The Protocols of Spying, page 3
There were some nods around the table. It wasn’t an invitation to interrupt.
‘The expectation is that there will be a hostage deal and we will send a lot of their people home. That’s what’s happened in the past and that’s what will happen this time.’
‘And then they murder us,’ Csilla said. Eli could see that the comment had just slipped out; they weren’t supposed to comment politically, their job was just to follow the demands of the government. Yuval went on, ‘In your boxes you will find a list of the people we expect to be negotiated for. Among them is Dawood Al-Arikhi, a very important man, code name Butterfly. He’s been our guest at the Ketziot prison for twenty years. As you may know, he was an acolyte of dear old Yasser Arafat and acted as his aide during the Oslo Accords. He’s secular, that’s important.’
‘Why?’ Harel was flicking a fancy pen between index and middle fingers. It was irritating.
‘Good question,’ Yuval said. ‘Because the way forward is secular. Dawood Al-Arikhi is the best hope of replacing Abbas. Our projections are that he’s likely to emerge as leader of the Palestinian Authority and thus our best hope of peace. Your job is to recruit someone who will be capable of working within the new administration as a lochesh. Okay? We need a whisperer. Not some low-life who sells product for cash and burns out after five minutes, but someone who is capable of becoming a minister or a diplomat and can impact policy.’
‘I disagree, Yuval,’ Harel said. ‘Who knows what’s going to happen down the line? We need to be dealing with the immediate problem and that’s gathering intelligence to support the war. Maintaining legacy arms supplies with our partners. Because if this gets as bad as it’s likely to, Europe and the US will be screaming about civilian casualties, then it will be arms sanctions and then what?’ Harel said. ‘We need spare parts; we need the bunker buster bombs we’ve paid for.’
‘If it’s over quickly, we’re in, we’re out, then it won’t be a problem,’ Boaz said. ‘And that’s when we need to be prepared for regime change in Gaza.’
‘And if it goes on for months? Then what?’ Harel used his pen to stab the air and emphasise the point. ‘You’re not listening to me, Yuval. We need ordnance, we need bunker buster bombs and we need spare parts now. You know that as well as I do.’
There was silence in the virtual meeting room and Eli could almost hear Yuval thinking it through. Finally, he spoke.
‘I am listening, Harel. Let’s not kid ourselves, we have hard times ahead. Bad mistakes have been made, the army has been run down and we’ve relied too much on SIGINT. It’s a massive intelligence failure and not just for Aman, for all of us. We underestimated Hamas. But there’s no point killing ourselves or each other, not now. You’re right Harel, we need to think about today and at the same time, we also need to plan for the day after.’
‘Assuming there is a day after,’ Csilla said quietly.
Yuval frowned and only by the smallest shake of his head acknowledged that he’d heard her.
‘Eli, I want you to source, recruit and train the perfect lochesh agent. Get it done. And, Harel, come back to me with a proposal for getting what we need to fight this war.’
Chapter 4
The train pulled into Finchley Road tube station and Eli woke up with a jerk.
He looked around the carriage, aware of the discreet and not so discreet glances from other passengers, who assumed that an unshaven man asleep on the Jubilee line at 4 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon had to be a drunk. Not someone who’d been up since before dawn the previous morning, October 6 – the day before.
After a deep breath, Eli hauled himself upright and made his way towards the doors, where he could prop himself up. Was he hallucinating? He felt as if was hallucinating as he tried to keep his eyes open. He needed to get off at the next stop, walk to the apartment block, shower away the day and then sleep. Blessed sleep. There was nothing more that he could do, not today.
Once outside the station, Eli trudged towards the apartment, step by step, negotiating the space with passers-by who were out on a sunny Saturday afternoon, young and old, on dates, enjoying their time. A cyclist ahead of him swerved onto the pavement by a letter box and skidded to a halt. That’s when Eli had to stop. The images he’d seen on the screen that morning crashed in on him. With an effort Eli pushed them away and focused on his breath and the steps he was taking to get ever closer to the apartment, to home. To safety. But that was the problem, there was no safety. Not any more. Not for any Jew, anywhere.
Earlier on in that interminable day, Yossi, the deputy ambassador, had crashed in on Eli’s meeting with Urit for what, at the time, seemed like no particular reason. The visit was camouflaged as thanks for supporting the ambassador and the encouragement Eli had given her to make the rallying speech to the shell-shocked staff. Yet, after the thank-you, Yossi didn’t go. He wanted to talk, to share his feelings, and at first Eli couldn’t work out why Yossi, who always seemed to hate him with an unremitting passion, had chosen Eli to unburden himself to.
Usually, Yossi looked like an accountant with his boring suits and white shirts. Today was no different – he was as buttoned up as ever on the surface but all you had to do was tap and he cracked open like a soft-boiled egg.
‘Here we go again,’ Yossi said.
‘What?’ Eli said.
‘Same old, same old,’ Yossi paced up and down Eli’s office. ‘Rape the women, kill the men, smash the babies’ heads against the walls, it was a fucking pogrom, Eli. It’s what happens to Jews. It’s the exact same story that my great-grandfather told my mum when she was a kid. Every year at Easter the mob came into the village, raped the women, killed the men and smashed the babies’ heads against the wall.’
In response, Urit’s shoulders hunched tighter over her laptop, which was starting to look more like a safety blanket than an extension of her brain.
‘Yossi, it’s bad, I’m not denying that,’ Eli said, hoping to get him out of his office and also wondering why he’d been chosen for this outburst. He didn’t have long to wait.
‘I really dislike you, Eli.’ The deputy ambassador stabbed his finger in Eli’s direction. ‘I dislike every single thing about you. Your arrogance, your intellectual snobbery, your fancy education, your languages, your background and more than anything, this work you’re supposed to do.’ He sneered over the word ‘work’ before he went on. ‘This so-important work you do, that was supposed to protect us and, once again, it didn’t. Did it? You people got it wrong, so fucking wrong that we’ll never get over it.’
Eli got up from behind his desk and assumed his most sympathetic expression. If he couldn’t guide Yossi towards the door, he’d either have to hit him and bundle him out or call security, but those guys were tied up with the emergency protocols. Eli reached out and put a hand on Yossi’s shoulder; when the man turned his agonised face towards him, Eli smelt whiskey. Okay. Now he understood.
‘Mistakes have been made,’ Eli said as he guided Yossi in the direction of the door. ‘And people will be accountable, but short-term, Yossi, and medium-term, we need to sort out this mess. And that’s what Urit and I are trying to do.’
‘Oh yes, there’ll be inquiries and sackings and the blame game, which has already started but the point is, Eli. Why? Why us? Why can’t we ever be safe?’
By now Eli had opened the door and nudged Yossi into the hallway. ‘Because we’re the chosen people?’ Eli said before he shut the door and punched in the code to slam the bolts. Eli’s office was a safe room, at a switch a metal shutter would come down, to protect against bomb blasts.
‘Sorry about that, Urit,’ Eli said. ‘Are you okay with the door bolted just in case Yossi wants to come back and continue his enlivening conversation?’
She nodded.
‘Right, where were we? You now have a list of every contact we’ve made during the last twenty years and their connections to the prisoners who are likely to be exchanged. That’s clans, families within the clans, shared geographical locations. How long is the list? I don’t want to know. Is there anybody we’ve worked on who has the right profile to be a lochesh?’
She tapped away as she spoke; it was almost a nervous tic. Or maybe she was typing fast so that he wouldn’t see her chewed nails and how she’d ripped the cuticles. Urit usually dressed herself like a crazed fashion influencer but today she wore jeans and a tee shirt and no make-up. That made her seem younger and more vulnerable. Maybe that’s why she usually chose to paint her face like a clown, to try to protect herself. Or maybe he was just dog-tired and getting fanciful.
‘So go on, who have you got for us to play with?’ Eli said.
‘There are three, maybe even four, but there’s one standout possibility with an eighty-five per cent chance of success.’
‘Eighty-five per cent? I like it,’ Eli said. ‘Hit me.’
‘He’s at the younger end of the optimum age profile at 24, but he comes from the Al-Arikhi tribe, which is the same one as Butterfly; his branch was displaced in 1948 from Ramallah. They are actually third or fourth cousins. The subject has an uncle in Kentucky who sponsored him to go to university in Kansas, where he’s been studying engineering.’
‘I presume that the fifteen per cent is the geographical issue,’ Eli said. ‘Sounds perfect apart—’
‘Actually, the geographical issue is eight per cent.’
‘Sorry, Urit. Okay, don’t give me the statistics, just the facts.’
‘Those are the facts.’
‘Never mind, just go on,’ Eli said. ‘How does the fifteen per cent break down?’
‘Geographical location, age and a brief contact initiative achieved nothing. The subject didn’t want to engage with our people.’
‘Maybe our people didn’t want to schlep to Kansas if there were easier targets closer to the coast.’
‘Possible, based on the data from the US in its entirety.’ Urit tapped away again.
Eli sat on the corner of his desk and closed his aching eyes for a second. This was promising but he was too tired to think any more. He badly needed to sleep. He needed to go home.
‘Send me the file on the guy.’ Eli stood up and started to shrug himself into his jacket. ‘I’ll read it overnight and we’ll take it from there. Thank you. Good work. Also, and this is important, Urit, it’s been a bad day for everyone. If you feel anxious, it’s no surprise and if you think you may need some help sleeping, Menachem has some anti-anxiety medication. He’s going to be in his office until midnight. Okay? I’ll leave it up to you.’
‘Thank you. I’m good, so far everyone is okay,’ she closed her laptop. ‘There – I’ve just sent the file to you.’
By the door Eli keyed in the door code and the bolts drew back. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he made a play of gingerly pulling at the door and peering outside to see if Yossi was outside, then he held it wide open for Urit.
‘By the way,’ Eli said, ‘what’s the target’s name?’
‘Wasim Al-Arikhi. He knows you as Abu Marwan, hence the high chance of a positive recruitment. His sister was Sweetbait.’
‘Sweetbait? Oh no, not him, did it really have to be him?’
Eli stepped inside the flat in West Hampstead, closed the door behind him and spent a moment leaning against the door. He’d got back. Only a few more actions before he could stretch out on the bed and slip into unconsciousness. What a joy that would be.
‘Hey, you’re back.’ Gal appeared from the kitchen into the long hallway and strode towards him, her arms open.
‘Barely.’ Eli let himself be hugged. They stood for several seconds, locked in each other’s arms, saying nothing. Gal pulled away first.
‘Are you all right, babe?’
Eli said nothing. Just shook his head. ‘Let’s not talk about it. I can’t, Gal. I really can’t. Have you spoken to Doron?’
‘Yeah, he’s okay, but Eli… we have to talk about it.’
‘Not tonight. Let me have a shower and a sleep, we can talk tomorrow and the next day and the next day. Nothing is going to change. I don’t want to talk now.’ Eli opened his eyes and noticed that Gal was wearing what he always called her flying outfit; the navy velour tracksuit she used when she travelled, because it had zipped pockets for documents and she was able to sleep in it. It was one of things he admired about her – her planning and organisation.
‘Why are you wearing that?’ Eli said. ‘Are you going somewhere?’
He didn’t expect the answer he got.
‘Yes, I’m going back tonight,’ Gal looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to leave in about two hours.’
‘What?’
‘Come and sit down in the kitchen. I’m nearly packed. I’ll make you some tea, then you can shower and sleep.’
Eli felt himself being led into the kitchen and seated at the kitchen table almost as if he was a decrepit relative. Meanwhile, Gal busied herself with kettle and cup and, minutes later, she was sitting opposite him and there was black tea in front of him.
‘I tried to phone you,’ Gal said. ‘But all I got was someone who said you were in meetings and she’d pass the message on. I’m just so pleased you got here before I left. Why is nothing working, Eli? It feels like the whole country is falling apart.’
‘It is. And so am I. Why are you going? What have I done now?’
Gal laughed. For the first time in thirty-six hours, Eli felt a lightening in his spirits.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I got a call from Oded at the institute this morning. They’re screaming for people with paediatric PTSD skills and, as you know, the quicker victims get treatment after an event, the greater their chances of recovery. They’re bringing the kids in directly from the battle zones and they’ve got no one to treat them.’
‘But it’s not over, it’s a shitstorm. There are people who were trapped for six hours in safe rooms who were picked off by Hamas, and soldiers who didn’t go in because the comms had been blown out. I’ve been getting through the day, Gal, pretending it’s okay but it isn’t. Rafi tried to go back because his kibbutz was a target but Yuval said no. All we’re doing is planning operations when the whole thing is going to shit around our ears and now you’re leaving me.’
‘Hey, hey,’ Gal reached across the table and took his hand. ‘Eli, you’re tired. Physically and emotionally exhausted. Also traumatised, as we all are. You’re the most grounded and balanced man I’ve ever known, either in or out of my practice. You’ll be okay, Eli. You’re a strong man and we all need to do what we can in the best way that we can.’
Eli said nothing. He just looked at her for a long moment. ‘You’re right, I’m tired. Too tired to think. Have a good flight.’
Chapter 5
Two days later Eli was in the reception area of what was known in the intelligence community as the wedding cake, the MI6 building in Vauxhall. He’d been scanned, searched and badged up, and was now waiting to be escorted to one of the diplomatic meeting rooms on the sixth floor. No matter how many times Eli had been to the stone building, it still fascinated him. From the outside it looked less of a wedding cake and more like a futuristic fortress with towers louring over Vauxhall, but inside, in the reception area, it was all light. On one stone wall there was a massive carved wreath with a crown and ER inset into the wall. Artfully lit, the shadow enhanced the beauty of the sculpture. To its right there was a spiral staircase that led to the gallery and some of the administrative offices, and, of course, on the wall on the ground floor there was a portrait of the King. But what fascinated Eli and where he loved to linger was in front of two crystalline sculptures. A portion at the centre of each had been polished so it was possible to look through it while the remainder of the block was rough and opaque. It was a perfect metaphor for the artistry of intelligence work and Eli knew just how much Gal would have admired it if she’d ever been able to see it.
Eli had had a busy couple of days since his wife had flown home, so busy that he hadn’t processed that she’d gone. That was good. No time to think about anything except moving ahead. He had back-to-back meetings with his unit, with the embassy security jocks and with the nervy diplomats, half of whom were stoned on the meds that Menachem, the embassy doctor, was dishing out like a corner dealer to anyone who wanted them. Whatever. Eli was in no position to suggest how anybody else should cope with the situation, not when it was still a fucking mess and there were hourly updates on just how bad the attacks had been.
So now here he was, at the feet of the old mandate colonialists, about to beg for a favour. A favour for which there would be the inevitable quid pro quo at some point, because there were no free rides in intelligence and that’s the way it worked.
The reception area at MI6 was architect-grey-and-white, with an atrium that showed glimpses of blue sky inside the anodyne interior. If it wasn’t for the armed police detail inside the building, it might have been any corporate headquarters. Only the burly presence of the boys in blue indicated otherwise.
After two days’ research, there was now no question that Wasim Al-Arikhi was head and shoulders above the other likely targets as having the best potential to become a lochesh, an agent who could rise so high that he could shape policy. He had education, he had connection and the only thing he didn’t have was immediate geographic availability for recruitment. Before reaching that conclusion, Eli had spent a few hours considering the notion that he could ship out to Kansas with a capsule team and both develop and run the target from there, but the logistics plus the expense made that an unattractive idea. Better to get the target to the UK.
Urit, diamond that she was, had dug and discovered that the target had completed his undergraduate degree at Kansas State University and then applied to do a masters at both Illinois and Imperial College, London. He’d been accepted by both, but he hadn’t been awarded a bursary or a research job in either faculty to support his studies. For some reason yet to be understood, the target’s funding from his uncle in Kentucky had been cut. A bursary from a newly established UK foundation that would pay for his studies and living expenses while at Imperial College would be irresistible, hence the favour begging. While the Mossad could set up a bursary from a dummy endowment charity, it would have to go through all the academic protocols. Ever since donations from the likes of Purdue Pharma and assorted Russian oligarchs, universities now liked to know where their money was coming from. Who could blame them? Only MI6 liaison would be able to speed up setting up a bursary for a particular applicant with a phone call and polite request from one old Westminster boy to another.
