The Righteous Spy

by Merle Nygate

  ‘I’m okay, Benny, I’ll survive, I’m a survivor. Like you. Like the Jews. You know she asked, Carole asked why you, your people, why the Jews? I never had the chance to tell her... to tell her about Mrs Stein. I betrayed her, I betrayed Carole more than anyone else.’

  Tears were in his eyes and they were trickling down his crinkled cheeks. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘What you needed to do, that’s all any of us do. You did what you felt was right.’

  ‘Is that what you do?’

  ‘Yes, I do what I think is right. Listen Derek, I’ve got to go, it’s nearly 4am and it’s getting light. You have to get a couple of hours sleep before you go to work.’ Eli took a step towards the door. ‘I have to go Derek. But I’m not going to be far away.’

  ‘You’ll watch over me?’ the agent said.

  ‘Yes, I will watch over you.’

  47

  All Saints Road, Cheltenham – Early Next Morning

  For the remainder of the night Eli and Rafi sat outside the house. At 7.30, they saw the curtains downstairs open and seven minutes later an unmarked minibus stopped outside the house to pick up Derek. From where they were sitting, a hundred metres down the road with the car facing in the opposite direction, Red Cap looked haggard. But judging by the bits of toilet paper stuck to his face, he’d made some attempt at shaving and he was wearing a different shirt from the one he’d worn the day before.

  Only when the minibus had disappeared did Eli and Rafi start the drive back to London and the inevitable fallout from the night before. Orders from Yuval were to go straight to the embassy; there was no chance to go back to the serviced apartment to shower and shave: Yuval was waiting.

  The tray of fresh coffee and platter of bagels on the table in the meeting room did not disguise Yuval’s mood. He was sitting in front of a laptop frowning at the screen when the door swung open. He pushed the computer away and looked them up and down with clear disdain.

  ‘At least you made good time,’ Yuval said. ’The situation is like this – I’ve told HQ that Eli went to the meeting without the surveillance team because they’d been spotted by Red Cap. That’s not going to make us popular with the watchers but it was the best explanation as to why you ended up in a fight in a pub.’

  ‘But it’s true,’ Eli said.

  ‘That’s not the point.’ Yuval held his thumb and forefinger together. ‘We are this close from having Sweetbait closed down because of Red Cap; the ambassador heard about yesterday’s scene in the visa section and he’s furious. He is trying to get us sent home.’

  Eli shrugged. His argument that Red Cap was unpredictable and should have been let go seemed to have been forgotten. Eli had too strong a sense of survival to remind Yuval. Maybe that’s what Red Cap had meant when he talked about admiring the Jews with their ever-ready escape plans, passports and diamonds sewn into the lining of the clothes. Always ready to run – or always ready to strike back. Always alert. Always insecure. Survive, survive, whatever the cost.

  ‘Eli? Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course, I’m listening. I’m thinking about what to do about Red Cap. We have limited options,’ Eli said. ‘But at least I got the suicide letter.’

  ‘That’s about the only good news there is,’ Yuval said. ‘How did you leave him?’

  ‘Drunk, depressed.’ Eli said.

  ‘So, no change there,’ Rafi had helped himself to a bagel and was eating it.

  ‘Don’t be cute,’ Yuval growled. ‘We need to make sure that Red Cap doesn’t create any more upsets that might excite the attention of MI5. We don’t want to get sent home. We are nine days away from zero hour on Sweetbait and we cannot afford any more problems.’

  ‘There’s one way of making sure there are no problems,’ Rafi said with a full mouth. ‘It’s guaranteed. And since Sweetbait is the operation with the most important long-term benefits it could be deemed necessary. Yuval, if you give me a mandate, I’ll work on a plan that would bring the risk levels within acceptable parameters –’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Eli said. He turned to Yuval. ‘Say something for God’s sake. Or call security and get them to take Rafi away. What are you talking about?’

  ‘Calm down, take a bath, Eli, this is an open forum, so let’s not throw out ideas until we have better ones,’ Yuval said. ‘Rafi is extreme but he’s approaching the problem logically. Besides the issues of legality, there is an argument that some action is necessary. Whether Rafi’s suggestion is in proportion to the problem is one thing and also whether we can think of some other operational tactic.’

  ‘Why don’t we just take him on vacation for a few weeks?’ Eli said. ‘He must be owed some leave; if not, his wife just died, they couldn’t begrudge him a holiday. We could take him to Cyprus, luxury hotel, buy some company for him; get him out the way until after we finish Sweetbait.’

  ‘Except we never solved the problem of whether or not he’s being watched by someone else or whether he’s just a drunk paranoid,’ Rafi said.

  ‘And a convenient car crash isn’t going to raise any awkward questions?’ Eli said.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be a car crash,’ Rafi said with the voice of someone considering a list of options.

  ‘Assassinations are sanctioned and they have been ever since the Olympics disaster,’ Eli said.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really understand? It doesn’t matter what method you come up with to kill Red Cap – it would be disproportionate and illegal. So whatever you may think of our prime minister, he’s never going to sign off on that,’ Eli said.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Rafi said.

  ‘What’s more it would be immoral and unethical but, of course, these concepts are completely alien to you, aren’t they, Rafi? You have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I’m starting to think you’re the one who needs the vacation,’ Yuval said. ‘Red Cap is a tool; we do what is right for Mossad and Israel – don’t forget it.’

  ‘Okay, if we’re not going to take him on holiday, we break all contact, close down the emergency contact lines, and we disappear. Red Cap goes back to work, keeps his nose clean, everybody’s happy.’

  ‘That’s the whole problem,’ Rafi said. ‘Red Cap doesn’t keep his nose clean.’

  Eli forced himself to sound relaxed. Reaching for the thermos jug he poured some coffee into a cup, ‘When all’s said and done, Red Cap is a pro. When he sees the fallout from Sweetbait he’ll get it immediately. He’ll know why he has to keep his head down. And who knows, maybe down the line, we might even be able to make contact with him again.’

  ‘What and go and have a cup of tea with him?’ Rafi said. ‘See the cricket and talk tweed jackets and draught beer. You live in a movie, Eli. This is the real world; he’s an agent, a tool, an object. He’s jeopardising the most important operation in the last five years and he’s outlived his usefulness. You talk about me being irresponsible. If Red Cap kicks off again it will be on you. You don’t take risks like that; it’s irresponsible.’

  ‘Me, irresponsible? I didn’t break in to the teacher’s house –’

  Yuval interrupted, ‘Eli, this is not taking us any further towards a decision about Red Cap and we’re out of time. He’s your agent, you know him better than anyone, he trusts you. How likely is it that he will create another problem?’

  Rafi rolled his eyes, an expression that wasn’t missed by Yuval who scowled at him.

  ‘Well, Eli?’ Yuval closed the laptop on the desk. ‘There’s risk in everything we do. What’s the risk to Sweetbait, if we follow your suggestion and simply break all contact with Red Cap?’

  ‘Ten percent,’ Eli said. ‘Fifteen maximum.’

  ‘Then that’s good enough for me.’ Yuval glanced at his watch. ‘Now, I’ve got to get to City Airport to sort out the mess in Paris. I’ll see you two in a day or two.’ Yuval pointed to the bagels on the table. ‘Get this mess cleared up otherwise we’ll have
housekeeping on our backs.’ Yuval stalked out of the room.

  ‘You want one?’ Eli said pointing at the platter.

  ‘I’ve had enough. Smoked foods are full of carcinogens.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll take the platter down to visa section. I’m sure Sara will know what to do with the cancer food.’ Eli started to gather up the used paper plates and put them in the bin. ‘It’s not personal,’ Eli said.

  ‘Of course it is, it’s entirely personal. You don’t like me, you think you’re better than me but what you don’t understand is that I’m the one who is going to help you.’

  ‘Really,’ Eli said. ‘And how do you work that one out?’

  ‘Because you’re making a big mistake with Red Cap and I’m going to have to get you out of trouble... again.’

  Part 4 – THE DEATH

  Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.

  Socrates

  Death is the solution to all problems. No man – no problem.

  Joseph Stalin

  See, I have set before you this day life and good, death and evil... I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse; therefore choose life.

  Moses

  48

  Watlingford Public School, Oxfordshire, Classroom, The Next Day

  My dearest brother,

  I’m sitting in my English lesson thinking of you. We’re supposed to be writing sentences with Sometimes, Often, Always. I’ve done mine.

  Ever since I saw you last week I’ve been thinking about you, what you said, how you looked and how we parted. I know it wasn’t easy for you.

  I’m really pleased you liked the coin; keep it safe.

  There were a lot of things I wanted to tell you and when we were there, in that room, and with so little time, I forgot. Among them was wanting to tell you how I remember when you were born. How excited I was; everybody was. I was ten, the oldest, and you were the first boy in our family. Dearest Wasim, you were such a prize, a treasure.

  You won’t remember – how could you – but Mawmia was ill after you were born. It was winter, wet and cold. The house was draughty even though we stuck newspaper in the window cracks and covered the cold floor tiles with sacking. Mawmia had bronchitis and pneumonia so she didn’t have the strength to feed you. That became my duty and my joy.

  I don’t remember where our father was. Maybe that was the time he left us for good – all I remember was you. Our aunts came by every day with food and advice but when they went home it was my job to feed you and put you down at night. Poor Mawmia would be sleeping, fretful from the illness and I could pretend that you were mine, my own little boy. I loved you so much brother; I still do.

  When I think of you and what you have achieved I’m crazy with pride for you. It makes my heart grow so large I feel it in my throat. You make light of it but I know just how hard you studied to win your place at the university in America. Uncle Fahed may have helped with your fees but he couldn’t help you get the grades you needed – you did that. Night after night, when the other kids from your school were outside kicking a ball around in the dirt, playing their games, you were inside at our table doing your homework. Making sure there were no mistakes and there would be another A+ in your notebook. That’s what gave you joy and me pride.

  There was one year of particularly bad power cuts. I remember the candlelight on your face, how it glowed; how your mouth moved when you wrote and how you stuck your tongue out and it followed your hand across the page. We’d sit at the table together. You and me. I’d be working on my nursing studies and you would be doing homework. Everyone else was out visiting and it was just us, you and me, at the table studying.

  Wasim, I’m truly sorry if you’re upset about my decision to be shaheeda. Before I saw you in that room in London I knew it would be difficult and I was prepared for your arguments but not for your pain. I see that room now, as I write. I see the narrow stairs at the end of a carpeted passage. An empty doctor’s room, just a desk and two chairs, more suited for a medical consultation than our last meeting place.

  ‘Why?’ you said. ‘You were never devout when we were young. You liked movies. You had ambition, self-belief; you taught me that – you said to be proud of what I’ve got and to use it the best way I can.’

  ‘It’s my life, little brother, and I choose to use it as a weapon to free our people.’

  ‘Sahar, it will make no difference, all you’re doing is breaking my heart.’

  You cried then little brother and I hugged you; I felt your tears on my cheek; I tried not to cry myself.

  ‘Listen to me,’ I said. ‘I have no life without a husband and children. I’m our mother’s carer and that will end one day; then I will have nothing.’

  ‘You can live with me in America. I’ll finish my studies, be an engineer or an academic. I’m good enough, sister.’

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘I’ll look after you,’ you said.

  ‘Would you deny me my chance to be a martyr?’

  ‘Do you believe that? Do you believe you go to Jennah or maybe there is just nothing?’

  ‘I believe Abu Marwan, he is wise, he knows this world and he knows the next. Don’t forget he saved you from being arrested, didn’t he? Brother, I have been chosen, I can be special – I can make a difference.’

  And then little brother, you became angry. You turned from me and paced around the room, running your hands through your hair.

  ‘I insist that you obey me,’ you said. ‘I’m the head of the family, your guardian and I forbid you to be shaheeda. Understand me, Sahar, you will go home from here and care for our mother.’

  You also said many other things. Hurtful things. I won’t write them down because I know you would want to forget them; it would make you sad if you remembered how cruel you were.

  Dearest Wasim, I forgive you for what you said because always you were like that. When you were a little boy I remember you kicking the leg of the table in our kitchen, kicking it out of frustration, kicking it until you hurt your foot. But you never hurt the table, only yourself. I am the table, Wasim. I stand fixed, steady, scratched but unmoved. When we met and you were angry I did then what I did when you were a child; I sat quietly, my hands in my lap and I waited for you to finish.

  At last you did.

  I said, ‘You will go back to America, to university where you will complete your studies and do the best you can. Mawmia will be fine; she will receive a pension because I am shaheeda and also help from the community. She will like that – you know she will. And you, you Wasim Nadir, will be brave and you will know that you are loved by me, for eternity.’

  49

  Watlingford Public School, Oxfordshire – At The Same Time

  ‘Sometimes; Often; and Always. All describe the passage of time,’ Petra said. She was standing in front of the whiteboard holding the blue marker with the words she’d printed behind her. She could smell the tang of the whiteboard pen; the special scent of ‘school’. In front of her the students’ faces gazed up. There was Sergei with a dark shadow on his upper lip that looked like dirt. As usual, Aneeta was next to him; today she’d tied up her wild curls exposing her neck where there was an angry love bite. Next to the Spanish girl, there was her friend: Sahar, head down, diligently copying the words into her notebook, her mouth working with concentration.

  It had been two days since Petra had driven Sahar to London and back and Petra had been busy. Taking matters into her own hands was not something to be done lightly but given that she’d certainly seen Sahar with Benny in Bath and Rafi had tried to convince her otherwise, Petra felt she had little choice. The final straw was realising that a meeting had been arranged between Sahar and her so-called dangerous brother. Petra was now surer than ever that it was Sahar who was in danger and that she, Petra, was the naive girl’s only hope of safe passage out of the maze. But now she had a plan; she was going to get something that she could barter for Sahar’s safety.

  Turning back to t
he board Petra pointed to the first word: Sometimes.

  ‘Sometimes, when you have a problem the very best thing you can do is to find someone you trust and talk about it,’ Petra said. ‘Did everyone understand that?’

  There were nods. Mfoniso scribbled in his notebook with industry.

  ‘In that case, would anyone like to try to construct a sentence with Sometimes? Li?’ The Chinese girl shook her head. ‘Okay, how about Aneeta? No? Sahar can you construct a sentence with Sometimes?’

  ‘Sometimes I am happy,’ Sahar said. ‘Sometimes I am sad. But always I like to be here.’

  Led by Aneeta the class erupted into applause.

  ‘That was very good,’ Petra said. ‘Sahar has raised the bar, given us a good example, and now I’m going to give you all the chance to write sentences using Sometimes, Often and Always. Okay? You have ten minutes.’

  Petra noted the time on her watch and took a sip from the water bottle on the desk. The classroom became silent. There was just the scratching of pen against paper. A few of the students were sucking the ends of their writing instruments or looking around vacantly for inspiration. Petra ignored them and stared out of the window at the quad. The weather had turned oppressively hot; it felt as if the bricks of the old building sucked up the heat during the day and then radiated it into the rooms to suffocate her.

  Turning away from the window and the students, Petra looked up at the whiteboard: Sometimes. Always. Often.

  Besides her frustration about getting Sahar to confide in her, Petra had been musing about the past. All her memories of the time with Rafi were blurred; the chronology jumbled into a kaleidoscope of images and sound. Flights all over Europe; departure gates; loading laundry into the washing machine and dryer before repacking and lulling herself to sleep in run-down city hotels by reciting her cover names. Exhausted she’d come back to London and have a coffee with Alon and he’d remind her why she was working round the clock: she was a Jew; she was making a difference; she was keeping people safe. And she was doing something that would have made her father proud. Somewhere between the work grind and the pep talks there were a few high-octane moments with Rafi but it was mostly relentless work.