And that’s how it ended. A polite farewell from Chris, and yes, yes. We’ll be in touch. Take care. You, too. And a final night with AnaÏs, together in the huge bed, with as much space between them as possible. He was feeling weak. Probably some Indian virus, he said. It’ll pass. Never mind. They would surely meet again. Soon. In the thick darkness that had descended on the room, the curtains remained closed. Not a drop of light from the Indian night found its way through them, and he could hear AnaÏs crying quietly—and when he reached out to her, large teardrops that trickled silently from her eyes collected in his hand.
52
ZURICH, MARCH 2013
Brian and Alon left the Bernhard & Sons antiquities store, which lay hidden, discreetly, along a narrow alleyway in the city’s Old Town. Alon liked stores like that—quiet, plentiful, unobtrusive, with the scent of fine tobaccos and polishing materials perfuming the air. It was a store for aficionados, not for the nouveau riche who were fooled by decorative designs. Concealed, yet modern and very effective lighting illuminated the beautiful items that filled the store with a bounty that had surely characterized the establishment when it first opened to the public in the mid-nineteenth century—in 1847, to be precise. Brian had disappeared earlier with the owner into a back room, probably to haggle over a small wooden statue from the Middle Ages that had caught his eye and wouldn’t let go. Brian would sometimes drag Alon along on his browsing and purchasing quests. He had a real passion for all things old and beautiful. His field of expertise, insofar as Alon had managed to learn over the years, was ancient manuscripts, but he had a good and loving eye—and sometimes even a covetous one—for objets d’art from various periods, and this wasn’t the first time Alon had seen him show an interest in a European piece from the thirteenth or fourteenth century. He had taught Alon what to look for in a piece, how to distinguish between a forgery and the genuine article, but Alon, despite having learned a thing or two, wasn’t able to match Brian’s discerning eye, and it had never before mattered to him. By the time they tightened their scarves and put on their gloves again, the temperature had plummeted below zero. And suddenly Brian appeared not only revitalized but also content and happy.
“Did you buy it?” he asked.
“Yes, and at an affordable price, too. So much beauty in that one statue! Did you see? A pure expression of suffering and humility and sacrifice. A masterpiece. No less. Made by a great artist. Who may be anonymous today, but who has achieved immortality thanks to his work of art. And within twenty-four hours it’ll be in my home. Thanks to DHL.”
“Your home in Moscow?” Alon cynically asked.
“Don’t get all heavy on me, Alon. I realize it’s on your mind, but bitterness won’t do us any good.”
“Look at the irony here. You’re offering me refuge in Russia, and you’re going back to your comfortable life in the U.S. Don’t you find that a little strange?”
“Yes,” Brian responded philosophically, “God works in mysterious ways.”
“Are you allowed to believe in God, or do utterances of that nature still get people sent to the torture dungeons at the Lubyanka?”
“You’re angry, I know. And rightly so.”
“You have no idea just how angry I am,” Alon said, his tone soft but sharp. And despite the bitter cold, he loosened the buttons on his coat.
“Come with me to the art museum. We’ll warm up a little, have something to drink, look Paul Klee in the eyes.”
“Like I said, I’m all yours until this evening. Don’t you have a small Klee at home?”
“Believe it or not, I do. Not an oil painting, of course. I’m a civil servant. But a signed reproduction. It also cost me a fortune.”
“Oh, Brian, Brian. In a different world we could have been friends. Not spy and handler.”
Brian gave Alon a friendly elbow in his side. And then he embraced him, brought his head closer, and kissed him on the cheek. “We’re already friends,” he said. And the cloud of concern on Cobra’s face lifted for a moment and he looked happy.
53
TEL AVIV, MARCH 2013
“Write this down,” Amir said to Michael, a distinct tone of excitement in his voice even over the phone. “Two of the five names you gave me are abroad right now. Alon Regev and Oded Leshem. Does that tell you anything?”
“It tells me a whole lot! That was quick, man.”
“That’s the way it is, when the books are calling. I need to go into a seminar class now, otherwise they’re gonna kick me out and Amir will have to spend another year at university.”
Michael smiled. Amir tended at critical times to refer to himself in the third person.
“God help us. Get moving. We’ll talk tomorrow, at the apartment.”
Adi looked at him, on edge. He showed her the two names he had written down on the piece of paper he tore from the notebook. Alon Regev, the prime minister’s political strategy advisor, and Oded Leshem, the head of the Shin Bet’s counterintelligence division. They both remained silent. Michael was pale and grave-faced. Adi appeared to be trying still to comprehend what she was seeing, or perhaps she had chosen not to at all. Michael could see the questions and dismay on her face.
“Call Aharon Levin right away and ask him to come here, please,” he said.
54
PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND, MARCH 2013
Their meeting this time was arranged ahead of time. Ya’ara called Frances Hart and asked if she’d like to get together. Frances agreed readily, happily even, and suggested they meet that same day, in the afternoon perhaps, if Ya’ara was free. They could have a light snack together. “I’ll come get you in a taxi,” Ya’ara said. “No, no, we’ll stay here at my place,” Frances insisted. Ya’ara chose not to use the call to find out if Professor Hart had by chance already returned from his unexpected trip. She wanted to be sitting face-to-face with Frances, to look her in the eyes, to stand next to her and cut the salad vegetables together or wash the lettuce or whatever. Being with someone, doing things together, it brought people closer, it opened the heart sometimes.
Frances opened the door with a smile on her face. The yellow taxi pulled away and disappeared around the corner. The front yard of the house was still covered with a layer of snow, which was dotted here and there with dark islands of brown grass. Never mind, Ya’ara thought, spring is just around the corner. And it always arrives with a bang, like an unstoppable force. And then everything will blossom again, and the grass will turn green again, a light hue at first, shiny, and then dark and deep when the summer comes. Her head was filled momentarily with all those thoughts, though it wasn’t as if she had ever taken much interest in gardening or the state of lawns. She approached Frances, kissed her on both cheeks, and suddenly embraced her warmly. “Come in, come in,” Frances said, and Ya’ara walked in as if she was one of the family, removed her coat, and shook out her hair, which had been hiding under her hat.
They sat this time in the spacious kitchen, the coffee bubbling in the macchinetta, and talked. No, Frances explained, Julian wasn’t back yet, she hadn’t spoken to him either. But she appeared at ease now; the anxiety that had gripped her during their previous meeting had disappeared without a trace. Ya’ara was on edge. She had to figure out what had transpired since her last visit. What had caused that frightened woman, who couldn’t even hold on to a plate without dropping it, to now appear calm and relaxed? She waited, knowing her opportunity would arise. And Frances, meanwhile, showed an interest in the antiquities trade in which her guest was involved, with that older man, Max.