As Michael slept in his crib, Sally would sit at the window looking out at the lights of London, remembering the difficult beginning she had there. She never thought of calling Pierre Marin and satisfying her twenty-year urge to thank him personally for changing her life. She repressed these thoughts, imagining the accusing stare she would get from Jerry, had he known.
The monotonous life in the hotel made Sally think about the life she would lead when they return from their mission. She realized that, unlike other women, she could not settle for the routine life revolving around home, children, dog, and work. She aspired for more than that, for meaning. She had to find an occupation that would enrich and satisfy her, fulfill her insatiable need to live and experience adventures, while meeting fascinating people in exotic places.
It was the first time she realized that a regular life bored her; that the sense of adventure that accompanied her since childhood stemmed from a need to grab life and control it, to experience thrills, to take risks. That was why she followed Jerry to England without even knowing if he wanted her; that was why she insisted he would be her husband—even though he hesitated and tried to cancel the wedding—and that was why she left for Pakistan.
She returned to their home in Islamabad, aware of her motives but also concerned. Now they were a family of four whose cover could be blown at any moment of absentmindedness. Her fear of falling prey to anxiety made her want to test her boundaries at moments of uncertainty. One day, she and Jerry were invited to a couples tennis match with the chief of Pakistans intelligence, General Muhammad al-Sharif, and his tennis partner. Sally and Jerry were better players than their rivals, but every time they “lost” a ball that landed in their court and would have reduced their score, the ball collectors would shout “out.” Sally complained vocally, but the ball collectors insisted. She stood her ground until a severe stare from Jerry made her swallow her pride and let their rivals win. After the game, the two couples dined at the tennis club.
Al-Sharif was swollen with pride for defeating a European couple, and Sally felt the need to come close to the fire. When the conversation drifted to the frequent terror attacks that took place in the country, and the general boasted that a number of them were thwarted thanks to information he had extracted from suspects, Sally asked him about his interrogation methods. The general smiled slyly, looking straight into her eyes. “Believe me,” he said, “I pity those who fall into our hands. We are more ruthless than the Nazis.”
That night, Sally opened the special hiding place where they kept their escape passports, and moved them to her purse, along with a map indicating their escape route. The darkness outside scared her. Who knew which forces were lurking there, scheming against her and her family? She lay awake all night, sensing that something terrible was going to happen to them. At dawn, she returned everything to its original place and fell asleep.
6.
General al-Sharif lived in a fortified concrete structure in Rawalpindi, where many of the headquarters of the Pakistani army were located. He felt protected by the tens of thousands of soldiers and officers, on all of whom he collected information in his giant archive. When al-Sharif threw a party, everyone knew that despite the religious ban on importing alcoholic drinks to Pakistan, alcohol would flow. Women would not wear veils covering their heads and necks, and no one would retire to pray Isha, the evening prayer that devout Muslims would never miss.
It was also clear that you couldn’t refuse al-Sharif’s invitation. Ever since Jerry and Sally Travers began playing tennis with him, they were invited to every party the general held, and those happened at least once a month. Jerry was satisfied with that. Pakistan’s financial elite hobnobbed with the regime heads and the diplomatic community, and the information exchanged nonchalantly was highly valuable from an intelligence point of view. Sally was worried. Al-Sharif was ruthless and unpredictable, and the looks he gave her sent chills down her spine. She was unsure if they expressed interest in her femininity or an investigation he was carrying out on her family. She felt that one wrong move could bring disaster upon them.
At the parties she tried to enjoy the diverse food, and even get carried away by the fake joviality that the general’s men tried to create using upbeat music, colorful lightbulbs, and exotic flowers in crystal vases. But the waiters, wearing traditional clothes and stealthily moving through the crowd, reminded her of reality. Sally could swear, by looking at them, that they understood the cacophony of languages being spoken at the party, taking mental notes of what was being said. She made a point of not speaking too much, and was glad that she and Jerry were not seated with the foreign diplomats but with the businesspeople. That way she was distanced from Angela, who was especially chatty and inquisitive after ingesting obscene quantities of Southern Comfort.
It was at one of these parties that Sally experienced her worst anxiety attack since arriving in Pakistan. The nightmare she had feared since first landing in Islamabad materialized. A moment after being seated at the table, Sally noticed a woman at the next table wearing a long skirt and a headscarf. She recognized her immediately: It was Vivian Moyal, the wife of a millionaire that Jerry and Sally had met in London, who had since gone bankrupt in a scandal that captured newspaper headlines worldwide. “We need to get out of here,” she whispered to Jerry.
“Why?”
“Vivian Moyal,” she said, discreetly signaling toward her.
Jerry stared at her, then a thin smile appeared on his face. “And do you know who’s standing next to her?” he asked.
Sally saw a tall man wearing an elegant suit deep in conversation with Vivian. He looked like he was in his mid-fifties. His hair was graying and his entire presence exuded importance, power, status and wealth. Extreme wealth. “I don’t know him. Actually, I do. I think I saw him once…”
“You saw him in a picture. It’s Pierre Marin.”
Sally suppressed a cry of joy. Jerry held her wrist tightly. “Don’t even think of going over there. Vivian will recognize you, and you won’t be able to tell Marin anything anyway. Now we’ll withdraw in an organized fashion. Squirm.”
That was an agreed-upon code word that signaled to her to display visible signs of discomfort so that they could leave places where they’d better not remain. Sally held her stomach with a look of pain on her face. Jerry got up from his seat and smiled courteously at the guests around the table. “My wife isn’t feeling well,” he apologized, as Sally pointed to her stomach and whispered to the women around her, “Since the delivery, you know…”
As they were on their way out, Angela stood up from her table and approached her. “You’re leaving so early? Problems with the children?”
Sally reapplied the suffering look. “It hurts,” she said. “If it continues this way I’ll have to fly back to London for treatment.”
Angela stroked her arm sympathetically. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said.
A bearded man dressed in black and wearing a large white skullcap approached Pierre Marin and Vivian and said something that made Vivian burst out laughing. His bushy, unkempt beard and white cap, the taqiyah, made him look like a devout Muslim. But something about him set him apart from the Pakistani men that Sally met, something different yet familiar. She knew she had already met him. But where? At a different party? Maybe at some ceremony? She focused on his eyes. They stirred a distant, vague memory in her.
Angela turned to her and said, “See why I can’t stand Jews? Look at them. The woman is as noisy as a fish saleswoman in the market and the man next to her, Pierre Marin, controls the entire energy market of Morocco and mines in North Africa. Now he’s come to milk Pakistan too.” She wavered a little, her breath smelling of liqueur. “The third one is also Jewish. They call him the Honorable Rabbi Abraham Ben David. Were it not for his American passport and ties with Pierre Marin he’d never be let in here. It’s a scandal…”
Sally’s feigned suffering b
ecame real discomfort. She was offended as a Jew. “Look—” she started.
“We need to go,” Jerry apologized, and grabbed her arm.
In the car, Sally suddenly recalled. “Did you see the rabbi standing next to Pierre Marin?” she asked Jerry excitedly.
“Yeah, so what?”
“I know who he is. I remember. He’s no rabbi, just a regular laborer who worked in the garage at the nearby moshav to ours. His name was Dadoshvili and he cheated my older brother, Avner, out of thousands of shekels. He replaced the clutch cable in his car and lied that he’d replaced the entire clutch. He had no beard or large skullcap back then, but his eyes are the same.”
“Sometimes you surprise me with your overconfidence. How can you be sure that the rabbi standing next to Marin is this Dado-something who tricked your brother? You only saw him once in your life!”
She leaned on his arm steering the wheel. “Jerry, you know I—”
“We’ll have an accident because of you,” he hissed.
She let go. “You know I never forget people. His eyes—I remember them.” Her voice rose in frustration. “I’m sure he’s conning Pierre Marin right now, and I don’t know whether Vivian Moyal is cooperating with him. They say her husband left her penniless and now she’s probably desperate and capable of anything. I must warn Marin. It’s the least I can do to repay him.”
Jerry’s face was severe, reproaching. “Promise me you won’t do a thing before our mission ends.”
“I’ll see…”
“Promise,” Jerry demanded. “Think of our children!”
“I promise,” Sally said sheepishly, knowing that the urge to call Marin would not leave her until they returned home in eight months’ time.
7.
The Tel Aviv that the Travers family—now reclaiming their surname Amir—returned to was different. During the years they had been away, high-rises had sprung up along the Ayalon expressway, and many cafés had opened in the city’s south, filled with bustling activity.
During her first days in town, Sally felt as though she was wandering a foreign city. This wasn’t just because of the changes that had taken place, but also due to her difficulty to shake the habits she had acquired in Pakistan. She hesitated to enter taxis whose drivers seemed untrustworthy, collected her children from school and kindergarten herself, and examined through the peephole every person who rang her doorbell.
Jerry acclimated faster, leaving for work at his new position—which was much more senior than the one he had before Pakistan—on his first week back. Sally got a job as computing manager at an insurance company, but felt bored from day one. She missed life on the edge, which she experienced in Pakistan, and realized once again that she could not lead a normal lifestyle. Pakistan had entrenched the “bug” as an intrinsic part of her personality, turning her from a software engineer to a determined, qualified secret agent.
The emptiness she felt was compounded by the constant need to warn Pierre Marin of the harm of the imposter rabbi. She scoured the Internet looking for details on Ben David, searching his original name first: Dadoshvili. The first result she came across was a criminal court verdict concerning fraud in a car sale. She delved into the indictment, which described a promise Dadoshvili made to sell a new Mercedes to a businessman for half the price, claiming it had been confiscated by customs and could be bought by tender. He was also accused of money laundering and tax evasion. The judge had sentenced the accused to three years in prison. There were also photographs of Dadoshvili. One displayed him clean-shaven and wearing a T-shirt that read “I love New York;” the other showed him wearing prison uniform during his appeal. Other than that, there was no mention of him.
She changed the search words to “Rabbi Abraham Ben David” and got dozens of results. The rabbi was a public relations master. His photos—him wearing a beard, black clothes, and a Hassidic black hat—appeared in dozens of websites, Facebook pages, and articles. In some of the photos, he was standing next to children, probably bar mitzvah boys. In others, he was shaking hands with Israeli tycoons, some famous and some less so. Some images captured him with people she didn’t know, although judging by their clothes and the scenery, they were extremely rich.
To her surprise, his telephone number and address were available on the online telephone directory. She held herself back from calling. First, she had to better understand his relationship with Pierre Marin. No search containing both their names led to any results, and Sally realized that Vivian Moyal was the only source of possible information on Ben David. She typed “Vivian Moyal.” Google immediately provided a chain of gossip articles, some more flattering than others, as well as photos of the woman. Unlike the rabbi, Moyal’s phone number was nowhere to be found. She paced the apartment, deep in thought. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed a long series of numbers.
“Advocacy Inc.,” the receptionist answered.
“I’d like to speak to the press officer, please.”
She was transferred without any questions asked. “My name is Sally Amir,” she stated. “My husband, Jerry Amir, served with your financial department about twenty years ago. In one of the events you held, we met a woman, Vivian Moyal, and I’d like to contact her and invite her to a charity ball.”
“I’m new here,” the press officer replied, “but I’m sure she’s registered here somewhere…” Sally could hear the sound of typing on a keyboard. “Do you know where she lives?”
“London, I assume.”
Some more typing.
“Shalom Moyal,” Sally remembered. “That was her husband’s name.”
“Shalom Moyal,” repeated the press officer. “Yes, the entry is on his name, and it does mention his wife as Vivian Moyal. For some reason, they’ve stopped inviting them. Their home number was deleted from the registry, but there’s another number here, which I believe is a mobile.”
Sally typed the number on her phone, and as soon as she hung up with the embassy, pressed “send.” The dial tone was delayed, and Sally knew the conversation was roaming between networks. A sharp sound was heard when Vivian’s phone rang somewhere in the world, and Sally wondered where she was: A Paris hotel? A London flat? A man’s home in New York?”
“Hallo?” Vivian answered in her French accent.
“Vivian, it’s Sally. We met in London a long—”
“Sally, of course. How could I forget?! Beautiful Sally, the woman of Jerry from the embassy…” She spoke as though she was retrieving the information from a database. “You know, something very bizarre happened to me. It was… I don’t remember when, but never mind. Anyway, I was in Islamabad at a party. You know how it is, I always travel and there was a conference there on energy. Oil and all that…. But what I wanted to tell you is that over there, at the next table, there was a woman who looked so much like you. It was unbelievable! And the man next to her also reminded me of Jerry, just a bit balder. I wanted to talk to her, but she suddenly disappeared… I almost called you in Israel, but forgot your surname. There’s no chance you were in Pakistan, is there?”
“None at all,” Sally said confidently. “Where are you now?”
“Hilton Tel Aviv. I came to the memorial service of my brother who used to live here in Kfar Saba. I’m so glad you called. What do you say we meet?”
There was nothing Sally wanted more. “Gladly,” she said.
“The ceremony is tomorrow, but I’ll be free from five. We could eat something here at the hotel.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow at five,” Sally quickly said.
The following day she traveled to Bney Brak. She drove slowly along the main road until she noticed a fashion shop. In the window, headless manikins were dressed in modest blouses and long, slim dresses. Inside, heavyset women were trying on larger versions of the same clothes. Sally pointed at a navy blue skirt on one of the manikins and said, “I’d like that one.”
The saleswoman measured Sally’s body by sight. “We have none in stock. It’s a size no one asks for here.”
“I’ll buy the one in the window,” she replied.
“From display?”
Sally nodded.
The saleswoman pulled the manikin into the shop and returned with the skirt in hand. “Would you like to try it on?”
Sally identified the particular stitching of Chanel. She looked at the label. The skirt was indeed exactly her size. “No need, just pack it,” she said. “Do you have a headscarf?”
“Full size or half?” asked the saleswoman.
Sally hesitated. Her family was religiously observant, but the women didn’t cover their hair and she didn’t know the rules. “Half,” she said. An array of scarves was shown to her, and Sally chose a blue one to match the skirt.
When she returned home, Sally was wearing a long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the top. She then put on the skirt and low-heeled shoes, perfect Gucci imitations she bought in Hong Kong. Her costume was complete with the headscarf, which covered her hair that was tied behind her head. At the last moment she put her personal affairs in a handbag that resembled a Hermes bag. In Vivian’s eyes, she knew, people were measured by the brands they wore. When she entered the elevator, a woman in her thirties looked back at her from the mirror, unaffected by the extremely modest garb.
8.
The lobby of the Hilton Hotel was packed. Beyond the large windows the Mediterranean glistened, and in the hotel soft and featureless music played in the background. Vivian was already waiting for her, sitting on a couch. She too was dressed modestly, but ostentatiously. Her corpulent body was dressed in a long-sleeved, shiny blue dress. A diamond the size of a corn kernel rested on her chest, tied to an almost invisible necklace. A similar sized diamond decorated her finger, attached to a thick golden ring.
Married to the Mossad Page 3
