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

by Y. I. Latz

  After the fierce emotional turmoil, accompanied by a dangerous increase in my body temperature, I’m overcome by a calm of sorts. I don’t care. They can do with me as they will. I have no energy to fight. The only question that should be troubling me from now on is how I can put an end to my misery as quickly as possible. Such things have happened. I’ve already mentioned that despite all the security measures, more than one prisoner has ended his own life in this very cell.

  They don’t look as if they intend to give up. Marina positions herself once again no more than a breath away from me. “Not all three boys paid the price for the terrible thing they did. The third boy, the Jewish one, was unexpectedly released following a deal with the prosecution. The details of the deal were fully suppressed. This is also the boy whose parents paid the hefty fine. He was sent to a prestigious boarding school, and his investigation case file disappeared. Many efforts were invested in uncovering where he is and why he disappeared. Do you have any theories on why his file vanished so successfully?”

  My mouth is dry—

  My tongue is petrified—

  Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t answer—

  I don’t have the strength—

  “I asked if you have any theories,” she asks in a matter-of-fact tone, with no annoyance or impatience.

  “No.”

  “I’ll spare you the need to answer. We found out why it’s impossible to recover the young sixteen-year-old Jewish killer’s investigation file. The reason is simple. It’s been transferred fully into the domain of the British counterintelligence agency, MI6.”

  I’m convinced that I haven’t been breathing for many minutes now—

  She goes on, “It’s been classified under the greatest degree of confidentiality in existence in the United Kingdom: Top Secret 1303.”

  My eyes are blinking uncontrollably—

  They never do that—

  “Do you have any idea why an ugly criminal act by a sixteen-year-old Jewish boy from a good family, a ‘Goodie Two-shoes,’ or whatever the British version of that is, has been allocated to be handled by no less than the British counterintelligence agency, the equivalent of our Mossad?”

  My eyes are still blinking compulsively—

  “Not even to MI5, the equivalent of our Shin Bet, which is in charge of complex criminal investigations taking place within the borders of the United Kingdom, or to Scotland Yard, but to the sophisticated and illustrious MI6, in charge of collecting sensitive intelligence information throughout the world.”

  MI6—

  The explicit name itself—

  As if God’s first name has been mentioned—

  An immense wave of fatigue assails me. It is massive and enormous, threatening to drown me inside it. A million black spots are flickering in my eyes. If only I could close them for a few minutes.

  Jimmy wants to know how I’m doing. “Do you feel okay? Your face is as red as a beet. Is your heart okay? Do you want to drink? Come on, drink a little. There, I’ve poured you another glass of water.”

  No worthwhile thought, or any thought at all, is going through my mind. Only an endless, boundless, paralyzing fear.

  Marina returns to her usual self, including her screechy voice. “We’ve looked into it. MI6 reached a deal with the boy. The question is, what kind of deal could the British Mossad reach with a young English boy? It’s true, the boy and his parents were prohibited from leaving the boundaries of the U.K., but he gained his freedom. More than that, it was MI6 that paid the two million pounds instead of the boy’s parents. The boy was spared twelve years in prison, as well as a terrible downward spiral ending in a near-certain drug addiction, and of course, the utter financial ruin of his parents. The big question remains unanswered: why? What did he give them in return? What immense, major thing can a sixteen-year-old offer in order to win back his liberty and also receive a prize of two million pounds?”

  She grows silent.

  All three of them are silent now.

  I try to think.

  There are no thoughts in me.

  Neither is there pain of any kind.

  Only apathy.

  Nachmias intervenes. “We didn’t have to be geniuses in order to realize that the deal wasn’t made with the poor boy himself, but with someone from his family.”

  He pauses. Stares at me. There’s nothing to see there. My eyes are just as glazed as his. He resumes speaking. “We started to look around. What could he offer in return to justify the immense prize he received? His father is not an influential, estate-owner billionaire, but a simple immigrant from Israel who owns a car repair shop. We crossed him off the list. The mother is indeed British by birth, but is merely a psychologist working for social services. She doesn’t make much money. We crossed her off the list. Back to the boy. It turned out his main hobby was soccer. More than that, he was a goalie on the premier youth team for the illustrious Tottenham Hotspur Club, and everyone was predicting he had a bright future ahead of him.”

  I have indeed stopped breathing—

  Nachmias progresses in measured steps toward the photo of Tottenham’s legendary goalie, which stands on the shelf, and picks it up.

  He gazes at it at length, as if it actually conceals the solution to the great mystery, and if he only stares at it long enough, the big secret he is striving toward will spontaneously reveal itself.

  All he sees is a tall fellow in a goalie’s vest holding a ball under his arm, with the stands of White Hart Lane Stadium, packed with fans, visible behind his shoulder.

  I look up to the photo I’ve seen millions of times.

  Ray Clemence is “looking” at me from within with his subtle smile—

  I smile back without actually moving my lips.

  He and his smile have always had a mystical effect on me.

  ◊◊◊

  Nachmias continues, still holding Ray Clemence’s photo in his hands. “The question of the nature of this deal remains open. What could a Jewish sixteen-year-old boy from a good home offer the great MI6? What significant return can a young goalie, talented as he might be, provide, to an extent that would compel the British government’s minister of justice to sign the young murderer’s unusual release form, and the prime minister himself to approve it? What giant, miraculous secret is concealed in this file, which has been honored with joining the quite brief list of files to be granted the highest degree of confidentiality in existence within the borders of the United Kingdom?”

  Don’t blink!

  Don’t lick your lips!

  Don’t wipe away the sweat!

  Nachmias’s voice is quiet, understated, almost friendly. “We’re sure that you yourself can see the problematic aspect here. Any child could. It’s evident that there’s no win-win situation here. The little murderer received his freedom and his money. But what did he give in return?”

  I stare—

  “Bribery? We thought of that. We quickly dismissed that silly idea. MI6 in no way resembles a bunch of mobsters from Africa or South America. Money doesn’t pass from hand to hand there. They’re incorruptible. What’s the alternative, then? We were curious. Very curious. If it isn’t money, what did pass from hand to hand over there in London? Any ideas?”

  The stomachache that’s overtaking me is truly horrific—

  “Huh?” he insists. “Huh? Huh? Huh?”

  My shirt is sweat-stained and clinging to my skin. Every inch of my body is sweating. I assume I stink accordingly. He doesn’t seem to mind. He leans in toward me.

  “The young murderer ‘made aliyah’—he immigrated to Israel. He left it all behind—his family, high school, his promising soccer career—moved to Israel, joined a kibbutz, and at the age of eighteen, enlisted in IDF, the Israeli Army, like a true patriot. He tried to join the Special Forces counter-terrorism unit, but couldn’t make it through the
training process. That’s okay. He was accepted into the Naval Commando. Took part in many missions and even received a commendation from the chief of general staff. He was considered brave, strong, and clever. Too clever.”

  Nachmias hovers above me. He is so close that I shift in discomfort.

  He continues. “He also changed his name. Not all of it, just part of it. And now for the riddle: what is Abraham Nathan Stein’s new name?”

  I stay silent—

  “Well, what’s his new name?”

  “He…”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “He…”

  “I couldn’t hear you. Talk louder. Who’s ‘he’? Who? Is it?”

  “Henry…”

  “Henry what?”

  “Henry…Even…”

  “And who’s Henry Even?”

  “Me.”

  “I can’t hear you!”

  “Me!”

  “And who enlisted in the Naval Commando?”

  “Me!!”

  “Why?”

  “To be a fighter!”

  “Why?”

  “To serve my homeland!”

  “Which homeland?”

  “Mine!”

  “Which homeland, you stinking piece-of-shit maggot?”

  “Israel!”

  “Which homeland?”

  “Israel! Israel! Israel!”

  The head of the Shin Bet is shaking me until my eyes are about to fly out of their sockets. “Serve which homeland?! Huh? Serve which homeland?! Which homeland?!”

  I’m running out of air—

  He keeps roaring. “Whiiiiiich?! Hoooomeland?! Did?! You?! Want?! To?! Serve?!”

  My pulse is accelerated—

  My sweating increases—

  I’m short of breath—

  These are sure signs of an impending heart attack.

  I wait—

  I wish it would come.

  I wait a little more.

  Nachmias waits with me—

  It doesn’t come.

  “I didn’t hear you!” Nachmias screams, shaking me as he speaks, as if I were a rag doll.

  “E—”

  “I can’t! Hear! You! Which homeland??”

  “Myyyyyy!! Homeland!”

  “And which? Homeland? Is? Yours? Which homeland did you swear to serve faithfully at the Naval Commando’s swearing-in ceremony by the Western Wall with your hand on the Bible? Huh? I’m asking you?! Huh?? What?! Is?! Your homeland?! Called??”

  “Her! Majesty!” I scream as I’ve never screamed before. “My homeland is Her Majesty’s Kingdom!”

  I sit up.

  As much as I can, of course, under the circumstances.

  And in an incredibly clear and quiet voice, like someone who has experienced the lifting of an immense weight off his heart, I add with purely defiant pride:

  “England!”

  Part Two

  ─ ◊ ─

  Chapter Ten

  Exactly a Year Earlier

  Our Neta had disappeared. Our only daughter. A backpacker on the customary trip abroad after her discharge from mandatory military service. One morning, we were informed of this in a call received in our home in the kibbutz. We didn’t know whether she had disappeared in Colombia or in Venezuela, and whether it had happened a week or two earlier, or maybe a month ago. Two Israeli friends with whom she had crossed paths during her journey called us from South America and shared their concern for her well-being.

  Frightened children. They felt guilty, even though it wasn’t their fault. They told us they had been traveling with Neta in Colombia for three or four weeks. A month earlier, they had split up and she had continued on her own. For ten days, she had stayed in daily contact with them using WhatsApp or Skype. One night, she told them that the next day, she was planning on embarking on her own on a challenging four-day trip up the bed of a well-known river. That was the last time they heard from her. Two weeks had since gone by. Her phone remained turned off the entire time. That morning, they decided to call us in order to share their concern with us. They apologized for having waited so long.

  Smadar calmed them down. “It was nice of you to bother to locate us and update us,” she told them sweetly, making an effort to suppress the fear that had taken hold of her, while at the same time extracting every iota of information from them.

  “Why are you just stuck here like some rooster,” she berated me. “Start making calls and find out where our girl is!”

  I refused to panic. Since her discharge from IDF—and even before her enlistment—our daughter had insisted on spoon-feeding us regular doses of misery. In this year-and-a-half-long journey abroad, she had already “disappeared” and been “found” several times. On one occasion, we had already alerted the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and another time, we declared a mass recruitment of young kibbutz members who were currently backpacking throughout South America.

  However, every time, she emerged from her silence when it suited her to do so, and spewed her complaints at us: why were we so hysterical, and hadn’t we already learned that she’s quite capable of taking care of herself?

  But there was another reason why the phone call from her friends in South America came at a bad time. Not that there’s a good time for calls like that.

  The call disrupted my plans.

  On that day, I’d been planning to tell my wife a secret.

  A secret I’d been carrying deep in my heart for three weeks.

  I had been laid off.

  Me!!

  The shame of it was overwhelming.

  ◊◊◊

  Three weeks earlier, at the Israeli Navy submarine base in the Port of Haifa.

  The conversation was brief. Ten minutes. Even less. The female officer, a major from the Navy Personnel Division, told me they were sorry. Very sorry. Very, very sorry. The word “sorry” was pronounced in countless variations. Even her expression looked sorrowful.

  The deputy commander of the Navy, a brigadier general by rank, was sitting next to her. Saying nothing. Letting her lead the conversation. His eyes were downcast, careful not to meet my own.

  Both of them were regular visitors in my kitchen.

  The explanations the female officer supplied were not illogical. My advanced age, IDF’s new policy of no longer employing civilians in roles that were not clearly combat-support positions, a “strategic resolution” to outsource IDF’s mess halls.

  She concluded her speech with a cliché. She found it funny. As evidenced by her smile. “It’s not you. It’s us.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Their decision had been looming over my head for a while now. I’d seen the ax come down to my left and to my right, in various departments. I’d also read about it in the papers. IDF’s cost-reduction plan had been publicly announced. And yet I had maintained hope. After all, I was their darling.

  “How much time do I have left?” I asked.

  “As far as we’re concerned, you can take a month or two,” they hastened to reply together generously.

  I tried to respond. However, the only sound I could produce was a kind of grunt.

  “Are you crying?” she asked. Her expression displayed more embarrassment than curiosity.

  “I’m. Coughing. Stuffy.” I sniffed to demonstrate.

  “You’ll be turning fifty any minute now,” the deputy commander of the corps said. “You know what they say. ‘It’s now or never.’ Now is your time to embark on the next chapter of your career, while you’re still young and energetic. You’re a superb chef. Famous. You excel at making connections. Every restaurant is going to want to hire you. More than that, with the compensation package and the retirement funds you’ll get, you can even open your own restaurant. I’ll be your first customer.”

  “B
ut I… I’m…asking…begging… I want…” I attempted mindlessly.

  He interrupted me. “I really don’t understand why you’d rather feed coarse soldiers like us, who are ecstatic to eat french fries with hummus, rather than opening some kind of French restaurant or sushi joint. Why waste your immense talent on us? Your salary as an army-employed civilian with maximum seniority is definitely nothing to write home about, and I’m sure it’s nowhere near the money a chef of your caliber would make out there. We’re all aware of your loyalty to your submarines over the years, which is much appreciated, but now it’s time to let it go! Leave us behind! Take care of your own household!”

  “I…want…to…stay…” I mumbled yet again, my eyes downcast. “At least for another year. Or two.”

  This was surreal. It was too much. Both of them appeared to be running out of patience. The encounter, which had begun on a pleasant, ceremonial note, was beginning to go downhill. He leaned in toward me. “Explain it to me so that I understand. What seems so frightening to you about working in a real restaurant, or even opening a quality joint of your own?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Huh?” he asked again, thoroughly impatient and annoyed. “What’s scaring you?”

  I only had one good answer.

  Which I couldn’t state out loud.

  London—

  I was afraid of what London would say.

  ◊◊◊

  Only when I left the personnel office did I grasp the full significance of the step that had been directed at me only a moment ago.

  I was filled with intense emotions of anger, frustration and terror.

  What had I done to deserve this—

  “Henry’s Sea Bistro.” Who hadn’t heard of it? The rumors regarding the quality of my little mess hall at the heart of the submarine base had spread quickly, reaching far beyond the boundaries of the Navy and even IDF as a whole. The first mess hall in the history of IDF to acquire its own stellar reputation, as if it were a commercial restaurant. Everyone wanted to eat at “the best military kitchen in the world.” My many admirers claimed that my hearty stews, my schnitzels with the “secret batter,” my fresh fish seared on the grill, my “divine” shakshuka dish of eggs in tomato sauce and my melt-in-your-mouth french fries, from which not a single drop of oil dripped, were worthy of at least two Michelin stars.