The Protocols of Spying, page 12
‘So what? How did this guy get to the top of the enemy list?’
‘He wrote a book about the legitimacy of the 2016 election, another book about the Trump administration and payouts; he claims to have evidence about Putin and Trump’s financial dealings. He’s also closely connected to the Thomas Jefferson Project.’
‘I still don’t get it even if I have heard of the Thomas Jefferson Project. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone in the Trump administration who didn’t write a tell-all book. It’s a whole industry. Why this guy?’
‘He’s a comedian, really funny. You should see what he does with the Trump dance. He has twelve million subscribers, and he tells people how the system works and who to vote for.’
Eli had got up from his desk and was standing in the middle of the office. He felt, rather than saw, Rafi at his elbow and sensed that Rafi was going to stop him if he launched himself at Harel. ‘Are you telling me that we are going to target someone that isn’t a terrorist but who just happens to disagree with a possible incoming American administration and may have some dirt on it? Harel, we can’t do that. You must know we can’t.’
‘Do I have to remind you that the Mossad implements government policy. It does not set it. Government policy is to secure the flow of arms from the US – regardless of who wins the upcoming election.’
Before Eli had the chance to say anything else, Harel had left the room with Nathan trotting behind him, his laptop still open as he sought to catch up.
‘Get Urit up here,’ Eli said to Rafi. ‘Get Urit and also Segev, I want to see them within the next ten minutes. I want to know who this Grant D Miller is.
Chapter 20
The library at Imperial College was anodyne, an expanse of long white tables, where students could park themselves and create barriers with laptops and sealed water bottles. Here and there an attempt had been made to soften the clinical lines with banks of ferns and orange space separators but, as Petra sat at her own territory of desk-space with her laptop and water bottle, she reckoned you couldn’t mistake a university library for anything else. There was a buzz of concentration that was almost electric.
After some discussion with Rafi, she was kitted out in a knee-length tartan skirt, a white shirt and a cable-knit cardigan. Tan knee boots completed the outfit. She was supposed to look British establishment but, in this sub-royal-family get-up, she felt fake. As if she was dressed up in her mother’s clothes and was pretending to be a grown-up. It wasn’t that it was a skirt – she’d worn one of those before in different operations – it was the county look.
Better get over it, Petra thought, and focused her attention on her surroundings.
Around her, students hunched over screens and there was hardly any conversation between them. Perhaps she was being fanciful but they were like brain islands on a sea of knowledge with the information waves lapping in as the tides changed. Yes, Petra concluded, looking at the screen in front of her where she had a prop document, she was being fanciful, but then she had been in that library for four days – at different spots in the library, admittedly – but the boredom of waiting was getting to her. Her only breaks had been when she either went to get a sandwich or went to the loo.
During those four days she’d caught glimpses of Wasim and she’d even felt his eyes on her when she’d been eating a bowl of soup in the cafe. She’d glanced at him, and then went back to her meal, eyes down on the minestrone and sourdough roll, not looking up again. No more eye contact, despite the sensation that her pulse had quickened because he’d noticed her. Why? Because Petra was unequivocal about how the operation, her operation, would proceed. Wasim had to approach her, it would not be the other way round.
Experience was guiding her.
Years ago, when she was working with Alon, Petra had made contact with a junior diplomat at the Pakistani Embassy. It was in the cafe at the YMCA in Tottenham Court Road where the guy swam five times a week. The problem was that he didn’t always go to the cafe and, worse, he swam at different times of day depending on his schedule. Petra had sat in that cafe for ten days without a sighting; consequently, when he did show up, she’d rushed it. It was embarrassing to remember. She’d approached the diplomat and asked a question about the swimming facilities. It was the type of question that ought to have been answered by the people at the front desk and Petra had known it. It also sounded like a feeble pick-up line, which, in the larger sense, was what it was.
The result was that the contact was aborted and Alon had given her a bollocking for being lazy. ‘You wasted the contact, you were impatient and too obvious. By approaching the target, you made the contact memorable and that’s the last thing in the world you should have done. It was clumsy. What made you do it, Petra?’
For Petra to have said that she was bored going to the cafe day after day and that there were other things she wanted to be doing wasn’t the right answer, even though it was true. But as she sat in front of her library desk in the Imperial College Library, trying to understand articles in the journals that were supposed to be associated with her PhD thesis statement, Petra smiled a little to herself as she thought of Alon. In a funny way, this contact was for him. No matter how bored she was, how long it took, she was going to make damn sure that this contact was perfect.
Petra had also given the same attention to detail to her cover story. It had taken her a few days to consider the options and to come up with a proposal for Eli. Despite the handicap that she was operating under her own name because Wasim knew her as Petra, once Eli had agreed, the Office enhanced her online profile. If anybody googled her now, besides her journalism for Finance Times, she now had an MA in Education, a profile on LinkedIn and endorsements from people with whom she’d worked at various NGOs who were science educationalists. As such, her proposed PhD in the cross-disciplines of literacy in science in developing countries gave her the reason to be spending hours in Imperial College waiting for Wasim to be curious enough or brave enough to approach her.
She looked at her watch. The library was closing soon, so it wasn’t going to be today. Petra began to dismantle her citadel. Another day had come and gone in the fruitless task of turning the glimpses of Wasim into a contact. Too bad.
As Petra put on her coat and wrapped the scarf around her neck, she thought how much he’d changed since she’d met him. When he’d come to the UK from America to try to save his sister, he’d been barely more than an indulged teenager. Petra had seen how indulged he was in the pages of Sahar’s journal; there she’d described that, if thwarted, the child Wasim would kick the furniture until he hurt himself. In the years since, he’d soared into manhood. Although slim, he was above average height and carried himself with an air of assurance and self-possession that had been absent during his younger days.
Petra made her way out of the library, thinking about the evening ahead. These last four nights, after she’d completed what she started to think of as her shift in the library, Petra often read Sahar’s journal. What would Sahar have thought of the young man? Petra asked herself. She knew the answer. She’d have been so proud of her Wasim nadir, her favoured little brother, who’d wriggled in her arms like a puppy when they went on family outings to the sea.
Still thinking about Sahar, her dead voice whispering in her ear, Petra pressed the button to summon the lift. She was tired. It would have been nice to go home and share her day with someone who would understand. For a moment she thought about messaging Rafi. He’d certainly share her day but he was a long way from understanding her feelings about Sahar.
Eli?
The lift arrived with a judder, the doors opened and Petra stepped in. There was a middle-aged woman already in there. She looked like Petra felt, tired and gearing herself up for the commute home. The lift doors started to close. They were nearly shut when Petra looked up at the sound of pounding feet. By instinct she reached for the button to hold the door. It slid open and Petra was face to face with Wasim.
‘Thank you,’ he said as he stepped into the lift. ‘You’re very kind.’
The lift doors closed.
He looked at Petra with intensity, scanning her features and frowning.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ Wasim said. ‘Forgive me for asking, but you look like someone I used to know.’
‘Me?’ Petra glanced at the other woman in the lift as if the young man might be talking to her.
‘Yes, ma’am. Your name wouldn’t be Petra, by any chance?’
Chapter 21
Instead of finding her way to Waterloo and the train back to Surrey, Petra had a drink with Wasim in the h-bar in the Sherfield Building. Wasim led the way into the space, where there were long trestle tables with beech chairs. It was utilitarian but the overhead lights were dimmer than in the library and, as she followed Wasim past the till, she saw that he exchanged a cheery wave with the woman who was working there. He led her to a table in the corner with the easy familiarity of someone who was comfortable in his surroundings.
‘Are you working here?’ Petra said.
‘Yeah, it’s not just for the beer, let me assure you. I just find the library a bit bleak. Please sit, what would you like to drink? I’ve been seeing you around the campus and I kept thinking it was you, but I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t want to look weird. But now that you’re here, at the very least, I must buy you a drink.’
‘I don’t know,’ Petra said with genuine hesitation. ‘Well, since we’re here, maybe a gin and tonic, but then I really do have to go,’ she added.
This was going too fast for her but, more seriously, Petra had lost the initiative. Wasim was driving the contact and it was important for her to reassert control even at this stage.
‘A quick drink,’ Petra said. ‘My shout and then I really do have to dash.’
‘Oh no, Rita won’t take your money, you’ll see…’ Wasim was already at the bar and ordering. Petra had no choice but to pull out one of the chairs and make herself comfortable while she waited for Wasim to return to the table. Maybe he hadn’t changed so much from the kid who liked to get his own way and would kick furniture to prove it.
But he was charming. The geekiness of his late teen years had almost disappeared and been replaced by a polite American style. He also reminded Petra of Sahar with the same mesmerising eyes behind his designer specs and the same wiry dark hair, but he was the plus version. She’d been gentle, he spilt over with energy. It was arresting.
The drinks were in front of them and Petra sipped at the gin as if she was relaxed, which she wasn’t.
‘What are you doing here?’ Wasim said. ‘I thought you were hurt.’
‘I was, I still do hurt,’ Petra said with a smile. ‘And never travel with me through an airport security x-ray, otherwise we’d be there all day.’
Wasim had a quizzical look on his face. Petra went on like a woman who wouldn’t tolerate sympathy, ‘There’s so much metal in my body that I set everything off. But I’m still here. I had a lot of operations and a lot of rehab, and bad scars and yes, it hurt like hell. But… well, here I am.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m also sorry. Very sorry Wasim,’ Petra held his gaze. ‘It shouldn’t have happened. Your sister was a lovely young woman, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘You tried, I know that. Let’s not talk about such sadness, not today. Tell me what you’re working on.’
Petra met with Eli and Rafi later that evening. They both seemed distracted and were checking their phones in between eating the pizza that Rafi had brought to the safe house while drinking the unnecessarily classy bottle of red wine, which was Eli’s contribution to the picnic. They were in the same safe house where she’d last met Nathan and, under overhead electric light, it looked even worse than it had looked in daylight. It also smelt worse but, beyond smearing her hands with antibac, Petra didn’t consider this to be her problem.
‘What are you doing?’ Petra asked when Eli picked up his phone and checked his feed again. ‘Checking the football?’
‘Sorry, Petra, we’ve got something else going on and it’s worrying me.’
‘I hope it’s nothing to do with that toad, Nathan. Has he forgiven me yet or is he raining down curses on the apostate Eve who tempted him with a possible conversion and then entrapped him?’
Rafi grinned while he wrestled with a messy slice of mozzarella-dripping pizza. ‘You certainly did a number on him,’ he said, chewing with his mouth full. He swallowed. ‘And hats off, you did better than I did with him. A lot better. And now you’re weaving your magic on Silver Dove. Tell us.’
Eli wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and pushed the greasy box away from him. ‘Yeah. Let’s take it from the top.’
Petra described the contact in all the necessary and indeed, unnecessary, detail. The woman in the lift, the shift to the h-bar the people she’d seen on the walk between library and h-bar, what Wasim had been wearing, carrying, his general health, appearance and demeanour, what he’d drunk in the bar. Eli even asked about Wasim’s hands and whether he had any notable marks, traits or tells. Did he seem nervous, relaxed, suspicious, angry, and Petra was aware that Eli was now giving her his full attention and was doing a deep dive into the nuance of the contact.
All the while, Rafi continued eating, now and then stopping and jotting something down with a Sharpie on his napkin, a letter in Hebrew, but not interrupting until Eli had finished and had turned to him, a questioning look on his face. It was clear to Petra that the two men, once adversaries from different sides of the track, who’d been only too keen to fuck each other up, were now a team. And she was a part of it, as integral as a door hinge. Being a part of it gave her an odd thrill.
‘This is all very good. I don’t think it could have gone any better, do you, Rafi?’ Eli said.
‘No, pitch-perfect. Just one thing,’ Rafi said. ‘Did he talk to you about his bursary package? Like the accommodation that came with it?’
Petra saw Eli look at Rafi and nod at him.
‘Yeah, thanks for reminding me,’ Eli said. ‘That’s important, you need to know about that, so we’ll talk about it in a while, but first, I want to know what your thoughts are,’ Eli said. ‘So, how do you want to proceed, Petra? Do you have a plan?’
Petra had been waiting for this moment. Waiting for Eli to ask her. It was Auftragstaktik. Mission-type tactics. The question brought back memories of dear Alon, whose wife was probably dead or dying in a tunnel, and the theory had been repeated in some of the reading she’d done. Decentralised military doctrine that emphasised initiative and flexibility for subordinate commanders. People like her. A memo from Clausewitz across the ages, a methodology for maximum impact in an operation.
During all the hours that Petra had sat in the library at Imperial, after she’d memorised her so-called thesis statement and written down the bullet points of what she was supposed to know, she’d been developing her plan. And she was proud of it. It was the result of her years of experience as a bat leviyah, a junior case officer, and she knew that if it didn’t work, there would be no second chance. Her position was unique and she meant to make the most of it.
‘I’ve looked at lots of options and I keep coming back to the same one. I want to go for a frontal approach.’ Petra looked at the two men, daring them to challenge her without hearing her rationale.
‘There are several reasons. First, and most important, he already trusts me. He knows I fought to save his sister, and he believes that I was severely injured as a result of my attempt. I did try to save her.’
‘We know,’ Eli said.
‘And I tried to save him. I’m going in there with a unique advantage. I don’t have to build trust. I already have it. That’s the first reason for a frontal approach.’
‘I’m hearing you out, Petra, but it’s also the riskiest approach and, as you know, he’s already rejected Abu Marwan.’
‘Because Abu Marwan is the enemy. I’m not,’ Petra said. ‘My second point is the journal; he may not want to talk about his sister just yet but, when I give him those pages that she wrote, and he reads them, he’ll be in.’
‘But he thinks she was misguided and entrapped by Hamas.’
‘Yes, but it’s a direct line to her. He will feel that she didn’t die in vain.’
And so will I, Petra thought.
She could see Eli nodding as he considered and absorbed what she was saying. Both men were concentrating.
‘Finally, the reason for a frontal approach is because it will be based on ideology, which is the best motivation of all, as we know. It’s the one that works long-term. Silver Dove doesn’t need money; once he achieves this degree, he will be highly employable, whether he chooses academia, government or work for a medical insurance company. A PhD in biomathematics is a ticket to a fat salary. The way I see it is that he needs a damn good reason for him to give all that up and go back to the moon wasteland of Gaza, where the climate is crap, it’s overcrowded and polluted, and his life will be continually under threat. It’s a lot to ask him to go back there when he could be building a life and career in some picket-fence community either in the US or here. Or anywhere else he fancies come to that.’
‘And you really think sentiment is the key?’ Rafi was leaning on the battered chair, swinging on the back legs.
‘It’s not just sentiment,’ Petra said. ‘Whatever that young man may say, I believe he’s got his sister’s genetic make-up. If I do this right, he’ll do it because he believes that he’s making a difference – which is, after all, what we’re trying to do, aren’t we?’
Behind her she could hear the whirr and hum of an arthritic fridge revving up its element to keep the milk cold. Outside there was traffic, in the flat upstairs a television was on at full volume and, from the same direction, she could hear the distant yowl of a baby crying. Petra focused on the two men and looked from one to the other.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
