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

by Y. I. Latz

  “Your heart,” she said, placing a cool hand on my chest. “You hear it? It’s about to explode. Don’t get so excited. I know it’s a secret. I know no one knows about this mission. I’m sorry I embarrassed you. Calm down, okay?”

  “What does this have to do with my Neta in Colombia?” I asked in a voice that didn’t sound like my own.

  “You’re the chef for the submarine fleet.”

  “Cook.”

  “Don’t play modest. In your restaurant…”

  “Mess hall.”

  “In your mess hall, everyone speaks freely. All I’m asking is that you listen in, pick up some gossip, and show more interest than usual.”

  “But…”

  “Think about your daughter.”

  “But…”

  “I suggest you call the Israeli Embassy in Bogota,” she whispered, as if she was a friend who had my best interest at heart. “If you don’t believe me, ask them what kind of discipline she’s facing. Three to five years in prison, at least. In prison. Let me remind you what a women’s prison is like, and what a women’s prison in Colombia is like. You got that?”

  “I’m not getting you.”

  “No! I’m not getting you! Why are you being stubborn? What am I asking for, anyway?”

  Her hand on my cheek. She wiped the sweat off my face with some tissues she had quickly produced from her purse.

  Her body clung to my arm. “You’re nice, you’re handsome, you’re popular, you’re a decent guy. Everyone talks freely in front of you. Everyone will tell you what you want to know. You just have to want it. Okay?”

  I felt dizzy from the things I was hearing, from the beer I was sipping, from her body’s sensuality.

  She went on. “Imagine that it’s not me asking, but your daughter. Your Neta. She’s the one talking through me. And she’s begging you, ‘Daddy, Daddy. Help me. Save me. Daaaaaddy.’”

  A group of noisy young people came in, sitting near us.

  “From now on, call me only using this,” she said assertively before her words were swallowed by the noise the group was making, as she thrust a new cell phone into my hands. “Okay, sweetie?”

  ◊◊◊

  Night, at our home.

  I was sitting in the rocking chair. Smadar was talking to me. I wasn’t reacting. Her bags were already packed in preparation for her departure for Colombia the next day.

  Finally, she left me alone.

  Around midnight, I heard a car engine. Smadar set out to meet it.

  “It’s Rescue Ralph,” she called out to me from the darkness. “Don’t you want to know what brings him here all the way from Tel Aviv, at this time of night?”

  A few minutes later, we were assembled in our living room.

  “Just a very strong black coffee, two sugars,” he asked.

  He was tall and bearded, wearing sandals. He looked like a typical kibbutz member, although he told us he had lived in the city of Petach Tikva his whole life.

  “Listen, and listen carefully,” he said promptly, even before Smadar served him the strong coffee he had asked for. “My people in Colombia tell me someone has your kid by the balls, if you pardon the expression. This isn’t a usual case, even if it seems like one. The Ministry of Internal Affairs in Bogota doesn’t understand what the problem is. As far as they’re concerned, she could be released tomorrow morning. The impediment isn’t coming from them, but from someone much higher up.”

  Smadar listened to him, her face taut.

  He continued. “So it’s one of two things. Either your girl has gotten herself involved in something a lot more serious and messed up than driving without a license and insurance, which you and I don’t know about. Or else—”

  “Or else what?” we both asked together.

  “Or else someone’s trying to take you for a ride.”

  Smadar stared at me.

  I didn’t react.

  He went on. “So before we go any further, I have to ask you two hard questions. That’s also why I went to the trouble of coming to see you at this time of night, all the way from Petach Tikva. You’ll have to answer me completely honestly. No matter how difficult it is. Okay?”

  Smadar nodded. I continued to sit with a frozen expression.

  “Good. The first question: Based on your knowledge of and familiarity with your daughter—and I’ve already come across cases where the parents swore to me that their darling child was ‘A’ and he ultimately turned out to be ‘Z’—do you know whether she uses hard drugs and/or might have gotten embroiled in something like smuggling drugs?”

  Smadar responded with a decisive, “No, no, no,” shaking her head to emphasize her answer.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ve already heard that she’s a good girl. Let’s move on the second question. I know you’re both ‘good people’ by definition, with respectable professions and a clean past. But could someone be threatening you, together or separately? A big loan you haven’t paid off? The gray market? A loan shark? Hostile elements in foreign countries?”

  I tried not to move—

  He continued. “You’re probably asking yourselves where I’m going with this. Here’s the answer. Does anyone have any reason to threaten you and use your daughter as a hostage?”

  Just. Don’t. Move.

  He examined our faces, then resumed. “I’m talking about anyone—singular or plural—with a reach that extends all the way to South America.”

  Smadar looked at me at length. I felt myself fill with anger. Why was she doing that?

  “No,” I said.

  He couldn’t hear me.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “No! No! No!” I repeated, loudly and emphatically. “No way!”

  “Then I suggest you contact the only agency in the country that might help you. Matters like this are part of their expertise.”

  “The Ministry of Foreign Affairs? The Prime Minister’s Office?”

  I knew what his reply would be before he uttered it.

  “Higher than that,” he said. “The Mossad.”

  He paused, appearing to assess the effect upon us of what he had just said. “From what I’ve heard, you won’t need my help looking up their phone number.”

  I wondered what that was supposed to mean—

  Smadar didn’t wonder.

  After he left, she disappeared within the large, empty house. I thought she had gone to bed without wishing me a good night—

  I was wrong.

  She appeared from wherever she had gone, confronting me. “You tell me, Henry. Threats. The gray market. The Mossad. I’ve known you for quite a while now. I saw your face. You weren’t surprised. You tell me, Henry. I have a question. After twenty-five years, it might be a bit pathetic to ask it. But as they say, better late than never, right? Who are you, Henry? And what’s actually your deal?”

  Chapter Twenty

  India Enters the Picture

  The following day.

  Smadar left for Colombia in order to be with our daughter.

  I accompanied her to the airport. We didn’t talk much. Our bad mood took control of us. Smadar shed tears and sighed frequently.

  A moment after we said goodbye, I rushed off to the rented room waiting for me on Sheinkin Street.

  I came to a decision—

  I had come up with a scheme—

  On my way, I stopped at a neighborhood grocery store and bought the expensive ingredients favored by Mali, my flatmate.

  When she came home that evening, she was greeted with a double surprise: the first, my return; the second, a gloriously set kitchen table.

  It was covered with a new tablecloth, while on it rested peanut butter, cheesecake, quality snacks, ground drip coffee, a bitter lemon soft drink, and an original Italian Chianti.

  “
What’s the occasion?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Do you feel like telling me about your lovely trip to India?”

  “Why?”

  “I might go on a trip there.”

  “To India? Didn’t you tell me that India disgusts you?”

  ◊◊◊

  Over the next few hours, we sat shoulder to shoulder in front of her computer screen, viewing hundreds of photos.

  I told her that in light of my specialized military background, I wanted to see mainly photos that included beaches, ports, and ships.

  She insisted on lingering on every single picture.

  My impatience increased.

  “And what’s this?” I asked, pointing at one of them. “Where exactly did you photograph this odd ship with all the masts?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Can you name the general location?”

  “What do you care what it’s called? Are you going to look for work there as a fisherman?”

  I diligently memorized the image.

  She continued. “Look. This square is in the middle of Calcutta.”

  I recited it to myself. “Calcutta.”

  “Calcutta is the most exciting city in the world, and also the dirtiest. They have amazing botanical gardens there.”

  I repeated, “Botanical.”

  “And here we’re in Kochi.”

  “Kochi.”

  “There are little islands and peninsulas. We took shuttles to travel between them.”

  “Shuttles.”

  “These shuttles are almost falling apart. Thank God we didn’t drown. Oh, and look at this photo. This is where we got caught up in a blizzard, in the mountains of the Gulmarg District, west of Srinagar.”

  “Gulmarg… Srinagar…”

  “This is our hotel in Mumbai. We pampered ourselves. It was the Crown Plaza.”

  “Crown Plaza.”

  “Don’t confuse it with the Sheraton Plaza, which is on the other end of town.”

  “Crown Plaza, not the Sheraton Plaza.”

  She was overcome by nostalgic pleasure. “The way they treated us, the service, was really something else.”

  “And who’s that?” I pointed at a young, elegantly dressed man with a winning smile.

  “Our consul, Humi Levine. He was in my year in high school.”

  “Humi Levine,” I recited.

  “He’s such a sweetheart. He got us a suite for the price of a regular room, and it came with a personal valet. It took me two days to learn to pronounce the valet’s name correctly. Vijayananda.”

  “What is it?” I tried to repeat the name. “Vijandada?”

  “No, Vi-jaya-nanda.”

  “Vi-jay-jay-nanda.”

  She laughed, but wouldn’t let me off the hook. “I had a hard time at the beginning too. Vi-jaya-nanda. Vi-jaya-nanda.”

  “Vi-jaya-nanda.”

  “You got it! Good job!” she complimented me.

  ◊◊◊

  I holed up in my room and texted Shin using the new phone she’d given me. I attached some of the photos from India I’d just seen.

  She texted me back immediately, urgently asking that I call her back from somewhere other than home.

  I drove through Tel Aviv until I found a dimly lit corner in the Reading parking garage in the northern part of the city.

  Her response was chilly. “I’m glad you made the decision you did. So, your submarine is in India now? That’s interesting. It is. The photos are fine, but they don’t tell me much.”

  “That’s all I’ve got,” I responded angrily.

  “What’s the name of the Indian Navy officer?” she asked.

  “Who?” I queried.

  “The one coordinating your submarine’s visit.”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you open your notebook, rather than relying on your memory?”

  “Raj Jaipur,” I replied. It was the first Indian name I could come up with.

  “Raj Jaipur? Are you sure? Why does that name sound familiar to me?”

  “That’s what it’s like in India. Like Moshe Levi in Israel and Joe Smith in the States.”

  “All right, let’s move on to Mumbai. Where does your submarine fleet commander conduct his secret meetings with the Indian intelligence service?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Probably in a hotel suite, so as not to attract attention. What’s the name of the hotel?”

  “Oh, a hotel. Right. The Crown Plaza.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Don’t confuse it with the Sheraton Plaza, which is on the other end of town. This is the Crown Plaza.”

  “Good! And who represents the Indians?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You mentioned your submarine would be arriving there for a covert operation in coordination with Indian intelligence. What’s the local intelligence agency it’s collaborating with over there?”

  I was beginning to regret the whole thing.

  The deceit was starting to mess with me—

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  “You don’t know? Why don’t you make a note to yourself to find out, and get back to me with some answers?”

  ◊◊◊

  I called her the next night from that same dark corner in the Reading parking garage. This call, too, was preceded by a conversation with my flatmate, in which I repeatedly milked her for what was obviously tourism information.

  This time, I wasn’t alone in the sprawling parking garage. I was surrounded by unlighted cars in which several couples were conducting a vigorous round of amorous activity.

  Like me, Shin had a hard time pronouncing the name. “Vi… Vi… Vijaya…nadna?”

  “No. Vi-jaya-nanda,” I corrected her. “What’s so complicated about that? That’s the Indian intelligence officer liaising with our submarine.”

  “Vijayananda. I wrote it down. Good job. And who’s the Mossad’s representative in Mumbai?”

  “What do I have to do with the Mossad?”

  “Don’t pretend.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Again, what’s the name of the Mossad’s representative in Mumbai?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “‘I don’t know’ is a bad answer.”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “You’re disappointing me, Henry. You’re really, really disappointing me. I thought we were friends. That we had an understanding. That we’d left all this ‘I don’t know, I don’t know’ far behind.”

  “The Mossad isn’t in my domain.”

  “Is your daughter in your domain?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then the Mossad is in your domain too. What’s his name?”

  I paused. My mind was churning. “Humi Levine,” I finally answered.

  “Who? I didn’t hear you. Tommy Levi?”

  “Humi!” I yelled into the darkness of the car. “Hu-mi Le-vine!”

  “Got it. Why are you yelling? See? When you want to, you can do anything.”

  A car approached me. Its headlights seemed to be scanning the area. I panicked. I disconnected the call immediately and took off quickly.

  ◊◊◊

  The following day, after midnight. This time, I was well prepared. I made a thermos of coffee and packed some wafers. I chose a different dark corner of Tel Aviv, opposite the Dolphinarium Club in the southern part of the city.

  Shin sounded businesslike. She skipped any opening pleasantries, eager to get going. “What is your submarine actually looking for in Kochi?”

  “Hold on. Hold on a minute. About my Neta. You still haven’t given me any good news about Neta.”

  “You can count on us. Give us time. What’s the purp
ose of your submarine’s deployment to Kochi?”

  “We’ve already talked about this. To work on a shared naval maneuver with the Indian Navy.”

  For some reason, this reply angered her. “You’re not putting any effort into this. My friend in Colombia is working hard on behalf of your daughter, and you’re telling me stories. I need full details, names, dates, photos. Everything!”

  I revolted. “Listen, Shin. I can’t do this anymore.”

  She was not impressed. Her voice became tougher. “Imagine, just imagine, if my friend suddenly said the same thing.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “You have no reason to be afraid.”

  “I want to stop. All of this makes my stomach cramp up.”

  “I get it. In two or three days, it’ll all be over. My friend wants to know if you’re sure about this… Let’s see what I wrote down here… This Tommy…Levine…”

  “Humi Levine!”

  “Right. Humi. What kind of name is that? Humi. You Israelis and your language. It’s easier to get your tongue all twisted up than to break a leg skiing. Are you sure about him?”

  “In what regard?”

  “That he’s the Mossad representative in Mumbai.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. And what was your submarine looking for in Kochi?”

  “You’re not hearing what I’m telling you. I have no idea. I really don’t.”

  She raised her voice. “Kochi! What is your goddamn submarine looking for in Kochi?”

  I closed my eyes, retrieving fragments of travel stories I’d heard from Mali and adding my own flavor to them. “It’s all islands and peninsulas over there. The submarine commander met the Indian…Mossadniks on some run-down ferry. One time they almost drowned. There was another meeting in Northern India, in the Gulmarg District, about forty miles west of Srinagar. They got caught in a blizzard there.”

  “That’s wonderful. Just wonderful,” she praised me.

  “About my daughter Neta.”

  “Patience is the name of the game. Don’t you trust me?”

  “I do, but Neta…”

  “Look how much we’ve already done for you and you’re still not satisfied. We’ve removed the threat that she’ll stay under arrest until her trial. She’s also been allowed to stay with her mother at the hotel. Open house arrest. Not bad for a few days, right?”