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

by Y. I. Latz

  The rendezvous time came and went. We had no idea what to do. An order received through the two-way radio told us to stay in place, hide during the day, wait for the officer to come to his senses and try to make our escape the following evening.

  However, the officer’s panic attack grew even worse. His eyes rolled over in their sockets and he vomited repeatedly. He seemed to be in a world of his own. The few moments when he became lucid again were actually the hardest ones—he threatened to go down to the street and surrender himself to the Yemenite soldiers who were swarming en masse in the area.

  Singer and I took the initiative. We cuffed his hands and feet, gagged him with a rag, and tied him with a rope to a protruding bracket. The wretched officer relieved himself in his pants, and the stench was unbearable.

  These were terrifying hours for us.

  The command center, located on the deck of the merchant ship deep at sea, sent us an unusually harsh command: if the poor officer refused to depart during this evening as well, we were to leave him alone on the roof and take off without him.

  This clear-cut command came with one more comment—we were to leave his personal weapon in his hands, loaded with one chambered bullet only.

  The fate that awaited him were he to be taken prisoner was clear to all of us. It was also clear to us all what he would have to do with that single bullet.

  Our pleas over the two-way radio that they send us a rescue squad were rejected. We understood the reason; IDF couldn’t get involved in a battle on Yemenite soil, a country with which it was not in a state of conflict and with which it had no reason to initiate conflict, while also admitting to having violated its sovereignty.

  A heated argument broke out among the four of us. Singer and I argued passionately that we could not abandon our commander, as this went against the values upon which we had been raised. More accurately, this was Singer’s claim. I kept quiet. When he looked at me, I nodded. I did so reluctantly. I wanted to get out of the damn place as quickly as possible. But I couldn’t do that to Singer, and I couldn’t leave him there on his own.

  The other two soldiers claimed, justifiably, that our stance would lead to our death, or—as was considered even worse, and more humiliating—to our being captured.

  The second night arrived. Singer and I were determined to stay with the officer. “If we have to, we’ll fight till the last bullet,” Singer declared fiercely, while I continued to nod.

  The other two soldiers didn’t wait long. They took off on their own. Ultimately, they were young and scared and wanted to stay alive. The explicit order they had received played in their favor. The two of them reached the beach safely and using one of the two rubber boats, made it to the merchant ship that was waiting for them at the rendezvous point.

  The third day dawned. The area was crawling with enemy soldiers. We still had no chance of making it out on our own, carrying the officer on our backs. We were out of food and water. We had not been prepared to stay out in the field for so long. Singer was lying in a shady corner, half-swooning from fatigue, hunger and stress. The officer had calmed down for the time being. He appeared to be checked out and had stopped struggling against the ties restraining him. His eyes were open but he was not communicating, immersed in a world of his own.

  I made a decision.

  I had been considering it since our entanglement began.

  “I’m going down to get food and water,” I whispered to Singer. His eyes opened wide, but he didn’t say anything. I doubt whether he understood me.

  I went down and exited the building. Once I was sure I was out of my two friends’ sight and hearing range, I took out a private communication device from under my jellabiya. These were the days before cell phones were a mass-produced item.

  I talked to whoever I talked to—

  Yes, that’s what I did.

  Exactly.

  I talked to whoever I talked to.

  I knew it: I had just crossed a line.

  But I, too, was young and I also wanted to stay alive.

  I returned to the roof. Singer was half-conscious. He didn’t ask what I had been doing and didn’t need my excuses.

  Sixteen more hours went by. As morning approached, a short time before the dawn, I received the covert signal. I woke both of them up.

  “I got us a cab,” I told them. “It’s waiting for us downstairs.”

  It was surreal and sounded unreasonable. As if we were in the heart of Tel Aviv. But both of them took my words literally. Meaning Singer did. The officer was still lost in his own world, didn’t react, and to my relief, didn’t object. The three of us made our way down on shaky legs.

  A decrepit local car was waiting for us there, its lights off. Inside were a driver and another passenger sitting next to him. They didn’t say a word. Neither did we. We crowded into the back seat. The car took off.

  Less than ten minutes later, we reached the spot on the abandoned beach where we had hidden the rubber boats.

  The cab driver and his assistant waited for us to exit. A moment later, they drove off. All this took place with no more than a word or two being exchanged.

  A few minutes later, we were already speeding off in the rubber boat, and less than an hour later, we joined the merchant ship, which had been waiting for us the entire time at the heart of the sea. It set sail immediately, cruising north, toward the Port of Eilat.

  We were saved.

  We were given a hero’s welcome, crowned with laurels. We were asked to repeat our story again and again.

  We received unexpected support from the mentally ill officer. While being interrogated, he mentioned “black angels arriving in movie cars.” In light of his condition, no one paid any attention, and he was discharged from IDF a short time later.

  The reward arrived quickly for both of us: We were both invited to receive a commendation in a low-key ceremony in the chief of general staff’s bureau. The details of the mission and the rescue were fully suppressed. The certificates we received stated we had been commended for “unusual daring, presence of mind, perseverance, resourcefulness, initiative and bravery.”

  No less.

  One seemingly casual statement from Singer made it clear to me that he had uncovered my secret, or at least part of it.

  “You know what the weirdest thing is?” he whispered to me while the chief of general staff pinned the medals to both of our chests. “It was a Yemenite cab, right? But I saw… You didn’t pay the driver at the end of the ride.”

  “No way! Of course I paid him!” I quickly objected.

  But my good friend was right, of course. All that pressure made me forget to carry out this simple action, or even pretend to do so.

  This was a serious mistake he hadn’t failed to notice.

  “And one more thing,” Singer whispered to me on the same occasion. “The driver’s and his assistant’s accents. Their Arabic wasn’t authentic.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “And later. After we left their cab. I heard. They were talking in fluent English to each other. I swear. And their accent was familiar. It sounded just like yours.”

  “And you didn’t exactly do anything to earn your commendation,” I whispered back, my malicious tone easily discernible.

  From that day onward, we never touched on the subject again. He kept his suspicions regarding the true identity of the cab driver and his assistant to himself, while I exaggerated when describing his role in the proceedings.

  The daring, resourceful rescue operation forged Singer’s reputation, causing many doors to open before him. After a successful career in IDF, he joined the Mossad, climbing up the ranks quickly.

  “Anyway, I owe you,” he told me dryly on the evening of that day when we were briefly alone in the restroom of the chief of general staff’s office in Tel Aviv.

  “You’re right,” I respond
ed, dead serious. “You definitely do owe me and you’ll definitely pay me back.”

  ◊◊◊

  Thirty years have since gone by.

  Throughout the years, we maintained a close, friendly relationship. We would frequently meet over well-loaded tables. Most of the meetings took place at my home in the kibbutz or at cafés and restaurants in Haifa and Tel Aviv. He was a gourmand like me and a bottomless drinker, unlike me. Surprisingly, there was never enough cash in his wallet, and he was reluctant to use his credit card, for some reason. And so I found myself regularly paying for our meetings.

  Here and there, I also carried out some discreet services for him. At his request, I reported to him on internal discussions conducted by the Navy leadership in my kitchen, as well as on the routes of the submarines’ missions. I saw no problem in doing so. After all, he was a senior operative in the Mossad. What could be more legitimate than that?

  He never stopped striving to become head of the Mossad. That role was his heart’s desire. The distance separating him from it grew consistently shorter. There was plenty of competition. The press reported that none of them stood a chance against him. No one could impede the ascent of the number one operative, whose career was laden with daring missions, all characterized by zero mishaps.

  “Zero mishaps”?

  Not anymore.

  Not while I was around.

  ◊◊◊

  And there was Singer’s head, right in front of me, as he surprised me at an early hour of the morning, in my kitchen at the submarine base.

  “Your wife is worried about your daughter,” he told me. “She was surprised that you hadn’t called me up and told me. She said I could catch you here. Since I have to be around here anyway, because of the panic over the spy who is or isn’t lurking around, I popped in to see how you’re doing and how I can help.”

  The base security officer, who was immersed in the private breakfast I’d prepared for him with my own two hands, leaped to his feet quickly, all excited. In a moment, he would have inappropriately saluted the man in civilian clothing.

  I understood what was going through his mind: it wasn’t every day that he got to meet the deputy director of the Mossad face-to-face.

  I couldn’t find the right words to respond. My shock was that great.

  Singer noticed. “I see you’re busy,” he said, grinning. “And actually, I have to get going too. Let’s meet for lunch, okay? Are we good for now?”

  He patted me on the back and disappeared.

  ◊◊◊

  We met for lunch in a well-known pub on Mount Carmel. I was there on time. He was almost an hour late. If it wasn’t for the man I was meeting and the circumstances, I would have taken off long before then.

  When he finally arrived, he noticed my anger. He clapped me on the shoulder and put his arm around me. “Let’s sit at the bar,” he suggested. “What’s this dark corner you found for us? You’re taking up a spot that’s reserved for unmarried couples.”

  He grabbed me by the arm as if I were a child and pulled me toward the bar. Many of the patrons knew him and greeted him by name. Odd. In accordance with his confidential role, his full name had never been revealed to the public, and he was referred to only by his initial, “S.”

  The bartender was clearly glad to see him. “How are you doing, brother,” he addressed Singer, who was approximately his father’s age. “What can I get you two?”

  We were seated at the end of the bar. I exhibited my dissatisfaction. I found our location too exposed.

  “What are you having?” Singer asked me, assuming the tone of a generous host. How ironic. Both of us knew he would not be the one paying for our shared meal.

  “I’ve already had tea,” I replied, annoyed.

  “Tea? Did you say tea? Holy crap. You’re embarrassing me. This is a pub, Mr. Chef. A real pub. Not your mess hall at the fleet.”

  I couldn’t shed my sour expression. He noticed.

  “Peter Schmeichel,” he said.

  I looked at him, perplexed.

  “Peter Schmeichel,” he said again.

  This was a kind of inside joke shared only by the two of us. He knew of my love for soccer, and mainly for the role of goalkeeper. The two of us would take turns naming famous goalies. The first to be unable to list a name was the loser.

  This time, I didn’t respond, since my nerves were utterly frayed, and I was not in the mood for games.

  “Come on, come on, I said Peter Schmeichel,” he spurred me on, a spark in his eyes.

  “Edwin Van Der Sar,” I retorted reluctantly.

  “Dino Zoff!” he called out triumphantly.

  “Manuel Neuer.”

  “Oliver Khan.”

  “Lev Yashin.”

  “Barthez.”

  “Diego López.”

  “Zenga.”

  “Gianluigi Buffon.”

  “Casillas.”

  “Gordon Banks.”

  “Peter Shilton.”

  “Ray Clemence.”

  “Damn, you and your Ray Clemence,” he teased. “Remind me who he played for? Manchester United?”

  “No! Tottenham!” I called out, insulted.

  He laughed.

  I’d fallen for it again.

  Once the ice was broken, he decided it was the right time to signal the bartender, throwing a few lines his way. These, too, were accompanied by clapping his shoulder. Due to the general bustle, I couldn’t hear what he was saying. The bartender left his spot, disappearing in the kitchen behind him, and returned with several wine bottles. He uncorked each of them in turn, placing three empty glasses in front of each of us.

  “This is an artisanal wine imported from abroad for an initial trial run,” Singer explained to me, pouring from the first bottle for both of us. He clinked his glass against mine theatrically and began to sip. An expression of pleasure spread across his face.

  “Bianco Sergio Alighieri, 1997. Mmmmm… Medium to light bodied. Pale yellow. Hints of grass and peach. A bit reminiscent of champagne.”

  I tasted it. The pleasure spread through me, as well. He noticed, his grin expanding.

  He poured from the second bottle for both of us. “This is a rare bottle of Barbaresco Giacosa Fratelli, 1996. Mmmmm… Medium to full bodied. Hints of brown. Unfurls slowly. An aroma of ripe fruit. Dried plums. Spices. Coffee. Soil. Truffles.”

  I was surprised. “Why truffles?”

  “They’re there. But not everything is a direct hit. Sometimes there are misses. It’s a professional hazard, there’s nothing you can do about it. Let’s try the third one.”

  Once again, he poured for me. His gestures confident, professional, almost too professional. “Look at the label. Hungarian. ‘Tokaji Furmint Late Harvest.’ Quite bland. Nothing to write home about. Golden color. Hints of melon, passion fruit and dried ansu apricot. Too gentle, feminine. What do you think?”

  Our pointed criticism didn’t stop us from emptying our glasses completely. Tasty or less tasty, our gluttony was endless.

  I was concerned. I should stay clear-headed for the conversation we had yet to begin. Meanwhile, I was considering him with admiration. The small-town boy who had grown up acquiring the survival instincts of an alley cat had come a long way to become a sophisticated wine connoisseur and a man of the world.

  He cut my contemplation short. “Should we move on to something stronger? Something classy? They have a fantastic whisky here that they reserve for friends and family only. What do you say?”

  A moment later, he was already sipping a double shot of Chivas Regal whisky with increasing pleasure. Meaning both his shot and mine, after he grew convinced that I wasn’t going to touch it.

  I couldn’t shake off my odd sensation. It seemed strange to me that this guy, whose disheveled clothing could have easily won him a Guinne
ss World Record for lack of taste, was professionally sipping fine whisky in accordance with all the rules of ceremony, including spinning the glass, inhaling the aroma, taking a first sip without swallowing, pursing his lips and sighing with the utmost satisfaction.

  The tall chair was not comfortable to sit in, and it was very noisy around us. This was not how I had imagined our conversation.

  “About Neta,” I said.

  “Ah, your girl, yes,” he said, as if he didn’t know the purpose of our meeting. “I’ve already told your wife not to worry. Piece of cake. We have someone there, and I’ve already asked him to do whatever it takes.”

  He didn’t like my reserved expression and hurriedly added, all confidence, “I told you, piece of cake. It’s a piece of cake.”

  “But Smadar…” I tried to say. There was no one to talk to. He had already been swept away from me by the other patrons.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Una Notte a Napoli”

  Friday night.

  Seventy-two hours before I “left” for Nairobi and from there to Mombasa. I had secretly booked a flight on Ethiopian Airlines using my own money. My mood was at an all-time low, both because of the outright deceit characterizing this action and the unnecessary financial expense.

  In the evening, we went to visit some good friends in the village of Nahalal. Both of them were once members of our kibbutz until they got tired of it and left. Smadar and I turned out to be the life of the party, both because of Neta and because of the espionage affair involving the naval officer in the States, which was causing an uproar.

  Many of the guests were parents of backpackers roaming various corners of the globe. All of them expressed their sympathy for our plight. The topic was discussed from every possible angle. They flooded us with suggestions and ideas of all kinds, from organizing a search party comprised of young ex-backpacker Israelis, to contacting the Colombian government and sending a petition to the UN.

  A heated argument broke out regarding the most effective way to attain our goal. Everyone agreed on one thing.

  We should contact “Rescue Ralph”—

  His name and the tales of the miracles he had performed were tossed at us from every direction. He was the guardian angel of backpackers and their parents. A former commando fighter who had become the hope of many parents. Here he located a young man who was lost in the jungle and presumed dead; there he rescued a backpacker who had sprained his leg in an unpassable crevice. In between, he facilitated the release from prison of a young man who had been accused of initiating a fight in which he never even took part.