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

by Y. I. Latz

  Like a pyromaniac attracted to fire.

  This was a turbulent time. The Second Intifada, a violent Palestinian uprising, was at its peak. Israelis were being attacked in the Occupied Territories every day.

  I uncovered her weakness by chance. It was after our first meetings were cut short unexpectedly, with no explanation on her part. She was constantly glued to her cell phone, her eyes and fingers constantly poking and prodding at it. When she found what she was looking for, she blew a kiss at me and hurried to her oversized jeep.

  I remained on my own, feeling stunned. I couldn’t decide whether this was a form of mental illness or a completely different sort of secret. My desire to spend time in her company utterly blinded me. The sexuality she exuded paralyzed my logic and my reasoning. I confined myself to feeling grateful to her for letting me spend time with her. That was enough for me.

  A week later, she invited me to come along. I refused.

  The TV screens above us filled up with images from the site of the latest terror attack.

  The Dizengoff Center mall, bus line No. 5 on Dizengoff Street in Tel Aviv, the pedestrian mall in Jerusalem.

  Every time, she leaped from her seat as if she were a member of the emergency medical team.

  “Are you coming?” she asked.

  “No, no, no,” I always answered.

  “Coward!” she tossed out at me. Her comment did not convey a personal insult, mockery or criticism of any kind.

  She shrugged and disappeared, leaving me staring at the trail she left in her wake.

  Until my curiosity overcame my compunctions.

  ◊◊◊

  The city of Ariel in the West Bank. On the sixteenth evening of our acquaintance, we noted our first shared terror attack.

  We were “waiting” for it at a diner attached to a gas station in Petach Tikva. The radio was tuned to IDF Waves, the military radio station. I was translating for her. A violent attack had just taken place on Highway 5, the Trans-Samaria Highway. We shot out toward it. She was driving the jeep with a high sense of urgency, as if we were a rescue vehicle.

  We arrived at the scene. She didn’t do much. Stationed herself at a good angle and followed what was going on with an unreadable expression. Bodies, burned cars, cries of pain from severely injured victims, the heartache of unharmed family members, sirens, flashing lights from emergency vehicles. Communication devices, soldiers running around.

  She kept away from curious onlookers and media photographers. Her face was concealed by a wide-brimmed straw hat and dark sunglasses, even at night.

  I tracked her actions, uncomprehending. She didn’t take pictures, she didn’t write, she didn’t display any sorrow, she didn’t reach out to help the wounded, some of whom were still bleeding and had not received medical attention.

  Not a word—

  Present yet absent, standing on a hill and watching.

  I approached her.

  “About your Neta,” she said.

  She didn’t look at me, didn’t take her eyes off the rescue efforts.

  I thought I had misheard her. What did the bloody event in which we were currently engaging as passive onlookers, in the turbulent West Bank, have to do with my daughter, who had found safe harbor in Colombia?

  “About your Neta,” she repeated. From that moment on, she peppered me with questions. What was the name of the hospital in which my daughter was currently located, what offense, exactly, was she being accused of, who else knew what was going on, how exactly did my daughter spell her name in English.

  I was happy to answer. I replied in detail. I was grateful.

  How was I to know that each of my answers buried my daughter even deeper? That I was single-handedly embroiling her in an international conspiracy, and that soon, she would become a pawn in the hands of three of the world’s leading intelligence agencies?

  There, at the junction leading into the city of Ariel, between the bodies of the victims and the cries of the wounded, her interest in my daughter’s fate disturbed me, but enchanted me as well. Her nostrils quavered as if she were moonstruck. She couldn’t see anything around her, including me. Her entire being was focused on fulfilling one all-consuming desire.

  I realized I was witnessing a human trait that was beyond my comprehension.

  The desire to touch death.

  ◊◊◊

  Two in the morning. We drove back to Tel Aviv from the site of the lethal attack in silence. She drove the jeep, and I sat in the passenger seat, under the influence of the difficult sights I had witnessed, as well as her many questions about my daughter.

  “We’re not going to any hotel,” she said matter-of-factly, putting an end to my speculations as well as my wishes. “I’ll go on to Jerusalem, and you’ll drive slowly and carefully to your wife in the kibbutz.”

  I signaled her to stop at the corner of Allenby and Sheinkin, claiming I had parked my car there. Of course, she didn’t know that I was living in a rented room on Sheinkin.

  As I exited, my tail between my legs, she blew me a kiss, as was her custom. I stood on the sidewalk, looking utterly deflated.

  “You were spared!” she called out at me through the open window. “You’re a good person! Run away from me while you still can. You have no idea who you’re dealing with. I only bring bad luck. Run! Run!”

  ◊◊◊

  I couldn’t sleep a wink.

  Shin—

  My mind was losing its grip.

  Shin—

  My stomach contracted.

  Shin—

  Her glorious body in front of my eyes.

  Shin—

  I tossed and turned.

  Shin—

  Shin, Shin, Shin—

  Shin, Shin, Shin, Shin, Shin, Shin—

  Shin, Shin, Shin, ShinShinShinShinShinShin ShinShinShinShinShinShin—

  I went out to the street.

  It was the middle of the night. I began walking quickly. I didn’t know where I was headed. The city was dark and empty.

  I increased my pace. Allenby Street, the entire length of the Tel Aviv Promenade. Nordau Avenue.

  Onward! Onward! Onward! I walked more quickly, as if I had a destination and a direction.

  I grew tired.

  Sweat made my clothes cling to my body.

  I sat down on an avenue bench.

  Shin—

  I gripped my cell phone.

  Five-fifty—

  Shin—

  I debated.

  Shin—

  If I had been connected to a blood pressure monitor at that moment, it would have exploded.

  Shin—

  I was pathetic.

  The image of my beloved wife also flashed in front of my eyes at that moment. My Smadar. The dearest woman in the world to me. A pure soul. What was I doing to her, and what was I doing to myself?

  I came to a decision. Now, effective immediately! I must disengage from the Korean! However, the phone was still in my hand and apparently, this was just too much.

  I sent her a text message. “You up?”

  Her reply came quickly. “You?”

  “Did you make it to Jerusalem OK?”

  “Yes. And did you make it to your kibbutz OK?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “What are you doing now?”

  “What do virtuous women do at this hour?”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “You guess.”

  “Will we meet again?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather be home with your wife?”

  “We’re in a state of high alert. I’ll have to stay at the base for a few days.” I instantly invented a new fabrication, without thinking twice.

  “Alert? What kind of alert? Your submarines too?” she asked.

  “When can we meet
?”

  “I asked whether your submarines are included in the state of alert.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Is it related to…Iran?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Just say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

  “Can I see you tomorrow? Please?”

  “I’m asking whether your submarines are also in a state of alert.”

  “Yes,” I answer at random. What did I care? Might as well go with yes.

  “Where are they? Opposite the coast of Syria? Opposite Libya? Opposite Iran?”

  I stayed silent.

  “Send me a text with the answer,” she asked. “You won’t regret it.”

  Her request left me speechless.

  Come on now. I won’t write a word. Why should she care?

  A minute later, I received a text from her. “You’re not serious. You promised and you didn’t come through. I won’t see you anymore. It’s a waste of time. You don’t trust me. I thought we were friends.”

  “Of course I trust you!!” I wrote in reply.

  I’m such a sucker—

  “Well then?” she wrote.

  “What?” I answered. As if I didn’t know what she meant.

  “The submarines or submarine. Where?”

  Her repeated question sounds impudent to me. I was certain of that. How dare she? Moreover, even if I had wanted to, I had no answer that would satisfy her. I had nothing to do with the submarines anymore, and I had made up the “state of alert” for her benefit, anyway.

  I was just a cook, after all. A laid-off cook.

  A new text message arrived.

  One I found irresistible. “How are you in bed?”

  I answered this question the way any man would.

  “Outstanding.”

  “Too bad we’ll never know the truth.”

  “But…”

  “Where’s the submarine?”

  This time I replied—

  “In India.”

  ◊◊◊

  I was full of lust as well as pleased with my own wit.

  The media had never singled India out as an Israeli Navy target. India had never come up in any of the gossip I heard in my dining room. And most importantly, none of our submarines had ever sailed to India.

  Why was I so certain? Because I was familiar with all the other surprising destinations.

  That was why I was smiling to myself.

  Now that I had given her my answer and sated her curiosity, I could focus on the promise inherent in her text messages and immerse myself once more in her question, as well as my answer.

  How are you in bed how are you in bed how are you in bed how—

  “When can I see you?” I asked in my last text.

  She did not reply to that one, nor did she answer my numerous phone calls.

  I got it.

  She had probably fallen asleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Neta Gets in Trouble

  Morning. The call from Smadar woke me up in my rented room on Sheinkin. She thought I was at the naval base in Haifa.

  “A problem has come up with our Neta!” she called out ominously. “She just called me. The Medellín Police intend to charge her with a major traffic violation. It turned out she was driving a jeep with no license and no insurance. The jeep flipped over after she lost control of it. It was rented by four young people around her age, backpackers like her. Two of them from Australia, one from New Zealand and one from Japan. She was just a hitchhiker, but she insisted on driving. Do you get that? With no license and without being listed on the insurance. After she flipped over, the young people decided to do her a favor and claim responsibility. They lied to the cops that one of them was driving. But the police found out the truth, and decided to take some measures against her.”

  “What kind of measures?”

  “Her passport hasn’t been returned, and she’s going to be arrested. Did you get that? They’re going to put our child in jail until the trial! Are you calling your good friend at the Mossad, or do I have to do it again?”

  I quickly hung up.

  At that point, I still did not understand who was behind all this.

  Meaning who was really behind all this—

  I did what seemed logical to me. I called Singer. He wasn’t available. I left him an urgent message. I did so again many times throughout that day.

  I also called Neta in Colombia. Her cell phone had revived. At least that issue was solved. It was evening there. Her tone was sour when she heard me. She confirmed the details. Sounded glib. Mocked my concern.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked, barely getting over her hostility.

  “What everyone does. Pay two and a half dollars to one of the corrupt cops, and he’ll not only close the file but apologize and thank me, too.”

  Around noon, I arrived back at the kibbutz. I was surprised to find Smadar at home. She was lying in bed. Her eyes were closed and she was moaning loudly, her body racked with spasms and shivers.

  I called a doctor. “It’s an anxiety attack,” he decreed after examining her.

  A real genius.

  The negative turn in the tale of Neta’s troubles once again mobilized the entire kibbutz. The recently disbanded “war room” was re-established.

  Good advice came from every direction. For four long days, urgent calls went out to the entire world.

  No stone was left unturned.

  There was no practical solution in sight.

  Throughout this entire time, I never heard from Singer.

  There was no derogatory term I didn’t use in regard to the man who owed me his life. “Ungrateful pig” was the mildest among them.

  The Israeli consul in Bogota informed us that the local police were determined to prosecute our daughter and refused to release her on bail.

  Smadar woke me up in the middle of the night. I wasn’t sleeping, merely pretending. Who could fall asleep in a situation like this?

  “I’m flying to Colombia to see her day after tomorrow,” she told me.

  I went out to the lawn.

  I called Shin.

  I shared with her what was going on.

  “Have you still not realized that I’m the only one who can help you?” she told me in a reprimanding tone.

  “You? How?” I asked.

  “You’re a big boy. You can guess.”

  I didn’t guess.

  Maybe I wouldn’t guess.

  I myself didn’t know what I wanted.

  ◊◊◊

  The following day. The café at ZOA House, on Ibn Gabirol Street in Tel Aviv. A bright early-afternoon hour outside. Inside, it was dim and half empty. Irish folk tunes were playing in the background. I’ve never liked Irish folk tunes. They made me feel agitated.

  Shin was significantly late. “Your eyes are red,” she noted before she even sat down.

  “No, they’re not.”

  “I can see them.”

  “I’m tired, tense, a bundle of nerves.”

  “We can help you secure Neta’s release.”

  “‘We’? Who? How?!”

  She leaned in toward me.

  Her breasts hovered freely in front of my face.

  I was drooling—

  She lowered her voice. “My friend at the embassy in Bogota. She’s a professor, like me. She’s very well connected there. She looked into the details. Your daughter’s in trouble way over her head. I’m sorry to have to tell you this. It doesn’t feel good to have to tell a father this, especially a dedicated, anxious father like you. Are you listening?”

  Was I listening?

  “My friend needs a good reason to help us. If it were up to her, she’d do everything she could without thinking twice. But it’s not
up to her. She’s not just a private individual. You got that?”

  I didn’t.

  Even if I did, I preferred to pretend I didn’t.

  She resumed speaking. “Getting your daughter out of this mess requires a few dirty moves at the local police precinct and Ministry of Internal Affairs. You got that? Dirty means dirty. You got that? Your daughter is not a U.S. citizen. In order to act on her behalf, my friend needs to get special authorization from ‘upstairs.’ You got that? ‘Upstairs’ means Washington, DC. You got that? But she’ll never get that authorization. You got that?”

  I sent a glazed look in her direction.

  That’s exactly what I did.

  A glazed look.

  Shin drew even closer to me, bringing her two floating breasts with her. Her hand fluttered upon my thigh. I looked away so as not to see the two dark nipples thrust at me yet again.

  She continued. “But there’s still hope. My friend in Bogota could receive authorization from ‘upstairs’ if she can prove that the dirty moves she intends to make in order to ensure your daughter’s release would be worthwhile in some way to the people ‘upstairs.’ Win-win. You got that?”

  Our drinks arrived. This was the first time I noticed she used the phrase “you got that” quite a lot.

  As I was contemplating what she had told me, while also keeping my eyes off her glorious body, she was downing shots one after the other as if they were glasses of water.

  I stuck to beer.

  “You’ll have to decide what’s more important to you, your country or your daughter.”

  I was served another beer without having to ask for one.

  I felt dizzy.

  She went on. “If you ask me, your country will be just fine, while your daughter won’t.”

  Sitting in this pose was becoming tortuous.

  “You got that?” she asked once again.

  She sidled into me. We were huddling on the same seat in the dim café. Her body adhered itself to mine. My body temperature leaped to near-boiling.

  She whispered. “What’s your submarine doing in India?”

  “India?”

  “That’s what you texted me. India. That your submarine was on its way to India.”

  I tried to think. Unsuccessfully. Or not quickly enough, in any case. “It’s in deployment. In training. In preparation for a possible attack. In Iran.”