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

by Y. I. Latz

He continued, “I assume you’re about to tell me what you want in return.”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to organize a meeting for me with the professor or doctor who works at your embassy here. Or, in short, to help me get my daughter released quickly. She didn’t do anything wrong. And she certainly did nothing bad to your mighty America.”

  Silence—

  He broke it, his tone rigid. “Give me ten minutes? Can I find you at the number you’re calling from?”

  He called only a minute or two later, his voice even more unyielding. “We can make a deal with you with no prior commitment on our part only if you return the entire ‘holy trinity’ to us: camera, laptop, cell phone.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “I understand that even under these bleak circumstances, you still have plenty of time for games. Would it be impudent of me to tell you, my Israeli friend, that in your situation, you’re in no condition to bargain?”

  I started to shiver.

  From anger, indignation, frustration—

  “If…you…don’t…help…me…” I said, stammering a bit, “don’t be surprised if all these items end up in foreign hands, and your mighty United States will experience some major embarrassment.”

  “Listen to me, my little motherfucker. I’m warning you. You’re playing with fire. If I don’t get what is legally ours within twenty-four hours, you and your daughter will be crying tears of blood. You hear me? Blood!”

  I was about to pass out. My head was spinning. My body’s reactions were scaring me.

  He added, “Fuck you!” and hung up.

  I sat down at the bar of a nearby casual diner. I ordered a bottle of beer, followed by two more.

  Peeking in my neighbor’s plate, I ordered what he was having. Some meat empanadas arrived. Damn Colombians, I thought as I chewed in pleasure. How the hell do they make these?

  ◊◊◊

  The reunion with Neta and Smadar lacked any characteristics of a joyous occasion.

  I hadn’t seen my daughter for a year and a half, and my wife for about two and a half weeks.

  Despair had left its mark on them.

  The giant mosquitoes feasting on them and the food prepared under unhygienic conditions both played a major role in their condition.

  I was holding a gift for my wife in my hands. A paper bag with two rope-like handles. I was holding the bag from below. It was light. So light that I frequently panicked, peeking inside worriedly out of fear that I had lost its contents.

  It had come a long way to arrive at this moment. Once it had been taut and fancy. Now it was travel-worn, and some of the logo’s gilded letters had been rubbed off or fallen off.

  And yet it wasn’t hard to fill in the blanks.

  H. Stern—

  “What’s this?” my wife responded suspiciously. It wasn’t the reaction I had been expecting.

  “Solid gold!” I called out proudly. “You’ll never believe how much I paid for them.”

  She was not impressed and didn’t smile. There was no expression of gratitude on her face.

  She sniffed the bag.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It smells like fire.”

  Her response was the exact opposite of what I had been expecting. She pushed away my hand as it held the bag and turned her head imperiously.

  Her fine-tuned instincts told her what no man would ever have realized.

  That the gold jewelry hadn’t originally been intended for her.

  ◊◊◊

  I joined them in their room at Ilan’s House. A shabby unit they were renting in a guesthouse owned by an Israeli, a former backpacker named Ilan Shaharabani, and his local girlfriend, Margarita, whose bone structure looked Native American. The name “Ilan’s House” appeared in eight languages. From the first moment on, I had reservations about Ilan and Margarita. They seemed to me like scheming tricksters. Their “House” was teeming with backpackers, some of them Israelis. Colorful pieces of paper bearing assorted messages were taped to the walls.

  The sweetish smell of grass was in the air. The basement diner offered Israeli products: hummus and tahini, Turkish-style coffee, familiar salty snacks, Israeli soap and detergent.

  Neta and Smadar rejected my proposal to move to a “real” hotel, claiming they felt at home in this “House.” The place was safe and vibrant. What would they do in a cold, alienated hotel?

  Both of them urged me to talk to Ilan as soon as possible, due to his many connections and his expertise.

  I put it off. I didn’t trust someone who walked around barefoot, wearing a sombrero that he never took off, even at night. I also saw the clearly lustful looks he was directing at Neta. He also sent similar, if less ardent, looks in Smadar’s direction.

  I consoled myself with the thought that this would soon be over.

  ◊◊◊

  The next day, around noon. “Netali, want me to kick some balls at you?” I asked our daughter, with laughter in my eyes.

  “Henry!” Smadar called out reproachfully.

  “What’s the problem?” I played the innocent. “She might want to get some exercise.”

  “No!” Smadar was upset, and was upsetting herself even more. She continued to speak on behalf of our daughter. “She doesn’t want to get any exercise. She just wants to get herself the hell out of here, and fly away forever. Can you make that happen, for the love of God?! Or do I have to do that myself too?!”

  ◊◊◊

  Around midnight, Jennifer called from Tel Aviv. This was the call I had been waiting for all day. The American reporter was my last hope. Or more accurately, my next-to-last hope.

  I hurriedly stepped out into the corridor, and from there to the garden. Young people were sprawled out on mattresses outside, smoking this and that. I got as far away from them as I could.

  “I’m sorry,” she let me down. “The material you sent me is real dynamite, but it’s too much for me. The head of my bureau in Jerusalem agrees. It would force us into a confrontation with forces that are more powerful and far better equipped than us, including the U.S. government.”

  This was not the answer I was expecting.

  “I have a request,” she added. “Be careful. Please. Be very, very careful. You have no idea who you’re up against. Did you see the movie The Godfather? Well, they are much worse. They’re way out of your league and mine. You promise to be careful? And take care of your lovely wife and daughter as well. Promise? Huh? I’m asking you if you promise?!”

  ◊◊◊

  “You’re being taken for a ride.”

  This statement, which I’d heard before, elsewhere but under similar circumstances, was repeated by Ilan Shaharabani from Ilan’s House, in a casual tone, again and again, in the conversation we finally conducted. In contrast to my initial impression, he was revealed to be a bright, direct and businesslike guy, although arrogant as well.

  He told me proudly that he had connections, as well as experience, and Neta’s case was “a walk in the park” as far as he was concerned. He was certain he could get her released. He said that so far, he had a hundred percent success rate in the cases he had taken on.

  “You’re being taken for a ride—”

  “A hundred percent success rate—”

  He asked for thirty thousand dollars. “Most of it isn’t for me,” he said, placing his hand on his heart. “It’s for greasing palms along the way. And there are quite a few palms, lucky us. But the result is worth it, right? Your pretty girl’s passport will be returned to her, and she can continue with her trip, like nothing ever happened.”

  When I reached out for my backpack to take out the money, he stopped me. “Not now, Daddy-O. Keep your money with you. I trust you. Pay me only when you’re actually holding her passport. How’s
that?”

  ◊◊◊

  He disappeared for two days.

  The three of us lurked in wait day and night. His office was dark and his car was nowhere in sight. He screened our phone calls.

  Finally, he returned. Walked straight into our room. Smadar and I were there alone.

  We leaped up toward him joyously.

  But he—

  He walked toward me rapidly, grabbed me by my collar, tightened his fist around it as if wringing out wet laundry, and started to strangle me.

  It was as painful as it was surprising—

  My eyes were rolling over in their sockets. He continued to hold on to my collar with one hand as he beat on my shoulder with the other, showering me with a barrage of filthy curses.

  “You pissant! You motherfucker! You piece of trash! If you weren’t my father’s age, I swear to God, I’d finish you off! You zero! You wanted to set me up? Huh?! Huh?! Huh?!”

  I wheezed desperately. Gathering all my force, I pushed him into the wall behind us, leaning into him with my whole weight.

  He let go of me. Left me alone. Both of us fell to the floor. I was having a hard time getting any air into my lungs.

  Smadar was looking at us with a gaze of pure terror.

  He yelled at her. “You cunt. What are you looking at me for? Ask him yourself, huh? Yeah! Now! Ask him! He’ll tell you himself that the decision about the arrest was made at the highest level. He knew! That son of a bitch wanted to get me in trouble!”

  “How high?” Smadar asked, businesslike, as if this was a friendly conversation, ignoring his violent behavior toward me just a moment earlier.

  “The Americans!”

  “The Americans? What do the Americans have to do with all this?”

  “I told you to ask your husband.”

  “I’m asking you. Why are the Americans involved in this story? Why would the mighty United States pressure the Colombia police to prevent the closing of a trivial case against an Israeli backpacker who caused a simple traffic accident where, thanks heavens, no one was hurt, definitely no American citizens?”

  “I told you, ask your husband.”

  She turned to me. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  I looked down.

  “Back to you,” she told him. “Why are the Americans opposed to the Colombians releasing our Neta?”

  “You’re not asking the right question,” he said cannily.

  “And what’s the right question?”

  He looked at me. This time, there was no hostility in his eyes. Only curiosity.

  “The right question isn’t why the Americans are preventing her release. Noooo! The right question is why the Americans were leaning on the local police to arrest her in the first place.”

  “The Americans were leaning on the Colombians to arrest our Neta?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which Americans?”

  “The worst.”

  “I don’t understand. Criminals? Drug dealers?” She paused briefly, and then resumed speaking in a whisper. “I don’t get it. The Mob?”

  “Even worse. The CIA.”

  “Those spies?” she asked, staring at me. “Why?”

  “I…” Ilan began to reply.

  “I’m not asking you, I’m asking him!” Smadar interrupted him rudely, approaching me until she was actually hovering above me. “Huh?” she asked me.

  I searched my mind desperately. I couldn’t find any brilliant reply there. If only I had more time to think.

  “You did know,” she said. “I know you did. Ilan was right. This entire time, you knew the Americans were involved in this, and this entire time, you and only you also knew why.”

  I kept my silence.

  When I raised my eyes toward her, I saw that her hands were covering her face. She looked as if she was praying.

  When she was done, she turned to me. Her voice was soft and her eyes red. “I don’t understand. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m begging you. Please. Do something. Look at your daughter. Isn’t it a shame?”

  Twenty minutes. That was all it took to wash my face, change my shirt, load my heavy backpack on my back and embark on my grand mission.

  I knew, this time, I would rescue Neta.

  I also knew the price I would be paying: my freedom.

  ◊◊◊

  The following day. The lobby of the Best Western hotel in Bogota. I was in a state of utter turmoil, sweating as if I were in a sauna. I knew that in a moment I would be passing the point of no return. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing. Could anyone in my position know what was right and what wasn’t?

  In any case, there would be no way back for me.

  For the first time in many years, I was about to meet one of them face-to-face.

  Box 667—

  The most secret collection unit in the most covert branch of MI6, the British counterintelligence agency, specializing in espionage in the Arab world and the third world. Israel was included in this category.

  Its people were my last hope. A true doomsday option.

  Box 667—

  There wasn’t a day when I didn’t search the Internet for signs of the existence of this ghostly unit. Very little had been posted about it. It was shrouded by a great amount of mystery. Stories regarding its activity showed up here and there on the media, without coming together to form a coherent whole.

  Daring operations in Iraq, exposing subversive Islamist cells in East Africa, foiling an assassination attempt targeting the British ambassador in India.

  Box 667—

  It had been many years since I’d first heard of it. Thirty-two, to be exact. The unit’s name evoked a thrill in me. I had never pronounced it out loud. As if it were the explicit name of God Himself. No less.

  My interest in the unit was personal.

  In fact, it couldn’t have been more personal.

  * * *

  8 Gevalt means “woe” in Yiddish, while tsures means “troubles.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A Spy in Sunlight

  BB Brasserie is the name of the restaurant located in the lobby of the Best Western hotel. From the first moment, I liked the atmosphere and the design. Wicker chairs upholstered with dark red cushions, a heavy aroma of fine coffee, the exuberance of the patrons.

  The young waitress, almost a girl, with prominent cheekbones, smiled at me more than her job required. I smiled back.

  In those days, I did not have too many reasons to smile.

  There was a sign hanging above me. Salon de Thé, as if we were seated in the heart of London. This was odd to me. The Colombians are South Americans. Would they prefer tea to coffee?

  I was waiting to meet Joe. Joe had asked me earlier, over the phone, where in the city I wanted to meet. I was taken by surprise. I had thought that due to reasons of both discretion and personal security, someone like him would want to choose the location himself. I lobbed the ball back to his court.

  And so the hotel restaurant was selected as our rendezvous spot. On the phone, he sounded like a child. Such a young voice that for a moment I made the mistake of thinking someone was playing a trick on me.

  I got there two hours before the appointed time and snagged a side table. I waited tensely. Joe arrived just on time, as befitting a Brit. He was thirty at most. Tall, extremely thin, with a build resembling a piece of rope, white shirt, tie and jacket, long, shiny, elegant black shoes, with a prominent tip and no laces.

  He was so very British and so tall that he had to fold his body as he sat down across from me. I found his awkward form and his young age to be at odds with his job. This “kid” worked for Box 667?

  “English Breakfast,” he ordered from “my” waitress, in distinctly British English. Just like mine. I had missed that precis
e accent.

  “One more double espresso for me,” I requested. In order to ease the tension, I asked him, “Croissant? Sandwich? Glass of wine?” raising my hand in a generous gesture.

  He shook his head. “How’s your daughter?” he asked, skipping the preliminaries.

  “She’s good. She’ll be better once we get her out of here. So will I.”

  He accepted what I said literally. He didn’t smile. I had already realized he wasn’t much of a smiler. So different from “my” Singer.

  He frequently chewed small nuggets of gum that he extracted, one after the other, from a round tin, replacing the chewed-up ones with fresh ones. The chewed-up gum was meticulously wrapped in a paper napkin, which he tucked into the pocket of his jacket.

  He began, “We’ve looked into it. Your daughter is fine. She’s a strong girl and she’s not in prison. After a day or two at home, she’ll forget about the whole thing.”

  “That’s why we have to bring her home first,” I said, emphasizing the obvious.

  “London asked me to tell you that they haven’t heard from you in a while,” he said.

  “I’m having problems. Life isn’t simple,” I said apologetically.

  “Was that in the papers today?”

  “What?”

  “That life isn’t simple.”

  I smiled bitterly.

  He went on. “Our mutual friends in London tell me that for quite a while now, everything you’ve been sending us has been a piece of shit.”

  I objected. “You know I’m a cook.”

  “Piece of shit. Piece of shit. You’ve always been a cook. That’s not new. Our analysts claim that for a while now, the material you’ve been sending us is actually collected from the Israeli media. More than that, it was actually more detailed and in depth as it appeared in your media.”

  I had nothing to say. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, one that was entirely unfavorable to me.

  He continued. “I want to note that your request that we intervene on your behalf here in Colombia has to be approved by the highest echelons in London.”

  I nodded, in a gesture that could be interpreted as both agreement and gratitude.