I Am Not a Traitor: A psychological thriller about an army veteran with a huge secret

by Y. I. Latz

  My voice is shaking. I’m teary-eyed. She is not impressed, and continues. “From a discreet investigation we conducted in Columbia, it turns out your daughter was ultimately released following an instruction from someone high up. Very high up. I’d say very, very, very high up. Who gave that instruction?”

  “Someone who received money.”

  “Who?”

  “One of the bribe recipients.”

  “I get it. You’re creating an endless loop for us, and once again think you’re really clever.”

  I stay silent.

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  “A lot.”

  “How much is a lot?”

  “I already told you.”

  “Tell us again.”

  “Thirty thousand dollars.”

  “In cash?”

  “Yes. No. Yes.”

  “Decide.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you indecisive about the answer?”

  “I wasn’t indecisive. In cash.”

  “You smuggled thirty thousand dollars in cash into Colombia?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a lot of money. Where did you hide it?”

  “Under my clothes.”

  “How did you come up with thirty thousand dollars?”

  “It was my money.”

  “From your bank account?”

  “No.”

  “A loan from a friend? From the kibbutz?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  “From the bank account of my parents, may they rest in peace, in London.”

  “They were rich?”

  My mind grows sharper—

  It’s never been clearer—

  The fingernails of one hand are stabbing into the other—

  Don’t let me answer incorrectly—

  Every word is crucial—

  “No, but they did leave money for their grandchildren.”

  “How much money is in that account?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “You want us to believe you have a foreign currency account in London with tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars in it, and you don’t know exactly how much?”

  I choose the only path remaining to me. I burst out in tears. She waits a few minutes. Once she sees I’m not going to calm down, she leaves. I calm down a moment later.

  ◊◊◊

  This time, it’s Jimmy’s shift. He arrives on his own. “Could you make me some coffee, or is that too hard for you?” he asks.

  The surprises never end. I walk over to the electric kettle. When I turn around, another surprise is waiting for me.

  Jimmy is completely sprawled out on my bed. His palm is on his forehead and his eyes are closed.

  “This pressure in my head is killing me,” he says softly. “And, unrelated to that, I’m exhibiting the first symptoms of an ulcer.” His fingers probe the upper part of his stomach, and his face assumes an expression of pain. “I have a hard time falling asleep at night, I’m short tempered like you wouldn’t believe…and my relationship with my wife is really not that great.”

  The kettle whistles. I make bitter coffee with no sugar for both of us. He signals me to place the coffee down by the foot of the bed.

  “It’s all because of you,” he says quietly, uncomplainingly. “You’re killing me.”

  His eyes are closed.

  He sits up, staying in my bed.

  Looking as if he’s coming to a decision.

  “Can I be open with you?” he asks.

  How ironic of him.

  He continues, “You wait, Johnson. You sit and wait. Who are you waiting for, Johnson?”

  I stare at him blankly.

  “You wait. Wait and wait and wait. You’re stuck in this stinking pit for months. Living like a rat. Your life is shit, your future is hell, and yet you…you…you’re not scared, you don’t despair, you don’t beg, you don’t ask for mercy. You’re not getting your lawyer to bombard the Supreme Court with appeals. No, no, no. You sit and wait. Sit and wait. The question is what exactly you’re waiting for.”

  I sip my coffee slowly and moderately. It came out especially bitter this time. I like bitter coffee, but not that bitter.

  He sips his coffee as well and grimaces. “Goooood. Really, really good. What exactly are you waiting for, Johnson, for a foreign commando to break through the prison walls and take you with it? Who? The SEALs? The Brits? Who are you waiting for so confidently?”

  My voice creaks as I say, “Who do I have to wait for?”

  He listens. Waits for me to continue. I don’t continue.

  He says, “We’ve interrogated people from every nationality, gender, color and ethnicity. Anything you want. We’ve never seen anyone like you. You’re optimistic. No, no, no. Sorry. My mistake. Not optimistic. Something else. Much higher and much more elevated. What is that thing? You’re not a religious Jew, so it’s not faith, and you’re not stupid, so it’s not delusion, either. What is it? I can’t find the word. You’re the smart one between the two of us. I’m sure you can find the right term for me. How would you describe your behavior?”

  I resume sipping my coffee. Small sips. One of my few remaining pleasures in my new world.

  He drains his first.

  “More coffee?” I suggest.

  “I’d love some.”

  I walk over to make it.

  He continues. “Let’s move on to Provence, in the South of France.”

  No!!

  Not again.

  ◊◊◊

  Jimmy is speaking pensively, as if trying to sum up the facts for himself. “The Mossad operative who was tracking you… You let him die. You think you’re so smart? Maybe. But we’re pretty smart, too. All our psychologists who have analyzed your personality determined unequivocally that someone like you wouldn’t abandon a wounded person, even if that person was your worst enemy. There’s no chance you’d let someone die while you were around, whether it’s a dog, a Hamas member with blood on his hands, or your wife’s lover. Did you get that?”

  My mouth is wide open in an expression of surprise. I know I need to close it. I don’t know if I have. What he just said has stunned me that much.

  They have never been closer to the truth—

  He’s standing at arm’s length from me, looking straight into my eyes, as if he expects to read my mind.

  “The man was dying right in front of your eyes, and you stood there and watched. The simple question is, why? What made you behave like a wild beast?”

  “I panicked,” I reply as I’ve grown accustomed to replying.

  He doesn’t respond. As if he heard nothing. Walks away from me. Washes his face. Looks for a towel. I hand him a clean kitchen towel.

  He turns to me.

  Raises his eyes to the security cameras that are documenting our every word and then looks back at me.

  “Why didn’t I realize earlier? How come none of our young geniuses in the Interrogation Division got it, either? Even Marina ‘the Great’ missed it. You’re right. You didn’t kill him.”

  I’m yearning for fresh air.

  “What do you say, Johnson? You weren’t alone in the car there, Johnson. You had a partner, Johnson. Who was there in the car with you, Johnson? Huh, Johnson, who else was there with you?”

  Chapter Seven

  Missing Grandma

  Four days go by. During that entire time, none of them show up.

  I have plenty of time to think. To search for hidden meaning. Every conclusion I reach will be exactly as true as its complete opposite.

  The nights become especially hard. I wake up in the morning tormented after just five hours of sleep. My heart is thundering. Tonight I dreamed of my gra
ndmother. A solitary woman, silent, short in stature, irritable and rigid in demeanor, who dedicated herself to teaching in a small Jewish school in north London.

  Grandma taught me what good food was. Father worked at his auto repair shop from morning to night, and Mother was busy with her career as a psychologist. Every day, Grandma came to us with warm, home-cooked food, packed in round metal boxes sealed with lids. This was an era before plastic containers. The boxes contained all the bounty that the country had to offer, assuming your country was Poland. Chicken soup with dumplings, fried liver and chopped liver, fried chicken skin, gefilte fish, calves’ foot jelly, fish and veal schnitzel. My older brother had married early and immigrated to Australia with his wife. The two of us dined together daily. My Grandma and me, on our own. Silently.

  She was always wearing the same apron. She was a heavy smoker. She didn’t smile, wasn’t affectionate, didn’t give hugs.

  Today I know how much love she showered on me: she insisted I study, pushed me to go to extracurricular classes, gave me pocket money; it was only soccer she wanted nothing to do with.

  I let her down in that regard. I never told her that I stopped going to the North London Municipal Youth Orchestra, and instead chose to go to the Tottenham Hotspur Youth Soccer Team practice sessions. I funded my rides to the practice field and bought a goalie’s outfit and cigarettes with the money she gave me for music classes.

  Yes, with her money.

  One day, she was murdered. The murder shocked London, primarily the members of the Jewish community. It was claimed to have been committed by skinheads, blacks, anti-Semites—or even one of her ex-students.

  Finally, the murderers were caught.

  Their identity unleashed total chaos.

  It was an utter—and mainly bitter—disappointment for all.

  I’m crying.

  Granny, Granny, Granny—

  The door of my cell crashes open. My guards are standing in the doorway, concerned. They saw my tears through the security cameras and rushed to show up.

  What’s happening, Johnson? they ask. Did you get something in your eye again? They wink.

  I confirm this with a nod.

  They’re on my side. They don’t want to have to report my tears to the social worker, as they’re ordered to do. They’ve already learned that such a report might worry “Mr. Psychiatrist,” as they mockingly call him behind his back, and ultimately result in an increase in the security around me, to the point of having me cuffed to the bed.

  At this time, my previous life as a child in north London seems to me like a trick of the imagination. As if that life had never happened. Never.

  ◊◊◊

  The mystery is solved Saturday morning. Their weekly day of rest is an untypical time for an interrogation. It’s not as if I’m a ticking time bomb. Marina and Jimmy burst in first, with the entire gang jostling in after them. They all pack into my narrow cell, some sitting down and others standing.

  They’re obviously excited—

  They open up a laptop with a flourish, positioning it in front of my face on my table, whose legs are affixed to the floor.

  “We found you!” they inform me.

  The wonders of security cameras—

  A series of images is flickering in slow motion across the screen.

  I recognize the street long before I recognize the man whose form has been circled.

  Sheinkin Street—

  Me—

  They’ve put together images from different street cameras. The immense effort invested in the endeavor is evident. They needed to scan all the security cameras in Tel Aviv to do this. Sometimes, the images are put together haphazardly, with no consideration for different times. I’m often seen “changing my clothes” as I walk.

  Mali—

  They’ve discovered her as well, walking beside me, helping me carry overloaded shopping bags.

  One item is present in every single image. You can’t help but notice it.

  The backpack on my back—

  I breathe heavily, exhaling noisily. Hurriedly, I suppress the sound.

  They don’t linger on the images and don’t ask any questions.

  They’re acting as if the best is yet to come.

  And here I am, arriving at the Navy’s Field Security Bureau in HaKirya base in Tel Aviv. The backpack on my back.

  “What was in there?” they ask me innocently now.

  “Just some random stuff. I…”

  “‘…I hate having things in my pockets,’” they imitate me, filling in the answer I’ve already given them countless times.

  It’s nighttime—

  There I am, exiting the gates of HaKirya.

  The backpack is with me.

  I look confused. Hesitating. I receive a phone call.

  Much to my misfortune, I’m standing under a streetlight. All of my motions are well documented. But every cloud has a silver lining. The security cameras are not equipped with microphones, and therefore what I’m saying is inaudible.

  “Who was the call from?” they ask.

  “You didn’t check with the phone company?”

  “We did.”

  “Then you know the answer.”

  “You know very well that the call wasn’t directed to your usual phone.”

  The film continues.

  I catch a cab—

  Its license number is not visible.

  Marina pauses the recording and roars at me. There’s no reason for her to do so. Her colleagues are embarrassed as well. How did a coarse cow like her manage to climb up the ranks of the Shin Bet’s Interrogation Division? I ask myself.

  “Why did it take you three hours to get to Ben Gurion Airport?” she screeches.

  Instead of replying, I repeat her question in a tone of bemusement.

  She puffs up even more. “At 2:20 a.m., you boarded the cab. Someone gave you a heads-up. Don’t worry, we’ll find out who it was. The son of a bitch, whoever he is, told you to get your ass to Ben Gurion Airport and get out of the country while you still could. It doesn’t take more than twenty-five minutes at most to drive to the airport at that time of night. As we’ll soon show you, you arrived in the same taxi at five ten. Where were you in the meantime?”

  My mind boils over—

  “There are cameras along Road 1,” I tell her quietly. “Didn’t you check?”

  “We did, fly-shit. Do you think you’re the only one with any smarts?”

  “Well?”

  “I want you to answer me.”

  If my brain could do so, it would be smoking.

  “In Jerusalem,” I reply.

  I’ve already learned my lesson. I should stick to the facts.

  Jimmy is also sick of Marina’s games, and he plays the clip once more.

  The images fly by again.

  This time, they are using the security cameras at Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital.

  They captured me clearly as I roamed the halls early in the morning. I was trying to get to Shin’s room. But the security detail protecting her scared me off, and I retraced my steps back to the cab.

  Still carrying my backpack the entire time.

  Jimmy hovers over me, smelling of fresh aftershave. “We thought that a moment before you left the country, you wanted to give your whore back what you’d stolen from her. We turned the entire hospital upside down.”

  I gaze up at him in surprise.

  Jimmy looks disappointed. I feel sorry for him. “You know very well what the results were,” he says.

  The images return to Ben Gurion Airport.

  The airport’s security cameras are activated.

  There I am exiting the cab—

  Standing in front of the Departures board—

  Moving from one airline counter to the ne
xt until I stop at the Lufthansa counter—

  Going through the Passport Control stand—

  Walking around in the duty-free zone—

  Leaving it with a shopping bag—

  Seeing what is jumping out at them as well: the backpack is with me the entire time.

  I’m turning toward the broad corridor that leads to my plane—

  Sitting in a chair, waiting to board—

  The backpack is at my feet, the bag from the duty-free store is perched on the chair next to me—

  Marina pauses the film.

  I get it—

  They, too, have noticed that the bag is empty.

  When did I have time—

  She screams, “Where?! Did?! You?! Hide?! Them?!”

  “We tore through the entire airport, including the bathrooms and all the toilet bowls,” Jimmy adds placidly. “You can imagine what that did to our guys, poking through the toilet bowls.”

  “We also tore up your girlfriend’s place on Sheinkin, as a special bonus,” Marina says, much calmer.

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “That’s not the issue we’re dealing with right now,” Jimmy says.

  I’m staring at the computer screen. My heart contracts within me. At the beginning of the evening, I’d been meticulously dressed. In the early morning hours, a moment before boarding the plane, I looked disheveled, tense, and helpless. As if I were a different person. I’m mostly disturbed by the fact that the tails of my shirt are no longer tucked into my pants.

  ◊◊◊

  They saved the real bombshell for the evening interrogation.

  Saturday night.

  Jimmy arrives on his own. I heave a sigh of relief.

  “Security cameras are morons. They photograph whatever they see. When we meticulously put the images of you together, we figured out you weren’t all alone out there. That someone else was tailing you. Want to guess who it is?”

  I pretend to be surprised.

  “We identified them based on their license numbers. Your ‘friends’ from the CIA bureau in Tel Aviv.”

  I don’t look sufficiently surprised to him, which makes him angry.