The Protocols of Spying, page 6
‘Sweetbait’s journal is not going back to HQ.’
Rafi threw himself down into one of the two armchairs by the side of the window, an action which nearly spilt his drink, which Rafi managed to save with a flick of his wrist.
‘I’m sure there’s a very good reason why we’re going to keep what could be a significant piece of intelligence about Hamas to ourselves at a time like this.’
‘There is a very good reason,’ Eli said. ‘Harel will use the fact that Trainer has been holding onto it for years as ammunition. Therefore, you and I will examine it carefully, and if there is something pertinent, then yes, of course, we’ll get it back to HQ. If there isn’t, then we bury it.’
‘Bury it? Are you crazy, Eli? What about protocol, what about rule of law, ethics and any of that other shit you used to teach at the Country Club? Wasn’t that your thing, Eli, ethics in intelligence gathering?’
‘I’m surprised to hear you were listening during that module.’
‘I wasn’t. I just know you made a big deal about it,’ Rafi stood up and paced. He went on, ‘What’s going on with you, bro? When did you change from being buttoned up, by the book, follow the rules, don’t improvise, into this. Man, if ever there was a time when we need to follow protocol, shouldn’t it be now?’
‘No, and you know why. Because everything has changed, all the rules. You want to know why Harel is here? Let me tell you. He’s got some secret operation that he’s overseeing, direct from the Prime Minister’s office in London, which is why he wants a safe house, and he’s seconded Nathan to his team.’
‘Nathan?’
‘Yes, Nathan.’
‘It can’t be that important if Nathan is involved,’ Rafi said.
‘I agree. My guess is that it’s probably something dirty to do with shifting assets for the Prime Minister and his cronies from the US to the UK in preparation for the election that’s going to come after this mess is over. But what if it isn’t, Rafi? Harel can’t be trusted, neither can the Prime Minister’s office, and my point is that we can’t give Harel ammunition to sideline us, not when he can do a lot of damage. It’s up to us to make sure that doesn’t happen.’
‘Even if it means breaking rules that at the very least could lead to an inquiry and at worst could see us in jail.’
‘Us?’
‘I’m not going to let you fuck this up on your own,’ Rafi said.
‘Thanks. I appreciate that,’ Eli said. ‘Now, how good is your written Arabic?’
‘Not as good as yours but I can certainly do my own translation, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Rafi said.
‘Good, we’ll have mine and yours and we’ll also have the translation from Tom’s chip. With three versions we should be able to identify if there’s something in the content that’s pertinent. And if it is, then we’ll find a way of getting that intel to HQ. Agreed?’
Rafi nodded but he didn’t look happy.
Eli ignored the hangdog expression on his deputy’s face. ‘Rafi, they don’t have to know where it’s come from, they just need the intel. Just do it, Rafi. Stop overthinking. Remember the crap you like to quote that your old grandmother said. ‘Quien mucho pensa, no se la fada Yersalaim.’
‘Your accent is shit.’
Eli ignored the jibe, though he was pleased to get it. It meant that, despite the long face, Rafi was on board. ‘We haven’t got time to mess with this, achi. Silver Dove will be here in three days and I’d like to make the contact the moment he arrives at Heathrow.’
Chapter 9
Eli knew that there were those in the Office who accused him of hubris but, when it came to recruitment and subsequent spy running, he didn’t feel the need to feign modesty. He was good at what he did and his ability to tease out that first dribble of intelligence from an agent that led to a stream and sometimes a torrent was never questioned. No doubt that was why Harel disliked him.
In Eli’s opinion, the craft of spy running wasn’t only about planning, although that was certainly a significant part of his methodology; it was military science, specifically being able to understand the difference between strategy and tactics.
What Harel, and his cadre within the government, failed to understand, was that without an endgame plan for Gaza and the wider region, in other words, without a clear strategy, there would only be noise before the eventual defeat, as Sun Tze had put it so succinctly. But since the morons in the government probably thought that Sun Tze was a breakfast cereal, Eli was intellectually isolated. Yuval understood, Yuval who was a student of military history certainly understood, but he wasn’t around.
It was now a month after the October 7 attacks and ground troops were in the north of Gaza. The situation grew uglier as each day passed, with the displaced population evacuated south. Fortunate Palestinians with dual nationality were able to get out and cross the border at Rafah into Egypt, while the rest were stranded in conditions that generated harrowing footage for an increasingly hostile international community.
And still there was no strategy for the day after. This made his operation to recruit a lochesh superspy all the more important.
The path from intelligence work into the government itself was well trodden and it was a route that Eli held tucked at the back of his mind. After all, how much dirtier would it be to seek election than to manipulate an agent? In both cases, it was to make a positive difference. Eli was mulling over this idea as he stood in Terminal 3 under the arrivals board, waiting for American Airlines, Flight Number 734 to clear through the baggage hall. The plane itself had been delayed because of stacking over Heathrow, so Eli had sat down at Costa Coffee and enjoyed that extra half-hour thinking about how he might one day have a political career.
It would be a long way from this.
Eli looked down and fingered the fabric of his thob; the floor-length garment was perfect. Imported from a shop in Rafah, it had been aged by stains and detergents and now gave the impression of a garment that was neat, but well-worn, owned by someone who didn’t care for such fripperies.
The outfit was the result of an afternoon session at the facility in Great Pulteney Street. There, with the assistance of Kia Kholman, Eli was kitted out. He’d even done a twirl in front of the full-length mirror, to the amusement of a couple of watchers who were sitting in a corner on two beaten-up sofas, playing backgammon. With his grey eyes, shaved head and unshaven beard Eli looked convincing. He could have passed on any street corner in Gaza City. Eli was ready and waiting for Wasim.
Across the concourse, by the arrivals barrier, Segev was posing as a driver to pick up passengers. The young man with the bored expression held up a tablet with the name of a fictional passenger. The tablet had a secondary function; it wasn’t just a prop – Segev was filming the arrivals as they came through the doors.
Dotted around the airport, three other members of the unit were in position: one in the arrivals concourse, one in baggage handling and one outside. Each of them had seen a recent image of Silver Dove and they had confirmation that he had boarded his connecting flight at Charlotte for the flight to Heathrow. If they couldn’t pick him up and make a contact, then they really all should pack up and go home.
At least, that was Eli’s estimation. No doubt Harel would have insisted on double the amount of manpower and found some way of making a contact that involved a limousine and, if at all possible, a private jet, but even if he had been so profligate, resources were tight with the ongoing war. With relish Eli recalled how Harel had been duped out of seventy per cent of his budget by a canny Egyptian who’d supplied him with open-source intelligence culled from the internet with a smattering of colourful fiction. One more cock-up like that and Harel must surely be out and the chances were his oh-so-secret operation just might be the one.
Eli saw Segev touch his right ear – the signal to turn on his comms. Eli responded by pressing the app on his phone. By necessity comms were cut to the minimum amount of airtime necessary. This was because Heathrow was one of the most monitored locations in the UK and Eli didn’t want their data finding its way to GCHQ via a conscientious security wonk before they’d had a chance to do what they were there to do. As Eli had said in the briefing meeting, the contact protocol wasn’t totally vinyl tradecraft but it was certainly heading in that direction.
It seemed that Silver Dove had cleared passport control and was now in the luggage hall, that meant he’d be out any minute and Eli needed to be in position. Ready to collide into him, feign surprise and joy at meeting him again. Rejoicing in the coincidence, he would offer the young man a lift to London and, before Silver Dove could think twice, he’d be guided towards the waiting car.
Timing would be everything.
‘Silver Dove is by the belt,’ Eli heard in his ear. ‘He’s just helped an old woman get her case off the luggage belt and onto a trolley.’
‘A gentleman, is he?’ Eli muttered.
‘It’s a massive suitcase. He’s helping her with a second one, she’s thanking him, they’re talking. He’s got her case onto her trolley. It looks like she’s now waiting for him. Probably the trolley is too heavy for her to push.’
‘Why doesn’t she get a porter?’ Eli hissed.
Eli was tapping his fingers against the phone. How many times did people strike up conversations with strangers in baggage halls? It just didn’t happen.
Segev’s voice maintained its usual neutrality. ‘He’s got his case, which is on the trolley, and they’re heading towards customs. He’s pushing the trolley and they’re talking. They’ve stopped. He’s looking after the trolley; she’s walking away, I think she’s heading towards the toilets.’
Now would have been good for that chance meeting if he’d been in the luggage hall, but he wasn’t. Eli was outside, unable to do anything except listen to this description of the events that seemed to be spiralling out of his direct control.
‘She’s out,’ Eli heard in his ear. ‘They’re heading towards the green channel.’
There was silence. Eli focused on the door that opened and shut as travellers from all across the world filtered into the hall and the outside world.
At last. There was Silver Dove wheeling the old lady’s trolley. The kid could have been taken for the woman’s son, so careful was he with the way he was guiding both her and the trolley through the doors. Seeing him in real time jolted Eli; in the three years since Eli had last seen him, he’d changed. Then he’d been a teenager, foul-smelling, sobbing, curled in a foetal ball under the bedcovers in a run-down apartment, bereft after the violent death of his elder sister. Yes, he’d changed. He was still slight but he was taller, more athletic, while the wiry hair he shared with his sister was now covered by a baseball cap. It was certainly Silver Dove, in jeans and high-top trainers. The young man had the same unmistakable gait, Eli had noted before – a way of bouncing on the balls of his feet. But the specs were different. They were round and oversized. Modern, stylish.
Now outside, the old woman, who, in Eli’s view, shouldn’t have been travelling without assistance, tottered across the concourse towards a young couple and a toddler. There were cries of welcome and the toddler slipped under the barrier and nearly knocked over her grandmother, while Silver Dove held onto the trolley, waiting for the family to notice him. Once they did, there was hand-shaking and obvious thanks and then, to Eli’s chagrin, Silver Dove was wafted with the family through the airport and towards the car park.
‘Contact aborted,’ Eli said. ‘Return to base.’
‘Whoever said no good deed goes unpunished was a shmock.’
It was two weeks later and winter was closing in. In London it was dark at 4 p.m. and in Israel there was a one-week truce, where hostages were exchanged for prisoners. Eli and Rafi were in the meeting room, watching the newsfeed of the exchange. Lists had been circulated before the exchange and Alon’s wife wasn’t among them.
Besides the newsfeed, the wall was a kaleidoscope of screens that showed maps, nearby streets, stills of Silver Dove, as well as interiors and exteriors of both Imperial College and Silver Dove’s apartment in Eastbourne Terrace.
Eli massaged his eyebrows, trying to squeeze the tension away, trying not to think about Alon’s wife. ‘There’s got to be an easier way of doing this. And fast. We do not have time for some long-drawn-out recruitment.’
‘You know, I always thought the FBI’s method of two people approaching someone in the street had its advantages,’ Rafi said. ‘Direct and to the point, no messing about with cover stories and shows.’
‘That would only work if we posed as Americans and that option’s off limits unless we really want to destroy the relationship. They won’t forgive us. It’s also clumsy and it’s about as insecure as you can get.’
‘Dove has an Uber account,’ Rafi said. ‘Say we hack into his account, you pick him up as if you’re his Uber driver and then you make the pitch.’
‘Possible.’ In his mind, he pictured Silver Dove amid a composite of some of the agents he’d recruited over the years and the moment, that sweetest of all moments, when they agreed to work.
Eli shook his head. ‘No, it won’t work. I need eye contact to make the pitch and I can’t do that if I’m driving. It might work on a three-hour journey but not between South Kensington and Bloomsbury.
Rafi got up from the armchair by the window and paced, before taking up his favourite position on a corner of the desk by Eli’s side, both men staring in silence at the wall of screens. There had to be a neat way of doing this. Eli was thinking hard, wishing that they had Yuval in the meeting with them but, since he was now tied up with the hostage negotiations, they were on their own. What would Yuval say? Probably something about keeping it simple.
That’s why Eli found himself three days later sitting in the dark on a rainy night waiting to hear the key turn in the lock of Silver Dove’s flat. This was about as simple as it could get. Just a couple of watchers monitoring Dove’s journey from his afternoon tutorial to the apartment via a supermarket, where he picked up a ready meal and some toiletries. Dove was on his own and he stayed on his own. In his earpiece, Eli heard his progress towards the flat.
Getting inside the flat had been simplicity itself, since it was their flat, or at least they held the short-term lease on it and it had seemed only sensible to use it as part of the research bursary for Dove. It was one bedroom in a secure block, and they’d used it as a safe house in the past. It had been the home of another agent, Tom. Since Tom’s occupancy, the flat had been redecorated and the furniture shifted around. Only the wall TV screen was still in place, and a gimcrack cabinet beneath it. As well as changes to the placement of the furniture, the previous wooden floor was now carpeted; it needed to be, since it had been irreparably damaged.
As Eli sat back in the dark on the hard chair, he remembered the last time he’d been in that flat, when he’d struggled to push open the door to this room because a hulk of a man had collapsed against it and was bleeding to death on that hard wooden floor. Despite the murk, with only the light from the street outside creating shadows, Eli could visualise the exact spot. Almost see the shape of the man and the image of Petra, as she’d stood, still holding the knife.
Just then the earpiece burst into life and Eli heard, ‘Dove now inside the courtyard, approaching the building. He is alone.’ Eli sat up and focused. It was showtime.
Chapter 10
Eli crossed his hands across his padded belly and pasted onto his face an expression of beatific solidity. He’d been practising both the expression and his pitch for days and he was now word-perfect. He’d also identified the likely emotional arc of the target; there would be the initial shock of the unexpected visitor, the fear of a physical attack, the moment of recognition, then interest, curiosity and, finally, the establishment of trust. Eli needed to get to trust as fast as possible while still maintaining his authority throughout the process. It was a big ask but no more complicated than many of the complex agent contacts he’d worked. Silver Dove’s sister was a case in point.
When running Silver Dove’s sister, Eli had spent months in this guise as Abu Marwan. He’d nurtured the agent, flattered her and acted as her guide and commander in her quest to become shahida, a martyr. And she was convinced. She thought he was wise, perhaps like the father who’d disappeared from her life. Eli knew the girl had been convinced. He’d read what she’d said in the journal that Petra had kept to herself. Sahar had written that she wanted to make Abu Marwan proud of her. For a moment Eli could see the young woman, the big doelike eyes and a hopeful expression, and her kindness for anyone she met, unless they were the Zionist monkeys.
Eli thought about the journal and recalled much of its content. It was mostly mawkish, all he and Eli had gained from it was a reference to an Uncle Fahed, who’d helped with Wasim’s university fees and American visa and he was already on a watch list. The rest was a saga of sadness. The young woman wrote about how she looked after her brother as a child. Eli remembered the words, ‘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.’
What a way to live… and die. How cold would it be there now in the tunnels underground? In tents above the ground? On the road moving from place to place. Sirens, explosions, terrified screams of pain, silent screams of misery. What suffering must be going on.
The door to the room opened and the overhead lights came on and Eli blinked as his vision adjusted.
‘Marhaban Al’afw, Wasim,’ Eli said, using a warm tone and his perfect Arabic, with a hint of the Djebdahi accent he’d worked on. Deliberately, Eli didn’t stand. He needed to establish his seniority. ‘Please forgive the intrusion into the privacy and sanctity of your home, but I did not want to speak to you in a public place, for what I have to say is for you and you alone.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ the young man said in English with an American accent. For a bad moment, Eli wondered whether this aggressive man, who was certainly the one at the airport, was the same young man that he’d cajoled years earlier into going back to the US and safety. Up close, and from his seated position, Dove seemed taller and he had more of a beard, but it was definitely him. Wasim was blinking hard behind the designer specs.
