Shalva Hessel
Married
To
The
Mossad
A thriller based on a true story
Married to the Mossad / Shalva Hessel
All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.
Copyright © 2017 Shlava Hessel
Translasted from the Hebrew: Elhanan Miller
Contact: [email protected]
Married
To
The
Mossad
Shalva Hessel
Translated from the Hebrew by
Elhanan Miller
Acknowledgments
To my dear mother and father, Yael and Hanan (of blessed memory) Schwarzman—for educating me to believe, give, love humanity, love the land of Israel, and believe in the values of Judaism.
To my dear loving husband, Yoram Hessel, thanks to whom I was exposed to the fascinating experience of Mossad life. Thank you for the support and freedom you’ve given me.
To my dear children Roy and Michael Hessel, who are my force, soul, and courage. How proud I am of the men you turned out to be! Please continue.
To my dear beloved grandchildren: Liam, Isaiah, Eliah, Isaac, and Daniella. You enrich my life every day. I hope you mature in the spirit of Judaism and Zionism, and continue in our family tradition of Jewish values.
Part One
1.
She stood with her back to the door and her hands spread out to the sides. “You’re not leaving here.”
“Sally,” he said in a calm voice, charged with hidden tension. “Let me leave.”
“Only after you tell me where you disappear to at night.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why, Jerry? Who won’t let you?”
“I can’t say that either.”
“You’re playing with me!” Sally’s voice rose to a shout. “If you want to meet other women just say so.”
“It’s not other women,” Jerry said. “It really isn’t.”
They’d been married for a year, and despite her young age, life experience had equipped her with sharp senses. She could tell a fake if she saw one. “What’s going on with you? Why can’t you explain?”
Jerry’s voice was steady and cool. “Give me an hour. I’ll leave and return with someone who’ll explain.”
She knew that no pressure could force him to tell, but still she insisted. “Why can’t you explain?”
“He’ll explain that too.”
Sally’s eyes were full of rage. “I want to come with you to where he is. Let him explain it there.”
“You can’t,” Jerry explained patiently. “You can’t even know where it is.”
“You’re speaking like a character out of a cheap suspense novel,” Sally shouted.
A faint smile crossed Jerry’s face. “Do I get an hour?”
Sally could never withstand his smile, and gave up. “One hour,” she succumbed, and moved away from the door. “But not a minute longer!”
Anger and fear made her blood boil. For months, she had been spending her evenings on the couch purchased on Petticoat Lane with Jerry’s holiday bonus. It was the sole valuable item in their apartment. She had read dozens of books and watched countless TV series, waiting for him to return. Every time she asked him where he’d gone, it would be an urgent meeting at work, seeing a friend, or a lecture at the London School of Economics. As time passed, his explanations became less convincing and Sally grew more suspicious. She felt that since they had arrived in London, her husband’s life was being run by something unknown and more significant than she; that she was losing control over their fate.
Sally couldn’t stand losing control. In every situation, she was always the leader and the center of attention. She was raised in a National-Religious family of citron farmers in Moshav Hibbat Zion, where she was considered a free spirit. Opinionated and principled, she was a tomboy who enjoyed the company of boys and was always game for a prank. Even at the Technion, where she was the only female computer software programming student, she remained independent and was unafraid to express her opinion at every opportunity. That’s where she met Jerry, and the moment she laid eyes on him, she knew he’d be hers.
Following a short courtship, her beauty and wit worked their charms and they became lovers. Jerry was attracted to her joie de vivre, which complemented his solemnness, and she loved his serious and fastidious nature. She had wholeheartedly hoped that they could wed, but Jerry kept announcing that marriage was out of the question. “We have no money, I have no interest in children at this point in my life, and besides, I’ll never marry someone who hasn’t served in the army.” Regardless, when he told her he was accepted to LSE, one of the leading economics schools in the world, she knew she would follow him. Her parents objected, of course, but could do nothing to oppose the will of their stubborn daughter who informed them that she was traveling to get married.
She landed in London with a thousand pounds and Jerry’s address at the student residence. The following day he joined her to rent a flat. They found a room with a common kitchen in an old apartment building, and ate a greasy and unappetizing meal at the takeaway shop across the street. The following day, Sally applied to three software engineering schools whose addresses Jerry had found. The tuition of all three was beyond her means. The sum she brought with her from Israel was lower than the tuition and sufficed, at most, for two months of rent, if she ate frugally. Winter was around the corner, with its high heating costs.
Sally met with Jerry every evening and tried to remain optimistic and not worry him, but she was growing increasingly desperate. Her parents sent her five hundred pounds for her birthday, which extended her grace time in London by an extra month. Now, four months separated her from the day when she would have to admit defeat and call home, requesting that her parents pay for the return ticket. Jerry tried to help as best he could, but was also making a pittance working in Israeli advocacy and was barely making ends meet. Their life together now had an expiry date and their love grew desperate.
One day, Jerry turned up at her apartment with an advertisement he had ripped from the notice board at his residence: “The Pierre Marin Fund offers scholarships to students who pass its tests. Scholarships include school tuition and a stipend.” The following day, Sally arrived at the fund’s offices, filled out the forms, and was told she must take a test. She tried to inquire about the subject of the test, its length, and the mark required for the scholarship, but to no avail.
A week later, she was invited back to the fund’s office. In a small room, seated next to three others, she answered questions related to Judaism. She counted her blessings for being exposed at home to religious law and love of Israel, and felt grateful to her family, especially her father and grandfather—a well-known and admired rabbi—for making themselves available to her questions on religious matters. Leaving the room, she knew she had successfully passed the test.
And so it was. Two weeks later, her bank account was credited with a sum of money that sufficed for tuition and living expenses for a month. Additional sums, she was promised in a letter received by mail, would arrive every month until she completed her studies.
Letter in hand, she returned to the fund’s offices. “Is something wrong?” asked the astonished secretary.
“I came to thank Pierre Marin personally for his help.”
“That’s
impossible,” said the secretary.
“Why? Doesn’t he exist?”
“Oh, he exists all right.” She laughed. “He’s a Jewish millionaire who lives in Switzerland. You can leave a letter here, but there’s no chance he’ll answer you.”
Sally jotted down a few warm sentences of thanks on a piece of paper, inserted it into an envelope, and handed it to the secretary.
When she stepped out onto the street, she felt the world smiling at her. The mysterious Pierre Marin had gotten her life back on track.
2.
The telephone ringing woke her from her memories. She jumped from her seat and answered the call. “It will take a bit more than an hour, but I’m on my way,” Jerry said in a calm voice.
Once again, her regular combativeness leaped forward. “How much longer?”
“I don’t know. We’re on our way,” he said, and hung up.
Who was this mysterious man on his way to meet her? She tried to recall when the first signs of oddness began to appear in Jerry’s life. In fact, it happened as early as the night before their wedding. They spent the night at her apartment, and around midnight the phone rang. “It must be my parents,” Sally said, but Jerry sprang up to answer. She looked at him with surprise. “I gave them your number in case they needed me,” he explained.
“Who needed you?” she asked, as he got out of bed and pulled the telephone as far away from her as the cord allowed. He spoke in a low voice, whispering words she could not hear into the speaker. When he returned to her side, she asked, “Who was that?”
“Someone from work,” he said. “They’re looking for some document.”
“Someone works in advocacy at night?”
“You’d be surprised. There are departments that work around the clock. The communications room, for instance.”
“Yes, but your department isn’t really—”
“My department communicates with its counterpart in Australia,” he explained patiently, “and with the one in New York. The time difference requires a permanent presence.”
It seemed logical, but not honest. She would have inquired further, were it not for the impending wedding that had been repeatedly postponed by Jerry, who kept fearing different things: The commitment of marriage, the financial burden, or the difficulty of raising children. Sally was able to dispel his concerns, even convincing him not to settle for civil marriage in city hall. They were married by a rabbi in the Great Synagogue of London, where a handful of worshippers were asked to stay after services and serve as a religious quorum. The rabbi curiously inspected the empty sanctuary. “No relatives? No family?” he asked.
“They’re in Israel,” Sally replied.
“Do they know you’re getting married?”
“They do,” she reassured him.
The rabbi began the ceremony and ended it quickly. “I wish you luck,” he said, his voice filled with compassion.
Married life was peaceful and loving. Jerry advanced at his work in Israeli advocacy and Sally found a lucrative job as head of the computer department of British Home Stores. They still had to live frugally, but they knew that life would grow easier as they advanced in their positions. Sally was almost happy. It was only Jerry’s frequent disappearances at night that spoiled her mood, and worried her.
The doorbell rang and Sally rushed to open it. Jerry entered first and began looking around, as though he was searching for something. He signaled to someone standing in the corridor, beyond the wall. “This is my wife,” he said when the man entered, gesturing to Sally.
“Aaron,” the man introduced himself, delivering a firm handshake.
He had a pleasant face, light eyes, and graying hair, which probably used to be blond. “Come, have a seat.” Sally switched on the light in the kitchen. “Would you like to eat something? Drink?” she asked the guest.
“Tea, please.”
His Hebrew was tinged with a slight foreign accent. When she lit the stove fire under the teapot, the sound of children’s laughter erupted beyond the thin wall, and Aaron asked Jerry who lived there.
“I don’t know them,” Jerry replied. “Pakistanis or something.”
“And what about the other wall?” Aaron pointed at the bedroom.
“A widow with a cat.”
Sally could sense Aaron’s frustration. He got up. “Let’s speak in another room,” he ordered.
“There’s only a couch and a carpet in there,” Sally said.
“We’ll take chairs with us.”
He left, dragging his chair behind him. A few moments later, the three were seated across each other, Sally on her couch (“out of the question,” Aaron politely refused when she offered it to him) and the two men on kitchen chairs. “So, what’s the story?” Sally asked directly. “Where is my husband off to at nights and how are you—” she turned to Aaron “—connected to this?”
“Your husband works for the state,” Aaron said.
“I already know that. He works in the finance department in an Israeli advocacy organization.”
“Not really. He’s registered there, but he works for a security branch.”
“Is he a military attaché?” Sally recalled a tall officer, dressed in official uniform, who was introduced to her at one of the embassy parties.
“The Mossad.”
“The Mossad?” Sally called out, and immediately covered her mouth. “I apologize. It’s so surprising. He’s a man of financial reports, numbers, balances. Not James Bond.”
“The Mossad doesn’t only employ James Bonds,” Aaron said. “He’s—”
“Call me Sally,” she interrupted him. “And listen. I don’t believe this story. If you don’t only employ only James Bonds, there is certainly no reason to extract Jerry from home at nights.”
“Meetings,” Jerry said, mincing his words.
“Jerry holds meetings with various people,” Aaron explained. “His English, his education, his knowledge—these all make him very valuable to us, to the state, and to the Mossad.” Something caught his eye and he bent down to the floor and looked at the illuminated crack under the door. “What—” Sally began to ask, but Aaron put his finger to his mouth, signaling to her to remain quiet. He quietly moved to the door and opened it with one fell swoop. The widow’s cat was sitting on the carpet, licking its paws. “This is silly, this paranoid game,” Sally announced.
“It’s not paranoia,” Aaron said as he returned to his chair. “This apartment isn’t suitable for you. You’ll need to move away. We have a flat in Mayfair, which will do fine.”
“A flat in Mayfair? How will we pay for it?”
“There’s no need to pay. It belongs to us, to the State of Israel.”
Sally stared at Jerry. “You didn’t tell me how senior you are there.”
“He didn’t,” Aaron replied instead. “He can’t. I’m the only one who can authorize him to speak. Now you are a confidante and know that your husband is a senior employee of the Mossad branch here in London.”
“You wouldn’t tell by the salary,” Sally commented, practical as always.
Aaron shrugged. “We’re all state employees, you know.”
3.
The flat in Mayfair was spacious, well-equipped, and lavishly furnished, putting Sally’s favorite couch to shame. Sally was consumed by the new life designed by her husband’s employers. As soon as she was informed of the secret of his work, she had to acquaint herself with the rules of being married to a Mossad official. She must be prepared for the day when she would take part in his escape, or any other sudden change to his routine life. Every afternoon after work, she would show up to the embassy for a crash course on the basic rules of Mossad work. As her British friends mingled in their regular bar, Sally gained experience in surveillance, makeup and identity exchange, encrypted communications, and blending into the surroundings. She felt as
though the training accentuated her skills, summarized by her father in a sentence that had infuriated her brothers: “Sally is braver and more ambitious than a boy.”
Jerry’s life became easier when he didn’t have to hide anything. He would leave for secret meetings, sometimes using an empty flat, no less plush than their own, nearby. That flat also offered Sally her first task in the service of the Mossad, when one day she was requested to arrive there at five p.m., wearing an evening gown. She left her office an hour before the end of work and rushed home, put on a sleeveless black dress that came down to just below her knees, exposing her shapely legs. She looked in the mirror, wishing her legs were as tanned as they were in her youth, before she relocated to London. At five sharp, she left the house and lightly knocked on the next door.
The door opened. A group of men stood in the foyer and waited for her. She recognized Aaron, standing next to Jerry, and another man she identified from the intelligence classes at the embassy. Aaron signaled to her to come closer. The other men stayed put, their faces to the door. Only then did Sally realize that it wasn’t her they were anticipating, but someone more important. “The King of an African state will arrive here in the coming hour,” Aaron explained. “Three women will be escorting him, and we trust you to entertain them.” He led Sally to one of the rooms, where a coffee table stood, filled with refreshments. “They’ll be here soon,” he said and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Sally felt offended for being separated from the men. She walked along the walls, examining the pictures depicting English landscapes. In the closet, large sheets rested neatly folded, probably to cover the couches when the room wasn’t in use. A large window overlooked the street, and she gazed through it. Beneath the building, two long Mercedes cars pulled up. A group of men wearing black suits stepped out of one car and formed a human horseshoe around the only door that hadn’t yet opened. Everyone’s hands were deep in their jackets, and Sally knew they were holding pistols ready to be drawn. One of the men looked up, and Sally hurriedly leaned back in. A few moments later, she could hear noise in the corridor. The door opened and three black women entered.
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