The Protocols of Spying, page 4
‘Forgive me, Eli,’ Milne was at Eli’s elbow. ‘Sorry to have kept you. My morning meeting overran and I’m not in a position to kick out the new Minister of Defence.’
Eli got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘No problem. I’m grateful you found the time to see me so quickly. I only messaged you this morning.’
Milne gripped Eli’s hand a second longer than necessary in a gesture of unspoken sympathy. ‘I was expecting you to call. Follow me.’
They said nothing more until they were seated in the sixth-floor meeting room. The view of the city was spectacular, and London glittered in the autumn sun. At one end of the table there were some utilitarian china cups next to a thermos of coffee and a plate of assorted biscuits, supporting the notion that this was a government department and costs were considered.
‘The coffee is just about drinkable,’ Milne said. ‘Next time we’ll go to the Travellers or come for the Friday afternoon drinks and canapés.’
‘I’m not here for the refreshments,’ Eli smiled.
‘I know that. I presume you’ve already seen Charlene.’
Charlene was the CIA liaison, and Eli had indeed already made a brief courtesy call to her on the way to Vauxhall. He’d already had the ‘What the hell went wrong with your intelligence?’ conversation with her and he wasn’t keen to go through it again, but it was necessary.
‘She was deeply sympathetic. She may be too young to remember 9/11, but it was the same damn thing and it left the same big scar, although ours is still gushing blood as we speak. You know as well as I do that the Americans had the intelligence in 2011, but it wasn’t analysed and it didn’t get passed up the chain. It’s as simple as that. Intelligence is inexact. There are variables. We can run it through as many algorithms as we like but ultimately, it’s up to the government to decide what they want to do with the product.’
‘We’ve had our own cock-ups. WMD to name but one.’ Milne sipped at the black coffee. ‘That was expensive on so many levels, not least the human cost. Have you ever wondered what might have happened if we hadn’t trundled into Iraq on the back of a report from a single unreliable agent?’
‘Saddam might have survived. He would probably have had to expend his energies on subjugating the rebels to prop up the regime, rather like Assad. My guess is that he would have had to get closer to Russia.’
‘Mmm.’ Milne nodded as he considered the geopolitical equation, then said, ‘Speaking of Russians, did you know Nicolai is back in London?’
‘Nicolai? Not as Rezident, surely,’ Eli said. ‘He was recalled and replaced.’
‘Yes, he was, after that unfortunate incident with the Ukrainian who was defenestrated out of a first-floor window. You may remember, Eli, the one who worked in a British drone facility and whose son your wife just happened to be treating for PTSD,’ Milne said.
Eli had reached for one of the biscuits and was chewing on it. Even without looking up, Eli knew Milne’s eyes were on him. Best to brazen it out.
‘My wife is extremely grateful for the recommendation you gave us to that Dorset prep school. I understand that the child is flourishing in the environment and, not only that, but the Ukrainian’s wife has moved to the area and is working in some up-market restaurant.’
Milne nodded and gave the smallest of smiles. ‘Well, well… a happy outcome to a tragic incident.’
‘Yes, yes, you could say that. But tell me about Nicolai, is this anything to do with Prigozhin? I never understood exactly why Nicolai was reaching out to you and Charlene when he did. At the time Putin looked weak in relation to Ukraine but now… well, now with no effective opposition to Putin with Navalny in prison and Prigozhin dead—’
‘Another tragic incident,’ Milne said. ‘Whatever was Prigozhin thinking of? If anybody should have known that actions have consequences in Russian politics, he should have.’
‘It’s always been the Russian way, you know – ice picks, polonium,’ Eli said, having successfully steered the conversation away from the Ukrainian problem. It wouldn’t do at all if the Ukrainian incident stymied his chance of getting some help from the British.
Meanwhile, Milne seemed keen to meander.
‘It’s not just the Russian way,’ he almost drawled. ‘It’s one of your organisation’s strengths, isn’t it?’
‘I can’t deny it,’ Eli said. ‘Even though I’ve never been convinced of targeted killings’ tactical benefits from a strategic point of view there have been advantages. You may recall, Oliver, we assisted with a targeted execution of members of the IRA at the request of your very own Margaret Thatcher.’
‘Indeed,’ Milne said. ‘For which we were extremely grateful.’
‘And it cemented the relationship and co-operation between our countries, did it not?’
Milne pushed his undrunk black coffee away from him. It was as clear a signal as any that Milne had stopped playing for the moment. The MI6 man smiled a warmer and more genuine smile. ‘Come on, Eli. Why don’t you just tell me what you want and I’ll tell you if we can actually do it.’
Chapter 6
An hour later, Eli tapped his numeric code into the wall-mounted touch pad outside his office and waited for the light to turn green. It didn’t. Fuck’s sake, he needed to get into the room and prep for the meeting with Yuval. Just then the door swung open from the inside and Rafi beckoned him in.
‘I thought I heard you scratching at the door like a little pussy cat,’ Rafi said.
‘Sure.’
Rafi stood over Eli. He was holding a tablet in one hand and tapped it as he spoke. ‘You need to change your code, Eli. I can’t report that all embassy security protocols have been updated if you’re still using your son’s birthday reversed with two numbers transposed.’
Eli walked past him into the elegant office with its panelled walls, and his precious library shelves stacked with books and magazines on international relations and political biographies. As he made his way to his desk, he ran his eyes over Rafi and assessed him, trying to gauge his number two. The bigger man looked clear-eyed and his customary lazy smile was pasted on his face. That was a relief. Rafi had obviously gotten over his meltdown and was everything you would expect from a former platoon leader in an elite combat unit. He knew what it was to take a hit. He knew what it was to regroup. Good. They were all bound to hold it together and hold each other together for as long as it took.
‘I hope you didn’t go through my drawers,’ Eli said as he threw himself down into the leather chair behind his desk.
‘Of course I did. What do you expect?’
‘Nothing less, asshole. What have you got for me?’
Rafi glanced down at his tablet again but Eli sensed that it wasn’t just to consult whatever was on the screen. Something had happened. The man was steadying himself. Eli barked at him, ‘Get on with it. We’ve got Yuval and the rest of the European station heads in six minutes. What do I need to know?’
‘Embassy internal security has all been checked. I’ve had meetings with British Special Branch. They’ve allocated us with two more teams externally, plus a ready response unit.’
‘Good of them,’ Eli said.
‘They don’t want a replay of the Iranian Embassy siege in 1979. The Brits have long memories.’
‘So do we,’ Eli said.
Rafi ignored the comment and rattled on. ‘They’ve also got more street police in the area, as the expectation is that there will be demonstrations and marches. Unfortunately, we’re conveniently close to Hyde Park and Speakers’ Corner.’
‘There’s damn all we can do about that.’ Eli glanced at his watch. ‘What about the unit?’
‘All fine. All on track,’ Rafi said. ‘Nathan has been out meeting the leaders of the local Jewish community and assuring them of our support. He went with two security jocks, which I think might have helped calm down the locals.’
‘Good.’ Eli glanced at his watch again and flicked on his laptop to give it a chance to go through its security somersaults before the meeting. ‘Anything else?’
‘We’ve got a preliminary list of the hostages and casualties,’ Rafi said.
For a moment Eli’s hand, which had been flicking across the keyboard, froze.
‘And?’
‘One of them is Alon’s widow. Hamas knew where the exintelligence officers’ houses were and they went for them.’
There was silence within the room. Eli felt Rafi’s eyes on him. The last time Eli had seen Alon’s wife was at Alon’s funeral; an 80-year-old woman with diabetes burying her husband, she was bent but not yet broken. That was a few years ago, what sort of state was she going to be in now? Thank God Alon wasn’t alive to witness this, to know that they’d been unable to keep his wife safe.
‘Thanks for letting me know.’ Eli tapped his desk with a finger. ‘Someone is going to have to tell Trainer. Have you heard from her?’
‘I’ve been trying to reach her for days on the work phone, ever since… ever since it happened. Calls, messages, nothing. Just to see how she was, but nothing. Maybe she’s away.’
‘Someone’s got to tell her about Alon’s wife and check up on her. Keep trying to reach her,’ Eli said. ‘Okay, you got any other delicious presents for me?’
Behind Eli, on the wall, the black screen for the conference call flickered into life to show thumbprints of half a dozen grim-faced people, all on mute, all waiting for the meeting to begin.
‘One more thing,’ Rafi said.
‘Best till last?’
‘When I was on the way up here, Nathan told me that Yuval is going to make a big announcement.’
‘It’s probably the hostage list,’ Eli said.
‘I don’t think so, not the way he said it.’
‘Rafi, why didn’t you find out? You were there.’
They were interrupted by Yuval’s voice calling them to attention. ‘The situation is like this…’ The dark-haired man with the small hands and the heavy fringe opened the meeting.
Eli swivelled round to face the camera and sat back in his chair. Today they were one station head short, Carmel, head of Spain and Portugal was absent and her deputy, Oren was standing in. Carmel’s son had been in one of the army posts near the border and had been killed in the initial attack. She was now on indefinite leave. Eli doubted that she’d be back any time soon. Oren was smooth-skinned with an open face and he was bright. Eli had seen him working an agent and he had a frank and open style. He’d do. Boaz from Germany looked heavier than ever. No doubt it was his new young family and the feeds through the night, never an easy period. Csilla was back to her immaculate self with newly coiffured hair and a carefully painted face. Eli always thought she looked as if she ought to be working for Chanel and not the Mossad. He’d told her, and she’d said she’d have rather liked it. But she’d also told him, during a late-night stake-out in Paris, her secret, that the worst she felt the more carefully she dressed. How she liked the ritual of dressing and painting her face and how it gave her a sense of control. No doubt she was reaching out for that now.
Only Harel looked relaxed, even smug. Had he managed to recruit Sinwar’s dear old mother in the last two weeks? That’s what the level of smugness on his face suggested as he tugged at his cuffs to make sure the slim gold Omega picked up the light. How many damn watches did the man have?
The meeting started with the station heads feeding their embassy’s current security status into the meeting. Eli shifted to one side as Rafi reeled off where they were at. Yuval nodded, and gave one-word acknowledgements. Only Boaz got picked up for his security status, which in Holland was as yet incomplete. Wisely, Boaz didn’t attempt to sidestep the criticism.
Next was a roundup of operations and Eli was able to report with some satisfaction that the British had been more than accommodating and that Wasim, the target, now designated Silver Dove, would be relocating to Imperial College to start his MSc within the week.
Eli said, ‘He has all the attributes required to become a lochesh and we’ve already had contact with him with some success. While no agent recruitment operation is guaranteed, this is as good a chance as any.’
‘Good,’ Yuval said. ‘And further to our last meeting, Harel has come back to me with an operational plan that he assures me will secure the continued supply of spare parts for the army as well as the 2000-pound bunker busters. Would you like to outline it to your peers?
It was clear to Eli that Harel’s plan had been forced on him either by expediency or by Memune, the man in charge, himself. Either way, Yuval looked as if he’d trodden in some shit and the stench was close to his nostrils.
By contrast, Harel was unperturbed. ‘With respect, Yuval, I’d prefer to wait until I have all my people in place. Is that okay with you?’
Eli waited for Yuval to say that it wasn’t and to launch into Harel. He waited in vain.
‘Need to know,’ Harel said.
‘Very well,’ Yuval said. ‘It’s your operation and since it is our job to implement government policy and not to set it, then this is what we are tasked to do.’
Eli frowned and glanced over at Rafi, who was off camera and who shrugged back at him.
‘I have several announcements before we wind up. As most of you know, Carmel’s son was killed on October 7. She has elected to stand down and Oren will be replacing her in a permanent role. Most of you have worked with Oren in the past and I have every confidence in his ability to maintain our operations in Spain and Portugal. Some of you may be aware that one of our own, Alon, lived at Nir Zev. Alon died some years ago but I’m afraid that his wife is one of the hostages.’
There was a mutter from the screen, so obviously this piece of news wasn’t common knowledge. That must be what Nathan was going on about. But Eli was wrong.
Yuval continued, ‘Finally, I have to inform you that I am joining Memune, the boss, in the hostage negotiations. Until the situation is resolved, Harel will be taking over as head of Washington Station.’
What? Harel? No… that couldn’t be right.
Eli looked at other heads of station. Their expressions confirmed what he’d just heard and couldn’t believe to be true.
Chapter 7
Petra sat on the side of the bed by the open Shaker-style wardrobe. Despite the central heating being on downstairs, it was cold in the bedroom, and she could hear the wind rattling around the sash windows of the Victorian cottage. Soon it would be full-on winter and tonight’s early chill was a hint of what was to come. Between the two wardrobes was a small fireplace, and once upon a time she and Matt had roasted chestnuts in the bedroom as if they were having a secret picnic. It seemed like a long time ago.
In her hand she held a book, and she stroked the cover as if it were animate. It was a journal and usually concealed in the wardrobe safe she’d built beneath a shelf. It was a neat safe and she’d been proud of her handiwork; it held all manner of useful and even sentimental items, like this journal. Every so often Petra took it out from its hiding place and examined it, as if, in the Arabic script that she was unable to read, she’d be able to find answers. It was absurd. She knew that. Ever since she’d got the book translated, she realised that she needn’t have bothered. The woman who wrote in the pink-bound book was deluded. She’d believed that by killing herself she’d make a difference, but during these last two weeks, Petra had repeatedly returned to the journal and the translation and wondered what Sahar would make of what had happened on October 7 and what was going to happen now. Because Petra knew her, she knew the girl was gentle, shy, sometimes humorous and always generous, intelligent, hardworking, even perceptive – as she sat on the side of her bed, Petra could see her, the slight form, the wild wiry hair that the young woman bound back and the strands that escaped, the specs that shielded her dark eyes. Her one real beauty. What would Sahar have said? She was from Gaza, her family had been displaced in 1947 and she’d only ever known life on that narrow strip before she came to the UK and death. And what a life, to have grown up in privation, managed to find a career as a nurse, but then to be married off and, when she failed to produce a child, sent back to her own family, disgraced because of her barren womb. The only way for Sahar to win respect from a critical and disappointed parent was to become shaheed, a martyr.
What would Sahar have made of October 7?
Would she have she have danced in the streets, joyous that a blow had been struck against the Zionist monkeys who had ground their boots into her people ever since the Nakba, or would she have quailed at the thought of the terrible repercussions that would surely come, the pounding bombs, the mangled bodies that would be buried under rubble when the angry Jews sought revenge, or might she have had some compassion for the old and the young, snatched from homes and lives, the babies and the raped, the mutilated and murdered?
‘Ready in five minutes,’ Petra heard Matt calling up to her through the thin walls of her cottage.
‘Just coming, I’ve found a bottle of red that will be perfect.’ Deftly, Petra replaced the journal in the safe then nipped across the landing into the second bedroom that she used as an office and which also housed a wine rack. Then she was down the open stairs into the living area and kitchen, where Matt stood hunched over the hob, stirring a pot and frowning into it.
‘Come here, I want you to taste it and tell me if it needs something else. Maybe a little more lemon, or maybe a little sugar to…’
