The English Teacher (26 page)

And here is another betrayal, worse than the first. She looks at her watch. She needs to get to the airport and board the plane—this is no time for sentiment. It was the same in training, when her cover was threatened. But then she knew it was an exercise. And then she didn't have houseplants, goldfish, a dog, a cat. And a lover.

She puts extra food in the aquarium. The cat arches her back before settling down, seemingly unperturbed about being put in the hallway. The dog looks at her. They will all die, she knows, Rashid and Gracie too. She's going to kill them off in her heart just as she must kill off the identity she had in the past. It's all over.

As she went out she turned around. Gracie stood by the door and wagged her tail. She wasn't bothered by the early hour. Anytime is right for a walk. Anytime is good for a stroll up to the top of the hill, looking down on the Presidential Palace and the gates of the Defense Ministry.

Perhaps she could leave her with Barbara, call her and tell her she has to go, and the dog needs looking after. Impossible, she knew it was out of the question. Not because of the danger they knew about, because of the danger they didn't know about. Who could say what Barbara would do? So just go, as in the exercises, as in the reality she's confronting now.

The dog climbed into the Audi, sat down beside Rachel, poked her head out, and breathed the cool night air. When she reached the second intersection, she opened the door on the dog's side and knew what
would happen. Gracie leapt down and waited for Rachel to emerge from her side. Instead, Rachel stepped on the gas. In the mirror she saw the dog, confused and considering her next move, and then starting to run after her. Rachel clutched the wheel with both hands and made no attempt to wipe away the tears. It seems she's still hoping, she thought, and accelerated, turning at the next intersection and onto the expressway leading to the airport. A final glance in the mirror revealed the abandoned Gracie receding, as she reached the intersection and stopped at the roadside, waiting for Rachel to come back and take her in her arms again, like the day she picked her up and took her home.

She sat on one of the tattered seats by the departure gate and waited. The plane wasn't there yet, and her flight was going to be delayed. She was thinking only of what she had left behind, and the details of her cover story. She'll have time yet to think about the future, just so long as she passes the final test. Rachel held on tight to the life she had created for herself and knew she must not weaken under any circumstances. Every man in uniform, every single mustachioed man who passed by her and looked at her, could be the one who would ask her to accompany him. But why? she will say, and hold out her passport. Rachel Brooks is catching the first flight to Europe to reach her father, who is gravely ill. Here's a phone number they can call. And here's the number and the address of her aunt. And here are the numbers of Barbara, and the school, and her apartment, and there's even the parking ticket for her car, which is in the airport parking lot. And only Rashid's name will be omitted, as if he doesn't exist. As if his eyes never looked at her. She remembered his phone number. She remembered his eyes, also the eyes of the German scientist, who looked up at her the very moment he kissed the poisoned glove.

“H
OW COULD
I
CONVINCE HER THAT
this was an unwanted end for me as well?” Ehud wrapped up the story and sighed. “We took her out of the life she was leading at a stroke, and gave her nothing in return.

“I think I can imagine what the flight was like for her. The sigh of relief that she stifled when the plane took off, the leaning back in the seat and attempting to ignore the view below, mountains and roads she would never see again. It's hard to run away when you don't know what you're running from, harder still to leave behind the things you loved. I know she relied on us and she had no doubt the danger was real, but the moment the plane left the airspace of what we define as an enemy country, which for her was home, she began to weep. And when she told me about the tears that streamed down her face, I didn't know if they were tears of sorrow or of joy.

“No one was waiting for her when she arrived at the airport in Rome, and she wasn't expecting anyone to be there. Perhaps she didn't want to meet anyone, and perhaps she was secretly hoping that after she had checked into a hotel and called the number she knew by heart, I would tell her everything had been sorted out and after a short vacation she could go back there. That didn't happen. Things like that rarely do. I wanted to be the first to meet her when she abandoned the persona of Rachel Brooks. But even this didn't work out because at the time I was on my way to Israel to join in the efforts of damage control and prepare for her arrival. Someone met her in a café, gave her a new passport and took away the old one, and that was that. The next day I met her at Ben Gurion and drove her to Tel Aviv. She wasn't in disguise. There was no need for that. To this day I curse myself for not inspecting the apartment that the management team had prepared for her. I'm sure they meant no harm, and it wasn't only the minuscule budget that hampered them. They were busy, they had no conception of who Rachel was and where she was coming from, and from their
point of view a single bed with an iron frame, a bundle of overstarched sheets, and a woolen blanket from the quartermaster's store were more than adequate. On the wall there was still a poster someone, probably a young trainee, had left behind, and the fridge contained a bottle of cola and a packet of biscuits evidently put there to protect them from the ants.

“I opened the door for her and saw her scouring the empty rooms, the walls that hadn't been whitewashed for years, and the metal grilles over the windows. That's the way it is with ground-floor apartments in Tel Aviv. On the little table there was a telephone, and in the corner an ancient television set supplied by the army welfare fund. Rachel put her case down and leaned against the wall with arms folded, a defensive posture.

“‘Are you planning to lock me in here?' she asked, and pointed to the grilles and the bundle of keys I was holding.

“‘Don't be absurd.' It was the only response I could think of. ‘You've come home, and this is just a temporary arrangement until the inquiries have been finished.'

“We could of course have put her up in a hotel. When she was an operative on duty and came to Europe for briefings, we made sure she got five-star hotels and everything she needed. A doctor had come from Israel when needed, and we even paid her hairdresser's bills. All that was over. She was like all the others and the head of personnel said there was no reason to treat her as a special case. She did a good job and now she's finished it. End of story.

“She looked tired. Her hair was a mess, and it seemed she hadn't changed her clothes since leaving the apartment in her adopted country. ‘Would you like to go out?'

“She said no.

“‘You're not hungry? There are plenty of good restaurants out
there. The city has changed since you were here last.' I listened to myself, and I knew how hollow this sounded. I could no longer tell her what to do, say we're going out, we need to talk. That was behind us. She and I were equal, two Mossad employees whose professional relationship had kept them close together for four years, making them one entity, and now it was over. She turned the offer down, her lips in a frown, and lines that I had not seen before appeared along her face.

“It was only then I could tell her the real reason for her abrupt exit. The German paper
Der Spiegel
had launched its own investigation into the death of Strauss. They suspected poisoning and linked this to the Mossad. They checked all the nearby hotels and knew that Strauss and Rachel Brooks had been in the city at the same time. That was it, no more and no less. But she couldn't be expected to resist enhanced interrogation techniques on the part of the Mukhabarat, and who knows how Rashid would react if he was told she might be linked to the death of his personal friend? She listened to me, and the look in her eyes told me she possibly believed me, or possibly not. She asked to see the text of the article that we obtained from our source at the paper. The English translation had been done in haste and was full of errors, and she commented on this and even started penciling in her own corrections. For a moment I saw her as she was, an English teacher.

“The rest you know. There was an appeal through secret channels to the German police and they made sure the investigation was spiked. Things like that happen all the time. Strauss was a lowlife by any standards, but if the story broke, Germany stood to lose as well. National interest, they call it, and they understand this too. Of course, we couldn't ignore the risk that someone in the police department, out of misplaced zeal or a longing for publicity, might leak the story to the press, along with her picture.”

“And what became of her?” Joe asked, although he knew the answer. She was no different from the others. The combatant comes home. They do the debriefing and close the files. The personnel department sends someone to explain pension arrangements and employment options. The Unit commander calls to say goodbye. And that's it. No more access to the Prime Minister's residence by the back door, no more cozy chats with the Mossad chief, no more intimate suppers with Ehud, telling her the world revolves around her. Rachel will be confronting life like any other mortal, no one paying her bills, no one looking after her apartment when she's away. Many former combatants go for work at the Mossad HQ. Rachel tried this for a while, and hence the sensitive and important secrets she had access to, secrets that must not fall into enemy hands. Like others, Rachel couldn't stick with it. It's hard coming to work every morning in a place that sent you far away, and protected you as the one and only, and suddenly you're one of many. And there are people around who say you're not the genius you were described as when you were in the field, and they remember your mistakes and don't hesitate to remind you of them.

“And so it ended. Suddenly she found herself back home, unprepared, and unable to disengage and bid farewell properly, as if that were possible in her life. The reality that she grew accustomed to, that was second nature to her, that she loved, had become history that couldn't even be talked about. It was very hard for her. You could see this in how she looked. She put on weight and neglected her appearance, and our relationship cooled. She was no longer my operative, but someone who was in urgent need of reconstruction. That's a job for shrinks, social workers, and human resources, not my job. They gave her a lot of that and tried to do what they could, but there was no love there, and that's what she missed.

“I had problems too. I had to return to Israel, as there was no point in staying abroad. Rina didn't want to come back, and she never stopped complaining. Try explaining to her that's the way the Mossad works. Our eldest son was studying in Rome and we saw the grandson at least once a week. The younger children were in the middle of their schooling, and it was obvious that if we came back here, they couldn't just slot into the education system. The department wasn't interested; they don't concern themselves with such trifles. I flew to Rome to pack up our lives and return to the measly salary they were offering me here. I was deflated too, and I hoped Rachel would change her mind about me, and I might get the chance to tell her that now, as equals and both working for the Office, there's nothing to stop us meeting. I didn't need to look in the mirror to know this was impossible; at best she would smile silently, and at worst laugh in my face and perhaps say something she had been holding in all this time, something that would spoil the small things we had achieved.

“I don't know why they were so quick to place her in a special department and put her to work on ways of foiling the development of biological weapons. Apparently it was because someone who used to be an operative deserves special treatment at first, and she was a respected operative. A decorated hero who knew how to get things done.

“I saw her from time to time when she was working in the department, and she was always the first to say hello and to ask after my wife, as if marking the border between us in the clearest way possible. I would tell her we were okay and ask her how she was. There was no point asking about Oren, or if she had a boyfriend. Rachel knew how to avoid answering unwanted questions. She'd been trained for years in the art of leaving you satisfied but without an answer.”

T
HE CONFERENCE RO
OM FELL SILENT WHEN
Ehud entered, and he knew that what was being discussed was not meant for his ears. It seemed it had already been a long session. Joe sat next to the Unit commander, showing him a piece of paper that he was careful to shield with his hand. Ehud was unshaven and hadn't changed his clothes. It was only at three in the morning that the long-awaited call finally came through, and he'd barely had time to get home and collapse on his bed. Joe, who had given Ehud a rare hug as he left the garden a few hours before dawn, was wearing a suit and was clean-shaven, fragrant, and positively radiant. He had good reason to smile. He was the one who had sat down with Ehud and unearthed the background story, while in the war room they were engaged in a frantic and futile search for the missing Rachel. He was the one who asked, after hours of patient listening, where and what Rachel wanted to get back to. He was the one who told the exhausted Ehud that Rachel didn't really run away. Joe assumed Rachel had nothing to hide, and the little life she
constructed for herself in Rehovot wasn't a cover for anything furtive—it was only a little life of unremitting isolation and despair. “She could kill herself here,” said Joe, and Ehud's blood ran cold. “No one would care, and I'm sure some people in the department would breathe a sigh of relief if that happened. One less pensioned former combatant to worry about.” He leafed through his notes. “I think that, having checked with Oren and Stefan and her friends from the school, we can rule out the possibility of a romantic entanglement.”

“So what are you trying to tell me?” Ehud was confused, and Joe's whiskey wasn't helping his concentration.

“I think she wants to go back to the last place she was happy. She's trying, in some way only she knows, to start the whole process again. I don't think she's crazy. A small screw has come loose, maybe, but there's still time to tighten it up. She has something to give and something to get, and we need to bring her home before it's too late, before she sells what she knows in exchange for a new life.”

“Where are you going with this? Are you saying she's a traitor? She's gone over to the other side? What does she stand to gain by giving secrets to the enemy? Rachel has no interest in money. We've seen what that flat of hers looks like, and she has no children, so what's it for?”

“For Rashid,” said Joe. “It's to get him back. To live with the man she loves, the man she loved, who was prepared to take risks for her.”

“But she left him . . .”

“She's sorry about that. She thinks it was a mistake, and now she wants to turn the clock back.”

“And you think she's going back to him just like that, after fifteen years? How will she explain it to him?”

“Don't underestimate the power of love,” Joe replied, patient as ever.

“I don't believe it,” said Ehud, but he knew it was all too possible. Things like that have always happened and always will. People cross the line for love more readily than for money or ideology. I would cross the line too, he reflected. I'd cross the line for her.

“You don't need to believe it,” said Joe, his voice firm and authoritative. “Just one detail to be checked, and then we'll be sure.” He called the operations room on the secure line and spoke for a few minutes to the duty officer, paying no attention to Ehud, who felt the last of his strength draining away. “I don't care what the time is in Europe. Wake them up, or find someone in South America or Japan. I want this conversation now.” He covered the mouthpiece and asked Ehud the name of the hotel where she stayed on arriving for the first time in the capital city, before it all began. Ehud couldn't remember, and Joe sent Yaniv, who was on hand in the operations room, to search the files. “All she needs to do is contact the hotel, yes, a woman should make the call, it will sound more convincing, and ask for Rachel Goldschmitt. When they transfer the call to the room she must hang up. That's all.”

T
HE
U
NIT COMMANDER BRI
EFED
E
HUD.
H
E'S
to use a French passport. He'll explain that he's Moroccan and has lived for some years in a small village in France. “And besides that, no one will ask. You've worked under this cover before, and I hope you haven't lost your old talents. So make all your arrangements today, fly to Europe this afternoon, and tomorrow you're booked on a flight from Paris to the operational zone. I'm sure you can find her and persuade her to come back.”

Ehud nodded. He wanted them to trust him.

“Your support team will fly out with you. Of course, you'll give no indication that you know any of them. If things go well, you and she will be on the first available flight out of there, end of story. If she shows the slightest sign of unwillingness to cooperate, hand over the baton . . .”

Joe gave him an encouraging smile and told him everything depended on him and he was the only one who could carry out the mission. Ehud wanted to ask what would happen if she refused, if he couldn't find her, but he knew their answers—and already he included Joe among those on the other side of the table—would be as good as his. He has to find her. He has to look her in the eyes and explain to her why staying there will be suicide. That the damage to the Mossad and state secrets will be devastating. No one will forgive her. There's no other option, she has to come home.

“I want to see the letter,” he said. The commander took a piece of paper from the file and handed it to Ehud. It was a document from the Prime Minister's office. The terms were clear—she must return, be interrogated, take a polygraph test, and if it is concluded that she has disclosed no sensitive information, she may resume her former life. Even her pension will not be affected. Ehud had laid down these conditions, and they had been accepted.

On the way out he and Joe passed by the operations room. On the door was a sign:
ENTR
Y FOR AUTHORIZED PER
SONNEL ONLY
. Ehud was no longer in that category. Now he's on a mission. There are things he needs to know, and things that he doesn't. He told the commander he remembers some secrets too, and the commander replied as he closed the files, “Her secrets are more important. They go beyond the range of our normal activities. We can only regret that they decided to employ her then without thorough vetting and a proper psychological
assessment. But I'm not criticizing my predecessor in this post; the past is the past. We're relying on you, Ehud, and we're sure that if the worst should happen to you, you'll know how to use what we're giving you. One strong bite, and you'll be the best-dressed guy in the morgue.” He wasn't smiling.