The Protocols of Spying, page 11
By contrast the camera on the door was high-tech.
Rafi let her in and Petra climbed the stairs to the second-floor flat, where he was waiting on the landing, the door to the apartment open behind him. When she reached him, Petra had the satisfaction of seeing Rafi do a double-take at her new outfit. She was now wearing a long skirt, a blouse with a tie bow and a jacket, all of which she’d chosen to be shapeless. To be modest. Only her dark hair didn’t quite fit the look but she’d tried to tie it back in a scrunchy.
‘What’s with the clothes?’ Rafi said softly.
‘I felt like a change,’ Petra smiled. ‘What do you think?’
In answer Rafi shook his head.
She stalked past him into the shabby sitting room, where she found a small man with grizzled grey hair and a beard. He was sitting on the sofa, hunched over a coffee table, looking at a laptop screen. At her entrance, Motti sprang up, came towards her, all twinkling blue eyes with a sweet smile on his face.
‘Petra, I’m Motti, very happy, and very honoured to meet you,’ he said. ‘What would you like to drink? We have tea, we have coffee. Whatever you like, we have it.’
‘May I have a glass of orange juice?’ Petra kept her eyes down in what she hoped would be seen as a demeanour that was modest. ‘That would be very kind of you. Thank you.’
‘Good choice. I’ll have the same. I’ll be right back,’ Motti disappeared into the kitchen.
‘I won’t stay,’ Rafi said. ‘Unless you want me to.’
‘No, I’m good. You run along.’
By then Motti was back in the room, balancing a tray of glasses overfilled with orange juice, which he placed on the table with exaggerated care. Then he sat himself down, right opposite Petra, and fixed her with a gimlet stare, as if she was a specimen in a display case in a museum.
After gulping back his juice, Rafi sprang up and said he would leave Petra in what he said were Motti’s capable hands. As soon as Rafi had closed the door, Motti sprang up and started gathering the empty orange glasses onto the tray.
‘That Rafi, what a guy. Always running to his next meeting. How about some coffee now?’
‘Let me make it?’ Petra looked up. ‘There’s no reason for you to be making me coffee.’
‘No, no, no, it’s a well-known fact that I make the best coffee in the Office and,’ he paused, twinkling his eyes, ‘I also have a small treat.’
‘Are you sure?’ Petra said. She widened her eyes as if in anticipation.
‘More than sure.’
Petra relaxed back on the mildewed sofa and waited for Motti to return. Ever since Rafi had told her that he and Eli wanted to find out about a right-wing operation that Motti was involved in, she’d been thinking; it would be a feather in her cap if she could find out what it was. It would demonstrate her agent-running skills. What’s more, she’d enjoy gaming one of the people she disliked.
Motti came back with two coffees steaming in their glass cups and an empty white plate. Once again, he laid the tray down on the scratched table and then in a swift movement, he dived into the ‘bag for life’ that he’d left at his feet. Out came a cardboard box that he opened with the same reverence he’d used for placing the tray and showed it to Petra so that she might peer in.
It was a box of biscuits.
‘Is that…? Petra said.
‘Rugelach.’
‘Oh, my goodness, I haven’t had one of those for so many years. My Papa used to buy them as a treat at Rosh Hashana. May I…?’
‘Of course. We are blessed to enjoy varieties of nourishment.’
The biscuits were good. Petra didn’t have to fake pleasure as she nibbled at a miniature stuffed pastry and was urged by Motti to eat on. The fact that she’d never seen a biscuit like it in her life was irrelevant. It was working, even though in reality, her father favoured Mars bars and hid them at the back of the fridge.
Motti turned to work and asked Petra how she felt about what she was doing and the plan to manipulate Silver Dove. It was a bald question, a trick question, she thought. He’d no doubt read her file and was looking for ways to trip her up.
‘You know, Motti, I’ve been looking forward to this meeting more than any other aspect of the preparation,’ Petra said. ‘I’ll tell you why. I think law and ethics is the most important part of what Jews do and how we live. I’ve even been reading about Halakha.’
‘Halakha?,’ Motti said. ‘You surprise me, young lady. Do you know what the word means?’
‘The law?’ Petra said.
He’d asked her the question as if she was a seven-year-old child who needed to recount her daily lessons. She let him explain. He did.
‘Its literal meaning is “the way to behave” from “halakh”, which means “to walk or to go”. In other words, it’s the way to behave through our lives. But tell me, Petra, why are you reading about Halakha?’
Petra sighed before she spoke. ‘In truth, I’d rather not talk about it until I know you better.’ She dropped her gaze and looked down at the hands folded in her lap. ‘I hope that doesn’t offend you.’
For some moments there was silence in the room, only the tumult of the outside world, the trains, the planes, the police sirens and the traffic beyond the walls of the faded flat, speckled with black mould in the corners.
‘I’m not offended,’ Motti said. ‘When it is time, we will speak but only if you want to. For now, I can explain to you some of the basic precepts of the organisation and how it relates to the law, both Halakha, civil and also international law.’
Petra looked up, anguish on her face. She blurted out, ‘The truth is I’ve been reading about Halakha law, trying to find answers. Ever since October 7, I’ve been sad and desperately confused. Why did it happen? Why does it always happen? What did we ever do that’s so bad that people want to keep killing us?’
‘Big questions, Petra. If you’re reading about Halakha, then you know how important it is that we fight to keep Israel safe, which is what we’re trying to do.’
‘I do, and that does make me feel less confused. I feel like I’m doing something and whatever I may be, I am a Jew.’
Motti leaned back into his armchair and nodded as if he was satisfied in some way. ‘You know, there are many people now feeling the way you do. Confused. Lost. Searching. Some say we underestimated our enemies and we took our battles against Muslim countries too casually. But perhaps the bigger battle we fight is against ourselves.’
Petra nodded. ‘That’s true, aren’t we all our own worst enemies? But my question is, what about the other enemies? Will people ever stop trying to kill Jews?’
‘Such a question, Petra – how can I answer you?’ Motti shook his head. ‘Only maybe from another’s wisdom. Not mine. You know there are 613 mitzvot, or commandments, in the Halakha. Six hundred and thirteen ways to behave so that we can live in peace. But, for the moment, many of these commandments can’t be carried out. Some say it’s as many as forty per cent.’
‘Why? I don’t understand.’
Motti sighed. ‘The belief among many people is that when Jews return to Israel and the Temple in Jerusalem is rebuilt – then it will be possible to carry out all the commandments. And then there will be peace.’
‘I see… I think,’ Petra said. ‘But if we have enemies, and we certainly do, what about our friends? However many people hate Jews, we do have friends. There are countries that try to help us, aren’t there, like America?’
‘Yes, there are, but we also have to help them. Or help the people in those countries to have power so that they can continue to help us.’
‘What do you mean?’ Petra stood up and walked around the room as if the pacing might help her to think through these new ideas. ‘Motti, please, explain to me what you mean. Is this something we can actually do to change the future, to stop this terrible cycle of hatred and destruction against our people?’
‘Petra… I’m going to tell you something. I’m telling you so that you know that we are working for the future good… to make sure that we have what we need to fight our enemies. Okay?’
‘Will it change the future? Will it keep us safe?’
‘Yes, that’s why I’m telling you. It’s secret – you mustn’t tell Rafi, even if he asks you what we talked about.’
‘You can trust me, Motti,’ Petra said.
‘So there is a particular operation that I am involved in. We are going to do a mitzvah – a favour, if you like – for someone who is connected to the American candidate who would be best for Israel’s future.’
‘You mean Trump, of course. But what favour can we possibly do? It’s not as if we can interfere with an election, after 2016 and the Russians, there’s all sorts of checks and double checks.’
There was silence in the room. Petra could tell from the man’s expression that he was bursting to tell her about this plan. It was almost leaking out of him but not quite. Finally, he said, ‘There’s a quote from the Babylonian Talmud,’ Motti said. ‘“If someone comes to kill you, rise up and kill him first.” That’s all I can say, except that it will make a difference, I promise you.’
‘Motti, I don’t understand exactly what you mean, but this is the best I’ve felt since October 7. We have to win this war, don’t we? Whatever the cost.’
‘Yes, we do. That’s why the work we are doing is so important.’
‘I will pray for that every day and every night.’
Chapter 19
To Eli’s chagrin, Yuval didn’t want to know.
As soon as Rafi had relayed the report from Petra, he’d booked the meeting with what he still considered to be his boss, even though Yuval was at Rome Airport, waiting for a connecting flight to Cairo. The conference call lasted less than ninety seconds and, beyond Yuval saying in reference to Harel, ‘Nothing that man would do surprises me’, he made it clear to Eli that he was on his own and as head of London Station it was up to him to sort it out any way he could.
‘You can’t come running to me, Eli. There’s too much going on. We are fighting with the Prime Minister’s office over these negotiations and every day that passes more people are dying.’
‘They’re planning a targeted killing to curry favour with Driver,’ Eli said, using the code word for the 45th president. ‘Isn’t that enough of a priority?’
‘Not now. Not without more evidence. If this has been authorised by the Prime Minister’s office and they’ve got a signed red page, then there’s really nothing we can do. I have to go.’
The screen went black.
Eli leaned back in his chair and massaged his temples. When he stopped, he looked over at Rafi, who was sitting on the armchair by the window with his laptop open.
‘Ideas?’ Eli said.
‘You heard the guy.’ Rafi was massaging his beard with the heel of his hand. ‘If they’ve got a red page, then that’s it.’
‘No, it damn well isn’t,’ Eli said. ‘At the very least, if they’ve got a Kidon unit in London, we need to know what and where it is. If anything, in the interests of security and if it does go wrong, who’s going to get sent back home on the shame plane. It’ll be us, that’s for sure.’
‘We can hardly kidnap Nathan and beat the name of the target out of him, can we?’
‘Appealing though that idea is, no,’ Eli said. ‘According to Nathan, Harel will be here in two days to progress the operation. Nathan had the audacity to tell me to talk to him.’
‘He must be pretty confident that he’s on the winning side, despite being so stupid as to tell Petra, just because she pretended to have found God.’
‘Yes, I wonder how he’s going to explain that lapse of operational security.’ Eli took a deep breath; there were upsides to the situation. ‘Plusim, it demonstrates just how skilled Petra is. Harel’s not going to be able to argue with that. I just need to work out a way of getting all the facts about this operation.’
‘What are you doing now? Do you want to come to our place for dinner?’
‘No, thanks. I’m going to work out a plan.’
That evening it came to Eli, if not in a blinding flash, certainly in a neat equation of simplicity and logic. Having eschewed the offer to go back to Rafi’s place for another badly cooked meal, Eli sat at his kitchen table with a glass of Pinot Noir and a half-decent Fettucine Alfredo he’d made for himself. In the middle of the table his laptop lay open and, while he forked in the cream and cheese sauce, he reread Petra’s report about the meeting with Nathan. And there it was, encapsulated in one word: law. Eli could hardly wait to finish what he was eating before he pulled the laptop towards him and dived into the documents he’d signed when he took over as head of London Station. He found the job description. It was unequivocal. By law he had to be apprised of all operations in his geographical area. It had been set up so that that there was some control over the cowboys that somehow wormed their way into the organisation. Even if there was a red page, the head of station still had to be kept informed of the details.
Eli sipped at the wine and sighed with deep satisfaction. Let Harel try to talk his way out of that.
Of course he did.
The following morning Eli met Harel in the unit meeting room on the third floor. It was a deliberate choice. For one thing, with its monitors and mostly monochrome interior, the space was more formal than his office and Eli wanted to try to exert some authority over Harel as head of London Station. There was also a more personal objection; Eli didn’t want Harel touching his books and leaving behind his contrail of duty-free cologne.
Across the rosewood table, Harel’s body language was a sonnet of arrogance; he leaned back in the chair, one leg crossed over the knee of the other, with his hands folded behind his head.
‘I don’t have a lot of time, Eli,’ Harel said, ‘but I understand from Nathan here that you want some details about Operation Phuket.’
‘You can start with showing me the red-page authorisation for the operation,’ Eli said.
‘If you insist. Nathan, forward to Eli.’
Nathan was at Harel’s elbow, for all the world like a courtier at the emperor’s court. He had his own laptop in front of him and, within seconds, the document was in Eli’s box.
‘Happy now?’ Harel said as he straightened and prepared to leave.
‘Just wait,’ Eli said. ‘Exactly who is this guy, this target? Is he some sort of terrorist?’
‘Depends on your point of view,’ Harel said. ‘An incoming administration might consider him to be a communist. Anyway, you don’t need to know all the details. You’ve seen the red-page authorisation.’
‘And that’s exactly where you’re wrong.’ Eli pressed the send button on his own laptop. ‘If I may refer you to the document that’s now in your box, you will see, part three, clause seven, second paragraph. I highlighted it, Harel, so it’ll be easier for you to read.’
Harel wasn’t reading, he was just glaring at Eli from behind his aviator tinted glasses. By contrast, Nathan was reading. He was scrolling down the pages and his mouth moved as he read the words. He might almost have been davening, appealing to the Almighty, but for sure, this wasn’t a prayer that would be answered.
Eli went on, ‘You will see that since this operation is taking place in the region of my station, you are obligated by law, not just to show me the red page as proof that it has been appropriately authorised, but also to give me all the operational information that I request. Thank you, Harel. I am waiting.’
Harel shook his head, the smile still on his face, the smile that Eli wanted to punch to the back of the man’s throat. ‘I really don’t have time for this.’ Harel glanced down at his Omega watch as if to confirm what he’d said. ‘No, I absolutely, do not have time for this. I’m meeting the American liaison for this operation in forty minutes.’
‘Who is this American liaison? Where are you meeting him? What protocols are in place for the security of this meeting?’
‘Eli,’ Harel said. ‘Can you please do your pathetic jobsworth crap some other time? And not when I’m on my way to a meeting with someone so important to our future.’
‘Who is this American liaison? I demand to know.’
‘Okay, if it makes you happy and stops you having a heart attack, his name is Grant D Miller. He is close to Driver, the man we hope will be the next leader of the free world; he currently lives in Thailand, for lots of reasons, so London is a convenient place for us to meet. He’s impressive. If I didn’t think you would be an embarrassment, I’d take you with me to the meeting.’
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Eli said.
‘Is that my fault? Get your people on to him and you’ll see exactly how influential Miller is. He’s advised us that it would be beneficial for our future arms supply if there is a termination operation against a specific individual.’
‘You mean Driver told Miller in a “Who will rid me of this troublesome priest?” kind of way?’ Eli said. ‘That didn’t work out well, did it?’
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Becket. Look it up,’ Eli said. ‘Let me be clear then, make it easier for you to understand. Are you telling me that Driver phoned Bibi and asked him to authorise a termination operation?’
‘No, I’m not. Driver’s much too shrewd to do that. He learnt from the fall-out from his various phone calls that got leaked and ended up in the courts. That’s why he’s using Miller as an intermediary. We have masses of corroborating evidence that this is what Driver wants and what we get in return.’
‘If we target a specific individual? What specific individual?’ Eli said.
Harel sighed as if impatient to be dealing with Eli. ‘His full name is James Michael Loxlee but he’s known as Jimbob, he is both a law professor and a podcaster, he’s an ex-US marine and was a deputy communications director in the Trump administration.’
