Honour Among Spies E-Book

Merle Nygate

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 538

Beschreibung

A TIMES THRILLER OF THE MONTH 'Absolutely gripping' Alex Gerlis, Every Spy a Traitor 'Nygate is not afraid to get her hands bloody' James Owen, The Times 'Perfect for fans of early le Carré and Len Deighton' Gavin Collinson – author of An Accident in Paris At the heart of London's spy operations, Mossad head of station Eli carries the scars of a past disaster while grappling with the turbulent political landscape back home. His resolve to uphold his duty and keep his job is tested like never before. Desperate to tip the scales in the espionage game, Eli concocts a risky plan involving tampered drones destined for Russian hands. But to execute this plan, he has to exploit those closest to him. Eli's moral compass clashes with the mission, leading him down a treacherous path of betrayal. As the stakes escalate, Eli finds himself embroiled in a deadly web, racing to foil an apocalyptic agenda. Alliances are tested, sacrifices are made, and Eli must confront the consequence of his actions head-on, and navigate a shadowy underworld to prevent a terrorist plot from unleashing chaos on a global scale. Will they emerge victorious, or will the darkness consume them all? A must-read for fans of Homeland and NCIS, it will also appeal to readers of Charles Cumming and John le Carré.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Praise for The Righteous Spy

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One: The Gathering

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part Two: Blood

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part Three: Dirt

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Part Four: Trust

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Acknowledgements

Also by Merle Nygate

The Righteous Spy

Chapter 1: Palestinian Territories - Present Day

Chapter 2: Tel Aviv, Israel - The Same Day

About the Author

Copyright

Praise forThe Righteous Spy

‘A tense, compelling thriller, The Righteous Spy combines the high drama of a spy story with a clear-eyed telling of the grubby compromises and betrayals that are the reality of agents’ lives. With vividly drawn characterisation and a gripping plot, I couldn’t put it down’

Harriet Tyce, author ofBlood Orange

‘Le Carre meets Homeland – The Righteous Spy is a must read for fans of fast-paced and intelligent thrillers’

Leigh Russell, author of the million-copy selling DI Geraldine Steel series

‘Intriguing and atmospheric. Merle Nygate is a writer to watch’

Charles Cumming, Sunday Times Bestselling author of Box 88

‘It is extremely well-plotted and full of suspense’

Arnold Taylor, Crime Review

‘There is no black and white, just varying shades of grey, this is the twilight zone all good spy novels should reflect. Gripping and well-written, fans of a serious spy fiction will love this’

Paul Burke, NB Magazine

‘Modern-day Len Deighton-style page turner’

Wayne Kelly, Joined Up Writing Podcast

‘The ending – no spoilers! – is a tour de force. Merle Nygate is an exciting new voice in spy fiction’

Isabelle Grey, author ofThe Special GirlsandWrong Way Home

‘Relentless – goes where le Carré fears to tread. Merle Nygate’s characters, their tradecraft and their dramas leap off the page in a spy tale that is as gripping as it is authentic’

Martin Fletcher, author ofPromised Land

‘Ambiguous, intricate and deliberately deceptive, The Righteous Spy should satisfy any true espionage enthusiast. It’s the literary equivalent of a painstaking jigsaw puzzle: one where you can’t see the true picture until the very last piece is in place’

Rowena Hoseason, Murder Mayhem and More

To James

War is the continuation of politics by other means

Carl von Clausewitz

This book was written and is about the political landscape before October 2023. It reflects perhaps the calm before the storm. Espionage and politics are inextricably intertwined and if von Clausewitz’s adage seems overfamiliar, it is no less true for being so.

Whatever happens next in Kyiv, the Kremlin, Gaza, Washington and London, you can be sure that spies will be both competing and also talking with each other.

Part One

THE GATHERING

‘Gather to me my faithful ones, who made a covenant with me by sacrifice.’

—Hebrews 10:19-25

Chapter 1

Eli Amiram, head of Mossad’s London station, stepped around the muck of discarded fast-food cartons and tried to be positive. Today was going to be a good day, he told himself despite all indications to the contrary. There was minor shit and major shit. The minor shit was spending the weekend moving apartments because of a security threat. The threat itself was negligible but the move was necessary – part of the job and as routine as checking under his car before driving. London was a level two security risk; it had history. In 1982 the Israeli ambassador had been shot in the head outside the Dorchester Hotel. After three months in a coma, he spent his remaining twenty years as a permanent patient. It was a tragic end for such a brilliant man. Then there was the car bomb in 1992 – no deaths, only casualties: the deaths had been in Buenos Aires where ninety-six Israelis died at the embassy, including people he knew.

So moving apartments when told to do so was part of the job; in other words, minor shit. Major shit was the news from back home that Eli had absorbed on his phone while brushing his teeth. The stupidity and short-sightedness of the government was breath-taking. Where was the intellect, the rationality, the problem-solving capability, the intelligence Jews were supposed to possess? Every session at the Knesset seemed to spiral into self-serving agendas that anyone with an average IQ could see was never going to solve anything.

While Eli despaired at government policy he reminded himself, yet again, he was a civil servant, his job was to serve the people of his country. Governments come, governments go. Institutions and civil servants had a duty to stay at their posts, to keep the chaos from taking over. Today would be another day of trying to do his best. It wasn’t easy. Eli might tell himself it was going to be a good day, he could repeat it as much as he liked, he could even write it down over and over again, as his psychologist wife suggested, but it didn’t change the darkness in his mind. It didn’t change the recurring dream that he, Eli Amiram, the Office’s most accomplished spy-runner, the great brain, with all his education, experience, professionalism and integrity had screwed up so badly that an agent had been blown into unrecognisable body parts. Yes, everybody lost agents, it was part of the job, but this one had been special. The man who’d died wasn’t only an agent, he was also the closest Eli had ever had to a friend. A death that could have been avoided if Eli had seen the cracks in the operation that opened into a sinkhole.

By this time Eli had reached the crossing near the entrance to West Hampstead station. He tugged his black beanie over his bald head and fished into his pocket for a mask to loop around his ears. Covid lockdowns were now a distant memory, but some people still wore masks in public places: the old, the anxious, the immune-compromised and those who wanted to conceal their identities from London’s blanket CCTV coverage – in other words, people like him.  

Once inside the station Eli slid through the barriers and onto the platform where he took his place among the other early commuters. One of them caught his eye and Eli did a double-take. The man was tall, rangy, but seemed unsteady on his feet, perhaps still drunk from the night before. A messenger bag, army boots and hair thick with grease completed the dissolute look. It was bizarre; the drunk reminded Eli of Derek, or Red Cap as he was known, the agent who’d been blown to pieces.

A rush of darkness came at Eli and he tried to push it away. He took a long breath through the mask and concentrated on his surroundings. Eli focused on the way that the rails crackled as the train approached, fellow commuters jostling their way into the carriage. He struggled to stay in the moment and edged into the train carriage, grabbing a handle as doors shut and the train pulled away. Eli closed his eyes, forced his breathing to slow and counted down from 200. He let the rattle and the hum flow around him and he started to feel better. He was being moved, hundreds of metres beneath the clay of the London bowl. He was on his way to his office with an interesting day ahead of him; it was going to be a good day.

Calm restored, Eli opened his eyes and looked around the carriage. A metre or so away the drunk hadn’t managed to get a seat either. Close up, he wasn’t at all like Derek. This creature, this cut-price doppelganger had a tattoo on the back of his hand, a spider drafted in blue ink that looked as if it had been done after lights out. Another difference between the drunk and Derek was age; the drunk was younger, around thirty, with no trace of white in the bristle on his face. 

Perhaps because he was aware that he was being studied, the man looked up and their eyes met for a moment.

‘Masks,’ he said directing a glare at Eli. ‘Why are you wearing a fucking mask?’

Nobody said anything but there was a sense of alertness in the carriage, as if the other commuters had been jogged out of their own thoughts. Eli looked down and didn’t respond to the drunk’s question; they’d be at a station soon enough where he could jump out. The train rattled along. 

‘Don’tcha wanna know the truth?’ the man said. ‘It’s all a mass illusion, it’s about power, it’s the way the elites try to control us. Always was, none of it was ever to do with any fucking illness.’

Eli remained silent but this just seemed to fuel the man.

‘Heard of Bobby Kennedy? Eh? Well, his son wrote a book that explains everything. That’s right, Kennedy’s son telling it how it is. You want to read it?’

Nearby, a woman with the look of a prissy banker was trying to edge away from the unravelling scene, and the young man next to her was staring so hard at his phone he might have been turned to stone. Another woman, seated, probably a care worker going home after a night shift, examined the bottom of her bag, as if she could crawl inside it. Meanwhile, the drunk had reached into his bag and pulled out a hardback book. He waved it in the air, and Eli saw The Real Anthony Fauci on the cover.

‘It’s all in here,’ the man said. ‘Y’see coercive vaccination is a CIA military objective, part of US strategy. Okay? You want to read this book. Chapter Eleven. Hyping Phony Epidemics. See – it’s all in there. There is no reason for you to wear a mask.’ The man stretched towards Eli as if he was going to remove his mask. Eli caught a whiff of body odour and tried to step back.

‘No English,’ Eli said in his thickest parody of an accent. It was a mistake.

‘Foreigner, are you? Might have guessed. Where you from? Refugee, are you? On benefits? Enjoying yourself here, are you?’

The train slowed down into Swiss Cottage Station and Eli pushed past the drunk to the doors and onto the platform. He dodged down the platform and shimmied through oncoming commuters and up a flight of stairs. But when Eli snatched a look over his shoulder he saw that the wretched man had followed him, long legs picking up speed, still holding the damn book and was gaining on him. Eli spotted an exit to a passage and as he headed there he jostled past a young woman in a hijab coming towards him.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Eli said instinctively.

Behind him Eli heard the drunk and glanced over his shoulder. It was as if the drunk had unfurled bat-like wings and grown a metre.

‘You DO speak English,’ he said. ‘And that’s another fucking foreigner in her fucked up Muslim get-up. Why don’t you bloody people just go home? Or go somewhere else? Why do you have to come here?’

The woman, wide eyes behind her specs, stood frozen in fear.

‘Come on, darlin’,’ the man said. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got under that scarf, eh?’

Eli glanced up and down the corridor and up above him. For that one split second there seemed to be no one around and no overhead camera.

‘I don’t think…’ Eli trailed off and looked down at his own feet. It was a gesture of servility and drew the man away from the woman.

‘You don’t think what?’ the man said.

‘I… um…’ Eli stammered and looked up to see the wolfish pleasure in the man’s face as he looked down at Eli. Before the drunk had the opportunity to enjoy it any further, Eli hooked his foot around the man’s ankle and yanked hard. The drunk lost balance and Eli followed through with a punch in the guts and then kneed him in the balls.

Eli stood back.

It was like watching a building collapse; the drunk’s knees folded under him. After a glance to make sure there was still no one nearby, Eli pushed the drunk’s face down to the floor, hauled one arm behind him and for good measure put his full seventy-nine kilos onto one knee and slammed it down on the man’s spine just around the L3 lumbar vertebra. The man’s scream confirmed that he had hit the sweet spot. Then Eli shifted his knee to the right and, using his hand, located a rib through the fabric of the man’s thin jacket. Down went his knee again and he heard a satisfying crack, so pressed down once more for luck.

Now Eli heard voices and steps; a straggle of commuters appeared, Eli jumped to his feet and went towards them.

‘Heart attack,’ Eli said. ‘Gotta get help.’

And he ran past them, but turned once to look over his shoulder at the woman in the hijab: there she stood, rooted to the spot over the body of the prone drunk who moaned with pain.

Fifteen minutes later, Eli had changed trains, scuttled across platforms, climbed escalators and emerged like a mole, into the watery daylight of Bayswater.

Only then, once he’d checked, checked again and triple-checked himself did he slow down and think about what he’d done and the fall-out. How likely was it that he’d been seen and followed? Less than five per cent, he reckoned. The beanie and his mask would counter most profiling and facial recognition systems and it wasn’t murder; the guy was alive. But what exactly had just happened? Eli had lost control and risked job and career to beat up an unknown drunk, for what? Because he talked about conspiracies, because he tried to bully Eli, because he taunted the woman? No, that wasn’t it. Eli knew exactly what it was and he was still angry. He could feel the weight of the emotion like a lump in his chest struggling to come out.

It was because of Red Cap, the agent that the drunk looked like. There was only one way for Eli to control his fury and that was to channel the anger into work.

Chapter 2 

By the time Eli had manoeuvred his way through embassy security and reached his office on the first floor, he had himself under control. He was almost sanguine. Of course he shouldn’t have beaten up the drunk – it was stupid, and dangerous. What would his old boss Yuval say? Yes, Eli could hear the ice-cold bollocking about his fitness to do the job, the need to not draw attention to himself and why it was a massive fuck-up so early in Eli’s tenure as head of London station – a posting, Yuval would be sure to point out, that he had fought hard to achieve for Eli.

If Eli were foolish enough to admit to Yuval that he’d lost it because the drunk looked like Red Cap, there would be no reprieve. Eli would be on the first flight back to Ben Gurion airport to find his exit pension and half a dozen mandatory sessions with the Office shrinks lined up. That was not going to happen. Eli might have been an idiot for beating up the drunk, but he wasn’t going to admit to it – to anyone. After all, he was a spy, a professional liar, it’s what he did. Also it was necessary to stay in his role as head of station, for his career, for the Mossad and for the country.

The scent of the drunk’s sweat on his hands had been rinsed off in the men’s room and had now been replaced by the aroma of his first coffee of the day in the office. Cradling the glass in his hands, Eli leaned back in the leather-upholstered chair and felt it tilt. Behind Eli’s chair there was half a wall of dark panelling below an olive-green wall that sported three David Roberts prints of the Holy Land and a Nachume Miller painting in glorious colours.

On appointment, each head of station got a budget to refurbish their office; it wasn’t just a perk, it was considered a way of establishing individual operational style. If Eli had wanted the desert command post vibe with collapsible furniture as favoured by Yuval, his old boss, he’d have done it. But Eli reckoned the spartan surroundings were an affectation, as artificial as Yuval’s predecessor Avigdor’s attempts to make his office look like a university seminar room where case officers debated Clausewitz on war. Old Avigdor and his philosophical pontification had its fans, especially when he quoted Mossad’s own David Kimche’s saying that espionage was a continuous education in human frailty, but Eli didn’t buy it. He didn’t rate Avigdor’s obsession with operational minutiae, the analysis and overthinking about every single agent contact in forensic detail almost to the point of paralysis. Eli thought it was time-wasting and there was too much emphasis on process and not product.

Unpleasant though it was, Eli favoured the tobacco-fugged office of his own first head of station, Alon. There were piles of files on every surface which suggested to the uninformed, disorder; but Eli knew better. The mess was part of the dissimilitude; the subterfuge, the smoke and the mirrors of their craft, indeed, their art. Alon’s rats’ nest of an office hid a mind that worked faster and with more precision than anybody Eli had ever known. There was nothing nebulous about Alon. Nothing at all. But Alon, with his croaking laugh and ubiquitous cigarette, feigned disorder as a disarming tactic; he never showed who he really was, like the greatest of all spies.

Alon had the mind and style Eli aspired to; it was what you needed when you practised Krav Maga. You made yourself appear weak to get close to the enemy so you could strike once and strike hard. Just as Eli had done that very morning. It was the type of mind and style that Eli needed to hold his own within an organisation that was in a state of flux. Alon didn’t pontificate about human frailty, that was a given – his maxim was that in their world, what you see is not what you get.

Still thinking about Alon, Eli reached for the laptop on the desk and flipped open the lid. It was thirty minutes until the morning meeting and he wanted to be prepared. There was a tap on the door and it opened before Eli had the chance to respond. A head poked around the door topped with wiry, grey hair and beneath, a face with a smile on his lips as if the man was assured of a welcome. Eli tensed, he wasn’t fooled by the smile.

In his hand, the man carried a plastic tray with two glasses of coffee.

‘Boker Tov, Eli,’ Nathan said. ‘Good morning, how are you this fine morning?’

‘Come in, come in,’ Eli said. ‘Something urgent that couldn’t wait for the morning meeting in…’ Eli glanced at his watch, ‘twenty-seven minutes?’

‘First, I wanted to see if you’d already had your coffee.’

‘I have.’

‘And second,’ Nathan said, ‘I wanted five minutes to talk to you about an opportunity with a twofold benefit. This idea will support your cover as cultural attaché and also build our relationships with the British Jewish Community.’

Eli rubbed his bald head as if he could wipe away what he was hearing.

‘What are you talking about, Nathan?’

Nathan was acting-deputy head of station. Acting because Eli had yet to confirm the appointment, acting because the other candidates were young Turks, either too inexperienced or too ambitious. So he was left with Nathan, who was a snake. Whatever one said about Nathan it was clear that he didn’t want Eli’s job, he just wanted to do what he considered to be God’s work to the best of his ability. That meant acting as a spy for the factions at head office who supported the right wing in the government. He made no secret of his political allegiance in an institution which was supposed to be impartial, and Eli had no choice, at least for the moment, but to keep him close.

Nathan was short. Even shorter than Eli, with a scrappy beard and watery eyes. Formerly head of Tsfarim, the unit charged with looking after Jews in other countries, he was orthodox. Atop his grey hair he wore a kippah, that thankfully he took off when he was outside the building, but for Eli, it still jarred and reminded him – as if he needed reminding – that Nathan was not to be trusted, under any circumstances. He was the enemy within.

At the moment Nathan was perched on the edge of the armchair, smiling.

Eli surveyed his deputy as he sipped at the fresh glass of coffee and felt the catch at the back of his throat. ‘What’s the fantastic opportunity? The Rothschild box at Covent Garden for the season, a private viewing at the Courtauld to see the King’s Collection?’

‘I have arranged for you to be the judge for an art competition,’ Nathan said. ‘It’s a nationwide school competition and the subject is Keep the Faith.’ 

‘Are you joking?’ Eli said. He couldn’t help himself. ‘No, you’re not, are you? Nathan, we need to be examining and rejigging the watchers’ procedures, dealing with the latest budgetary issues from back home, making sure the team have had all their health checks, and that’s before we do what we’re actually being paid to do, which, may I remind you, is gathering intelligence and liaising with other intelligence agencies. What, for God’s sake…’

Anger flicked across Nathan’s face and was quelled. ‘Is it the name of the competition that bothers you?’ he said.

‘Keep the Faith? Don’t be ridiculous.’ Eli wanted to make sure that what he was about to say would make it into Nathan’s report, so he spoke slowly. ‘What you are suggesting is not a good use of my time. I’ll see you at the morning meeting.’

Eli didn’t see Nathan leave the office, he just heard the door click shut. However much he would like to fire Nathan, it wasn’t possible until he had a replacement lined up. Until then Eli would have to manage him and keep him out of as many operations as possible.

On the way to the meeting Eli bumped into Sara who was head of the Visa Section. An attractive red-head, he always got a slightly odd vibe off her, unsure whether she hated him or was hot for him. Either way, it didn’t matter. They’d had some history when his agent, Red Cap, had trashed the visa section before going on a drunken spree, giving Sara the opportunity to bleat about how the Office took too much for granted, letting their agents run crazy, but that was par for the course. Most of the embassy regular staff hated the Mossad operatives and thought that they, the diplomatic corps, were the only people doing proper jobs.

Sara asked how the move had gone, if Gal was settling into their new apartment and said that they must come over for dinner some time – Eli said all that was appropriate before he went on his way, laptop tucked under his arm.

He was just making his way along the third-floor corridor towards their dedicated meeting room when there was another unwelcome sight coming towards him: the deputy ambassador. Eli tightened his grip around the laptop and nodded at the man.

‘I’m pleased I’ve tracked you down,’ he said to Eli. Yossi, the deputy ambassador, was another one of those embassy staff who loathed Mossad operatives. 

Eli stopped. Despite his precautions after he beat up the oaf on the train, had he been spotted? And followed? London was dense with CCTV and if he had been tracked all the way to the embassy it would be hard to lie his way out of being responsible.

‘What’s up?’ Eli said while assessing Yossi’s body language and expression. In a sombre suit, conservative tie and discreetly striped shirt, he looked like an accountant. If he could, he would destroy Eli and enjoy it.

‘We have a situation. The ambassador wants it acted on with immediate effect.’

Eli responded with a passable attempt at unconcern. ‘Do you want to give me the headline now, or may I come to see you after my morning meeting?’

‘As soon as you can, Eli. The ambassador feels this has the potential to be problematic and she wants to get ahead of the curve.’

‘I see.’ Eli kept his expression neutral yet interested, all the while scanning Yossi’s face, trying to read him. It’s what Eli did when he worked agents; it’s what he taught the rookie recruits.

Eli widened his eyes and leaned forward, a signal for Yossi to speak. He did.

‘There’s been an incident with one of our nationals.’

‘One of our nationals?’ Eli said to gain time. Could that drunken oaf actually have been an Israeli national? He couldn’t be that unlucky.

‘Yes, one of our nationals. We’ve just received notification from the UK police. A stabbing outside a nightclub.’ Yossi was holding out a folded piece of paper.

A rush of relief flooded over Eli. He even smiled at Yossi.

‘Is that the information?’

‘Yes.’

Eli plucked the paper from Yossi’s hands and walked off with it, talking over his shoulder. ‘This will be priority at the meeting, you can rely on us, Yossi.’

Chapter 3

Five people were already seated around the meeting room table in the safe room when Eli came in bang on the dot of 8 o’clock.   But only five and not six. One was missing. Despite a superficially relaxed style with his team, Eli insisted on punctuality and Urit, the missing analyst, had made the mistake of being late a second time.

The door to the room opened and Urit appeared. She was flushed and no doubt had been running, but in clogs and red socks it was no surprise that she hadn’t been able to pick up speed.

Eli decided to talk to her later; humiliating her in front of the unit would not help them to become a cohesive team and, at the moment, that was his goal. This was his unit, a group of individuals that he wanted to mould into the most effective team in the organisation, a team that worked together without in-fighting or politics, applied peer review to each other’s operations and approached the problems of gathering intelligence in an intellectual manner, ruled by neither cant nor sentiment, and not dictated by political hysteria. His unit would rise above it all and with its success would come another step upwards in his career which would lead to the chance to making a positive difference. It was a big ask.

As he glanced around the sparse room, the monitors, pale walls and a grey-tiled floor that lent a monastic austerity to the space, Eli considered his goal. Though he was acknowledged as one of the most accomplished spy-runners in the history of the organisation, management and internal politics had never been his forte. It should have been, but Eli was aware that he wasn’t popular; he hadn’t been in the right army unit and his background and interests and politics didn’t chime with many of his contemporaries, whether it was the cowboys, the hawks, or the ultra-religious crazies.

In Eli’s view, the first step to bed in the unit and create cohesion was to insist on punctuality. He looked at Urit, at the end of the table with her fringe poking out of a printed bandana, a statistical mathematician who looked like a fashion influencer. Before appointing her, Eli had read her entire thesis on nonparametric statistics; most of it was beyond him, but he’d grasped enough to understand that her field made fewer assumptions; to Eli this seemed the perfect counterbalance for humint – human intelligence – where assumptions were their main currency. No matter how skilled she was, if she didn’t turn up on time, he’d have to replace her. That conversation would come later. For now it was showtime.

‘Right, people.’ Eli hauled back the upholstered chair at the head of the table and lay down his laptop on the surface before he sat down. ‘This is Niorah’s last day before she joins those bastards in Paris. Let’s make sure we work her hard, before we lose her.’

Niorah sat to Eli’s right, a strong-jawed young woman with masses of dark hair pulled back into a scrunchie. Eli had offered her the deputy job in London and been disappointed when she’d said she’d be in a stronger position to be head of station if she had a foreign posting in a second country – and she was right.

‘Paris isn’t so far,’ she said.

‘It’s far enough,’ Eli said. ‘But congratulations, Niorah. They’re lucky to be getting you and they know it.’

There were grunts of agreement around the table. Eli tapped with his hand for order. ‘Right, let’s get started. Segev. What’s going on with your targets?’

Segev was head watcher and in charge of a lot of the tech, including the tech truck. His active service in the organisation started as a plumber, a specialist in illegal entry, and Segev was highly skilled. He was also calm and clear-headed under operational fire. At no more than twenty-five, every single thing the kid attempted was carried out with the same cool preparation, dedication and expertise so Eli had fought to get the kid this promotion at such a young age because he didn’t want to lose him. Segev made up for the deadweights that Eli had either inherited or been bullied into giving house-room in exchange for the people he did want. Another reason for Eli to hate internal politics, but Segev was a prize worth making sacrifices for.

At Eli’s question, Segev looked up from his phone and in a soft and serious voice described a requisitions clerk at the Iranian Embassy he’d been following for the last week.

‘His car’s a shithole,’ Segev said. ‘There’s junk everywhere, unpaid bills, circulars, clothes, empty pizza boxes, but he doesn’t live in the car, it just looks like it. And when he’s not eating takeout in his car, he goes to pubs four or five times a week, always places that aren’t near their embassy.’

‘Interesting,’ Eli said. ‘So, what do you think’s going on with him? Is he drinking, cheating on his wife? Meeting some other agency? It wouldn’t be the first time we were going after the same target as the Brits or the Americans. Everybody wants a finger in the Iranian pie.’

‘No. He is always alone,’ Segev said. ‘But he goes to particular pubs, the ones where he can play games, slot machines, you put the money in and you pull a lever. It’s a game.’

‘That’s no game, it’s gambling,’ Eli said. ‘And in terms of recruiting him, that’s a slam-dunk; if he’s doing it four or five times a week, he’ll be losing money, a lot of money, more than he’s making and he’ll be in debt. Who wants—’

‘I’ll do it,’ Adam said before Eli could finish asking the question.

The young man was keen, maybe too keen, given his limited field experience.

London was Adam’s first posting. Canadian by birth from the suburbs of Toronto, Eli had met him only once at the board for the appointment and had grabbed him before anyone else did. He hadn’t shone in the interview, but Eli reckoned he would be invaluable in operations with sophisticated targets such as senior diplomats who could spot a fake Canadian. Authentic nationals among the recruits were becoming a rarity, but they were gold. Despite his value, it was too early to let Adam lead his own operation, even an easy one. And Eli had a better home for this particular target.

‘Thank you, Adam,’ Eli said. ‘Appreciated, but I think Nathan and Lev would be a good fit for this one.’

Eli knew Lev wouldn’t volunteer; he never did. He never volunteered for anything, he was one of the deadweights in his unit, but if Nathan and Lev couldn’t recruit a target with a gambling problem then they really shouldn’t be taking up office space, with or without Lev’s Arabic skills and Nathan’s direct line to the Almighty. Giving them an easy target was also a way of keeping Nathan busy and off his case. The busier Nathan was, the less time he would have for spreading discord and feeding back information to his clique back home.

‘So you two work it out with Segev,’ Eli said. ‘Decide if you want any more operational information before you make the contact and then go ahead. You’re both experienced and don’t need anyone else breathing over your shoulder. Just try to keep it cheap. This one doesn’t need to cost a fortune.’

Lev had his usual close-lipped smug smile; the man was ex-Shabak, the internal intelligence unit, and had earned his place on the London team because he could pass himself off as Syrian to another Syrian, which took some doing. By his side, Nathan nodded and then scribbled notes on his pad.

Eli turned back to Adam. He’d had his first meeting with an established agent, taking him over from another case officer who’d finished his term.

‘Adam, how are you getting on with…’ Eli consulted his laptop, ‘Ice Skater?’

Ice Skater was a Syrian army doctor, who’d been supplying product for ten years or so and had worked with a number of different handlers. The doctor didn’t have a big job but in his position he was aware of requisition orders for more wound kits or PPE or redeployment of personnel and his product was always grade A – in other words, reliable. If Mossad didn’t use the information themselves, there was always the opportunity to trade it to some other interested party. After ten years, Eli reckoned the doctor probably knew what was going on, but for the sake of appearances they continued to keep up the pretence that the doctor was helping an international marketing research company. He was a perfect agent for a case officer on his first term.

‘He’s good,’ Adam said. ‘Yeah, seemed pretty relaxed about the changeover and happy to go along with the idea that I’m yet another marketing expert from the company. However, Ice Skater wants more money, a lot more money. Like about fifty per cent more than he’s getting for his monthly retainer plus bonuses on special product.’

‘Is he trying it on because you’re the new face?’ Eli said.

Adam leaned forward and nodded. ‘Yes, yes, I thought that might be the case so I told him that we’d been hit by the global downturn in the economy and were having to cut back on our budgets, but I said I’d let him know when I heard back from head office.’

Adam looked worried and leaned even further forward across the table towards Eli. His brow was furrowed. ‘Thing is, I wasn’t sure just how far to push it.’

‘You did right. Now, what do you think would work best?’ Eli looked around the room. ‘Anybody? Pitch in.’

‘Offer him five per cent,’ Niorah said. ‘Say that’s to take into account inflation but then he’ll get double bonuses for special product.’

‘What’s the quality of the product been lately, Urit?’ Eli asked the analyst. ‘Any fall-off in grade?’

Urit consulted her laptop and reeled off some statistics and the discussion flowed around the room for a few minutes until Eli gathered in the views like a croupier scooping up chips from a green baize cloth and said, ‘Okay. So, Adam, you tell him that the offer from head office is either a smaller retainer but bigger bonuses, or he can go back to the situation he was in before and we’ll review in six months. I think your instinct is right, Adam. He’s trying it on because you’re a new face and even if the pound is low, we can’t go crazy for a mid-ranking agent.’

Everyone seemed satisfied with the solution and the discussion moved on to Lev’s agent who was looking for promotion within the Qatari Embassy and wanted help by discrediting his rival for the position. They tossed it around for a while and then Eli pushed it back onto Lev’s plate and suggested he come up with a plan with Nathan. Why not? The busier Nathan was the better, and again, this was an operation without huge risks.

‘Okay,’ Eli said, glancing at his watch. ‘Time’s nearly up, there’s housekeeping before we finish up. I’ve had an email from the embassy doctor, Menachem; everybody needs to have their vaccination status fully up to date. Also, he’s initiated six-monthly blood tests so everyone is in tip-top condition. Apparently he’s got the ear of the new ambassador on health maintenance. And speaking of having the ear of the ambassador…’ Eli opened the folded sheet of paper he’d taken from Yossi and scanned it.

As he read and re-read, Eli massaged his eyebrows with index finger and thumb.

‘So, here we have a message from the respected deputy ambassador, a man that Adam probably hasn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting. He gave me this note when I was on the way here. Apparently, the ambassador wants it acted on.’

Eli held the piece of paper between thumb and finger. ‘It seems that an Israeli tourist, a boy, was stabbed last night outside a nightclub in Shoreditch. He ended up in A and E and, luckily for him, the wound was superficial and he has since been discharged.’

‘Thank God he’s okay,’ Nathan said. ‘This is a disaster.’

‘Is it?’ Eli said. ‘I mean, yes, it’s bad that people get attacked, but shouldn’t this be a police matter? What exactly does the ambassador and Yossi expect us to do? More importantly, how would the attacker have known the victim was an Israeli? Or even a Jew? I presume he wasn’t outside a nightclub wearing a prayer shawl.’

‘Someone might have heard him speaking Hebrew,’ Nathan said in an angry tone.

‘I’m not convinced,’ Eli said. ‘And it’s premature to set up an expensive operation when it may well be a young man in the wrong place at the wrong time – if that’s what you were about to suggest, Nathan.’

‘You don’t understand, Eli,’ Nathan said. He was holding his hands in a prayer position and his eyes were intense. ‘This is exactly the sort of situation where we need to use our resources to help the local police, bring these criminals to justice and support the local Jewish population. We need to let them know that they can rely on us and the arm of vengeance—’

Eli frowned, held up his hand to silence Nathan. ‘A minute, Nathan. Anybody else have thoughts on this?’

‘Is it random? Which club?’ Urit said. ‘Some of those places have a bad reputation for drugging kids who go there. Fights, stabbings. They don’t have security outside clubs for nothing.’

Nathan’s face got redder by the second and he was twitching with anger; it was a demand to speak. Eli nodded at him; better to let the steam come off the pressure cooker than see him explode.

‘You have to understand, Eli, this is how it starts, a random stabbing of a single Israeli, then another, then more anti-Semitic attacks and the Jewish population feel threatened. We can’t stand by and do nothing. This is what we saw when I was with Tsafirim, it starts small and then before you know it…’

‘Urit,’ Eli said, ‘do you have a figure for how many stabbings there are in the UK year on year? And how many of them are targeted at either Jews or Israelis? And then if you feel like it you can work out the ratio to the general population and geographical locations.’

Urit started to tap away at the keyboard, her focus intense, but before she’d finished Eli decided to establish his authority and nip Nathan’s rant in the bud.

‘Actually, don’t bother, Urit, your time can be better used.’

She nodded, stopped, like the good soldier she was.

Eli put his elbows on the table, leaned forward and propped up his chin. It was a casual and conversational body position that was supposed to show no threat, just authority. ‘Nathan, I respect your concern and your previous experience as head of Tsafirim but one,’ he held up his finger for emphasis, ‘it’s a random attack outside a nightclub. Somebody was probably trying to rob the kid – it happens in a city like London. It happens in a city like Tel Aviv. Okay? And two,’ the second finger went up, ‘this is not a job for the Mossad. We operate at a higher level. We gather intelligence for our customers but beyond that, at the heart, at the very core of what we do is our job; no, it’s more than a job, it’s our mission to operate in the geopolitical theatre. Do you understand? Now more than ever, because we’re brokering back-channel agreements between the Americans and the Russians that has immense global implications. In other words, we’re not here to police drunken brawls.’

Nathan was furious. Eli could see it in his face; so be it. Eli glanced at his watch and went on. ‘It is my decision as head of station that this isn’t a job for us. And if that doesn’t work for you, you’re off the team.’

Chapter 4

It took just ninety minutes for Eli to leave the embassy and get to his meeting in Dulwich Park and knowing he’d completed the journey that fast while sticking to the protocols was satisfying. He’d made four public transport changes between the embassy in Kensington, followed by a motorbike pick-up on a shabby side road by Streatham Common. Finally, Eli was dropped at the park gates where he dismounted and ambled through the park, striving to look like a man whose only intent was to enjoy the wintry air and open vistas. Along the way he made two further checks. First, he knelt down to tie up the laces of his trainers, an opportunity to glance around and see if anyone else changed pace. Fifty metres or so further along he stopped again, this time to read a notice pinned to a tree. A picture showed a small, shaggy dog which was missing and there was a reward for information leading to its discovery. The notice was tattered, saturated by rain, and who knows where the dog was now. The image reminded Eli of his grandfather’s dog, Zeppo, a mutt rescued from the street, sick and flea-bitten who after recovery sat at his grandfather’s feet and followed him from room to room; never for a moment did the dog let his benefactor out of his sight. There’d been no dog for Eli as he grew up: they’d moved from country to country because of his father’s job. It was a regret.

A dog would have been good cover at a meeting like today’s because people tended to notice the dog and not the person. Maybe they should get one. Bring it into the office as an operational requirement and watch the likes of Yossi get angry seeing a dog at Eli’s heels. Maybe not. If he was going to hold on to his job he didn’t need to chuck any more oil on the fire.

Yossi could be handled with some visible respect for his elevated position. He was motivated by ego. Nathan was a much harder prospect because you couldn’t rationalise with him. He believed that being a Mossad case officer was doing God’s work. To Eli it was like a child who had an imaginary friend telling him what to do and how to do it, but in this case there was a bunch of other people with the same imaginary friend. Unconsciously, Eli shook his head at the thought. How was it possible that these people had so much power, people who wanted to go back to pre-Renaissance beliefs where religious leaders held power over the uneducated? Eli’s determination to stay in his post and climb further up the career ladder was not for the glory, the money, nor even for the pleasure of using his skills. He had to try to bring pragmatism, rationality and honour into the organisation; it was the only way the country had any hope of surviving.

Eli glanced to his right and saw a young man striding along a parallel path seventy-five metres away. He was one of theirs. For a final layer of security Eli was being shadowed and two more watchers had been assigned to this meeting. Was it overkill? It had certainly bitten a lump out of his budget, but it was in a good cause; this was a sensitive contact and Eli needed to be clean.

The destination was a café in the middle of the park. Inside, windows streamed with condensation and most of the tables were full. Eli eyed a corner table where a young man with a mass of curly hair sat, appearing to linger over his drink. He was there to secure the only position in the café where you had a 180-degree view, could see both entrance and exit behind the service counter yet have your back to a wall. Eli nodded at the guy and got an answering look; he didn’t yet know this one’s name but it looked like Segev was building a decent team.

At the service counter Eli ordered. ‘Americano, and cold milk on the side.’ He was careful to make his accent south of England. It wasn’t hard, he had an ear for languages and had had the education to support it.

He carried his tray to the table and for form’s sake asked the watcher if there was space. To any onlooker, the interaction looked normal; the café was crowded, with few places to sit. It was noisy; sound bounced off both glass windows and the wooden floor, while a hissing coffee machine competed with scraping chairs and clattering cutlery. It was a perfect location. Even the most sophisticated recording equipment would struggle to isolate conversation, but, just in case, Eli had tech to help. From his inside pocket he took out a work phone and placed it on the table. The phone lit up. It was complete with screen apps and an image of a fictive family, appropriate for a man of his age, but the device wasn’t just a phone, it also contained a sound buffer. It scrambled sound and overlaid it with white noise.

After five minutes a tall man pushed open the door. He was on his own but no doubt he had his own people nearby. Nicolai Petrovich, the Russian Rezident and Eli’s opposite number, moved to the counter and ordered his drink. Then he threaded his way through the other tables in the café and stood over Eli.

‘Anybody sitting here?’ Nicolai said with the accent of an educated polyglot.

‘I’m just going.’ The watcher stood up and left the two senior spies alone in the crowded café.

Nicolai sat down in the vacant seat and from the inside pocket of his jacket took out his own sound buffer. Eli noted that it was different from the one he’d used the last time they’d met. Maybe the Russians were managing to tool up.

The Russian Rezident had wide cheekbones and thick hair brushed back from his forehead, only a touch of grey at his temples. Usually he carried himself with the air of a man at ease with himself; today was different – he looked tired.

Nicolai had been in post for six months and this was the third time that Eli had met him. Their first meeting had been public, a reception at the Mexican Embassy, a country with strong links to both Russia and Israel, and one of the few countries that had not instigated sanctions after the invasion of Ukraine.

The George Street Embassy was neutral ground and the two senior spies were able to publicly make contact. Once they’d connected amid the clatter of clinking glasses, they set up further meetings in discreet locations where, concealed from public view, they got down to the business of seeing what they could get in terms of trading product and also if there might be a recruitment opportunity. That they were both aware what they were doing gave Eli the sense of playing chess with an equal.

‘How’s everything?’ Eli said.

‘It’s been better,’ Nicolai said.

Eli noticed shadows under the Russian’s eyes. ‘Is it work or…’ He knew the Russian had a wife and young children, maybe there were domestic issues. Family had a way of bringing worry and levelling out the politics. But Eli was wrong.

‘We go on with our jobs and attempt to keep everything on track,’ Nicolai said. ‘But there’s been some unexpected upheaval within the government.’

Eli sat up a little straighter. This was not only blunt, it was the first time Nicolai had strayed from the Kremlin script that everything was under control at all times.

Eli kept his voice neutral, he needed to draw out the man opposite. ‘We’re similarly afflicted. These are strange times.’

Nicolai nodded. ‘They are indeed.’

The Russian surveyed Eli for a few moments and then he leaned across the table. ‘Let me get straight to the point, Eli. If you like, we’ll call it the Israeli way.’

‘Please do.’

‘Our people want you to broker a meeting with both the British and the Americans.’

Eli was thoughtful. What exactly did Nicolai mean by ‘our people’? Did he mean Putin himself, or did he mean Nicolai’s own clique within the intelligence services? Eli took a mouthful of coffee to play for time while he weighed up the notion. This was either a genuine approach from Putin trying to resurrect his relationship with the west as a bulwark against his domestic problems. Or it was a clique within the FSB reaching out in preparation for regime change – equally possible. A third hypothesis swirled around Eli’s mind; could this be the anticipated FSB attempt to recruit him?

Although Israel had not joined the many international partners in placing sanctions against Russia after they invaded Ukraine, they had spoken out against Russia and described the war as a violation; this criticism, according to their intelligence, hadn’t gone down at all well in the Kremlin. Criticism was betrayal and betrayal was unforgivable.

Still thinking hard, Eli said, ‘To be direct, the Israeli way, if you want to put it like that, I understood we were not on the list of good friends to your government.’

‘Correct,’ Nicolai said. ‘More was expected from you. A lot more, not least because you of all people should understand us and our culture. After all, how many former Russians are now serving in your Knesset?’

‘No idea.’

‘How about the percentage of Russian speakers in Israel currently?’

Eli knew it was fifteen per cent, he knew Russian was heard everywhere, and public service notices now included Russian, but he just smiled. Maybe this wasn’t a recruitment attempt. Could this be a threat? A suggestion that with so many Russian speakers Putin had some sort of hold on Israel in the way he had manufactured a claim on Donetsk?

Eli shrugged, as if unconcerned. ‘I’m not sure how easy it would be for us to get you that meeting. Our own relationship with the US is going through an unstable phase.’

‘Of course, we’re aware of that,’ Nicolai said. He flicked his hand as if tossing away the obvious. ‘Let me continue to be direct. You’re second choice to broker this meeting. The plan was to do it through Kemal at the MGK in Turkey, but it’s become too complicated. Don’t get me wrong, Kemal is a good man but when you’re dealing with a personality-led autocracy there are…’ he hesitated and glanced at the sound buffer and then back at Eli, ‘considerations.’

‘Understood,’ Eli said, not understanding but squirrelling away the snippet that Turkey’s MGK might be in conflict with Erdoğan. ‘For the moment, at least, we’re a functioning democracy.’

If this request was genuine and not a trap, and Eli was beginning to feel that it was real, there were huge and positive implications for Israel. ‘Are you going to Munich?’ he said. ‘It might be possible to arrange a side meeting with the Brits and the Americans.’

‘Impossible,’ Nicolai said. ‘Not even as off-location observers.’

Munich was the location of the annual international security conference, and it was a unique opportunity for dialogue in a way that Davos and the UN never would be. 

‘A pity.’ Eli sipped at his coffee. ‘Leave it with me, Nicolai. I’ll try to organise something.’

Nicolai tapped at his own espresso cup. ‘Thanks. Another one of these, Eli?’

‘No, no, I’ll just have some water, thanks.’

Nicolai went back to the bar where the hiss and the hubbub of the coffee machine surrounded him. While Nicolai was preoccupied, Eli picked up his sound buffer and used the camera function on it to take a picture of Nicolai’s sound buffer. He doubted much information could be gained from an image, but one never knew.

Nicolai returned and placed two bottles on the table. He twisted the cap on one and drank before looking at Eli who had the sense that there was something else on Nicolai’s agenda, beyond establishing backdoor channels. It was an underlying tension in the Russian. Eli sat quietly and was rewarded.

Nicolai put his empty water bottle on the table and leaned towards Eli. ‘What I’m going to ask you is likely to be harder than getting a meeting, but I want to assure you, Eli, that it would serve all of our long-term interests.’

‘Go on,’ Eli said. Was this the trap? Was this what Nicolai had been warming him up for? Arranging the backdoor meeting was the overture, testing his cooperation, now for the pitch.

Nicolai looked at his hands. ‘If we have any hope of ending the war and restoring order, which is to everyone’s benefit, we need to re-arm and, most of all, we need high-quality drones.’

‘We can’t supply you,’ Eli said. ‘You know that. Our international standing is complex enough as it is. It’s impossible. And you’re getting them from Iran, anyway.’

‘Not in enough quantities and they’re not good quality. I’m told there is no precision in the operational controls; they’re just turning them out because we’re paying and because we’re not in a position to throw them back at them.’ He looked up before he went on. ‘That’s what I’ve been told.’

He seemed genuine, Eli thought. ‘Let me pose you a hypothetical question. Just supposing a situation arose where we could supply you. Why would we do that?’

There was silence at the table.

‘Can you supply us?’ Nicolai said.

‘America would finish with us if it came out, and whatever anybody likes to think, we’re dependent on them.’

‘Does it have to come out? You’re head of London station, you have the power to set up your own operations. You may want to retire in the not too distant future, the way things are—’

‘Are you trying to recruit me?’ Eli interrupted and started to get up from the table.

Nicolai held out an arm. ‘No, no, I’m sorry I said that. Forgive me. I’m under pressure and I wasn’t thinking. I know you’re an honourable man. Eli, I’m appealing to you to take a step back and look at the big picture. We need to maintain stability until such time there are organised alternatives to the current regime. Do you understand? We can’t have a repeat of what happened in 1991; it would be bad for everyone and I don’t just mean Russia.’

‘You have a point.’ Could he trust him? If the situation were reversed, he would be doing exactly what Nicolai was doing; tailoring the pitch to suit the target.

Eli stood up. ‘Let’s talk after Munich,’ he said and, picking up his sound buffer, turned towards the door.

Ever since he’d got back from the meeting, Eli had hunkered down in his office, ruminating. There had to be a way of using the Russian’s urgent need for drones to their advantage; this was an opportunity too good to waste. At the periphery of Eli’s consciousness there was an idea that was so shrouded as to be almost unrecognisable. It stemmed from the circumstance that they had an agent in place in a UK drone facility. She’d been there for twenty-odd years, and Eli had spent the last two hours looking at her file.

Too good to waste, Eli muttered to himself, and wished above all things that he had a decent deputy with whom to throw around some ideas and come up with a plan. Once again, Eli re-read the agent’s profile to see if anything came to him. She was a systems engineer and mechatronics expert. That was interesting in itself. It meant she had the skill set to flip between the different engineering disciplines in automated manufacturing. Eli scrolled through the sub-documents and saw that her roots were in North India and she was a second generation Brit in her late forties. Again, interesting and also unusual, but it didn’t help him grasp the idea. He scrolled through her files and found the psychiatrist’s report that had been written when she was recruited. Nothing much there. As a teen she’d shocked her immigrant parents by announcing that she wanted to join the British army. It was an act of rebellion at the prospect of, if not an arranged marriage, certainly one that was endorsed by the South East Asian community. With her science skills, a career in medicine would have delighted her family but the young woman had been determined to choose her own path and studied electrical engineering, specialising in mechatronics. The British Army picked her up and put her on a fast-track programme where she worked in communications.

Eli started to read the transcript of the shrink’s interview with the agent. Despite his years in the Office, there were still times when he was uncomfortable with the prurient details of an agent’s life. This was one such occasion, but he read on. Besides the random racism the young woman experienced throughout her service, one summer Saturday night she was attacked and sexually assaulted by squaddies in Aldershot. If that wasn’t bad enough, the way the assault had been handled shattered her faith in the British institution and she opted out with a medical discharge. According to the interview transcript, she’d cried uncontrollably when she talked about what happened.

Despite the experience, the young woman was too proud to admit to her family that they’d been right, that her life would only work if she followed family tramlines. She was angry with her family for over-protecting her and she was angry with the UK for not protecting her enough, so as a recruitment prospect she was low-hanging fruit. The stress and anxiety of the assault had also resulted in her developing phobic symptoms, making her too scared to go out unaccompanied.