The Righteous Spy

by Merle Nygate

  I’m also worried about Wasim. He called again last night and I answered the phone trying to get him to understand that I know what I am doing.

  ‘Tell me where you are,’ he said. ‘I’m your guardian, Sahar. That makes me responsible for you; and it dishonours me if you don’t trust me.’

  ‘I’m in Britain, okay?’ I said. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Britain? Where in Britain? We’ve got friends there; people who will look after you, visit you.’

  ‘Wasim, you’re being stupid and should know better than to ask me; now, please, wait for me to call you.’

  ‘No, I’m not doing that; I’m coming to find you.’

  ‘You can’t do that. I’m not going to tell you where I am. I’m okay, please do not come.’

  ‘Too late, sister. I’ve already made arrangements. I’m coming to Birmingham, it’s in the middle and I’m going to find you and take you home.’

  He’s such a fool; he can only find me if I choose to be found.

  And I lied to him. I kept saying I was okay when the truth is that I’m sick with anxiety because no one has made contact. On top of that I’m very uncomfortable in this strange place.

  I go to the dining room and collect some bread and eggs from a cafeteria-style bar. It’s like the hospital where I used to work, although the food is quite different. No salad. No hummus. No white cheese. Shiny pork sits in a pool of fat next to yellow egg and grey porridge. I take jam and toast.

  Afterwards, I stack my tray and find the corridor to the class. The floors are scuffed from a thousand absent feet and the walls hold echoes of voices far away. The classroom, when I find it, is empty. I sit with my back to the window facing the door.

  ‘Is this... it is right... am I?’ Another student comes into the room. She is Chinese, I think. I don't know.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. She pulls out a chair and sits down near the door. Two boys of about eighteen stroll into the room. I don't recognise their language. They are white, fair, so alike they could be brothers. Perhaps they are. One shows the other something on his phone. They laugh. It’s not a kind sound; I lower my eyes. Next into the room comes a black boy with round glasses. Tall and skinny, his wrists creep out of the sleeves of the white shirt. He sits near me but does not say anything. I am uncomfortable but I have no reason to fear him or them.

  Sitting there in silence I remember delivering my first baby. It was during an air raid. The taped-up windows shuddered as the sound waves from the explosions made dust rise and air shimmer. Yet the new baby came easily, with joy. The mother, oblivious to the chaos outside, was concentrating on giving life in the midst of death. I cut the cord and still wet, slippery like a fish, covered with vernix and blood, I wrapped him in a clean towel to present to his mother. I helped her make a life, save a life, make another soldier, to do God's work inshallah.

  The classroom is nearly full. I have to move closer to the skinny black boy to make room for a girl who smells of cigarettes. She has wild dark hair and a tattoo on her hand between thumb and index finger. It is like a spider. She thrusts out that hand towards me.

  ‘Aneeta,’ she shakes my hand. ‘Espagnole.’

  ‘Aneeta,’ I reply, smiling back the greeting.

  She laughs showing white teeth and the wadge of gum she's chewing. She points to herself and says, ‘Aneeta.’ And then points to me, her eyebrows raised in question.

  I understand. ‘Sahar,’ I say.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ two women come into the room. ‘I hope you are all rested and refreshed from your journeys. Some of you didn't get here until late last night and have come a long way.’ The woman who speaks is tall and fair, English; she’s like someone I saw once in a very old film. The other woman is darker; she smiles at us. At all of us.

  The fair woman continues, ‘I'm Deanna Morgan, owner of the Clock Tower Language School.’ She speaks clearly and slowly. I can understand quite a lot of what she says and fill in the words I don't understand. ‘I would like to introduce you to Petra. She will be your main tutor. If you have any problems, any worries or there is anything you need, please talk to either Petra or myself. We want you all to have a wonderful time during these weeks and learn a lot of our language in our beautiful country.’

  The women exchange a couple of words and then we’re left alone with Petra. She sits on the desk. She’s wearing a black and red striped tee shirt, a black linen skirt and black sandals. Her face is long, chin square, smile open and friendly; she looks like a woman who’s never known anxiety or fear. With her hands on either side of her body, resting on the desk, she swings her legs like a child and says, ‘Welcome. You are new here and far from home. I am new. This is the first time I teach English to foreign students. As you know, all the conversation is in English, we talk English, tell stories in English, tell jokes in English. When you do not understand – and there will be words you do not understand – tell me. Okay?’

  Everyone nods.

  ‘Understood?’ she says. Everyone nods again.

  Her big smile covers all of us like a warm blanket. ‘I can see this is going to be a piece of cake.’

  There are frowns. ‘Piece of cake is an expression which means easy,’ Petra says. ‘This is going to be easy. Right, what I would like to do now is go around the class one by one and for you all to tell us your name, tell us where you come from, which country, and tell us one sentence about what you want. It might be anything. It might even be a piece of cake.’

  She starts on the other side of the room with Li from China, who wants to improve her English so she can go to university and study medicine. The two boys who are still playing with their phones come from Russia; they both say they want a piece of cake.

  ‘And so you shall,’ Petra says. ‘Lots of it.’ She smiles but there is a coolness in her voice.

  ‘How about you?’ she says, her voice warm again directed at the black boy with the round glasses.

  ‘I am Mfoniso,’ he says.

  ‘Where do you come from Mfoniso?’

  ‘I come from Nigeria,’ he speaks slowly as if the words are stuck in his mouth and have to be extracted one at a time.

  ‘Good. Very good. What do you want Mfoniso?’

  ‘I want... I want... English.’

  ‘Well done. Very good,’ Petra says.

  It is Aneeta's turn. She takes her chewing gum out of her mouth and sticks it on to the corner of her spiral book. ‘I am Aneeta.’

  ‘Hello, Aneeta, where do you come from?

  ‘I come from Espagne.’

  ‘Very good. You come from Spain,’ Petra corrects.

  ‘Spain,’ Aneeta repeats.

  ‘Excellent,’ Petra says. ‘You have a nice accent. What do you want Aneeta?’

  The girl sits up straight, tosses her hair back, places her hands on her hips in a parody, as if she is a beauty pageant contestant. She says, ‘I want world peace.’

  Everyone laughs. Even the Russian boys. ‘Very good, Aneeta,’ Petra says. ‘When you can make jokes in another language, you have got it. Now, how about you?’ She looks at me. She smiles; she is warm. I sit up straight. ‘I am Sahar,’ I say. ‘I am from Palestine. I too want peace.’

  21

  Herzylia, Israel – The Same Time

  Palestine. Islamic Art and Archaeology of Palestine. Eli flicked through the book on Gal’s side of the bed.

  ‘This looks interesting,’ he said. ‘Not your usual choice of bedtime reading. Have you taken up with an archaeologist since I’ve been in London?’

  ‘Ma?’ Gal said. ‘What?’ She came into the bedroom carrying a tray of food and drink. In her white towelling bathrobe she was alluring.

  ‘What did you say? I didn’t hear you. Eli, move over and clear a space.’

  Eli took the tray from her. On it was a platter of the smoked delicacies Eli had brought back from London: smoked salmon, cod’s roe, halibut. They picnicked on the white bed, in the cool grey room with the aircon on and the blinds down.
Beyond the windows was the constant hum of traffic on the Kvish Hahof, the beach road that never stopped – except once a year, on Yom Kippur.

  ‘When are you going back to London?’ Gal said. ‘It seems as if I haven’t seen you since you got here.’

  ‘That’s why I asked whether you’d taken up with an archaeologist. If you had have how could I blame you?’

  She followed his gaze. ‘Oh, the book. It’s fascinating. One of my patients’ parents recommended it to me. You’d like it, it’s scholarly. In the meantime, I was thinking the same thing, wondering what you’re getting up to.’

  ‘Just the job,’ Eli said. ‘But it is going well.’

  Eli’s two days in Tel Aviv had been spent with a team of communication and encryption experts, not just from the Office; they’d also drafted in a couple of professors from The Weizmann Institute. Step by step, they explained to Eli how the data science tool worked in relation to the American product Red Cap was passing on and when Eli thought his head was about to burst, the experts talked to him about RATS and malware, exploitation and reverse software engineering and how crucial it was for Red Cap to find out how the British had managed to get their malware on to the Qatar Embassy computers.

  It would have been easier and more efficient if Red Cap could have spoken directly to the experts but his operational terms were only to meet with his katsa, in this case, Eli. This demand was even more understandable given the agent’s recent experiences and it was no bad thing for Eli; it was evident that he was the nucleus of the operation; as such no one could oust him.

  Walking through the corridors to the briefing rooms, Eli felt enveloped in a warm cloud of respect, admiration and even envy. That’s what came of being the goose that was single-handedly bringing in Red Cap’s golden intelligence eggs. He was even sought out by Nathan, head of Tsafririm, the unit charged with protecting Jews at risk in other countries. The short, grisly-haired man who was wearing a kippah pumped Eli’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder saying that the work he was doing combatting 91 had been blessed and what they expected to come from Red Cap was beyond measure. ‘Evil shall indeed perish guided by the righteous,’ Nathan said.

  ‘If you say so,’ Eli said.

  Yuval was in Washington, in and out of his own meetings with seven hours difference, so they’d only managed one brief conversation to discuss Rafi’s report of the break-in. It appeared that the stupid bastard had bought a couple of pay-as-you-go cell phones to use as operational comms and then broken into the home office of the language school owner.

  Eli couldn’t have been happier.

  Since the break-in was unauthorised and had put the entire operation at risk, the buzz round the Office was that an inquiry was being mooted. Eli was optimistic; an inquiry would bring Rafi back home, if not in disgrace, certainly chastened and at the very least, Eli would be running Trainer. According to the gossip, it seemed that the only mitigating point in Rafi’s favour was that he hadn’t actually been caught red-handed by a British bobby. A pity.

  With all the drama going on at the Office Eli had only managed this one evening at home with Gal and as luck would have it, Doron was back from the army. The joy of seeing his son was tempered by the lad spending a total of forty minutes in the apartment, divided between unloading his kit into the laundry basket, eating straight from the fridge, and showering. The twenty-year-old submitted to only the merest hug from his father before dashing out of the door leaving behind a cloud of cologne.

  ‘Is Doron seeing someone?’ Eli leaned back in the pillows.

  ‘Don’t ask me. So long as he’s happy and safe, I don’t care who he’s seeing. He looks okay doesn’t he?’ She had a worried crease between her brows.

  ‘He looks great.’

  ‘You know how hard they push them. And where they send them...’

  ‘He looks great,’ Eli repeated.

  Gal understood. Another reason to love her.

  ‘How have you been?’ Gal said as she snuggled into Eli’s arms. ‘Do you have any idea when you’ll be back?’

  ‘Perhaps a month and then we can take a vacation? Or... How would you like three years in London?’

  ‘London?’ Gal pulled away and looked at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Things are going so well that I could be in line for head of London station.’ The aircon hummed around the room and Gal lifted the tray off of the white bed and placed it on the side table.

  ‘What about Doron? He’s still got three months to go in the army. I couldn’t leave him.’

  ‘You could stay here till he’s out and then... well, I know he wants to travel when he’s finished but he might like to go to university in the UK. He might like it there. Might meet someone.’

  Gal sat down back on the bed and pulled her legs up under her, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on her knees. ‘What about us? What would we do then?’

  ‘Who knows? I can’t think about that now.’

  ‘What I mean is, are we going to grow old here? While you’ve been away and Doron was in the army, I was thinking and trying not to think. And then thinking again. Are we going to sit here and watch Doron’s kids go to the army? Watch him being as frightened as we are? As I am?’

  He took one of the hands clasped around her knees. He held it between his own and looked into her clear eyes, ‘Now is the best chance I will ever have of moving up quickly. If I do that, come back here for a couple of years, then get Washington, well... I could get the top job. And then... then I could make a difference. Gal, the job gives us a lot of power. We can change things for the better. We can initiate behind-the-scenes conversations with the neighbours; Iran, Saudi, Syria, Hamas, Hizbollah. We can influence the prime minister. That can’t be done living somewhere else, that can’t be done being a security consultant for some fancy company in America or the UK. Living in Florida or LA or London with all the other people who have given up on what our parents and grandparents hoped for. Gal, I’ve got to do my best – for all of us.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. She nestled closer to him. Eli held her to him and stole his hand into her robe.

  ‘What about Rafi?’ Gal said. ‘Would he be your deputy?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’ Eli’s exploring hand had stopped.

  ‘I saw his wife in Ramat Hasharon a couple of days ago. She’d just picked up their youngest from gan, kindergarten; you can’t believe how cute that little girl is.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Eli said.

  ‘Anyway, Hannah said Rafi is in London with you. Said you’re working on some huge thing.’

  Eli shook his head, ‘Thank God you don’t go round telling everyone what I do and how well it’s going.’

  ‘It’s not her fault,’ Gal said with reason. ‘She’s only repeating what her husband said.’

  ‘He’s an idiot.’

  ‘That’s not what she thinks.’ Gal said. ‘She thinks he’s God’s gift to the organisation, Israel, and humanity.’

  Eli grunted. He was not going to tell Gal that instead of getting to be deputy of London station Rafi was more likely to find himself in front of a disciplinary panel. And that at long last justice had prevailed. And the reason why Eli would not tell Gal was because he did things properly and by the book. Unlike Rafi.

  He was a type.

  It was Eli’s father’s job that took the family all over the world and gave Eli and his sister both language skills and a sophisticated set of cultural reference points. Early exposure to the diplomatic and academic circuit meant that he could recognise if it was Ozawa or Gergiev conducting within the opening three bars of a recital. As a teenager he’d met leading musicians, artists, scientists and politicians at embassy functions where he’d learnt good manners and how to talk to people. His father wanted his education to be eclectic. But these opportunities came at a price; it made Eli an outsider and the constant shifts in country and school were miserable.

  Before coming back to Israel to do his national service
, Eli had been to school in five different countries but there was one constant: at every single school, whether it was in the UK, France, the Far East or Timbuktu, there was always a guy like Rafi.

  Eli remembered arriving in Paris for his time at the American School; he was 11 years old. Only the week before he’d been in non-winter Singapore and the January cold was shocking. It was his first day and during the afternoon there was a sports period supervised by a shaved head athletics teacher who looked like a Nazi. The class was trooped out to the athletics fields for a soccer session and after a series of exercises which involved jumping up and down in the freezing mud the children were lined up in front of two boys. Selected by the teacher the two team captains were clones of each other in that they were taller, smarter and certainly cooler than the rest of the children in the line-up.

  One by one the captains picked their teams; ‘Cooper, Kucek, Elkin.’ The chosen skittered to stand behind the captain who had picked them and the line around those left grew smaller.

  ‘Blears, Amato, Davis.’

  And still neither of the captains picked Eli. Finally, Steve, the captain of the blue team, a handsome boy with the smile of someone who had no shred of doubt about his future success finally shrugged and nodded for Eli to join his team. It wasn’t about not being chosen that irritated Eli, it was the shrug and nod; that gesture of supremacy, as if being the captain of the soccer team really mattered.

  Yet for everyone else on the team, Steve was the boy they most wanted to be, the boy to be close to, the boy who got the girls, won the prizes, the boy who could do no wrong; a hero – like Rafi.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Gal was kissing the side of his face and running her hand down his chest towards his crotch. ‘Mmm?’ she said. ‘You’ve tensed up, and not in a good way.’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ He pulled her towards him.