They had always followed procedures, and now this urgent call out of the blue. It had happened just once before, in 1996. He was instructed back then to follow the security procedures in place for Tel Aviv, and a windowless van showed up to collect him. Brian was waiting for him in the van, which pulled up for just a few seconds and then took off again right away. He shook his hand warmly, taking care not to stand up to greet him because of the violent rocking of the vehicle, which was switching from one lane to the next and making sudden sharp turns at very high speed. It was a meeting of the utmost importance and urgency insofar as they were concerned, due to tension along the northern border and concern regarding the possible outbreak of war. They needed to know what the prime minister really had in mind, what was being said during the cabinet discussions, where the red lines were being drawn, whether Israel would make do with a massive aerial bombardment or whether it would put its bigger plan into action. Alon had already told them about the plan—to move eight divisions into Syria, to lay siege to Damascus, and to move into Lebanon at the same time, along its eastern sector, with the purpose of getting through to the Beirut–Damascus highway, and from there to maneuver eastward, to complete the strategic encirclement and bring the Syrians to their knees.
The instruction this time had been a different one: Get to Zurich as soon as possible. It had come to him in the form of an encoded message on a website disguised as an international real-estate site offering opportunities to purchase land at attractive prices. He smiled wryly despite the sharp pain in his lower stomach. His communication with his handlers used to be a lot more primitive. It had started out in the form of letters written in invisible ink that became legible only after undergoing a special chemical process. The invisible marker was replaced over the years by special printer ink. He refused back then to allow his handlers to relay messages via shortwave radio transmissions. “I’m not going to close myself off in a room,” he said to them, there’s no way I’m going to lock the door and write down groups of letters to be deciphered thereafter like some kind of spy in World War II. That’s not for me, it’s dangerous and unnecessary, he said to Brian, who put up some resistance to begin with but eventually saw it his way. They came to an arrangement whereby he’d receive his missions once or twice a year during face-to-face meetings. Moreover, he liked those meetings and had no intention of making do with random letters as a rather pathetic and humiliating substitute for personal encounters.
They could now communicate online with complete confidence. That’s what they told him, at least. But if they wanted to relay a message to him, they could also always revert to the age-old method of the chalk markings, which they still maintained as a backup. Each city had a unique sign. The code that alerted him this time was a simple one—a star drawn in red chalk, surrounded by a white circle, on the wooden fence of an apartment building on one of the small side streets leading off Ibn Gvirol. He made a point of passing by the fence almost daily, usually driving slowly in his car, and sometimes on foot. His handlers were sticklers when it came to routine and planning. No phone calls, no conspicuous e-mails. He had received just two calls from them over the past twenty years, both allegedly wrong numbers, and both intended to let him know that they’d left a sign for him down that small side street that he needed to go and see right away. One call every ten years. Alon couldn’t help but marvel at the restraint and professionalism of his handlers. He loved them for that, too. For their serious attitude, for their sense of responsibility toward him. For their levelheadedness and self-confidence. And now this alert. Both online and in the form of the marking on the fence. Alon couldn’t ignore the fact that this was the first time he had been summoned abroad, the first time in thirty years. His stomach had tightened, but his heart warmed and widened now as he spotted Brian from afar.
They embraced. Warmly. Genuinely happy.
“I’m sorry you had to wait for me,” Alon said. “I needed some time to get organized. I couldn’t just drop everything and leave the country right away. I had to wait until Thursday evening, and fly out only then to Vienna. I flew Austrian Airlines to Schwechat and went on from there with a Swiss ticket that I purchased at the airport. According to the drill. Like always. And here I am.”
Brian and his men had waited for three days for Cobra to arrive. For three days the security teams took up positions in the hope of seeing him emerge from the northern gate of the Hauptbahnhof, the central train station. And only on day four, at the fixed time, at precisely two minutes past three, did they spot him. A slim figure, wrapped in a long coat, a casquette on his head, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, emerging from the gate and turning right in the direction of the taxi rank. He walked slowly and joined the line, knowing they had eyes on him and were in position around him.
“No problem,” Brian responded, “we always operate as agreed. We have patience and we have time. You have to do whatever suits you best. Don’t forget, your safety comes first. Let’s go to the bar, we’ll have a drink, warm up a little.”
Cobra and Brian were sitting on two antique leather armchairs in the dark corner of the bar, on the table in front of them polished crystal glasses filled with an amber gold liquid. Aged Calvados brandy, infused with the scent of apples, steeped in the rich flavors of Normandy, encapsulating, as Alon always imagined it, the commotion of the invading soldiers, the thunder of the landing craft crashing against the raging foam of the sea, the barrage of artillery shells, the assault charge, wave after wave of brave fighters, onto the beach. For some reason he thought all of a sudden about Martin, his first handler, the first one he met after walking into the U.S. embassy in Rome back then, so many years ago. He couldn’t recall the name of the embassy’s CIA officer, the one who had amusingly and clumsily insisted on introducing himself as a consular employee. He could only remember him appearing old and tired and even a little shoddy. But he could never forget Martin. Martin was the one who taught him to love Calvados. He taught him so much, and made him into the man he was today. Alon didn’t love many people in his life. His mother, perhaps, but for her it was mostly concern, and the concern far outweighed the love. Yes, he loved Naomi and Nimrod, his children, but that was the love of a parent. Based primarily, from his point of view, on a profound sense of duty and responsibility. But Martin he truly loved. From the bottom of his heart. The love of a young man for an older one, a strong man, full of charm. Not an erotic love—although the question of where one draws that line between loves had crossed Alon’s mind more than just once—but a love that meant a desire to be with, that sparked yearning and pining. Martin, Martin. And then came Brian. He’d known him for twenty-five years already. Maybe more. They’d been together for a lifetime. Oh, how time flies.
They sipped their drinks, and then another one each. Brian had yet to explain the nature of the pressing urgency. Why they had summoned him in such a hurry. But he knew it was coming. Precise timing was of the essence insofar as Brian was concerned. Alon had learned that a long time ago. “Let’s go outside for a while,” Brian suggested. “We’ll take a walk by the lake. A bit of clean, cold air won’t do us any harm.”
“So here’s the story,” Brian said. The dark water of the lake lapped at the shore. Alon was walking to his right, wondering who of all the people he could see around them was a member of the security team.