Snap Shot

by A. J. Quinnell

  It was then that he saw it and for a moment was puzzled. Among the boxes was a round, black spool-holder denoting an exposed roll. But he hadn’t yet taken any film. Then he remembered: it was the film he had shot at Ruth Paget’s house four months ago. His thoughts went back to that morning and the thrill of holding his camera after so many years. He had stayed half an hour and photographed Ruth and the children as they played in the garden. She had asked him to send her copies but from the moment he had walked into Walter Blum’s office his mind had been over-occupied. He held the black tube in his hand and remembered how tears had appeared in her eyes when she first saw him holding the camera. How beautiful she had looked - and how vulnerable. There had been another look in her eyes but he couldn’t define it.

  On an impulse he carried the film through into the darkroom. He might as well develop it. At least it would help pass the night.

  At first he worked automatically, his fingers quickly remembering the thousands of similar movements. He trimmed the film and loaded it into the feeding reel, his mind occupied with the routine. He flicked on the normal light, mixed the developer and poured it in, then began turning the drum in his hand. He hardly needed to check with the timer - his brain ticked off the seconds. Then out came the developer and in went the stop bath - a gentle shaking - then the stop bath out and the fixer in. He thought of the hundreds of hotel rooms in which he had gone through this exact same sequence. It always held a fascination for him - a sense of anticipation as he waited to see whether his eye and his camera had captured the same image. But in this case he could not clearly remember what his eye had seen. He washed the processed film and clipped it into a collapsible dryer and went out into the sitting room while it dried.

  Fifteen minutes later he was back in the bathroom assessing the negatives. It was only a roll of twelve: three of Ruth by herself, three of her with one of the children and six of the other children. He could see that his exposure had been good and also the developing. He transferred the negatives to a contact printing frame and exposed them, using the empty enlarger as a light source. Ten minutes later he was examining the contact prints. There was something about them that he could not fathom and at first he went through a mental trouble-shooting sequence. But he had done everything right and the images were technically very good, with excellent contrast and delineation. There was something else about the tiny prints: something different. He thought perhaps his exhaustion and state of mind had clouded his vision. He picked up a magnifying glass and examined each one carefully for several minutes. Then he straightened up and looked at himself in the mirror as if seeking an answer from his image. He went into the sitting room again and drank another vodka, standing by the window looking out over the half-lit city. After ten minutes he abruptly came to a decision, drained the glass, went back into the darkroom and started working with the enlarger.

  At 5 o’clock in the morning he was looking at a row of 8 x 10 prints clipped to a cord above the bath tub. The first six showed children at play. They were unposed and natural. He remembered standing on the patio as they had boisterously raked up the pine cones. After a few minutes they had ignored him and his camera. It was not that they were exceptional snaps that riveted Munger’s gaze but that in each case the children were caught in happiness and in such a way that their joy and exhilaration flowed off the paper. They were photographs the like of which he had never taken in his life. The next three showed Ruth bending over, talking to a young boy. Munger even remembered his name - Stavros. She had said he was her problem child. She was holding both his hands in hers. In the first the boy’s eyes were downcast, the face sad. In the second the beginning of a smile had started on his lips. In the third the smile had spread across his face. He was transformed from gloom to happiness. It was the first time that Munger had ever photographed a sequence moving in that direction.

  Finally his gaze moved to the last three. They were all of Ruth and he had marked the negatives so as to enlarge only her face. They were extraordinary portraits of a beautiful woman and they were more than that. He remembered now how the light had shafted in through the open window. It had shaded the contours of her cheek, caressed her forehead and chin, glinted off her black hair. The composition and light and angles were perfect. But it was the expression which gave them real beauty. Expression emanating from her eyes - the expression of compassion. In two of the portraits the light glistened on tears and yet they created not sadness but a depth to the compassion.

  Munger looked at those three photographs for a long time, especially the last one. Finally he unclipped the last photograph and turned again to the enlarger.

  When he emerged, light from the rising sun was filling the sitting room. He carried a large print in his hand. He pulled a chair over to the window, sat down and raised the print to the morning light. It showed only the eyes of Ruth Paget. Just below one eye was a tear drop. Due to the extreme enlargement the print was grainy but that seemed to enhance it, giving an ethereal quality.

  Munger held the photograph at arm’s length and looked steadily into those eyes and again saw the compassion. He then closed his own eyes, shutting them tight, creating blackness. Into that blackness he conjured up an image. It was easy to do; it was always in his head - the image of the oriental eyes. He saw and felt the pain and despair and, above all, the contempt. He kept his eyes shut, letting the pain and the terror build up and, when his heart began to beat faster with the agony, he opened his eyes and let the light into his brain together with the compassion from the eyes of Ruth Paget.

  He did that half a dozen times and each time compassion was the victor. He then carried the photograph through into the bedroom and placed it on the bedside table. He picked up the phone and told the operator he was not to be disturbed. He crossed to the window and closed the curtains tight, then climbed into the bed. As he reached out to turn off the light he looked down at the photograph for a long time, then he flicked the switch and fell back onto the pillow.

  He slept for twenty-four hours and he had no nightmares.

  Chapter 11

  It was early summer again when Walter Blum drove up to Platres. His mood was more sanguine than on the last occasion and he sat next to Spiro in the Mercedes and chatted with him about his family and local politics and the stalled efforts of the United Nations to resolve the Cyprus problem.

  As they reached the Troödos foothills, Spiro fell silent as he concentrated on the narrow road. Walter’s thoughts turned to his recent trip to Paris. With Efim Zimmerman he had planned the last convoluted steps to stop the French from shipping the Tammuz I reactor.

  The Egyptian scientist Yahia el Mashad was to be assassinated on his next visit to France. A Mossad team was already assembled and waiting in Paris. Another team was preparing to plant bombs in the factory at La Seyne-sur-Mer. The two on-site Mossad agents had reported that the construction of the reactor was now slightly ahead of schedule. The optimum time to attack would be in a few months.

  Walter knew that under the direction of Efim Zimmerman the activities in France would be successful. He also knew that such success would have a marginal effect and at best delay the project for a few months or a year at most. He remembered a conversation with Zimmerman over dinner: Walter had eaten and listened while Zimmerman had talked. Walter listened carefully and with deep respect for Zimmerman’s knowledge of France and the world in general.

  In essence Zimmerman believed that in order to halt the project completely it would become necessary for Israel to take ‘defensive’ military action against the reactor. That meant either a commando raid or a ‘take out’ bombing strike. Obviously this could not be contemplated on French territory and would have to take place after the reactor had been installed in Iraq. Walter knew that this line of thought was paralleled by General Hofti and the Israeli chiefs of staff.

  Zimmerman had gone on to illustrate the vital need for top class intelligence to be available from Iraq. Whether it was to be a commando raid or a bombi
ng strike the planners would need exact and up to date information on the reactor site and, more importantly, when it was due to become radioactive or ‘hot’. Obviously it must be destroyed before that moment. El-Tuwaitha was only twelve miles from the centre of Baghdad and if that city of three and a half millions was to be radioactively contaminated, Israel would be universally condemned.

  In the intervening months the work of the ORANGE network had become even more vital. With Sadat’s visit to Jerusalem at the end of 1977 a new era had begun. Peace could and would be made with Egypt: But such a peace would only intensify the opposition from other Arab states. Iraq’s Saddam Hussein would see it as his chance to take over leadership of the Arab world. He would use it as justification for the most extreme measures against Israel, The possession of nuclear weapons would strengthen his hand immensely and serve to raise still further his ambitions. It was unthinkable and he must be stopped.

  So Walter had listened and, when he had finished eating, he talked to Zimmerman about Munger. He had only been back in circulation for three months but already his reputation was re-established. He had thrown himself into the work and all his skills had been successfully resurrected. Only that week Paris Match had run an in-depth report on the fighting in South Lebanon. The story had been illustrated with twelve photographs: eight of them had been taken by Munger. Three weeks earlier both Time and Newsweek had used his snaps to illustrate stories of the South Yemen. Munger had been the only Western photographer to get into that country in over a year. Walter had no idea how he had done it and knew that Misha Wigoda, who was ‘running’ Munger from his base in Beirut, was unaware of Munger’s methods. His latest report to Walter had recounted in awed terms how Munger could cross a closed frontier like other people crossed a street. In a few days he would be making a trip to Kurdish Iran and planned to cross over into North Western Iran to make contact with the Iraqi Kurdish. Contacts that could be useful in the future.

  As Walter talked about his new agent, Efim Zimmerman had caught some of his enthusiasm. He remembered the many occasions when Walter’s ‘feel’ and instinct for a man’s talents had been well vindicated. However, he felt constrained to ask a few questions: for example, what kind of network was Munger attempting to build up?

  Walter was forced to admit that Munger insisted on working alone. That was his nature and that was the way it had to be. He even resented having Wigoda as a ‘case’ officer. He liked him personally but would have preferred to report directly to Walter on his visits to Cyprus.

  On that matter Walter had been insistent. Wigoda was an experienced agent and there could be times when his back-up would be invaluable.

  Zimmerman had expressed his concern that the entire ORANGE effort in Iraq was to be contained in one man - no matter how good he might be. At that Walter had shrugged resignedly. At the moment it was the best they could do. In the meantime Mossad headquarters would try to infiltrate a back-up team, to be based in Baghdad. At best it would be a transient unit, probably made up of agents posing as visiting businessmen. They would try to have at least two or three people in the city at any given time.

  As Walter watched the countryside turn greener as they drove higher he admitted to himself that the situation was far from perfect. He would be forced to rely on one man and, while that man had extraordinary talents, he also had a flaw. It rankled Walter that he had not been able to understand Munger’s nine years of self-imposed exile from society. It was a dark area and until light was shed on it he was going to remain with that edge of doubt.

  His thoughts naturally progressed to Ruth. She could have helped resolve that doubt. It was inconceivable to Walter that someone’s integrity could be so all-encompassing as to eliminate actions which, while devious, would justify an end. She had left him in no doubt that she would not take part in his machinations. Anyway, he decided that even if she tried it would probably fail. On the back seat lay a box containing a sequined evening dress which he had bought for her in Paris and which he hoped she might wear that night during dinner. He also felt a surge of anxiety for he knew that a week earlier Gideon Galili had visited from Israel. Walter had no illusions about ever possessing more than Ruth’s affection but it was disquieting that another man might possess more.

  The shadows of his mood evaporated as soon as he walked through the door carrying the box. She had heard the car and come in from the garden. He first saw her framed in the doorway to the patio: she was wearing a short cotton dress and the sunlight from behind outlined the soft contours of her body. Her face lit up at the sight of him. It was such a genuine expression of pleasure that it brought a lump to his throat. She quickly crossed the room, leaned over the box and his protruding stomach and kissed him warmly on both cheeks.

  ‘Is that a present for me?’ she asked.

  He nodded and held out the box, suddenly shy.

  She carried it over to the table, quickly undid the ribbons and lifted the lid. She was mute as she gazed down at the shimmering apparition of smooth silk and sparkling sequins. Very slowly she lifted the dress from the box, held it up and looked at it. Then she laid it against her body and turned to face him.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed. ‘You shouldn’t have, Walter.’

  Before he could say anything she grinned at him and said ‘I’m just saying that. Of course you should have! I love it. I haven’t worn anything like it for years. Is it the Forest Park for dinner?’

  He nodded, feeling like a schoolboy, and she moved towards the bedroom.

  ‘I’ll hang this up,’ she said, ‘and then get you a drink. Make yourself comfortable.’

  He walked down the two steps into the lounge, feeling vastly pleased with himself.

  He was about to sit down when he saw them: three large framed black-and-white photographs, side by side on a low table. He straightened up and, without taking his eyes from them, shuffled across the floor for a closer look. Two were of Ruth’s face, grainy with the enlargement. The third was of Ruth and a young boy. The boy’s eyes were looking up at her, his face reflecting happiness and trust. Walter was mesmerised and his great body was still stooped over, his eyes moving between them, when Ruth’s voice came quietly from behind him.

  ‘Munger took them. The day he picked up his camera.’

  Slowly Walter straightened and turned to face her with an expression of puzzlement.

  ‘Munger . . .?’

  She was carrying an ice bucket, from which protruded the neck of an open bottle of wine. She nodded, carried the bucket to a table and fetched two glasses from a sideboard. Walter had turned back to the photographs.

  ‘It’s unbelievable . . . Munger . . . You were crying.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know why.’

  She brought him a glass and stood next to him, looking at the photograph at the end. The one which showed the glistening tear drop.

  ‘He’s never done such work,’ Walter muttered. ‘If I didn’t know you, I’d say you were lying . . . It’s the antithesis of Munger’s work.’

  Ruth moved to the bookcase and lifted down a box and opened it. She showed Walter the other photographs he had taken of the children that day.

  He spread them out on the table, shaking his head in wonder. ‘They’re beautiful. He captures the soul.’

  Ruth looked at him in surprise. “That’s what Gideon said.’

  ‘Gideon?’

  ‘Yes. He was here last week.’ She paused and then said gently, ‘We’re going to be married, Walter.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Early next year.’ She couldn’t detect any change of expression but through the air she could feel his disappointment.

  ‘So you’ve decided you love him.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve decided that I don’t know what love is. I do know that his feelings for me couldn’t be deeper. He will never hurt me. Never lie to me.’

  ‘Is that enough?’

  She turned away and walked to the window and stood looking out. Walter wanted to say so
mething, wanted to argue, even to plead. But he couldn’t find the words and for once Shakespeare couldn’t help him.

  So he looked back at the photographs and then asked: ‘Can I borrow some of these? Just for a few days?’

  She turned. ‘Of course. He sent me several copies. Keep a set.’

  He picked out four of the photographs.

  ‘When is he coming back?’ she asked. Walter looked up enquiringly.

  ‘I mean Munger,’ she said. ‘He sent me a letter with those. Apologised that they’d been so delayed. He wrote that he’d like to see me when he comes back.’

  Walter thought for a moment. ‘By now he will be in Northern Iran with the Kurds. After that he’s due for a break. He should be here by the end of the month.’

  ‘How is he doing?’

  At last Walter could smile. ‘He’s doing just fine. He’s number one again. The best in the business.’

  She was relieved at his tone and the lightening of his mood.

  It was a happy meal. He had got over his disappointment and besides had reminded himself that a lot could happen in eight months. She was radiant in her new dress and he glowed under her sunlight.

  That night, before going to bed, he put the four photographs into an envelope together with a brief note for Professor Chaim Nardi.

  Ten days later they were returned, also with a brief note, which gave Walter much pleasure. It read:

  ‘Remarkable. I have recommended to the Dean that on your next visit you receive a degree in psychology. NB: Not honorary!’

  Misha Wigoda treated himself to dinner at The Smugglers Inn in Ras Beirut. He did this literally, for he was not the kind of man to cheat on his expense account.

  He had a corner table and dined alone, presenting a somewhat forlorn figure: short and dumpy, with his round head and monk’s fringe of black hair. It is often the lot of a spy to have to eat alone and Misha’s professional limits on social intercourse were compounded by personal shyness. Although he was a highly competent agent his shyness had always limited his career in so far as a successful spy must be gregarious and socially adept. Hence Misha was usually assigned to posts requiring observation or communications.