The Russian Affair

by Adrian D'hage

  ‘I’m working on it, Tom, and I’ll get back to you on that, and I’m also concentrating on communications out of the Israeli embassy in Moscow. It will be interesting if we can get any idea of their reaction to Rabinovich seeking asylum. It’s not every day a world-class nuclear physicist turns up on their doorstep. I doubt they’ll be letting her anywhere near Dimona until they’ve thoroughly checked her bona fides, but once they’re sure she’s genuine, they’ll use her.’

  ‘I’ve still got a couple of mates from the Mossad here in Washington,’ added O’Connor, ‘so I’ll make some oblique enquiries. When it comes to a sting, the Israelis are pretty astute, and they’ll be even more suspicious than we are, but they get done over occasionally.’

  ‘Welcome to Israel, Colonel Rabinovich. You’ve had quite a time getting here.’ Michael Lapid entered the Mossad conference room where Rabinovich was waiting and shook her by the hand. Mossad’s head recruiter had been in the game for many years, and when it came to a ‘walk-in’, he was unfailingly friendly, hoping to relax a prospective recruit and put them off their guard.

  ‘If my mother were still alive, she would have approved,’ said Rabinovich. ‘She never lost her Jewish roots and she would have been heartbroken to see how the Jewish people are being treated now. You’re right. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it to get out of Russia. It has become intolerable back there.’

  ‘You have impeccable English, Colonel. Was it compulsory at school?’

  Rabinovich recognised the question for what it was, a probe into where she might have spent time out of Russia. ‘No, not back then,’ she answered easily. ‘You had to learn a foreign language, and although I chose English, it wasn’t compulsory. But now, Russian schoolchildren have to study English and at least one other foreign language – usually German or French.’

  ‘And what was your main reason for leaving? A lack of freedom?’

  Lapid listened attentively while Rabinovich delivered her well-rehearsed responses to his seemingly banal questions. Her Moscow handler had spent hours firing the sort of questions the Mossad was expected to ask, and often he would ask the same question an hour apart, to test Rabinovich’s consistency. She had come through with flying colours. The records of her mother’s birth had been altered and a Russian mole in the Israeli embassy in Moscow had helpfully offered to use his contacts to retrieve them.

  ‘Well, now that you’re here, it would be a shame not to use your considerable talents in nuclear physics,’ Lapid said. He was satisfied that Rabinovich was a genuine walk-in, but his experiences over the years had taught him to be wary.

  For her part, Rabinovich concealed her elation. Was getting into the Israeli programs and perhaps even Dimona going to be this easy, she wondered.

  ‘Once you have the appropriate security and compartment clearances, our own nuclear scientists will want to debrief you on what you’ve been working on, but first we have a problem which you may be able to help us solve. Do you know a Doctor Denis Bartók?’

  ‘Last I heard he was working in the States at Los Alamos, although I’ve never met him,’ Rabinovich replied. Keep your answers short, she reminded herself. That way there was less chance of a small detail slipping out that could trip you up.

  ‘Oh, so how did you come to hear about him?’

  Rabinovich was ready for the question. She had no doubt the Mossad recruiter was still looking for any weakness in her story and she knew she would have to maintain her guard for the whole time she was in Israel, however long that might be.

  ‘He’s published several papers in the Journal of Nuclear Physics and although those don’t give too much away in terms of classified information, it’s clear that like many other nuclear physicists, one of his research areas is fusion energy.’

  ‘We think so too,’ said Lapid. ‘So before we get you to start work with our nuclear scientists, we’d like you to meet up with Bartók and see if you can find out what he’s been up to.’

  Rabinovich’s mind was racing. What the Israelis were suggesting was spying for Israel, and that was a twist that neither she nor President Petrov had envisaged. She smiled disarmingly. ‘I’m not sure how I could accomplish that. Bartók is hardly likely to hand over his research just because I’m published in the same area he is – in fact, just the opposite. Firstly, if he’s at the heart of nuclear research at Los Alamos, his work is likely to be very highly classified, and secondly . . . how do I put this? There is a certain bitchiness that often surrounds academia. Many academics see other academics as competition. They guard their own research very jealously until they’re ready to publish, for fear it might be stolen.’

  ‘Normally, that might be true,’ Lapid agreed, ‘but in Bartók’s case, there may be an opening. Bartók has been overlooked for promotion and he’s being treated quite badly by his Los Alamos bosses.’

  ‘So effectively, you’re asking me to spy for you. That’s not a field I have any expertise in. And even if I could master your arcane art, I’m not sure that Bartók is going to effectively commit treason because he’s not happy at work?’

  It was Lapid’s turn to smile disarmingly. It was a game of cat and mouse, each of them searching for an advantage, although Lapid had no idea he was actually the mouse. ‘That’s true, although as an added complication, he’s very unhappy at home as well. We also have reason to believe that Bartók’s work on fusion energy may have been highly successful.’

  ‘Which would justify his anger,’ Rabinovich offered, forcing herself to remain calm, her prodigious intellect in high gear. Not only did it look as if she could penetrate Dimona, but where the Russian agents in the United States had failed, she might be successful there as well. And if Bartók had somehow cracked the Holy Grail of fusion energy, it would be of incalculable value to Russia. Or was she just being thrown to the wolves to see what might turn up, she wondered. How much did the Israelis know?

  ‘Of course we’re not about to throw you into this without some intensive training,’ Lapid continued. ‘In the background papers on your request for asylum, I didn’t see any mention of family or a relationship. I take it you don’t have a partner?’

  Rabinovich shook her head. ‘I’m occasionally accused of being married to my work,’ she said, anticipating what was coming.

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ said Lapid with a rueful smile. ‘I only ask, because we – you – may have to dangle certain inducements to get Bartók to talk. That element of the mission is of course, entirely your decision, but if you’re successful, your newly acquired country will be very grateful.’

  ‘Known in the movies as pillow talk.’

  ‘Yes, although in these corridors it’s known as the honey trap. We don’t employ the tactic as often as the media would like to think, but it’s officially sanctioned here and from time to time, we’ve found it to be very effective. And if Bartók’s unhappy at home, there may be an opportunity.’

  Rabinovich absorbed every detail of Lapid’s plan to get to Bartók, right down to her change of name.

  ‘Feldman may have mentioned it, but in case President Petrov mobilises his thugs and comes after you, we think it wise for you to assume a different identity. This file here contains your cover as Lisa Cohen. It has details, which you must memorise, of your complete background from your childhood in Russia, including emigrating to Israel with your parents when you were ten, up until the present day when we’ve provided you with a cover working as a research scientist with a large technology company in Israel. The manager of your company division is a Mossad agent and he will be your handler for the American mission. Your training will begin in two days’ time, and I must warn you, it will be intense.’

  Rabinovich nodded. It couldn’t be more intense than what she had experienced in her home country, she thought, but it would be invaluable to compare the Mossad techniques and report back to Moscow. Her assignment was taking on a depth that not even President Petrov could have imagined.

  ‘As well as equipping y
ou with the usual skills associated with, as you put it, our “arcane art”, you will also be given access to a very sophisticated suite of code-breaking software. It’s an area we pride ourselves in. The operation to penetrate Los Alamos is codenamed Operation Fat Man.’

  The new Lisa Cohen allowed herself a wry smile. ‘Fat Man’ was a reference to the first plutonium atomic bomb that had been built at the Los Alamos National Laboratory. Originally scheduled to be dropped on the Japanese city of Kokura, on the day of the attack that city had been obscured by clouds and smoke, and the crew of the B-29 had diverted to the alternative target of Nagasaki.

  Rabinovich’s British Airways direct flight from London Heathrow to Phoenix’s Sky Harbor International Airport had taken nearly 11 hours, but at least she had flown business. As an Israeli citizen, Rabinovich, travelling as Lisa Cohen, was a national from one of 38 countries allowed visa-free entry under the US Electronic System for Travel Authorisation or ESTA, so she fronted one of the airport’s automatic passport control kiosks. Rabinovich scanned her passport, prompted the kiosk to take her photograph, and then took her receipt after providing answers to a series of questions on flight and biographic information. The queue to present her passport and receipt for final clearance was mercifully short. Two hours later Rabinovich boarded a connecting Delta Airlines flight to Santa Fe in New Mexico where she picked up a nondescript Toyota Corolla.

  She checked for CCTV and finding none where the Toyota was parked, she opened the trunk and retrieved the small package that had been placed in the spare wheel well. Her Russian handler in the embassy in Washington had considered it too risky to meet with her in either Phoenix or Santa Fe, let alone Los Alamos, so the specially encrypted cell phone had been placed where she could retrieve it unnoticed by an Israeli agent.

  Rabinovich took Route 285 and headed north where low, scrubby hills were the only features in the landscape. Fifteen miles down the road, a sign announced that Pojoaque had a population of 1500. And it shows, she thought ruefully, as she turned east onto Route 502. The hills in the distance were higher, but the low plain persisted. Twenty minutes later, a stone plinth on the highway announced the outskirts of Los Alamos.

  Rabinovich had memorised the route in, and she followed Route 502 until it became Trinity Drive where, just past the Chevron gas station, she turned into the car park of the Comfort Inn and Suites. Rabinovich had chosen it deliberately. It was less than a mile from her target’s watering hole, the Pajarito Brewpub and Grill.

  Showered and changed, Rabinovich checked herself in the mirror. She had chosen a slinky black cocktail dress that hugged the tight contours of her super-fit body, offering a tantalising glimpse of her firm, creamy breasts. She had, however, eschewed high heels, substituting a pair of flat, albeit very stylish, rubber-soled numbers. It was very hard, she knew, to run in high heels. Rabinovich did a final inspection of her hair. Although she was yet to get used to the blonde bob cut with a short fringe, the stylist in Tel Aviv had done an exceptional job. She missed her long dark hair, but the difference in appearance was impressive. Satisfied, she set out to walk the 800 metres to the Brewpub and Grill where, if Hannah the barmaid had been earning her retainer, she would meet up with her target.

  Denis Bartók parked his battered Malibu in his usual spot in Los Alamos’ Mari Mac Village Shopping Center off Trinity Drive and checked his watch. Five p.m. Once again he’d left early. Fuck ’em, he thought. No point in working his ass off if they weren’t going to recognise his talents. The new guy could pull the hours and he walked the short distance to the Pajarito Brewpub and Grill.

  He pushed open the door, reflecting on his conversation with the barmaid the previous evening. Hannah had asked him how things were at home and he’d given her a colourful reponse. Ever since he’d caught Darlene hard at it with that maintenance jerk, they’d barely spoken. Hannah had suggested there might be someone he’d like to meet – an old friend who was visiting the US for holidays and like him, a scientist. That would make a nice change to Darlene’s incessant babbling about a bigger house, he thought, as he walked up to the bar. At this hour of the day, it was almost empty. The only other occupant, a man in his thirties, was sitting down the far end.

  ‘Scotch, Denis?’ asked Hannah.

  Bartók nodded.

  ‘Same sort of boring day?’

  ‘Yep. Those assholes can go screw themselves,’ Bartók said, downing his Scotch in two gulps.

  Hannah poured another. ‘Well, never mind, I just had a text and Lisa’s on her way. In fact, here she is now,’ Hannah said, waving toward the door.

  Bartók turned and was taken aback. Hannah’s friend was an absolute stunner. With gorgeous blonde hair, she was wonderfully fit looking and trim. As she got closer he could not fail to notice her captivating green eyes.

  ‘Lisa!’ Hannah lent over the bar and gave her friend a hug. ‘Welcome to Los Alamos. It’s so good to see you!’

  ‘And you, Hannah, it’s been an absolute age.’

  ‘And this,’ Hannah said, turning toward Denis, ‘is the famous scientist I wanted you to meet. Denis Bartók . . . Lisa Cohen. You two should have a lot in common.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Denis. Hannah’s told me a lot about you.’ Rabinovich shook Bartók’s hand and controlled her immediate repulsion. He had a handshake like a limp wet fish.

  ‘Pleased to meet you too, Lisa,’ said Bartók. ‘And I’ll add my welcome to Hannah’s. Where have you come from?’ he asked, taking another large swig of Scotch.

  ‘That’s a very long story, Denis. At the moment, home is wherever I can find a pillow. Shall we take that table over there?’

  ‘Why not,’ Bartók replied, intrigued at what he thought might be a Russian accent.

  ‘Let me wipe it down, Lisa. What would you like to drink? A wine?’

  ‘It’s such a hot day, Hannah, I think I’ll have a beer.’

  ‘You’ve come to the right place, Lisa. The Pajarito Brewpub is famous for its beer,’ said Bartók, handing Lisa the drinks list.

  Rabinovich made as if she was perusing it. She didn’t have to. She’d already studied it before leaving Israel. If you were a beer connoisseur, she thought, with over 80 different beers, mostly boutique, you would be impressed. As well as the standard Budweisers, Coronas, Coors and Millers, the range included intriguing brands like ‘Rogue Dead Guy Ale’; ‘Schneider Weisse Tap 6’; ‘Moose Drool’ and ‘Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout’.

  ‘When in Rome . . . do you have the Santa Fe Pale Ale on tap?’ Rabinovich asked, searching the dizzying array of taps behind Hannah.

  ‘Certainly. I’ll bring it over.’

  ‘And another Scotch for me, thanks, Hannah.’

  ‘Do I detect a Russian accent?’ Bartók asked after they had sat down.

  ‘Very perceptive of you, Denis. That was a long time ago, but some things never leave you.’ Voice coaching to soften her Russian accent had been included in both her Russian and Israeli spy training.

  ‘Bartók is Hungarian, is it not, but do I detect a slight Russian accent with you too?’ Rabinovich had detected no such thing, but she was more than well acquainted with the life of Denis Bartók, right back to his origins.

  ‘Goodness . . . you’re the first person to mention that in years. I thought I’d lost it. My grandparents were originally from Hungary, and hence the name, but my parents were Russian.’

  ‘As I say, Denis, some things never leave you. Cheers!’ She clinked her glass with Bartók’s. ‘And if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say eastern Russia?’

  ‘Spot on. Vladivostok. You really are amazing.’

  ‘So when did you leave?’

  ‘In 1980, after I graduated from the Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology. I came over to Boston and completed my doctorate in particle physics.’

  ‘Massachusetts?’ asked Rabinovich.

  Bartók nodded. ‘Massachusetts Institute of Technology.’

  ‘That’s a pretty impressive pedigree,
Denis. How did you finish up here?’

  ‘I did pretty well at MIT, and one of my doctoral supervisors had an influential contact at the National Laboratory – the director, in fact,’ Bartók added with a smirk. ‘They were looking for post-doctoral graduates for their weapons development division, and the rest, as they say, is history. Another beer?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Rabinovich watched as Bartók headed back to the bar and the Mossad’s informant. So far, so good, she thought. Whether or not she could recruit him remained to be seen, but Bartók clearly had an ego that could be exploited. He was more interested in talking about himself than delving into any of her background, which augured well. As to getting him into bed for pillow talk, Rabinovich shuddered. It probably wouldn’t be hard, she thought, although a more insipid example on the bedroom side of things would be hard to find. Bartók returned with another large Scotch and her beer, and Rabinovich reminded herself that she was doing this for President Petrov and her beloved mother Russia.

  ‘Cheers!’ Rabinovich raised her glass again. ‘It’s very good to meet you.’

  ‘You too. I gather you’re a scientist as well?’

  ‘Yes, but nothing compared to the heights you’ve climbed. I saw you speak at a conference in Vienna back in 2010.’ Rabinovich remembered it for all the wrong reasons. Bartók’s presentation skills were almost non-existent. ‘You were by far and away the best speaker on the program, Denis.’ Rabinovich smiled seductively and leaned a fraction further toward her target, exposing more of her breasts. She was rewarded by Bartók staring at her cleavage.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Bartók replied, still staring. ‘It’s a pity I’m not as well appreciated here,’ he added. He was just starting to slur his words and his gaze kept wandering south of her face.

  ‘Oh? I find that very hard to believe, Denis. Your international reputation is outstanding. One of the best nuclear physicists around.’