by Merle Nygate
The arrangement was to meet Rafi at one of the old rendezvous; the lounge of a run-down Edwardian hotel in Bayswater. Over the phone Rafi had used the code name for the sprawling building with its quiet corners and bored waiters, ‘Sofsof’’ he’d said and asked Petra if she remembered where it was. Of course, she did. She remembered all the location code names.
Petra also knew that Rafi was going to ask her to do a job. There was no other reason for him to get in touch with her in spite of what he’d said about being in London and wanting to talk about old times. Yet she’d played along; it was part of the game. She wondered whether he still worked for the Office or had gone off to set up something on his own; that was often the way and indeed, the mixed bag of colleagues at her current employers included several ex-spooks who were supplementing their pension in the private security sector.
Petra held no animosity towards Rafi; it had never been a big love thing. Truth to tell, she didn’t remember much about it. But the job might prove to be interesting; it might even be worth doing.
As she climbed the stairs to the hotel’s automatic doors, Petra checked her reflection in the glass. It was distorted, shadowed, her black-clad legs looked squat, her hair looked darker, and her features contorted in the warp of the glass. It was an illusion.
The hotel’s automatic doors hushed open and she stepped into the air-controlled environment. The place had been done up since the old days and it was unrecognisable; almost as unrecognisable as her reflection had been. The pokey corners and pastel colours of the past had been replaced by a grey slate floor and an acid-lime mural behind the reception desk. Petra strode towards the hotel lounge where Rafi would be waiting. Arranged on a low, lime sofa, his long legs were jack-knifed under him and when Petra stood over him, he stood up with powerful flexibility and kissed her on both cheeks. His dark beard was soft.
Holding her at arm’s length he looked her over. ‘You look great, you haven’t changed,’ he said. ‘If anything...’ he let the compliment evaporate leaving the contrail to disperse into the atmosphere.
‘So do you, very dashing with the pirate beard,’ Petra said unmoved. ‘How long are you in London?’
‘Oh, that depends on a few things. Coffee?’ Rafi said.
‘Lovely.’
‘Would you like anything to eat? Maybe some cake or even lunch?’
‘No thank you,’ Petra glanced at her watch. ‘I’m meeting a friend.’
‘Of course, busy lady,’ Rafi ordered coffee and a cafetière promptly appeared on a tray.
‘So, what are you doing these days?’ Rafi said.
‘I work for a corporate investigations and risk consulting firm.’
‘You mean private security? What everyone thinks they’ll do after we get our pensions. What’s it like? Interesting?’
‘Not especially. Most of the time I pretend to be a business journalist and interview CEOs whose competitors want intelligence, or worse, I do high end divorce work. Proving to some rich but miserable person that their suspicions are correct.’
‘What about the teaching?’ Rafi said. ‘When you left didn’t you train to be a teacher? I know that’s what you said you were going to do.’
‘That was years ago,’ Petra picked up the coffee and sipped the bitter liquid. ‘Years and years. Anyway, what are you up to – or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘Yes, I’m still at the Office; different, how do you say, sections. But still there and different from when we first met.’
‘Ah yes,’ Petra said. ‘The bag boy – coming to meetings to drop off and pick up the documents. I remember that.’
He smiled. ‘Like you said, a long time ago. So, I must ask, why did you stop teaching? You were so keen to do it; wasn’t your father a teacher?’
‘Have you been looking at my file Rafi, or maybe you’ve never forgotten a single moment that we spent together?’
‘I remember,’ Rafi gave Petra the full brown-eyed stroke. ‘And I always thought you would make a great teacher. I’d have thought you’d have been head of a school by now. What happened? Didn’t you like it?’
‘I lasted an entire year until I decided that it wasn’t for me. All I do now is some weekends with the kids where I live. Circuit training, gymnastics on the green, yoga, that sort of thing.’
Rafi looked thoughtful. ‘For that you must be authorised?’
‘Of course, it’s called a DBS check. You have to show you haven’t got a criminal record – I’m sure there’s something similar in Israel. Anyway, what do you care?’
Rafi shifted around on his chair. It was the exact same physical tic that Petra had seen when she’d interviewed Canadell. The physical manifestation of discomfort; Rafi really should learn how to control his body language. The tell indicated that whatever he was going to say next was important; Petra leaned back in the low chair and waited.
‘Don’t you ever miss the work?’ Rafi said.
‘Let me think about that for a minute. Staying in crap hotels, standing out in the rain, lying to my friends and family about what I’m doing. No, I don’t miss the work.’
He smiled, ‘Come on, it wasn’t all bad, was it?’
Petra surveyed Rafi, and deliberately didn’t respond to the question. He would have to fill the silence. She wondered how long it was going to take before he came out with the pitch; and she was curious about what it was.
‘You know, they still talk about you,’ Rafi said. ‘Talk about that lecture you gave to the new recruits about fieldwork. You’re famous.’
Even though Petra was curious about the job, this transparent attempt to flatter her before making the pitch jarred. It reminded her of other unpleasant aspects of the work; when she didn’t know who was telling the truth or who was lying, and the constant sense of distrust and paranoia. Maybe this was a closed chapter in her life and it would be better not to go back and open that book.
‘You were the best,’ Rafi went on. ‘A natural; the word is intuitive I think, isn’t it?’
‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’ Petra stood up and positioned her shoulder bag ready to go. ‘Thanks for coffee, Rafi, great to see you but I need to go. Give my regards to Tel Aviv. How is Alon by the way?’
‘Dead.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ She meant it. ‘Cigarettes?’
Rafi nodded.
Petra sat down again, ‘When?’
‘Three months ago.’
‘I wish I’d known,’ was all Petra said. She felt winded. ‘How long was he ill?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t know him so well because he wasn’t involved in my section, but someone I’d like you to meet did know him. When did you last hear from him?’
Petra didn’t answer. After a moment she said, ‘You asked if the work was all bad. No, it wasn’t all bad. The work taught me a lot; sometimes I even felt I was making a difference. So, if you’d like to tell me why you’re here and exactly what this job is, then maybe we can talk about it.’
12
Heathrow Airport, London – Two Days Later
I’m so tired after the journey yet I’m too frightened to close my eyes in case I don’t find the man who’s going to meet me. Whatever I feel like, my orders were to stay in this seating area in the arrivals hall and that’s what I’m going to do.
It ought to be impossible for me to even think of sleeping, here, on this hard chair, in the middle of the airport. There are so many people. Next to me a mother comforts her child. His eyes are red and she rocks him back and forth. Opposite a fat man in a black suit perches on the edge of the chair, legs wide, suit fabric stretching. He’s barking into his cell phone and is pretty angry about something.
Of all the things I thought about I never imagined how hard it would be leaving home.
I wasn't allowed to say goodbye to anyone. Abu Muhunnad said that I’d already said goodbye when I volunteered. Of course, he didn’t know I’d spoken to Wasim; how could I tell him? He’d be so disappointed in me. Abu is right
and I can’t let moments of weakness and sentimentality divert me from what I must do. I’m strong – at least, stronger than the old men who sit in the cafés at home, sucking on their nargilahs. There they sit, all the day long, drinking coffee, smoking shisha, wagging their fingers, bravely spitting after the occupiers pass by – and all the while they quietly cash the cheques that their children send from Kuwait and Jordan, Canada and Australia. Our bitter export: scientists, doctors, pilots, engineers – like my brother. Our diaspora spread on the four winds across the globe; I could have joined them; I could have been one of that army of despair; ashamed of where we come from, angry about what we’ve become. Using our talents to run their hospitals, teach at their universities and build their oil refineries. We’re the hired help, serving the people who twist their lips and wring their hands because of our misfortune, because of the homes we’ve lost. For all that they despise us because we’re homeless. Meanwhile, all that’s left of the so-called government are the corrupt who grab whatever crumbs the occupiers toss their way.
I watch my hand cross the notebook writing these words. I don't know what I’m going to do with these pages but now that I’m alone and Abu Muhunnad is behind me and my mother is lost to me I feel as if I need a witness to my actions. I need a friend. Is that weakness? Shouldn't Allah be enough?
In my pocket my phone vibrates; there’s a message on WhatsApp, from my little brother.
WHERE are you sister? I demand to know where you are and who is with you. I’ve spoken to my friends and they know nothing about you. This is important!!!
I tap into my phone:
Don’t worry. I’m okay.
I turn off the phone and pocket it before Wasim can call me. It’s just as well because a man’s approaching me with purpose, as if he recognises me. I sit up.
‘Sahar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Taxi to London?’
The man has dark hair and a pinched, pale face. His eyes dart around with wariness and remind me of our street dogs.
‘No,’ I say, and with care I repeat in English the phrases I’ve learned. ‘I order taxi take me to Bristol Hotel. Thank you.’
‘Which Hotel Bristol?’ he says.
‘The one near the park,’ I complete the exchange correctly. He smiles. His bottom teeth are stained. He takes my suitcase and starts walking through the milling mass of people.
‘How was your flight?’ he says. He doesn't seem to expect an answer. He says something about the weather, he is making conversation. We pass two policemen with guns pointing down and handguns in their belts; they stride with the power of the armed, it's the same gait we see when the occupiers strut down our streets. Fearful, I stumble.
‘Easy does it,’ the driver says. But I see he’s seen the police and is walking faster. ‘I hope you brought some warm clothes.’
He says more but I don't understand what he’s saying although I know what he’s doing. We do that at home. All the time. Talk but expect to be overheard.
By now we are outside the terminal building, crossing the road towards the car park. It is cold. The driver didn't exaggerate. I shudder as the wind slices through the thin fabric of my raincoat. I pull the belt around my waist tighter as if that will warm me. The driver doesn't notice; he’s intent on getting me to the car on the second floor where he uses a remote key to open a blue Mercedes.
‘I like these cases with wheels,’ the driver pushes the case so fast I have to trot to keep up. He keeps talking; I understand a word here and there, ‘wife’ and ‘Spain’. He opens the trunk of the car and loads in my case, softly he mutters to me, ‘Nearly there, love.’
I slide into the back of the car and the engine thrums to life. The GPS lights up and directs us on to grey asphalt, through a tunnel to a roundabout with a huge model plane and on to the grey road. Outside everything is grey. That is my first and abiding impression of this country. Grey. Inside the car, the driver has lapsed into silence. I may as well be invisible. Maybe I am.
Ten minutes later we leave the stream of cars and drive into a gas station. The driver pulls up and gets out of the car. He leans through the open window back into the car. ‘The ladies is round the side.’
I struggle to open the door. I am unfamiliar with the handle and the man opens it for me. I walk past racks of newspapers, stunted flowers and bins of bright-coloured sacks. I try to make out the letters, the Roman alphabet; I try to concentrate on what the words are.
Around the corner I find the toilet. There are two cubicles. A tap is dripping into a sink that’s blocked with soapy water. I don't know what to do now. I look at myself in the mirror; I see the shadow of hair on my upper lip and my wide, dark eyes. I look scared. I swallow and take a deep breath.
The door swings open and a young woman comes in. She has a short jacket and a baseball cap on her head. And jeans like mine. And trainers like mine. She tugs off the cap and her dark hair falls down to her shoulders. Like mine.
She smiles and puts her fingers to her lips. She shrugs off her jacket. It's leather, black and white like a bowling jacket I once saw on TV. I start to undo the belt of my coat with my cold fingers, tugging ineffectually at the knot I made. She can see my problem and after a couple of seconds helps me. I feel her hair brush my face and I can smell her perfume. Her fingers are more certain than mine and she unties the knot. Then she slips the coat off of my shoulders and puts it on her own. I slide my arms into her jacket. It's warm from her body even though it’s way too big for me. Then she helps me pile my hair into the baseball cap and nudges me towards the door. ‘White car, by air pump,’ she says. ‘Ford Fiesta. Bittawfiq, good luck. May God go with you.’
As soon as I get out into the forecourt I see the car. A man is concealed as he kneels to fill the tyres. He straightens up and I walk towards him.
13
M40 Motorway – Four Days Later
Eli leaned back in the car seat and wriggled trying to reach a point just below his shoulder blade that itched. The M40 stretched ahead and outside, on the escarpment by the motorway, tufty sheep dotted the slope, growing fat and woolly on the rich green grass. A truck in the inner lane indicated right giving Eli the chance to nose his car into the outside lane before shifting back to where he was. How pleasant it was to be driving in a country where people used indicators before changing lanes. How novel. Checking the clock on the dashboard, Eli calculated that he was forty minutes away from his destination: Cheltenham. He was going to find Red Cap. Find him and if necessary recruit him again, shepherd him back to the flock where he would be gently sheared.
This was the work that Eli excelled in; it required mental acuity unlike Rafi’s brand of action-man expertise. Eli remembered the very first time he’d actually seen Rafi Shomer; before then he’d heard a little about him, but their paths hadn’t actually crossed until about a year ago. It was at the ‘country club’. There to give a talk to the new recruits on the history of intelligence services, law and ethics, Eli was sitting outside one of the teaching hangars enjoying the February sunshine waiting for the recruits inside to finish the previous session. Squatting with his back against the wall, he was just arranging his notes when the throaty rumble of a Harley Davidson stormed his ears. Like a teenage heart-throb, Rafi appeared, straddling the machine in his black leathers. With a flourish he pulled up, stirring the sand right in front of where Eli was crouched. Maybe he didn’t notice Eli; he certainly didn’t acknowledge him. He kicked down the side stand and swung his leg over the saddle as if it was a warhorse. Just then the recruits came onto the hangar for their ten-minute break before Eli’s lecture.
‘How’s the top team?’ Rafi strode towards the group fist and arm raised in greeting. The recruits looked up and there was almost a collective sigh of appreciation and admiration. Moments later, Rafi was right among them, high fiving, hugging, kissing. It was like watching a sports star meet a group of ecstatic fans. Watching on, Eli was bemused; as far as he was aware all that Rafi had done was deliver the
modules on detonators and illegal entry; that hardly merited this inappropriate level of hero worship.
After a few moments Eli moved towards the training hangar to set up his laptop to deliver the talk. As Eli skirted the group he felt as if he was invisible. One of the kids had got Rafi a coffee, a few were smoking and Rafi seemed to be regaling the group with some thoroughly entertaining story.
Once inside the hangar Eli exchanged a few words with the previous trainer who had just finished the session on surveillance, then Eli connected his laptop, ran through the slides and waited for the recruits to come in. And waited. After fifteen minutes he was still sitting there on his own. Wondering just how long he was supposed to sit there, Eli saw the group still gathered around Rafi but now closer to the beach, away from the administrative buildings. Eli stood watching, his arms folded, waiting. At long last one of the recruits looked up, noticed him and there were nudges followed by a scurry back to class.
Yes, it was only a small moment; the recruits were late back to class because they were talking to another trainer but still the incident piqued Eli. It offended him in a way he couldn’t rationalise. He knew he wasn’t universally popular and his modules with the focus on economics, geopolitics, not to mention ethics and law, were hard for some of the less intellectual recruits who wanted to focus on the more exciting modules. But it was important. Eli felt that Rafi had deliberately devalued his module; devalued him in some way.
Being in different operational areas meant that Eli had been able to avoid Rafi – until now. At least Rafi had zero involvement in Red Cap and Eli would keep it that way.
Eli returned his attention to the road ahead. Making contact with Red Cap would be done correctly; a team of watchers had been in Cheltenham all week checking to see if Red Cap was clean. He was. Eli had also done a couple of dummy runs from the hire car location to make sure that it wasn’t being watched. It wasn’t. Yet he still checked his mirrors and monitored the traffic flow as he had been taught; watching the cars coming on and off the slip roads; looking for any patterns that might indicate a tail. More than correct procedure, it was habit; like brushing his teeth – Eli didn’t even think about it.