Alon took his time before answering. “Look,” he said. “This isn’t an easy decision. And that’s an understatement of British proportions. The truth is that it’s the hardest decision of my life. Yes, harder even than my decision to do what I chose to do. In Rome.” And as he spoke, Alon was hit once again with the realization that the people he had wanted to work with from the outset, in Rome, were Americans, and that his fate now lay in the hands of the Russians. He hadn’t quite grasped from Brian when the handover had occurred so unobtrusively. And in a few moments of absolute self-honesty he wondered if he really had realized only now that he’d been working for the KGB and its successors. Hadn’t he known, or at least suspected so, for years already? His uncertainty riled him, and his anger and mistrust toward his handler rose to the surface again. “I’m not entirely convinced that I have to make that decision right now. If I run, there’ll be no way back for me. A move like that would be irreversible. And self-destructive, from my perspective. It’s my understanding that you, too, don’t know how close they are to me, if at all. If what you’ve told me is even true, then they know there’s a top-level source somewhere high up in the Israeli government establishment, those are the words you used. I get it that they are motivated to find the source, I also get it that their motivation is extremely high. I know them. When the Shin Bet really wants something, it leaves no stone unturned. It has the bite and tenacity of a pit bull. But I’m hoping that you know what you’re doing, too. You haven’t explained to me how the fact that there’s a key agent high up in the Israeli establishment was leaked. But I’m hoping that you have been able to keep my identity under wraps. And if you’ve done your job the way you should have, there’s a chance they won’t get to me. As opposed to assured exposure and disgrace, in the event I openly cross the lines, there’s a chance—if I go back now—I’ll be able to go on with my life as usual. Maybe I’ll even be able to continue working with you. I don’t think they have any proof against me. Certainly not legal evidence. Without a confession, they can’t touch me. And they won’t get anything out of me. Don’t worry, Brian. You look uptight all of a sudden…”
“I’m worried because you have no idea. You’re not a kid, Alon. ‘They won’t get anything out of me.’ Do you know how many people have said the exact same thing before going on to sign a full and detailed confession? Why do you always think you’re better than everyone else? That you’re different? You have no idea what they’re capable of doing to you during the course of an interrogation, even in a democracy, which you aren’t really—and I apologize if I’ve hurt your feelings. And even when it comes to high-profile suspects, there’s no immunity and no holding back. Two or three days in their hands and there’ll be nothing left of you. After not sleeping for seventy-two hours, and after having no choice but to piss your pants, and after realizing that the high-pitched tones they’re going to subject you to incessantly in your detention cell are driving you out of your mind—and that’s only the beginning—after all of that you’re no longer going to think that you’re the senior advisor whom no one can touch. You’ll be a nothing. A rag. And after two weeks of the same, you’ll be willing to tell them everything—if only they will stop. If they’d just let you sleep like a human being. If the shrieking in your head would just end. If they’d simply let you shower properly. You’re not the hero you think you are. You’ll go back and you’ll never know if you’re really home and free. You’ll never know if and when they’ll come knocking on your door in the middle of the night. Already now, even without being arrested, you’ll never have a good night’s sleep again. Unless you’re with us, under our support and protection. Think, Alon, think.”
For the first time in their relationship Brian was losing his composure. He was careful not to raise his voice in the busy pub, but Alon noticed nevertheless that his cheeks were flushed, and not merely from the beer. And the more stressed Brian appeared, the calmer Alon became. He had wormed his way out of quite a few tricky and dangerous situations in his life. He would escape unscathed this time, too. And in a calm and almost tranquil tone he said, “I don’t buy your scenario. You’ve told a horror story, and throughout my life, I’ve refused to act in keeping with the worst-case scenario. If that’s your approach to things, you leave yourself paralyzed.”
“It’s not the worst-case scenario, my dear. What I’ve just described to you is the likely scenario.”
“I hear you, Brian. You know I admire you. And that I love you. But you have to give me time. I need to think. And I can’t make the decision on my own either. My wife has to know what’s going on with me. Na’ama has no clue at all about our relationship.”
Brian wanted to ask what exactly Cobra’s wife thought with respect to the money at their disposal all through the years and where it had come from, particularly when they were students and during Cobra’s time as a junior civil servant—one with promise, but still, just setting out. But he restrained himself.
“I’m leaving tonight,” Alon said, “and I’ll be doing some serious thinking for the next little while. I suggest we meet again in exactly four months. Here, in Zurich, in keeping with normal procedures. If I decide I want to cross over to you”—he was still avoiding the word defection, acting as if all his options remained open—“I’ll come prepared. I’ll make all the necessary arrangements, below the surface, obviously. Discreetly. And I suggest I suspend my covert activities until then. No more copying of computer files, no more copying of documents, nothing out of the ordinary for the time being. Nothing at all. I won’t convene strategic discussion forums, I won’t make requests for theoretical papers, background papers, position papers, unless I’m instructed to do so by the prime minister, at his initiative. And even then I’ll insist that my time is very limited due to my other activities. A low profile. And if I get the sense that there’s a real threat, an imminent one, we’ll put the predetermined escape procedure into motion. And I hope it will in fact be available to me in the event of an emergency and is not merely theoretical.”
Cobra was referring to the procedure they’d always reviewed in fine detail during each and every round of meetings, pertaining to a scenario in which he’d be unable to leave Israel officially. Both parties, he and his handlers, could initiate the emergency procedure, by way of an encrypted message on the Internet and also by leaving a prearranged sign as backup. Once confirmation was received, also via the Internet and by means of a second marking on the wall, they’d have a twenty-four-hour window in which a getaway remained possible. Cobra would have to make his way at least one hour after sunset to a natural harbor at a prearranged location on the coast between Ashdod and Ashkelon, where he’d be met by a rescue team with a motorboat. As soon as they made contact, following the exchange of passwords, he was supposed to surrender to them and they were supposed to deliver him safe and sound to a larger vessel, a fishing boat or yacht or merchant ship—he wasn’t told which it would be—that would take him on board and carry him to safer shores.
“The plan remains in effect. We conduct regular drills, and it is fully operational. And the rendezvous point on the coast is reserved for you alone. We don’t have any other asset who knows about it. Come, I’ll take you to your hotel and you can go on from there to the airport. My only suggestion is that we leave just two months rather than four for the meeting option. Things can change, and quickly.”
They drove in silence to Cobra’s hotel.