We know; we know you’re well prepared; indeed, you’re perfectly prepared. We could ask for no more in your dedication, but you’re not going to the café.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s our decision,’ the other man says.

  I smooth the bed cover with my hand and find a small thread that I tug between my nails.

  ‘Am I not pious enough?’ I say.

  I’m still uncertain whether this is a test and I have to prove my commitment and obedience. Maybe I’ve failed and all along there’s been someone else training, someone ready to go for the same target who is more righteous. That must be it. Looking at Abu Muhunnad’s face and then the cold expression on the face of the stranger I know that’s the truth. Someone else had been chosen.

  I press my lips together to stop myself crying. There’s nothing I can do, I’ll be returning to my mother where I will help her wash and dress and be the comfort of her old age. My sister will visit with my nieces and nephews and I’ll continue to be the failure.

  ‘I understand,’ I say. ‘It is the will of Allah.’

  I raise my eyes and catch a glance between the man and Abu Muhunnad.

  ‘Habibti.’ Abu Muhunnad leans forward and places both hands on his knees. ‘It’s because you’re both pious and brave that you will not complete this mission. You see, there’s something else for you to do that’s far more important and more dangerous; something that only a special daughter can do for the glory of Allah and the destruction of his enemies. You are going to London.’

  That night I don’t sleep. I lie on the bed listening to the wind and thinking about what Abu Muhunnad said. I am going to London. Can it be true?

  Abu Muhunnad gave me a phone with a European number. He said it was safe and wouldn’t be scanned by the Jews. I was going to use it so that I could call my mother when it was too late to change anything; call her to hear her voice for the last time. If I’m going to London, will I still be able to call her? Maybe the commander will take the phone. What shall I do? In the dark of the room I look at my phone – I’m sure Allah would forgive me if I call my brother Wasim and tell him that I am doing God’s work and that he has to make sure that my mother has a supply of asthma drugs. And to say goodbye.

  I text a message to him.

  I am going away. Look after Mawmia. See she has spare inhalers.

  Now I can sleep. I close my eyes and begin to drift off. On the bedside table the phone vibrates. I answer it.

  ‘Where are you?’ Wasim says. ‘What are you talking about going away? Who said you could?’

  Always the same, my brother, just like he was when he was a kid, asking questions, demanding answers.

  ‘I can’t tell you more but you must promise to look after Mawmia.’

  ‘What, are you going on vacation with our sisters?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Wasim, it’s secret. I’m not coming back.’

  I’m now sorry I texted him. Even more so when he says, ‘What do you mean, you’re not coming back? Sister, I may be your younger brother but I am still the head of the family, I’m your guardian.’

  ‘I’m going to be shaheeda,’ I say.

  There is silence at the other end of the phone. I hear his breath close to the microphone.

  ‘What? What did you just say? Are you crazy?’ Wasim says.

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you. I’m sorry, forget it.’

  ‘It’s too late now, how did you... who’s guiding you, Sahar?’

  ‘Abu Muhunnad,’

  ‘Never heard of him. What’s his full name and family? Where does he come from?’

  ‘Brother, you haven’t been here for a year; things change and people change. You don’t know everybody anymore and what’s more, you don’t know what it’s like living here.’

  ‘That’s not the point. I’m your guardian, I’m responsible for you, Sahar; I’m responsible for the family. Nobody told me.’

  ‘I’m fine and I’m being looked after. I can’t say any more than that.’

  ‘I’m going to find out what’s going on. I’ll call you again. Soon.’

  8

  Swiss Cottage, London – The Same Day

  It was good being back in London and interesting too. Eli sat opposite Gidon in the Singaporean restaurant; ostensibly he was there to get an update on Red Cap but Eli had an additional agenda; he wanted to find out just how close Gidon was to being sent home.

  ‘I’ve had such a lousy run of luck,’ Gidon paused with a spoonful of hot soup halfway to his mouth. He sounded more like a washed-up gambler bewailing his lack of success on the slot machines than a station manager with two decades of intelligence experience.

  ‘First the passports get left in a phone box by the idiot bag boy and then your man Red Cap goes mad – both in the same month. God knows, I could have handled one crisis; but two, so close to each other? Can’t be done. And what’s killing me, is that neither of those incidents were my fault.’ Gidon swallowed the soup and coughed over the chilli.

&nbs
p; As ever, Eli contained his thoughts: he didn’t say that if Gidon had run a tighter ship, better procedures would have been in place and passports might not have been left in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag in a phone box. Neither did he say that Gidon had completely mishandled a valued asset whose most recent intelligence had given them the tools to target Klondyke. Without Red Cap’s product, Klondyke would have been helicoptering to his golf club instead of transiting a crocodile’s digestive track. But explaining all of this to Gidon was pointless. What would it achieve? Nothing. Eli would just be grinding yesterday’s man’s face down in the dirt.

  ‘How’s your laksa?’ Eli said.

  ‘Good. Delicious in fact. I didn’t know about this place and I’ve lived here for three years.’.

  There was silence at the table. Gidon broke it, ‘So, what are you working on? You seem to be here mob-handed.’

  ‘You know I can’t say,’ Eli smiled at the freckled face and creased forehead across the table.

  ‘Come on. I know I’m last year’s flavour, but I’m still head of London station – at least I am for the moment.’

  ‘Gidon, drop it.’

  ‘What’s the new guy like?’ Gidon said, still anxious to be ‘in’ with the news.

  ‘Different.’

  Gidon attempted to pour more wine into Eli’s still full glass and then refilled his own. ‘D’you remember those morning meetings we used to have with Avigdor? The discussions and debates? Now, that man was a leader; a philosopher, a man of intellect and culture.’

  ‘Like I said, Yuval is different,’ Eli said.

  In terms of discovering what had driven Red Cap to trash the safe house, the evening was a washout. All Gidon did was reprise the contents of the contact report. However, by the time Eli returned to the serviced apartment it was clear that Gidon was more than halfway out of the door and the job of head of London station would be vacant soon.

  The next morning Eli was able to observe just how different Yuval’s leadership style was to Avigdor’s. They were sitting in the safe room at the embassy in Palace Gardens crowding round one end of the big table since it was only the three of them: Yuval, Rafi and Eli. A folder with a printout lay on the table but it was being shunned as if it contained a virus. They had already received the report in their overnight mailbox and it didn’t make happy reading; it was a transcript of Sweetbait’s conversation with her brother.