by Y. I. Latz
Chapter Thirty-One
I Am the X Factor
I am not transported back to jail. I’m held in a side room in the courthouse.
The hours go by.
Other than going to the restroom, to which I am accompanied by at least ten guards and security personnel, nothing happens.
Hunger torments me. So do thirst and anxiety.
Seven in the evening. I assume that’s the time. A cop enters my room and orders me to come with him. Outside, there is no sign of any other guards. The corridors of the courthouse are empty. I am brought into the judge’s chambers. The judge is not there. My lawyer, two legal assistants, and five lawyers from the prosecution are sitting around his desk.
They are engaged in an argument. None of them look up in my direction. The judge enters. The attorneys are still leaning in over his desk, renewing a debate that apparently had been recently interrupted. The hushed talk becomes a vocal argument. I’m on my feet the entire time. Watching the spectacle where I am the present-yet-absent hero. No one acknowledges me.
I decide to sit down without asking permission. I wait for a reprimand, and perhaps some yelling. There is no reaction. None of them say a word.
The judge’s gaze takes me in. He calls the cop over. Whispers in his ear. The cop walks over to me and asks me to accompany him. He walks away, waiting for me to follow.
“Where?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond.
I turn to my attorney, who is huddling with the other participants.
He signals me to follow the policeman, impatient. I trail in his wake, full of resentment. The cop returns me to the room where I’ve been waiting all day, slamming the door behind me.
My throat is dry. I want to call the cop to allow me to drink from the faucet in the restroom. I knock on the door. Lightly at first, then beating at it as hard as I can. There’s no response.
Two hours later, the door opens. My lawyer is in the doorway.
He’s glowing.
“I got you the deal of a lifetime,” he says. “All you have to do is sign one little document, and you’re a free man.”
◊◊◊
I ask him to go to the restroom first.
The door is open.
No cops are in sight.
I stand.
Wait.
“What’s your problem?” the lawyer asks me. “Didn’t you say you needed to use the restroom?”
“There’s no cop to walk me there.”
“Are you telling me you can’t go on your own? What are you, the Queen of England?”
I go.
Alone.
This is new.
Alone.
I wash my face.
Alone.
Look in the mirror.
Alone.
This is new as well.
Where I’ve come from, there are no mirrors.
When I return, I read the document he thrusts into my hand.
He extends a pen in my direction.
The pen is left hanging in the air.
“Come on,” he urges me.
“I’m not signing,” I say.
His eyes gape wide open.
“Why?”
“I don’t agree.”
“Don’t agree? What do you not agree to?!”
“To testify against her.”
The expressions on his face flicker like images on a movie screen. I watch them curiously. His eyes are bulging out of their sockets. He looks as if he’s about to explode. That much is obvious. I’m honestly fearful for his health.
I repeat it several times.
“I won’t testify against Professor Shin Il Jong.”
Every repetition seems to exacerbate his distress. After several more unsuccessful attempts of persuasion on his part, his eyes grow bloodshot and he hits me with the kind of declaration that lawyers don’t usually hurl at their clients. “I’m done with you. I’ve had it up to here with your games. First thing tomorrow morning, you should start looking for a new lawyer. I don’t deal with the mentally ill.”
He takes off.
It’s now midnight, or even later.
I’m left alone in this area of the courthouse. After a moment’s debate, I set out to roam around. There’s light emanating from under the door of the judge’s chambers, along with the sounds of a loud argument. I sprawl out on a wooden bench across from the judge’s chambers.
I wait. I don’t mean to sleep. Only to rest my head a bit.
I fall asleep.
◊◊◊
An unknown hand gently shakes my shoulder.
“Brother, we need to talk.”
Because of the darkness, I can’t see his face. But I recognize his voice immediately.
Singer—
◊◊◊
Half an hour later, 2:30 a.m., a café on the beach in Tel Aviv.
“You’ve cooked up a real mess for us,” Singer tells me.
Despite the late hour, the café is bustling, as is the promenade. I recognize quite a few security personnel in civilian clothing. They’re sitting in the café as well as standing on the sidewalk outside. I assume there are more of them whom I’m not identifying.
“All this security for me?” I ask, noting a thick layer of mockery in my own voice. “What do you think, that I’m going to run off on you? Now? And where, exactly?! And even if I do run, at my age and since I’m so out of shape, one little kid would be enough to catch me. You don’t need a squad of paratroopers with their weapons out.”
“Calm down,” he tells me. “Don’t you ever get tired? I’m not in the mood for your games. I’m here with you at the moment just to say, ‘Farewell, my friend.’”
“Where are you going?” I wonder.
“Far, far away.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Tonight I retire. In fact, this conversation with you is the last note of a thirty-two-year security career. Over and out. End of story.”
“Why?”
“Why? You’re asking me why? You? With all the tricks and the deceit that you spoon-fed me, you’re asking why?”
“And you won’t be head of the Mossad?”
He gets up. “Say hi to Nachmias. He’s the next head of the Mossad. My part in dealing with you is over. I’m passing you over to him.”
He steps away from me as if I’m a leper. He’s about to take off.
“Singer, my friend,” I tell him in a panicked voice, grabbing his arm. “Give us one last hour together. It’s possible that after we’re done, you might actually turn out to be the next head of the Mossad after all.”
He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t move away, either.
◊◊◊
“So what’s the new trick?” Singer asks wearily.
I signal to him that my answer can wait. A waitress arrives, holding a giant tray full of pizza in each hand. I attack the first one, and then then second one, too.
Singer takes a dig at me. “Why didn’t you tell me that the solitary-confinement unit doesn’t serve pizza?”
“Would you order us a beer?” I ask.
The waitress returns with two pints.
I gulp both of them down.
After all that, I barricade myself in the restroom. I feel like throwing up. I take my time in there.
When I finally exit, I run into Singer. His face is tense. “I signed you out of there, my brother. I hope you don’t have any smart ideas, because if you do, my pension’s on the line.”
I assume an innocent expression.
I know him. There’s nothing quite like an expression like that to increase his suspicions.
◊◊◊
In those exact moments, a three-party deal is being worked out behind the scenes.
S
inger explains the details to me.
Three countries are involved in the deal—the United States, England and Israel—and it’s based on a principle of give-and-take.
Each country gives and takes.
The U.S. and England have already reached an agreement and signed a memorandum of understanding.
Israel will sign after I sign.
These are the main items:
The United States will extradite the couple accused of espionage to Israel, and in return, will receive, from England and from me, the three items of espionage equipment I stole from Professor Shin, one of which I had handed over to the MI6 agent in Bogota.
England will hand over to the United States the sophisticated intelligence equipment it received from me, and in return Israel will provide it with…me.
Israel will extradite me to England, as someone who has spied on their behalf for three decades, and in return will receive its two spies from the United States.
My Shin is not a part of the equation—
“You have to sign,” Singer says. “Without your signature, there’s no deal, and our poor officer and his wife get buried alive in an American prison for thirty years. I don’t have to tell you what American prisons are like. They make your conditions in the solitary-confinement unit look like a five-star hotel on a Greek island.”
“The agreement isn’t fair,” I say.
He thinks I’m joking.
When I don’t take the pen from him to sign the agreement, my answer truly sinks in.
“You don’t want to be released? You’re that messed up? You’re still looking for trouble? Are you enjoying these games? Should I send you to a psychiatrist who will lock you up for the rest of your life?”
I get riled up. He grabs my arm in an attempt to calm me down. He assumes a casual tone, as if this was merely a friendly conversation rather than a crucial topic for me. He is clearly making an immense effort to tamp down his rage.
“Explain it to your old buddy slowly, so that even an idiot like me can understand. After all, our plan is based on the outline you gave me in Europe, where you begged me to agree.”
“Two problems,” I said. “One, I don’t agree to be extradited to England without the option of returning to Israel to see my family from time to time.”
“And the other is the Korean whore,” he comments.
“Right,” I admit, deciding to ignore the insult. I, too, am making an effort to suppress my rage. “Right. I’m not leaving Professor Shin to rot in an Israeli prison,” I declare.
“How loyal of you,” he reacts leeringly. “You’re making it sound like she’s your comrade in arms, like you two went through boot camp together.”
I prepare to reply.
He beats me to it. “Did you at least get something out of it?” And when I pretend not to understand, even though I did, he demonstrates with an obscene gesture, using both his hands.
I’m seeing red.
He stops me. “Don’t think we didn’t consider a trade with the Americans—the Korean in return for the Navy officer and his wife. But the Americans shot us down. They consider the Korean small fry, an amateur spy who failed at her first mission. Because of you. By the way, ‘submarines to India’ is a good joke. No way can you compare her to our spies. ‘No fair,’ as the kids say.”
“What kind of prison term is she facing in Israel?”
“Eight to twelve years.”
I think about it for a moment.
“Can I have another beer?”
I wait for the beer to arrive.
He continues. “Has it sunk in that she and ‘her’ CIA are responsible for the Chinese water torture your daughter went through in Colombia? That your daughter was a bargaining chip in order to blackmail you? That they were behind that surreal decision by the Colombian government to confiscate your daughter’s passport and to threaten to try her in court for that minor traffic accident?”
The beer is still not here. I buy some time to think. I know that there is a solution and that it’s within my grasp. But what is it?
“You don’t look surprised by what I said,” he says. “You’re freaking me out. You’re. Really. Freaking. Me. Out.”
When the beer arrives, I’ve made up my mind. I talk loudly. Too loudly. It’s the beer doing its thing, as well as the noisy music I have to talk over.
“Singer, did you say it was ‘no fair’? You said Professor Shin’s commanders in the CIA see her as an amateur, unworthy of being part of an exchange with ‘superior spies’ like me and the naval officer and his wife who were caught red-handed in the States, right?”
“That’s what I said.” He leans in toward me. Wonders where I’m going with this. I’m enjoying his attention. I won’t lie. No disrespect to me, but he is deputy director of the Mossad.
I resume. “Well, then, we’ll upgrade her.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll turn her into a first-class spy.”
“Meaning?”
“We’ll turn her bogus information into reliable information.”
“No way,” he responds. In his defense, I should note that he quickly grasps where I’m going with this.
“We’ll turn her into a super-spy retroactively,” I continue to present my plan, my enthusiasm growing.
“No way! No! Fucking! Way! Are you not hearing what I’m telling you?!”
I ignore his objections. “The CIA thinks her information about our submarines in India has no merit whatsoever? We’ll prove them wrong.”
He gets up. His eyes are cold. Hostile. Hateful. He signals his security detail that he’s about to leave.
I rise as well. Talk louder. The other patrons are gazing at us in curiosity, starting to whisper among themselves. Some of them discreetly take our picture. Our faces look familiar to them. We’re celebs of sorts. Singer’s numerous security guards are helpless.
“We’ll make her into a super-spy, and her bogus info into hot intel,” I yell out after him.
He walks off.
I follow him.
Our security details are confused. They don’t know where they should station themselves.
I yell out across the restaurant. My shouting surprises me, as well. I haven’t shouted like that since they tortured me during my first days in the solitary-confinement unit. “Singer! Make sure our submarine Rosemary, which, according to my calculations, is currently taking part in naval maneuvers opposite the coasts of Kenya and Tanzania, sets out this very night toward India!”
And when he doesn’t respond, although his strides grow somewhat slower, I continue yelling, maintaining my volume. “The submarine! Make sure it leaves tonight! For India! Singer! I warn you! Or else…!”
He turns around. This is not the Singer I know. I’m certain: I’ve just lost my best friend.
“Or else…what?” he repeats my words, and the threatening tone of his voice equals the clearly implied threat in my own.
“Or else… Or else…the poor officer and his wife will face a thirty-year sentence in an American jail, and I’ll tell everyone exactly—exactly!—what happened that day in Yemen, and let them all decide whether the commendation you received was justified or not!”
He walks toward me. In a moment, he’ll strangle me with his own two hands. Such things have happened before. I feel the steam of his breath and the sourness of his sweat.
I’m prepared for every eventuality. Including the worst.
You don’t expect to threaten the deputy director of the Mossad and survive, even if he was once your best friend.
“You’re crazy. The prime minister will never approve it,” he says furiously. “Especially since the head of the CIA has already threatened, behind closed doors, that he’ll resign if the president of the United States signs a deal with us, claiming that the consequences of the ac
tions of our people whom they’re holding for espionage are significantly more severe than the actions of his rookie agent in Jerusalem. But it’s worth a try. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ve already got one foot out the door of this surreal world. So, if worst comes to worst, I’ll risk my other foot.”
Singer is swallowed by a van sporting a multitude of antennas that is parked on the sidewalk, its lights flashing the entire time.
It’s now 3:50 a.m.
I’m soaked with sweat. Both as a result of the situation and of the terrible humidity that overtakes the beaches of Tel Aviv at this hour.
The minutes go by.
I shuffle to the adjacent beach. Find a single tanning bed there that has been left behind rather than secured to its brethren with iron chains. I sprawl down on it and fall asleep instantly, but not before experiencing several seconds of pity for the numerous security guards who spread themselves out in my vicinity, forced to pass the night on the soft sand all around me, and all on my account.
◊◊◊
Six ten in the morning.
I wake up in terror.
Blue skies above me.
My body feels utterly stiff as a result of lying on the hard pallet. But my heart is full of joy, caused by the salty smell rising from the ocean.
Singer is standing above me. He’s holding two cups of coffee and hands me one of them.
“The prime minister called me in for an urgent meeting,” he declares.
“What does that mean?”
“One of two things. Either/or. Either he’s going to inform me to my face that I’m a complete zero and he’s tossing me out on my ass once and for all, or he thinks there’s room to talk about this.”
“What’s your bet?”
“How about yours?” he lobs the question back at me.
“The second option,” I state confidently.
“Well, then, we agree to disagree,” he says. “And for the first time ever, I pray that you win, rather than me.”
◊◊◊
Noon comes and goes with no signs of life from Singer. This entire time, I’m hanging out at the beach. More accurately, in the tanning bed, alternately drifting off and waking up. Dozens of security personnel around me.
