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

by Y. I. Latz

  San Sebastián, in northern Spain—

  I was right. They were capable of anything. That morning, I was told that Smadar had been detained in Israel by the Shin Bet, under the claim that she had been a full accessory to my security offenses. Neta was the one who left me a message about it. Message? It was a scream that made my blood freeze in my veins.

  “Dad!! You son of a bitch!! Because of you, they threw Mom in jail!!”

  This was their way of signaling to me. One more means of applying pressure on me. My heart contracted within me, but I did not intend to do anything other than immerse myself even further in my inner deliberations. What else would I set in motion, and what additional terrible price would my loved ones have to pay for my mistakes?

  ◊◊◊

  Madrid—

  In the past, I had read about innocent people who, overnight, became victims of circumstance: war, betrayal by a close friend, financial collapse, serious illness, a one-time thoughtless act, or a long prison sentence.

  Due to an event beyond their control, their life changed dramatically, becoming pure hell.

  I “knew” them. They were the heroes of the movies I loved. Their stories touched me. I derived pleasure from watching them lose their entire world in an instant, tossed, humiliated, into a cruel war of survival governed by rules that were unfamiliar to them as they battled their bitter fate, terrified. My preference was for the formula on display in American movies over European movies. In American films, the breakthrough arrived just a moment before the bitter end: the heroes made their way out by the skin of their teeth, overcoming their fate, unlike the European flicks in which the heroes ended their lives with no victory in sight.

  I had chosen an American ending for myself, but feared my own end would be distinctly European.

  In the meantime, I cried a lot. My eye sockets opened to rain down salty deluges.

  How much of a hero could a fifty-year-old man with a multitude of secrets and no foreseeable future ultimately prove to be?

  This phenomenon had a name. I read about it on Google.

  An anxiety attack.

  ◊◊◊

  Toulouse in the South of France—

  I sent Singer urgent messages. He did not respond. I turned the messages into implied threats. My nerves were shot. Finally, I sent an explicit threat:

  If they didn’t release my wife, I would convey the “appliances” to Moscow, Damascus, or Tehran.

  This time, a swift response arrived.

  “If I were you, I’d be quick to write ‘Sorry, my mistake, bad joke,’ right about now.”

  In reply to his response, I wrote, “The next headline in the paper: ‘Candidate for Head of Mossad Received Trumped-Up Commendation.’”

  His reply: “You’re not just playing with fire; you’re already at the heart of the flames.”

  “I’m bringing my enemies down with me,” I wrote.

  He no longer replied to this idiotic response. He was smarter than me.

  I had signed my sentence with my own hand.

  ◊◊◊

  Marseilles—

  Singer was dominating the headlines of the Hebrew news sites I avidly read. Referenced not by his full name but only by his first initial.

  “S.” from the Mossad—

  The race for the role of director of the Mossad had entered its final lap. The rumor mill regarding possible candidate names was in high gear. For many days, Singer was considered the leading candidate, with the best odds. Recently, his status had declined in relation to the head of the Shin Bet, Nachmias, who also had his eye set on the position. The experts claimed the arrest of the couple in the States and the photos documenting their humiliation had severely harmed Singer’s reputation and his chances. And while he lay bleeding, Nachmias was reaping glory due to the exposure of Professor Shin as a senior CIA agent in Israel.

  I knew Singer. Someone like him wouldn’t give up his greatest dream just before the coronation without a fight.

  If only I knew what he was scheming and how I fit into it.

  ◊◊◊

  Valbonne, the French Riviera—

  Another week had gone by, and I was living anonymously in a small picturesque village in the Riviera at the foothills of the mountains, with quaint shops and well-designed alleys, teeming with tourists. Valbonne was one corner of the triangle whose other two points were the cities of Nice and Cannes.

  I rented a single room looking out on an orchard, with no kitchen other than a kettle and a hot plate, and an outhouse in the yard. The landlord and his family lived above me. I paid him in advance for three months, and he reduced my rent nearly by half.

  “I’m a poet,” I explained to him in English. “I came here to write in peace.”

  Did he believe me?

  I didn’t think he cared who I was. I lived sparingly. A fresh baguette, butter, dreamy Gruyere and Brie cheeses. At the café, I drank wine and coffee. Here and there, I gave myself a “five-finger discount” on products from the big supermarkets, but not when it came to my neighborhood grocery store. I picked apples and clementines from the trees that grew wild everywhere.

  As time went by, I began to do the math. If I gave up the cheese and the daily session in the café, I could last another month or two. I had money, but I couldn’t touch it. I didn’t dare withdraw any money from my bank account in Israel, so as not to expose my hiding place, and my secret account on the island of Jersey was being monitored.

  Using the Internet, I carried out only one action in regard to this account. I instructed that every month, a sum of five thousand euro be transferred to my wife’s account in Israel.

  This was a reckless and borderline negligent action, but it was motivated by two goals that I believed justified the danger involved: to allow my family to make a dignified living, in light of my layoff from the Navy and the cessation of my salary, and to prevent the kibbutz members from suspecting the true circumstances of my disappearance. Kibbutz society is cruel. The same enthusiasm with which they had crowned me their darling would be sustained as they stoned me and mine.

  As I passed through the alleys of the village, I enjoyed peering in the shop windows. I saw a rugged American reflected back at me: sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat, a month’s growth of beard, an appalling Hawaiian-style flowered shirt, an excessive tan, a frame that was nearly twenty pounds lighter.

  My new look.

  For the first few days, I was paralyzed by fear and rarely left my room. Everyone seemed suspicious to me. After a week of voluntary confinement, I began to roam in the immediate vicinity of my room, and later expanded the span of my walks to keep from losing my mind. I got to know most of the shop owners. This put me at a disadvantage. I could no longer roam through their stores anonymously and aimlessly just to while away the time.

  Throughout this period, I continued to shout out my truth through emotional messages I sent my pursuers via chat sites they monitored.

  They maintained their silence—

  This silence convinced me that my efforts were all in vain. Only one thing would satisfy them: my capture.

  Or even worse—

  My death.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Handsome 52” Drops In for a Visit

  For most of the day, the heat outside was reminiscent of an Israeli summer. And yet I preferred to sit outside, in front of the café, under red-and-white umbrellas bearing Coca-Cola logos. Only on the days when the heat was especially oppressive, or when I was assailed by swarms of flying pests, did I seek shelter inside.

  Whether outside or inside, I sat there for hours nursing a double espresso or one mug of beer, staring out at the joie de vivre of the other patrons. I could afford no more than that.

  Their nickname for me was Polonaise, “the Pole.” Some added “poéte Polonaise,” “the Polish poet.”<
br />
  At four in the morning, I would wake up to another day of idleness. Usually after “hearing” footsteps. Sometimes I “heard” commands suppressed in a low voice.

  I leaped in panic toward the window, the door, the wall, the street.

  I knew I could hang in there for another week, another month, three more months. Then what? I wondered whether I should turn myself in. They’d snuff me out in a moment or two, anyway.

  ◊◊◊

  Eleven in the evening France time, midnight Israel time. As was my habit, I was waiting on the Israeli chat site for “Handsome 52” to initiate contact.

  I was no longer diligent about waiting. For two consecutive nights, I’d been absent from the chat room. I’d lost faith. That night, I went in with no expectations.

  As I waited, quite a few anonymous women seeking a partner asked me whether I really was British. This time, I was tempted into answering in the affirmative. They initiated a conversation with a romantic undertone. I realized that they were charmed by the prospect of a life in London more than they were charmed by me.

  And then—

  “Handsome 52” popped up on my computer screen. “You up?”

  “Yes! Obviously!” I typed quickly with a shaky finger.

  Handsome 52: “Where are you?! Are you alive???” accompanied by the multiple punctuation marks that were one of his trademarks.

  The Englishman: “You can see that I am.”

  Handsome 52: “I’ve been waiting for you for two days now. Is it a wonder I asked what I did?”

  The Englishman: “And I waited for you for a month!”

  Handsome 52: “I’m in a hotel in Zurich now. I can get anywhere tomorrow. Where would you like to meet?”

  I had to think quickly—

  The next day was Saturday. Every Saturday, I drove out on behalf of Jamal Marchant, my landlord, to the town on Digne-les-Bains in the mountains above Nice, where I enjoyed loading up his Renault van with potted plants and miniature trees, which I would then bring to his store in the village.

  I did the work for free, in return for using his car every once in a while. This weekly drive allowed me to divert from my routine and savor some magical views.

  Jamal was counting on me. I couldn’t cancel the run on such short notice without angering him.

  The Englishman: “Will you come on your own?”

  Handsome 52: “Yes.”

  The Englishman: “Are you sure?”

  Handsome 52: “Do I need to swear to you?”

  I had no more mental energy for subterfuge and counter-subterfuge. I had been waiting many days for this moment. Now that it was here, my mind was empty of schemes. I had no choice. I decided to stick to the unadulterated truth and hope for the best.

  The Englishman: “Take the morning train to Nice, in the French Riviera”

  Handsome 52: “Wow. The French Riviera? Naked women wherever you look? Huh, you pervert? You found one hell of a place to hide. What time are we talking about?”

  ◊◊◊

  Nice, the following day—

  Smadar has been released. She herself broke the news to me in a laconic email. She didn’t react to my congratulations. Neta ignored my text messages as well.

  Ingrates—

  I knew. The timing wasn’t a coincidence. Soon I would be served up a bill.

  One thirty in the afternoon. Morning time had come and gone quite a while ago. A rare series of mishaps and delays of every kind had prevented me from setting out to Jamal’s greenhouse in Digne-les-Bains on his behalf. I wouldn’t have time to go the entire way and get back in time for the meeting with Singer, and I didn’t dare shirk off the drive.

  I decided to prolong the run until four o’clock and then have Singer join me. We’d have plenty of time to talk on the way.

  Four o’clock. At exactly the appointed time, I parked the Renault van on the sidewalk of a side alley across from the main train station and entered the café through the kitchen door. Singer was sitting at a table inside, his back to the wall, his eyes fixed on the front door. He was talking on the phone. I surprised him from behind. For a moment, he was frightened. His usual smile quickly returned to his face.

  I signaled him to follow me. He gestured back, “In a minute.” I waited for him in the Renault, its engine humming. I waited more than a minute, but finally, he showed up.

  He grimaced. Driving with me in the beat-up Renault hadn’t been part of his plan, but he came in. He didn’t mention the dirt clinging to the car, or the torn-up seat, from which the foam upholstery was peeking out like guts from a sliced-open stomach.

  The enchanting views of Provence were speeding past outside the windows of our Renault. Row after row of green fields, meticulously tended to, vines, cows, roads and tunnels.

  “Nice hiding place you picked for yourself,” he commented, adding, in the same breath, “David De Gea.”

  “Thibaut Courtois,” I tossed out.

  “Keylor Navas.”

  “Joe Hart.”

  “Ha. Claudio Bravo.”

  “Petr Cech.”

  “Casillas.”

  “Ray Clemence.” I put an end to our running gag for the time being.

  The entire time, he constantly sent out text messages without disrupting the flow of our conversation.

  “By the way,” he finally noted, “here’s a non-sequitur. Ever been to India?”

  “No.”

  “Not even to Mumbai?”

  “Mumbai’s in India, isn’t it? Well, then, I haven’t been to Mumbai, either,” I answered defiantly.

  He didn’t seem impressed. “And you didn’t stay at the Crown Plaza hotel there.”

  “Never!”

  “Which means you never met an employee there named, let’s see. It’s a real tongue-twister. Vi…jay…anan…da…”

  My heart couldn’t withstand the trials that life kept throwing its way.

  He went on. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “No! No! No!”

  “All right, don’t get so excited. I get it. Why get all agitated?”

  “Why do you want to know?” I asked a few miles later.

  “His name was intercepted by our SIGINT9 unit in one of the messages the CIA’s Tel Aviv office transmitted home,” he replied, sounding earnest.

  “So?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What do you mean dead?”

  “A bullet to the head. A bullet to the heart. Clean work. Kaput. Total loss. That’s in response to your question ‘What do you mean dead.’ By the way, the same transmission mentioned another name. An Israeli this time. A consul. Humi Levine. I assume you never heard that name before, either.”

  “No.”

  “He was murdered too.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. I had nothing smarter to say.

  “You don’t understand? You?” My best friend turned his head toward me. I didn’t look back at him.

  What was the point—

  We both knew. I was lying.

  ◊◊◊

  Singer asked me to stop several times.

  He left the car, whispered into his phone outside my range of hearing, then returned without saying a word.

  Finally, I dared to ask, “These calls of yours. Are they related to my case?”

  “No,” he answered, smirking a bit. “You’ll be surprised you’re not the only issue we’re dealing with at The Bureau.”

  “Congratulations, by the way,” I said, in an attempt to warm the atmosphere somewhat. “I read that you are one of the final candidates.”

  “Thanks, but nothing’s locked down yet. It’s a long and tedious road.”

  “Who’s in your way?”

  “I have to clear the table first.”

  “Who’s keep
ing you from clearing it?”

  “A few pains-in-the-ass.”

  “Such as?”

  “You, for example.”

  ◊◊◊

  We passed the rest of the way in silence.

  In Digne-les-Bains, Singer rolled up his sleeves without being asked to do so—“Some real physical labor from time to time wouldn’t hurt me,” he said—then took off his button-down shirt and stayed in his undershirt. The deputy commander of the Mossad helped me load up the Renault with miniature trees and hundreds of flowers in tiny pots.

  We completed the task.

  “You’ll agree I earned my bread honestly,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere until you buy me a good meal. You’re not going to starve me, are you?”

  The first restaurant we came across in the very heart of French Provence was actually Japanese.

  “Want to go in?” I asked.

  We went in.

  The restaurant was dim and air conditioned.

  He dictated our order to the waiter. The wine arrived. We sipped. Superb. Our exuberance increased. Neither of us had yet to bring up the purpose of our meeting.

  When the food arrived, we attacked it vigorously.

  “You know what,” he said after a long interval. “If you were a woman, I’d marry you.”

  “Why?” I wondered, my heart filling with pride in response to his ridiculous comment.

  “We both know how to shut up,” came his reply.

  After we were done, he produced a little notepad. “Should we get started?”

  ◊◊◊

  “Should I start with the bad part or the worse part?” he asked, but then didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll start with the bad part. Those field hands from the Shin Bet found sophisticated surveillance equipment in the walls of the operation rooms of your submarine base, which can broadcast for a distance of up to thirty miles. That’s a distance that would allow a ship anchored at the heart of the sea, outside Israel’s territorial waters, to intercept the signals and decipher them. But this fancy equipment gobbles up tons of energy, and the batteries have to be changed once a week. The Shin Bet field hands set up a stakeout. To see who the moron is who comes to change the batteries. And I’m telling you, I myself don’t know who’s a bigger moron, them or him. One guess: did the moron show up or didn’t he?”