“So far, it sounds routine,” I said. “There's nothing special about him.”
“Well, it was unusual. He was assigned to a secret military intelligence unit although he was a new immigrant from a Communist country. It was unusual then, and it's almost impossible today.”
“I know the routine,” I said. “So why did they take him after all?”
“I don't have all the facts but it seems that field security found no negative information on him. Anyway, his initial exposure to confidential information was limited because he was assigned to analyze raw data and had no knowledge where it came from or by what means. At the time Israel needed the data for two purposes: first, to be prepared if the Arabs started developing weapons rather than buying existing ones from more developed nations, and second, to steal any scientific discovery or achievement for its own use. Israel had the need, Bruno had the credentials, and the combination worked beautifully. Remember, Israel was in a state of war with the surrounding Arab countries at the time, so the information was crucial. And they weren't just looking at the military industries. For example, the Arab oil industry brought with it substantial technical know-how, from explosives to the behavior of metals under extreme heat and pressure, which could easily be applied to the manufacture of cannon barrels.”
I was becoming impatient. I knew Benny; there must have been a better reason for him to make me come all the way to Israel. Had I traveled for eleven hours to listen to the history of a guy who was no different from thousands of others? I looked at him closely, trying to figure out what bombshell he was going to drop. There had to be one; I just wondered how big it was going to be.
Benny sipped his coffee, took a breath, and continued.
“I don't have a lot of information about what Peled did in that AMAN intelligence unit; I didn't ask for his military file. Although I do know well enough how successful that unit was.”
Benny then paused – an actor preparing to take center stage. I waited a full thirty seconds for him to continue. I finally spoke.
“And then?”
“And then, he joined the Mossad,” Benny said. It sounded as if he'd put a period at the end of his sentence. You could almost hear it.
My jaw dropped. Not exactly a bombshell, but still a shocker. The Mossad?
“Our Mossad?” I asked, slowly pronouncing each syllable.
“Yep,” he said decisively. “Ours.”
I leaned back to digest the news. A Mossad-trained guy stealing millions? I didn't say anything, thinking that was the end of it.
“Wait,” said Benny, as if he were reading my mind again. He cautioned me. “None of what I'm telling you about the Mossad is mentioned in the documents in that envelope. It's information that I want you to hear but never repeat.”
“Is there something else?” I asked in anticipation.
“Patience,” he counseled. “Please understand that I trust you not to disclose this information to anyone. I don't want this to haunt us. You can draw your own conclusions and use the information to make progress, but don't put it in writing, discuss it with anyone, or reveal your source.”
This must be some heavy stuff, I thought, if Benny went out of his way to tell me that. We were trained together; we knew the rules. I nodded and waited for Benny to continue.
“After his honorable discharge from the army, Peled was looking for a job. He took up teaching physics in a high school but left after one year. I guess he was bored. Then the Mossad approached him and offered him a place in the ranks, specifically the ultrasecret unit assigned to worldwide gathering of scientific and industrial information from public and, more importantly, private sources. He was assigned to the nuclear physics section. He was to collect data on the military applications of the most recent developments in the atomic energy field.”
I didn't want to say anything, fearing I'd break Benny's train of thought or that he'd change his mind about telling me all this.
“He resigned suddenly in 1957 and emigrated to the United States. That's where our story ends.”
“Serious stuff,” I breathed. “So this son of a bitch could lead triple lives. Tack on his Mossad training, and he could disappear anytime he wanted.
“At least I've got a place to start now,” I said. “But triple legal identities? I don't think I've seen that one before.”
“There could certainly be some side benefits to that,” said Benny.
“Like what?” I asked absentmindedly, looking up at him. “What do you mean?”
Then I saw the sparkle in his eyes.
“You could have three wives,” Benny chuckled.
“But then you're punished,” I quipped.
“You mean for polygamy?”
“No,” I said, “You'd have three mothers-in-law.”
He smiled. Benny knew marriage was a sensitive topic. Benny and his wife, Batya, had been good friends to Dahlia and me. The news that we were divorcing had stunned them. There'd been no side to take because the decision came so suddenly and the marriage ended so quickly. Even an intelligence expert like Benny hadn't seen the storm approaching. I had simply packed and left. No battles, just good but fading memories tarnished by two people growing apart. I needed a change and the United States looked like a good new leaf for me.
“Thanks for the information,” I said, when I realized he had finished the story.
“Hey, what are friends for?”
I wanted to find out if DeLouise had maintained any contact with the Mossad after he'd left, but I didn't want to push Benny with further questions. I'd try to find another opportunity to ask him that. The information could be relevant to my case.
“I'll read this stuff and call you to return it or if I have any questions.”
“I'll be here,” he said, and with that he left.
I was tempted to open the envelope and go through the documents then and there, but I resisted. I looked around at the other diners. I could easily pick out the Mossad types. Once you'd spent time there you learned the identifying marks – like that guy over at the other table who wore his name tag tucked inside a pocket shirt, but with the clip still visible on the outside. I could still be one of them, I thought. If I'd stayed on I would now be on the same level as Benny, or even higher up, given my extroverted personality and my pushy character and ambitions. I remembered my mother telling anyone who cared to listen, and a few who didn't, that I had ambition. That was long before I even knew what the word meant.
Three years after my service with the Mossad had begun, I decided to leave. I'd had enough. The work had become too routine. Every great organization is like a Swiss watch with many wheels working in sync. My superiors had all been veterans of the old Russian school of thought. Jews who emigrated from Russia had ruled Israel in its formative years. Some of them became the legendary leaders of Israel's security services and had implemented their strict purist doctrines in their organizations.
Their idol had been the second and celebrated head of the Mossad, Isser Harel, who emigrated from Russia in the 1920s. He was a short man with jumbo ears, piercing eyes, and unrelenting dedication in his character. People who knew him said he had ice water in his veins. He'd been revered and feared. Judging from the stories I'd heard, I didn't think anyone had loved him. Admired, yes. Loved? Hardly. During his years as head of the Mossad, from 1952 to 1963, he had carte blanche on all matters of security from David Ben-Gurion, the founder of modern Israel and its first prime minister.
Harel had ruled not only the Mossad, which was primarily responsible for activity outside Israel, but also the Shin Bet, the secret internal police whose mere existence was kept a state secret until the mid-1970s. When I joined the Mossad, Harel had already been out of power for almost two years. But he continued to cast a long shadow, influencing organizational procedures and philosophy long after his departure. As in any other intelligence-gathering organization, discipline in the Mossad had been tight to prevent leaks and infiltration attempts by hostile powers. The high moral standards imposed by Harel, which had become the norm, continued to be applied. That was fine with everyone, though to be sure there was a double standard involved. When you were on a mission outside Israel, you were expected to lie, cheat, steal, or even kill. But when you returned to Israel you had to be the exemplary model worker and citizen. Never run a red light, tell a lie, or, God forbid, forget to turn over a receipt for ten bucks you spent on the job. Outside Israel we made sizeable cash payments to informers who hadn't exactly been in the habit of giving out receipts. But in Israel? Don't even think of it. Outside Israel we had had other ways to keep a receipt – sometimes on paper, sometimes on a roll of film. The backup unit used photography in the prevideo era. The recording of the “receipt” was useful not only for bookkeeping purposes. Once you had an informer on film receiving payment from you, he was yours forever.