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  He told her about the affair from the beginning and about the team he was putting together. “I want you to be our intelligence officer,” he said. “I need you.”

  “But I’m on maternity leave; Michal isn’t even six months old yet.”

  “That’s fine. We aren’t going to employ you on a full-time basis. We’ll be working from my office, a small apartment on Nahmani Street, in fact. You can bring Michal with you. It’ll get you out of the house a little. It’ll do you good.”

  “You know, Michael,” she said, “we don’t know each other well enough for you to tell me what’s good for me. And you have no idea if I want to get out of the house or not. And working with a baby on your arm isn’t much fun. I’m sure you’ve never done so.” She inadvertently reached up to her neck and delicately ran her fingers over a gold pendant that remained partially concealed under her shirt. Michael imagined she was tracing her finger along the outline of the piece of jewelry that brushed against her skin.

  “Touché.” Michael smiled, and then turned serious again. “And that’s precisely why I want you. You tell me like it is straight to my face and aren’t scared of me. You’re right, I went too far. I made assumptions I shouldn’t have. I apologize. Will you forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. But you can’t speak to people like that. All I can say is that I’ll give it a try. That if it works out, great. But if it turns out to be impossible for me, you’ll have to find yourself a different intelligence officer. I’d like to catch the bastard, too, after all, so I’ll give it a go. When do we start?”

  “We’ve already started, Adi. We’ve started.”

  19

  ASHDOD, JANUARY 2013

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  “Yes, I called her yesterday, after Shabbat. She was happy to hear from me. We worked together many years ago on a Soviet defector, a colonel from their Arctic-based submarine fleet. Quite some gift at the time for our friends in Langley. She’s an amazing woman, believe me. As tenacious as a bulldog. In fact, she looks a little like a bulldog, too,” Aharon added meanly.

  They were heading toward Ashdod in Michael’s silver Audi A1, the well-known Sayarim roadside diner flashing by on the right, the oncoming traffic to their left heavy and slow.

  “Couldn’t you have bought a bigger car?” Aharon grumbled, trying to maneuver himself into a more comfortable position.

  “It’s the parking in Tel Aviv. It drives me crazy sometimes even with a small car.”

  The remainder of the drive to Hagar Beit-Hallahmi passed in silence. Aharon had already briefed Michael in general terms on the woman they were about to meet. Hagar had served for almost two decades as head of the Shin Bet’s Soviet Espionage Research Department. She joined the Shin Bet immediately after completing a master’s degree in Sovietology at the Hebrew University. One of the faculty professors, so she learned many years later, had singled her out and passed on her name. She enlisted in 1960 and went on from there to dedicate her heart and soul to the tough and demanding organization that invited her into its ranks. She retired from the Shin Bet only in the late 1990s, at the age of sixty-seven. Her eyes had filled with tears when she left Shin Bet headquarters for the last time. She returned the car given to her as a department head that same day, and according to Aharon, when the division chief offered her a ride home with one of the car pool drivers, she said, “Thanks, but no need. I may as well get used to it already.” She then rented out her small apartment in Maoz Aviv and went to live in Ashdod with the family of her niece. Hagar was a difficult and tough woman, and Aharon could only hazard a guess at why she decided to move in with the daughter of her only brother, who had passed away several years earlier.

  Had he asked her straightforwardly, they might have come up with the answer together, but Aharon Levin and Hagar Beit-Hallahmi weren’t in the habit of discussing personal matters. “The children are so fond of you, Hagar,” her niece had said to her at the time, “you’re their favorite aunt. And I’d be happy too, because you’re my favorite aunt.” That’s rather a liberal use of the term aunt, Hagar thought to herself, but cynicism wasn’t going to come in the way of the joy that washed over her, joy and relief to know that she wouldn’t have to live alone, without family, without children and grandchildren, just her all alone in a public housing apartment filled with thousands of books in Russian and without her Shin Bet job, which she had revered, a job that had long since become a vocation and way of life for her. The Soviet Union and the Shin Bet security service were the loves of her life. Being the descendant of a family of Subbotniks may have been one possible explanation, she had thought to herself on more than one occasion; after all, she had been attracted since a young girl to anything and everything related to Russia, to the Russian language that she learned from her grandfather, who had fought on the Crimean Peninsula, to the greats of Russian literature, Chekhov, Bulgakov, Bunin, and even to the wonderful and terrible Soviet Union, which occupied her dreams. The big dream, the brutal revolution, the huge and awe-inspiring mobilization against the Nazis became her reality. Despite her great love for the nation and its people, she was aware of the terrible catastrophe Stalin had inflicted on his country. And after the dust of the Great Patriotic War settled, the world became polarized, the West versus the East, and because of the Cold War, the Soviet giant was suddenly pitted against the young Israel, the state that had just risen from the ashes of the Holocaust. No wonder Hagar Beit-Hallahmi decided to play a part in the war, on her Middle Eastern front. And she enlisted wholeheartedly in the struggle in the shadows and the intelligence battle that took place in the streets of both Leningrad and Ramat Gan.

  She immersed herself in the secret world of the Shin Bet, diligently reading through the dusty cardboard dossiers. Every small piece of information, every hint of Soviet espionage activity landed on her desk, and she, with infinite patience and much love, studied every detail, filed and marked every document, carefully piecing together the big picture, the one that would never be completed. When the Shin Bet got its first computers, she learned to use one slowly but surely, her progress accompanied by suspicion and bouts of hostility. At the same time, she continued to maintain her own personal archive, amassing the thousands of reports and bulletins, jotting down remarks in the margins, drawing arrows to other reports and photographs that had collected in the albums of suspects. Hagar, Hagar. Her unique name, certainly for someone born in the 1930s, was whispered with admiration and respect in the corridors of the Shin Bet. No one knew the true scope of her extensive knowledge. A walking and talking encyclopedia of secrets, they used to call her. Her passion for her work, the manhunts she oversaw from behind her desk for Soviet spies and agents and moles, the tenacious, almost personal, war she waged against the KGB’s dark empire, her absolute devotion to the Shin Bet security service that left no time or place in her heart for anything else, all inspired admiration and sometimes even fear among those who worked with her, from the desk clerks in her department, the trackers and eavesdroppers of the Operations Division and through to the Shin Bet chief himself—or more precisely, a line of Shin Bet chiefs, who were frequently required to come to grips with her clear, sharp mind, her unshakable memory, and her fiery tongue.

  Now, old and seemingly at peace with herself, Hagar eagerly awaited Aharon Levin’s arrival. Very few friends visited her in Ashdod. The people she had worked with at the Shin Bet for forty years, she discovered to her surprise, were work friends, colleagues and nothing more. They hadn’t kept in touch when they retired, and she chose to distance herself from those who remained when she took her leave. Time and the distance from Tel Aviv played their part, too. She was happy to be living with Alona and her family. She loved Alona’s kids, whom she viewed as her own grandchildren, young and mischievous. Her room was cozy and comfortable. She had given away most of her books, but the hundreds that still remained, which were close to her heart like old friends, filled the room to the brim, spilling over from the bookcase on
to her small desk, piled up on the floor, threatening to occupy the spectacular Afghan rug she brought with her from the apartment in Maoz Aviv.

  She was sitting on a bench in the concrete square of the shopping center, soaking up the winter sunshine, her eyes closed in bliss. Her purse rested on her knees and she didn’t feel comfortable in the light-colored dress that peeked out from under her thick coat. She had decided to wear the elegant dress only in honor of Aharon Levin, despite the fact that it didn’t suit her or the windswept square in which she now waited with a sense of expectation and longing, not only for him but also for the world he represented. She listened out of habit to the conversations around her in Russian between new and old immigrants—or at least the bits and pieces she could catch. She knew he’d be there soon. And when they approached, Aharon and the tall man by his side, her face wrinkled into a smile, her eyes opened wide, her arms reached out, and her body swung to its feet with a concerted effort. “Aharon, Aharon, good of you to come to visit an old friend.” Aharon clutched both her hands, backed off a little, and lied without balking: “You haven’t changed! We all age, even Michael—meet Michael—isn’t a kid any longer. Only you, still like a young woman.”

  “It’s been twenty years since we last saw each other, Aharon, and I was already sixty years old at the time. Your smooth tongue never worked on me. You can’t fool an old bulldog, my dear. No one fools me,” Hagar said. “And don’t be shocked, I know I was called bulldog behind my back,” she added, taking pleasure in the look of surprise on Aharon’s face. “Come, come, let’s have a look at you.” She narrowed her eyes, tilted her head back a little, her two hands still holding on to his, and then she tugged him gently toward her and buried her head for a moment, just a moment, against his chest.

  They sat at the shopping center’s only café, which was more of a bourekas bakery than a coffee bar. The closest store was a haberdashery, of the kind that no longer graced the streets of Tel Aviv. Next to that was a Russian deli, where dried sausages hung in the window alongside smoked fish, their skin golden and gray, small hooks pierced through their gaping mouths.

  Aharon and Hagar sat outside on white plastic chairs on either side of an old Formica table. Michael went inside, to order tea for them and a double espresso for himself, as well as a plate of selected small pastries whose warm odor went straight to his heart and reminded him of colorful, winding markets in remote cities in the Caucasus and secret meetings in crowded, smoke-filled teahouses, steaming cups of sweet tea, with savory cheese pastries on the side.

  The two old-timers sat facing each other, leaning over the table, Aharon talking, Hagar silent, his eyes fixed on hers.

  “We’re chasing a shadow, Hagar. We hardly know anything. We don’t know when it started, but it was definitely before 1989, before the fall of the Berlin Wall. In ’89, or a little earlier, the Russians took charge of the East German agent. Already then they viewed him as an asset worth killing for.

  “I want you to try to remember something that may have happened since then and through to the time of your retirement from the Shin Bet, something that appeared important enough, insufficiently explained, something that bothered you at the time, something that may still be bothering you now, that you never managed to decipher, but noticed nevertheless. Anything, a hint of something that could be relevant.”

  “Oh, Aharon, there were so many things that defied explanation. Strange phenomena. People disappearing. Leaked information that we were never able to verify. Phone calls we couldn’t understand. You know how it goes, that’s how the game is played. We always said it’s like riding a Ferris wheel. Sometimes you’re down and sometimes you’re up, on top of the world. And then you drop again. That’s just the way it is.”

  “Everything you say is true,” Aharon responded. “But I can see a flash of something in your eyes, Hagar, something you recall, maybe a flicker of memory that seems marginal or insignificant, and yet, it’s the very thing that’s come to your mind right now. Something I said sparked that particular memory. What is it, Hagar? What are you thinking about?”

  Hagar looked at the familiar square as if she was seeing it for the first time, as if the scene being played out in the open expanse was entirely in her honor: Two children, large and colorful backpacks slung over their shoulders, ran past their table, a flock of pigeons took to the wing all at once and rose from the square and onto the roof of one of the stores. Low-hanging clouds moved rapidly northward across the sky, casting a shadow over the white tenement buildings across the way.

  “Listen, Aharon. There is something, there is something that lit up momentarily in my thoughts when you were talking. It flashed before my eyes, like a dark fish that you see in a pond, or perhaps it’s only its shadow that you see, and then it’s gone. I have something in mind, but it’s floundering and slipping away, and I need to reflect on it some more, to allow it to return to my thoughts effortlessly. I’m an old woman, Aharon,” she sighed, “and I need to rest. How about coming back tomorrow?” she asked ingratiatingly, like a little girl. “I need a little time.”

  Aharon concealed his impatience. He wanted to move forward, all his senses told him that Hagar could help them, but he knew he had to let her be and allow her the time she needed. He hadn’t seen her for many years. He couldn’t tell how hard she could be pressed. She was no spring chicken, he thought to himself. He wasn’t sure how much of that tough and ruthless bulldog she once was still remained. They were all getting old.

  “Need some company on the way home?” he asked.

  “No, no, my apartment is very close, it’s okay. I’m just a little tired. Old people tire easily, didn’t you know? Call me tomorrow morning, and I hope to have remembered by then.” She smiled hesitantly at Aharon, and Michael thought about time’s ability to have its way with even the toughest people. He watched Hagar as she struggled to rise from her chair before tightening her coat around her body and moving toward Aharon for a farewell kiss. Aharon gazed warmly into her blue eyes; his hands tightened the scarf around her neck as if he were preparing her for a harsh winter. And indeed, just then a cold wind blew through the exposed square, and the gray pigeons retreated as one from the man in the casquette who was feeding them bits of bread, beating their wings and flying toward the tenement buildings. Hagar began moving away from them in small, slow steps. Aharon paced impatiently. “Dealing with that woman requires nerves of steel,” he mumbled, perhaps to himself, or perhaps to Michael. “Don’t be fooled by her performance—she’s as tough as ever,” he said, and Michael couldn’t tell if he truly believed so or had simply said it in an effort to convince himself. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  20

  Hagar walked into Alona’s apartment and took off her coat. A familiar thrill of excitement coursed through her body. She was in a hurry now. She could hear the children playing in their room but went straight to hers, a small and foreign realm in the handsome apartment. She closed the door behind her and turned the key and then bent over with a groan to remove a number of books from the bottom shelf. Concealed behind the books was the small cardboard box she was looking for. She lifted it with both hands and placed it carefully on the small table next to the deep-seated and worn armchair over which a richly colored and decorated stretch of fabric lay carelessly strewn. Hagar liked her room and she was particularly fond of that corner, of the old and comfortable armchair, the beautiful rug, the antique reading lamp, her books, and her secrets. The secrets.

  She retrieved a pile of notebooks from the box. School notebooks with brown covers. Just like at elementary school, she thought to herself with a smile. There should be seven or eight notebooks in the box, she couldn’t remember exactly, and didn’t want to count them just then. She wanted to find what she was looking for, the thing that Aharon Levin had asked her about. The notebooks were filled with her handwriting, small and cramped, in green ink, the same ink she had used for decades in her Caran d’Ache pen to jot down remarks and footnotes and remin
ders and ideas to be checked out. She also always used to add generalizations and conclusions, abridged versions of cases and summaries of investigations. Her summaries were succinct and purposeful, and included long lists of enemies and suspects. Enemies who might have been forgotten by now by everyone but her. My entire life is in these notebooks, she thought to herself. A complicated and convoluted riddle that makes sense to no one but me. And although the rules and regulations of the Shin Bet required that she destroy her notes ahead of her retirement, her heart wouldn’t allow her to do so, she couldn’t part with them. And thus, with just a touch of hesitation coupled with adamant assertiveness, Hagar Beit-Hallahmi, a long-serving and loyal soldier in the shadow war, violated the regulations of the all-powerful organization she so loved. She did it knowingly, incapable of letting go, unwilling and unable to shred the code, the cipher of her life. She took the notebooks with her the day she walked out through the fortified gates of Shin Bet headquarters for the last time, without a glance at the young security guards, knowing they wouldn’t dare check her large bag, a bag that itself had inspired myths, too, much the same as those told about her. Tales spun together like spiders’ webs, silvery strands, slender and sticky, layer upon layer, until they became a veneer of words that offered only a small hint of her character, while she herself, the true woman, gradually faded away and disappeared behind it.