by Merle Nygate
‘You did well,’ Yuval said. ‘Milne is sharp. But you did well. He’s one of those brainy Brits, well educated, with vision and experience. They’re a new generation. Seasoned by Northern Ireland and hardened by 7/7, Afghanistan, Iraq; the class war and Cold War disasters are ancient history.’
They were waiting for the bomb-proof door of the safe room at the embassy to swing open.
‘Update Rafi, I’ll go see if the kit we’re waiting for is in the bag; then you have to call Sweetbait’s brother and tell him to get out of the house. Do you want to run through it again?’
‘I’m pretty sure I’m okay. If you want to update Rafi I’ll get the diplomatic bag,’ Eli said.
‘They won’t let you sign for it.’ Yuval slapped Eli on the back. ‘Not yet anyway.’ The inference was clear and Eli felt warmed by it.
Yuval disappeared towards the lift leaving Eli to listen to the clunk of bolts sliding back and the hiss of hydraulics as the door opened. Rafi was sitting alone in the room, on his usual seat in the corner, tapping away at a laptop.
‘Ma yesh?’ Rafi said looking up. ‘What have you got?’
Eli shrugged off his jacket and dropped it on a chair. He helped himself to one of the bottles of water in the fridge at one end of the room and ripped off the top. ‘It went okay,’ he said.
‘Only okay?’ Rafi said. He was drinking one of his health shots that for some reason were always green. This one was obviously particularly potent. It was in a small plastic pot and Rafi grimaced after he necked it.
‘Does it help keep your dick up?’ Eli said.
Rafi’s smile was indulgent, ‘Sure. You should try it sometime.’
‘I don’t need to,’ Eli said. ‘I’m neither a performing rabbit nor the office whore.’
Rafi laughed. ‘Which? Rabbit or whore. Be reasonable, man; I can’t be both.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘What’s more, I’ve got to tell you, Eli, this hostility of yours is not healthy. You might want to talk to your wife about it. She’s a psychologist isn’t she?’
‘Child psychologist,’ Eli growled.
‘Need I say more?’
Eli flipped open one of the laptops and started pecking at the keyboard, opening a document and starting his contact report.
But Rafi wouldn’t let it go, ‘So, it went okay? The Brits and the Yanks know we have something valuable but don’t know what? And they also know they’ll have to pay for it?’
Eli stopped typing. ‘Exactly. Except Pen, the CIA liaison wasn’t there because he’s been recalled and I told Milne that there’s a terrorist cell in Birmingham. But we can’t be certain without their raw data.’
Rafi nodded, ‘Wow, big gamble.’
‘We had nothing to lose. We know MI5 is already watching the house so this makes us look good.’
‘What about Sweetbait’s brother? Now you’ve told MI6 that even we know there’s a terrorist cell in Birmingham they’ll have Five breaking the doors down.’
‘I’m dealing with that next,’ Eli said.
‘Can I stay and listen?’
‘No.’
28
The Israeli Embassy, Palace Gardens, London – Fifteen Minutes Later
Eli sat square on the chair in the safe room at the embassy with his notes in front of him and a pad. Adjusting the headset, putting the bottle of water within reach, he gave Michael, the comms guy the thumbs up to make sure the recording equipment and encryption equipment were tested and ready.
Then he heard the number being dialled and the trill of the ringing tone filled his ears.
The boy answered on the second ring; he sounded American.
‘Wasim,’ Eli said taking control of the call. He pitched his voice low, from the gut, sounding stern and authoritative, gruff. In Arabic Eli said, ‘Can you speak safely?’
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘I am a friend who has your family’s interests at heart. I am calling about a family member. You know who I am talking about don’t you?’
‘Who are you? What is going on with Sa –’
Eli interrupted, ‘Don’t say the name. Do not speak it. You want our enemies to hear you?’
‘I must know who you are. My... that person you talk about... she told me she is to be shaheeda, but no one I have talked to back home has heard about it.’
‘Because this is so important,’ Eli hissed. ‘It is secret you fool. You speak to anyone, it becomes more dangerous. Do not talk on the phone.’
‘Why? This is a new phone, I just bought it. WhatsApp is secure.’
Eli laughed. ‘No it’s not. That is why I call you on another system. WhatsApp has never been secure; the big lie is that it is. That’s how they listen to us. We are deceived if we use that system, they are cunning. Now listen carefully, brother, we have little time before this call is picked up – you understand? We know who you are; we have spoken to friends of your commander. They say you are an honourable young man; a fighter. You are in danger.’
‘What?’ The boy’s voice cracked with anxiety. He sounded younger than 18.
‘You must leave the house immediately. Don’t tell the people you are with that you are going or why. Do you understand? Go to the coach station and take the first bus to London, to Victoria. Someone will meet you there.’
‘My sister?’
‘No. She is involved in something very great and very secret. It will be an honour for your family and for you as head of the family,’ Eli said. ‘But you must go quickly. There will be a man at the Victoria bus station who will be carrying a green book and a red bag. Understood?’
‘Yes.’
‘God be with you.’
Eli ended the call and gave Michael the thumbs up. That ought to do it; the boy had sounded impressed, frightened and excited. Eli hoped it would be enough to get him out of the house and once he got picked up in London, they ought to be able to keep him quiet at least until the end of the operation.
Taking the headset off, Eli realised his face was covered with sweat.
29
Watlingford Public School, Oxfordshire – The Next Day
Today’s a good day. I’m sitting in my room writing and I’m happy. I’ve decided what I’m going to do with this journal when the time comes. I’m going to find a way to give it to my brother, Wasim. So these pages are for you, most cherished and favourite brother.
As well as being happy, I’m also relieved. Today I met my contact. After weeks of thinking I’m alone and forgotten, there was a message on my phone. It was an icon, a bear; it meant that I should miss the morning class and go to meet my contact.
Getting Aneeta to go to the class without me was really difficult, even though I said I’d been sick all night. She fussed. ‘Maybe you go see doctor,’ she said. ‘I get breakfast for you and you stay in bed. I tell Petra to call doctor. It is no good to have this pain again so soon.’
I held her hands between my own. Her nails are painted black and they shine like oil.
‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘I come to class this afternoon. This morning I sleep.’
‘I come back in the break to see you,’ Aneeta said.
‘Please no. It will disturb.’ I patted her hands. I squeezed her hands. ‘Aneeta, I promise I am okay. I eat lunch with you.’
‘Are you sure, Sahar? I am your sister here.’
‘I promise. Go, you will be late.’
She stood up and seemed hesitant. One of the Russian boys stuck his head around the door. ‘Ready, Aneeta?’
He really likes her. But he doesn’t want his friend to know. He’s the gentler of the two boys but simply on appearance, you can’t tell them apart. Aneeta looked at him and then at me.
‘I will come for you at 12.’
Thanks to God she left. I made myself wait five minutes in case she’d forgotten something and then I dressed. The corridor outside the sleeping cubicles was empty. The cleaners were working in the boys’ area so I was able to walk quickly towards the ex
it, unobserved. I carried a ring binder in case I met anyone. I thought of that. On my own. It was all planned; if anybody asked I’d say that I was on the way to class.
You would have been proud of me, Wasim.
I was prepared.
Before I left home, Abu Muhunnad explained to me that if I couldn’t make the first contact for some reason, I must be at the second location two and a half hours later.
As I walked to the meeting place I felt my heart beat against my ribs. I recited the ninety-nine names of Allah to calm myself. It worked. I stepped to the rhythm of the words.
I walked on the grey path towards the tennis courts. Beyond them I saw the walled vegetable garden. I held my folder more tightly ready to be challenged but when I stepped through the brick arch into the garden there was only a gardener weeding one of the beds. I sat on a bench and opened my work folder seeing the words that I’m studying in front of me. The verbs. I repeated them under my breath.
My instruction was to wait for fifteen minutes. This is a peaceful spot but I was far too nervous to enjoy it.
I smelt man sweat before I heard, ‘Marhaba.’
It was the gardener. Imagine.
‘Follow me to the herb border,’ he said. ‘I will pretend to explain to you what is being grown here. You will want to know the words in English and Arabic.’
He sounded as if he came from Djebdah, the north. I wondered if he knew our cousins who live there; do you remember them Wasim? They came to visit us when we lived in the house near the hospital?
This man, with the Djebdah accent, wasn’t tall, but he was strong, you could tell, his head was shaved and his eyes were grey. You’d like him I’m sure.
‘We’re very pleased with everything you’ve done,’ he said. ‘You’re a noble and most blessed shaheed al hay. You’ve been chosen by Allah because he’s seen in you all that’s good and I’m humbled and honoured to be your guide and mentor during these final days.’
I was blushing; I could feel how warm my ears were.
‘My name is Abu Marwan al Djebdahi,’ he said. He told me that the next time we met it would be during one of the student outings and I should separate from the group and he would meet me.
Then he walked towards the wheelbarrow and wheeled it out of the walled garden leaving me breathless, excited and bathed in certainty. Wasim, dearest little brother, believe me, I’m blessed. My actions will change the world, I will help people and I will be shaheed. It is written. God is great.
30
Bayswater, London – The Next Day
Summoned to London for a meeting Petra had begged an afternoon off to visit her ailing fictive godfather; Deanna hadn’t been happy but she’d agreed. Sitting in the Bayswater hotel lounge, Petra unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to Benny. Newly shaved, with a white shirt, he seemed younger than she remembered him from the first meeting and his eyes were a clearer seascape grey. He scanned the single sheet that contained all the details of the cultural programme that the language school organised for the students. ‘Thank you,’ Benny said. ‘Seen this Rafi?’
‘Yes.’
‘Looks like Petra has some nice cultural experiences lined up,’ Benny read. ‘A trip to Bath; an evening at the Sheldonian Theatre; punting on the river. And the Air Tattoo.’ Benny looked up from the sheet of paper. ‘The school uses private transportation?’
‘Yes, there’s a driver with a minibus who is contracted to the school for the summer,’ Petra said.
‘The same driver every time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. And the target?’ Benny said. ‘What do you make of her?’
Petra said, ‘She had another morning off school yesterday. Didn’t turn up for class; Aneeta, that’s the Spanish girl, said it was stomach pains. But Sahar seemed okay at lunchtime.’
Benny seemed unperturbed. He repeated: ‘What do you make of her? Do you like her?’
Petra leaned across the table. ‘She’s... diligent, serious, kind to the other students and tries to help the weaker ones in class. Modest. You know, I think you should get someone else in if her brother is around. Maybe some watchers. I’m constrained. I can sit with her, talk to her, give her homework, extra lessons, hot cocoa in the evening, but I can’t leave the group during lessons. Believe me I tried. Yesterday when Sahar didn’t turn up to class I was just about to go and check and Deanna was outside the door. I told her I was worried because the girl hadn’t shown up and she told me to wait till lunchtime and give the girl some privacy. What Deanna meant was, don’t leave the group otherwise they’ll start complaining. Just to make it even more difficult, the classroom is a fifteen minute walk from the dorms.’
‘That is a problem,’ Benny said. ’So, you don’t think the girl’s sick? You think she’s duplicitous.’
‘No. Not exactly,’ Petra felt flustered as if she hadn’t prepared for the meeting. ‘Like I said, there’s a problem. I’m here, sitting with you and I don’t know what she’s doing or who she’s talking to. Her brother could have turned up at the school.’
‘Okay, we’ll think about that. But you thought she was okay yesterday afternoon after she was absent from class in the morning? Not moody or under the weather.’
‘Definitely; she seemed happy so if there is some sort of health thing going on it’s variable.’
‘Thank you,’ Benny said. ‘That’s extremely helpful. Does she talk about her family at all? Has she said anything about her brother?’
‘No. Nothing at all.’
‘Good.’
Benny stroked his skull and seemed to be in thought. Rafi opened his mouth to speak but Benny raised his hand to silence him. ‘You know, Petra,’ Benny said. ‘I think it’s much more important that you monitor the girl’s moods than risk breaking your cover by trying to follow her around. We worked very hard to get you into the school and it is a unique position. It would be too bad if you upset this... Deanna, is it?... and we have no one on the inside.’
‘There is that. Deanna does walk up and down outside the class,’ Petra said.
‘We’ll put our heads together and work out some better surveillance,’ Benny said. ‘Don’t worry. Meanwhile, Rafi can drive you back to the school – he’s not busy. If you’ve got time he can take you out for dinner.’
An hour later, Rafi and Petra were sitting opposite each other in a country pub. It was a random choice; the first pub they passed at 7pm. In the car Petra had continued to ruminate about Sahar. She was aware that she had deflected Benny’s question about liking Sahar but wasn’t sure why. It was a standard operational inquiry; it was hard to work an agent if you despised them, only the sociopaths in the organisation could do it. You had to have some empathy to engage with a target. Of course she liked Sahar.
That was all there was to it.
‘Where’s Sahar’s brother?’ Petra said scoping the chalked board of specials, the horse and hound prints on the wall, and the bar of reclaimed wood with a shiny copper top.
‘What?’ Across the table Rafi was focusing on the menu.
‘The brother? The reason I’m at the school. Why did Benny say we should take our time getting back to the school.’
‘Because we know where the girl’s brother is at the moment. And he’s quite safe,’ Rafi said. ‘Needless to say, you’re not supposed to know that; we want you at the school until all the ends are tied up because Benny is a neurotic.’
‘The English expression is belt and braces. Double security.’
‘Neurotic is more accurate,’ Rafi said still reading the menu. ‘What’s goujons?’ He pronounced it wrongly: ‘Gowjons’.
She didn’t bother to correct him. She didn’t look up. ‘Fried fish in breadcrumbs.’
‘Is it good?’ he said.
‘No idea, I’m not the chef.’ She looked up and indicated the busy room, the full tables and the bustle of people in the real world. ‘Judging by the number of people in here, I’d guess they’re good enough.’
‘Then that�
�s what I’ll have,’ Rafi said. ‘How about you?’
‘I’ll have the same, and a large glass of white wine.’
The waitress brought their food and Petra toyed with the battered fish.
Rafi said, ‘You seem distracted.’
‘A little. Tell me about Benny,’ she said.
‘What about him?’ Rafi was eating his goujons and limp salad with gusto.
‘Anything. I’m curious. He’s the lead in the operation, isn’t he? What’s he like to work for?’
Rafi paused, fork in the air. ‘Benny is... let’s just say Benny is one of a kind. Unique. Special.’
‘Sounds like you don’t like him,’ Petra said.
‘It’s more the other way around. He doesn’t like me.’
‘Why?’
‘Ask him. No don’t. He would deny it.’ Rafi drank some of his lime and soda and went on, ‘You see Benny is sophisticated. He wouldn’t have to ask you to explain things on the menu. He would know. He would make it, he would know the chef, he would ask where the goujon came from. Me, I’m from a moshav, a farming community. But Benny was educated in Europe and America. His father was a big deal in the foreign service and his uncle died in a military operation that changed the course of the war in 1967. So you see as far as Benny is concerned, he is something very special.’
‘Are you envious?’ Petra said.
‘Me? No, of course not. I’m just trying to explain to you. This is how it is. You go to the art gallery for some opening in Tel Aviv – you see Benny and his wife. You go to an avant-garde film by a new Israeli director, guess who’s there? The Israeli Philharmonic at Caesaria; a restaurant opening; a charity evening at the Dan. Petra, you know the expression mi va mi?’
‘Who’s who?’
‘Yeah – that’s where you’ll find him and his wife. With all the big assholes. Now me, I’m different. I like to be at home: on the beach, hummus, some olives, a beer. I’m a simple man just trying to do my job to the best of my ability. And Benny doesn’t think I’m good enough to do it.’