They both looked at him to see if he would recognize who they were talking about. He did not. Then he remembered: Skuratov, the skull-faced Russian. Colonel Lazarus. Head of security at Dimona, who had paid a call on Judith Ressner.
“Colonel Skuratov,” Ellerstein said quietly. “Head of security—”
“At Dimona,” Gulder finished for him.
“Yes,” Ellerstein said. “At Dimona.”
Gulder nodded at him and fished a folder out of his briefcase. “I have a snapshot biography right here. Let me read you some excerpts.” He pushed his glasses back up on his nose and read out loud. “Malyuta Lukyanovitch Skuratov. Probably an assumed name. Born in the former Soviet Union, trained as a physicist, and worked in the Russian atomic energy program until his aberrant political views attracted the attention of the KGB. Defiance at an interrogation and the fact that his mother was a suspected Jew brought him banishment to the Gulag. Served sixteen years at hard labor in a coal mine before making an incredible dead-of-winter escape out of Russia through the Caucasus Mountains. He survived this ordeal, but at the cost of having his face, feet, and hands badly frostbitten. Picked up by the Turkish Army border patrol. They promptly threw him in jail as a Russian spy, and it was not for another year that he was able to win his freedom and emigrate to Israel as part of a spy-swap exchange between our government and Turkey. After nearly a year in physical rehabilitation, Skuratov was invited into our weapons program at Dimona.”
Ellerstein remembered something. He had actually met the Russian by chance, at one of the small outdoor Sunday chess clubs in Beersheba, where some of the scientists working at Dimona lived. Like many of them he often frequented such informal clubs for intellectual companionship that was untainted by laboratory politics. The older Russian with the hideous face and black-gloved hands had established a fearsome reputation for something approaching grand-master-level play, and Ellerstein, much younger then, had tried him on. The Russian swiftly defeated him in four straight games, but then Ellerstein managed to check the fifth game into a draw. The Russian had given him a wintry smile and made some comment about persistence being worth ten times its weight in intelligence.
“After two years, it became apparent that Skuratov had been imprisoned too long to be of much use in the swiftly evolving world of nuclear physics. His training as a nuclear physicist, however, made him a technically qualified counterintelligence officer, and he was picked up by Shin Bet. As the PM has indicated, he is now head of the Dimona Shin Bet office.”
“How old is he now?” Ellerstein asked.
Gulder consulted the file. “He is sixty-eight years old this month but apparently looks closer to eighty. He’s never really recovered from the years of hard labor, malnutrition, and illness in the Soviet slave-labor system. His Shin Bet personnel file states that he has what the Americans call black-lung disease from the coal mines. He is also suffering from arthritis, severe loss of hearing, rising glaucoma in both eyes, a malformed knee joint from a rock fall during his escape into Turkey, ice-maimed hands, and the loss of all but ten of his original teeth. Recently he has been flying to a cancer clinic over in Cyprus once a week.”
“And this is one of the conspirators?” Ellerstein asked, wondering why they were worried. The man sounded like walking death.
“What he lacks in physical capacity he apparently more than makes up for in nationalistic ardor. Let me quote you what he told one of our people: ‘This country has gone soft since the Americans smashed Saddam Hussein’s armies. Israel used to be serious about internal security. Now we act like little lambs. We make peace with the likes of that rat-faced, syphilitic Palestinian cur. We release known terrorists from our prisons by the hundreds while scabrous Arab teenagers bomb our school buses in broad daylight. While Shiite Iranian dogs in Lebanon send Katyusha rockets into the kibbutzim by night. And the goddamned preaching Americans, always coming over here, sending women to speak to us, bleating peace, peace, negotiate, negotiate. Soon we will fall like the Soviet Union fell, because we’ve stopped paying attention, while fat-choked Americans overwhelm us with hamburgers, cell phones, television, Coca-Cola, filthy Hollywood movies, their hideous rock and roll, and computer game arcades. The Soviet Union collapsed like a rotten cabbage under this assault, and so shall we.’ And more to that effect. Much more.” Gulder closed the file.
“An old security fanatic, Professor,” the PM said softly. “Living on borrowed time. A man with perhaps little to lose. A man who misses his homeland more than he recognizes. The Russian in him coming out of its cave one last time, yes?”
“This is something we know?” Ellerstein asked. “That he’s involved in some scheme to what, steal bombs?”
The PM looked at Gulder, who cleared his throat. “What we know and what we suspect are intertwined, Yossi. But since it is our intention to put you onto Skuratov, the less you know about what we might know, the better, hah?”
Ellerstein thought about that one. How on earth could he watch a man like Skuratov? The other way around made more sense. Gulder was one step ahead of him.
“There’s no way you can achieve surveillance on the head of security at Dimona. We know that. We want you to stay close to Judith Ressner, because we think there’s something going on, some connection. Skuratov has put surveillance on Ressner and the American, who is now back in Tel Aviv. All we’re asking you to do is to keep tabs on Ressner, especially if she and that American get together.”
“That’s not very likely,” Ellerstein said. “She’s mad at him. He deceived her.”
“Well and good. This is a precautionary step, then. Still, the army guards at Metsadá said they took long walks together. So: If they do get together while he’s still here, and Skuratov is watching them, there must be a reason for that, and that’s what we’re interested in, okay?”
“No active measures, then?”
“Absolutely not. We have Shabak regulars available when the time comes. If the time comes. Skuratov has been interested in the visiting American since he arrived. An American nuclear engineer. Coincidence? Do you know what the American did back in Washington?”
“He said he’d been a whistle-blower.”
“Yes, he was. He exposed a quiet little business deal that a certain country close to all our hearts had going with the American conglomerate that operates half the power plants in the United States.”
“What kind of business deal?”
“It had to do with heavy water,” Gulder said. He looked at Ellerstein to see if he understood.
“Heavy water?” Ellerstein said. “Why would that be a big deal?”
“Think back to your own days at the laboratories,” Gulder said. “What do you do with heavy water at a place like Dimona?”
“Well, it’s a moderator, for one thing. Keeps neutrons in the can when you’re trying to maintain criticality. And then, oh—”
“Oh, indeed,” Gulder said. “The other use. The reason why all those Western nonproliferation agencies watch it like a hawk. Why some of the American agencies think that Iran is closer to a bomb than anyone guessed.”
Ellerstein nodded slowly. You could make tritium out of heavy water. Tritium was a substance that helped turn an A-bomb into an H-bomb, among other things. The Iranians might be using heavy water in just their reactor process, but if they already had a bomb, then their active quest for heavy water on the black arms market had an altogether more sinister significance.
“Is that why Skuratov is watching the American?” Ellerstein asked. “Because of his involvement in a proliferation exposé?”
They both looked at him expectantly until he figured it out. “Ah,” he said. “It was Israel who was buying. And now he’s here.”
The PM smiled at him like an approving schoolmaster.
“How does Ressner fit into all this?” Ellerstein asked.
“We have no fucking idea, Yossi,” Gulder said. “Skuratov is watching them both; we’re watching Skuratov. By happenstance, you are close to
Ressner. That’s all there is to it.”
I doubt that very much, Ellerstein thought, but to hear this from the PM himself … Well. The matter must be serious indeed, even if there probably was a lot they weren’t telling him. The PM rose to shake his hand again. Dismissal time.
“We never do this, you know,” the PM said. “Bring a consultant in at this level. Right now, though, you’re suddenly a possible way into these modern-day Kanna’im. Think about it, Professor: a small cell of military men and weapons scientists diverting—something. What outrage might they be planning? Especially if they feel they’re patriots? Zealots even?”
Never again, Ellerstein thought. “I will do my best,” he said, not wanting to think about the possibilities.
“They tell me you always do, Professor,” the PM said with a strange, sad smile, as if having people around him who were doing their best was a mixed blessing.
Back in Gulder’s office, Ellerstein wiped his forehead. He hadn’t realized he had been perspiring in there. Gulder threw the Skuratov file down on his desk.
“You didn’t have to say that, you know,” he said.
“Well, he should hear it anyway,” Ellerstein said. “The king has no clothes and all that. Obviously you guys are sheltering him too much.”
“It’s been hard, Yossi,” Gulder said. “Harder than you know. He’s buying time, okay? We know, or at least we think we know, what the other side will accept, but Iran and this other business…”
“You think it’s true?”
Gulder sat down and cleaned his glasses with a tissue. “There are strict controls,” he said. “Strict accountability of all materials. Of course, if it’s the people who execute those controls doing the diversion…” He shook his head. “If they get the army or the air force on their side, then they could do something.”
“Only if they had a weapon,” Ellerstein pointed out, but then he thought about the time he had spent at Dimona. As a theoretical mathematician, he hadn’t been involved in making weapons, only in design work. Everything was compartmented there at the laboratory, so he had no idea how hard it would be to divert components, especially if they had had some time. Maybe not that hard.
“So this is why you had me watching this American’s little project?”
“Yes.”
“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” he murmured. Who shall guard the guards themselves?
“Exactly, which is why we must take care, because Skuratov has people out there, too. Believe it or not, we’re using some Mossad assets. We hope the Shin Bet people won’t know them, as they do Shabak.”
“Good God,” Ellerstein said. “Mossad. Shin Bet. Shabak. We’ll be tripping over one another. Tell me, please: What is the objective here—we want to identify the cell members, roll them up?”
“First we want to know if it’s true. Then we want to know what they’ve diverted, and where they are hiding it.”
Ellerstein thought about that for a moment. “Could Skuratov know that I’m a consultant to Shabak?” he asked.
“Probably not,” Gulder said. “The consultant list is compartmented information, even within the internal security ministry. Even the PM does not see the whole list.”
“PMs come and go, don’t they,” Ellerstein observed.
“Exactly. Look: You just stay close to Ressner as long as the American is still in the country. Once he goes home, your work is over. Your involvement is purely precautionary. A pop-up opportunity. If Skuratov is involved. If there is a cell. If, if, if … you know, counterintelligence work, Yossi.”
“To whom shall I report?”
“To me, of course. Your bosses have been informed you are active on special detail. It’s important that you keep up with your outside life while you observe Ressner. That’s all you have to do. As the Americans say, piece of cake, eh?”
16
On Sunday morning David had breakfast in the hotel dining room and then went back to his room to contact the diving club with which his travel agent had made arrangements for the Caesarea Maritima expedition. He had spent Saturday afternoon seeing some more of Old Jerusalem in company with a tour group from the hotel. The Old City had been relatively empty, with only tourists making their way through the ancient streets. His group had spent most of the day in the precincts of the Temple Mount, which David, having read Josephus’s account of the final days of Jerusalem, found particularly interesting. It had taken some time for the Romans to subdue the city, and David was convinced more than ever that some of the defenders would have had time to get through the siege lines, make their way down to the Zealot stronghold, and probably take some valuables from Herod’s magnificent Temple with them. Not the vast quantities of Temple treasure rumored to be buried all over the Judaean desert, but possibly sacred artifacts or scrolls. The Temple Mount itself was riddled with tunnels, aqueducts, and caves, so it was all possible.
Despite the immensity of the history that practically oozed from every ancient stone, he had remained distracted during his day of playing tourist. While physically in the Old City, his mind had been increasingly focused on the dive into the big cave beneath the rim cistern. He was anxious to get back in there and had to keep reminding himself that it was critical first to establish his cover. He would never get the chance for a second expedition if the authorities began to suspect there was something afoot. He had to assume they were still suspicious, so he had trudged obediently along behind the tour guide, listening absently to her patter of historical facts and fictions with the rest of the herd.
He got back to the hotel by four o’clock Sunday afternoon, after a successful day of making arrangements and going through the motions of being a tourist. He had gone first to the dive shop in Yafo where he met the tours manager and some of the guides, all of whom were attractive young women. This dive shop owner was no fool; most of his foreign diving clients were men. They spent an hour walking through the dive expedition plan for Caesarea Maritima and establishing the level of his diving expertise. He had shown them his diving log for the past five years and was able to talk equipment with them with a degree of familiarity that established him as a knowledgeable and experienced diver.
“We get all kinds in here, Mr. Hall,” the shop manager said, handing over the site charts for David to study. “We get people who have never dived, people who try to fake it, all the way to experienced divers like yourself.”
“I’m impressed with your shop’s technical currency, Mr. Bergman. I keep forgetting that Israel is very much a modern state.”
“Yes, well, most of our custom is European. It was the French who invented scuba, after all.”
David swallowed the mild reproof and asked for some additional maps of the Mediterranean coast. He also said that he might want to rent out some extra tanks in case the chance arose for some side dives in the Yafo area. That would be no problem. The manager assumed aloud that he would not dive anywhere by himself, and David had just raised his eyebrows as if to suggest that no one would be that dumb. Right, he thought. Wouldn’t think of it. He tried to suppress the image of that cold black rectangle of water at the bottom of the bat cave, looking like a side entrance to the Underworld. Cave diving. He swallowed at the thought.
When he was finished in the dive shop, he dismissed the driver for the day and spent the next three hours on foot, walking down the coastal beaches to the ancient seaport. He wandered aimlessly through the warren of streets like the rest of the tourists, browsing in the shops and having lunch in a tiny seaside café, and very discreetly watching for a tail while staying in character as boy tourist. He couldn’t look too hard; he knew that surveillance pros could always tell if their subject was onto them. Leaving the café, he nearly collided with an overweight woman in her fifties, who teetered dangerously until he caught her elbow. They apologized simultaneously, revealing American English. David then had to endure the where-are-you-from, oh-really-I’m-from, etc., drill until he could extricate himself.
The trip to the div
e shop should have established his planned itinerary for the next three days in case anyone came in later asking questions. The only semicovert thing he needed to do was to make sure he got the two extra tanks. If the dive shop asked too many questions, he might have to find a second shop. He figured he needed a total of four fully charged tanks for the cistern dive. He also needed to rent a spare underwater light and some batteries—that water would be blacker than black: the total darkness of a cave dive. It might also be cold, maybe as low as fifty degrees Fahrenheit. For that temperature he would have preferred a dry suit, but that would have been the wrong equipment for the Caesarea dive. His wet suit would have to suffice.
The depth was going to present yet another problem. The computer graph had shown depths ranging from seventy-five to a hundred fifty feet. Stay time even at seventy-five feet was going to be limited, and the temperature, if it was as cold as he expected, compounded the stay-time limitation. He could not know, from just one seismic shot, how wide the cave really was, or what the sides looked like, or whether or not there were stairs, terraces, or even side caves. He did know that the diving rule for multiple dives was always to make the deep dive first. Then he would have to calculate residual nitrogen, establish a surface stay and recovery time, and calculate how long he could stay at the shallower depth on the second dive. For depths of a hundred ten feet, which was the recommended maximum, no-decompression stay time would be only sixteen minutes. Because of the expected temperature, he had to cut that back to probably thirteen minutes. Then at least an hour and a half back on the surface to let his body eliminate cellular nitrogen. After that he could make a fifty-foot or shallower dive to survey the sides of the cistern. Because of residual nitrogen, he would only be able to stay down on the second dive for about forty-five minutes.
He had seen three car rental agencies on his seemingly random walking tour, and he had borrowed the use of a phone at an antiques shop to make a reservation with one of them for a four-wheel-drive vehicle, for pickup Wednesday noon.
The Last Man Page 22
