Michael drove. Ya’ara was in the front next to him. And Aharon dozed at the back, his head against the window. The road narrowed after they turned off the freeway, embracing the contours of the hills, densely packed gray, bare trees rising skyward along its edges. Patches of pure white snow shone from time to time from within the woodland, but the earth was brown and muddy. Strange not to come across any other cars, Michael thought. A sudden curve caused him to turn sharply to the left. He could feel he’d been driving a little too fast. The car’s tires lost their grip for a moment, and the vehicle began drifting to the right. Michael pressed his foot down on the gas, and the car accelerated and straightened out. He exhaled, his eyes now fixed on the road. “Good driving,” Ya’ara remarked. And from the back Aharon mumbled something like, “There’d be no need for good driving if you were going a little slower. What’s the rush? Do you think he’s running away? We’ve got the whisky, don’t forget.”
“I wonder what this Ahab is like,” Ya’ara said.
“Bill. His name’s Bill. What’s he like? You’ll see soon enough.”
The woodland gave way to fruit orchards. “Apples or pears?” Ya’ara wondered out loud. “Apples,” Aharon responded. “The blossoms in April and May are spectacular. This entire valley turns white.” And then the trees were back, closing in on the road again. A raccoon raced across the narrow stretch of tarmac. Michael had cracked open his window and cold, clean air was blowing into the car. If it weren’t colorless, it would surely have been a light shade of blue, its unadulterated crispness like fire in the lungs.
“Some people retire to an estate buried in this beauty while others aren’t allowed a moment’s peace,” Aharon grumbled from his comfortable position at the back, his eyes still closed.
“How can you see anything if you’re sleeping,” Ya’ara taunted him.
“Don’t start with him, do me a favor.”
William Ahab Pemberton received them dressed in a dark blue Chinese silk robe. He embraced Aharon and then backed away a little, still holding on to his visitor with both hands. “You haven’t changed a bit, my dear friend. Was the drive okay? Come, come, don’t be shy! Welcome to my humble abode.”
Humble it wasn’t. Michael and Ya’ara volunteered to make coffee for everyone, while Aharon and Bill went to sit in the den. A fire was burning in the fireplace, casting tongues of light over the bookshelves that covered all four walls of the room. A large computer monitor displayed the image of an ancient manuscript, but the language in which it was written was impossible to distinguish from afar. Open books with yellow Post-it notes poking out from among their pages lay strewn across the large desk. Just like the battlefield—the antique desk—of my first coach, Michael thought, suddenly remembering his internship under the Supreme Court president. Memories of the chill of the stone walls of the old building in Jerusalem’s Russian Compound came back to him, and he could almost smell the dust and pine resin. There weren’t many Moroccan interns at the Supreme Court at the time, he thought to himself. I wonder if it looks a little different today. He pushed his memories aside and returned willingly to the icy cold of Virginia in late February, to the dimly lit den and its bookshelves glowing in the light of the fire.
“Here we go, I’m putting the tray here,” Michael said, bending over a low table that was standing alongside the leather armchair in which Bill was sitting.
“We raided your kitchen,” Ya’ara gleefully declared. “Nut cookies.”
Aharon reached into the duty-free bag he was holding and pulled out a cardboard box containing a bottle of Laphroaig, a single malt Scotch whisky. “Ten years old!” he announced. “Not bourbon. Whisky distilled on the remote island of Islay.”
“I think I’m up for the challenge,” Bill responded.
“Michael, do a little more raiding and bring us four glasses and a bucket of ice. You’re drinking with us, right?” he asked, turning to Ya’ara.
“Of course I am. Laphroaig is my middle name.”
Aharon gave her a look of admiration mixed with irony. “Where did you find this girl?” he asked Michael, who had returned carrying a tower of heavy glasses.
“No one finds Ya’ara. She’s a free spirit,” Michael replied.
“Umm, hello,” said Ya’ara. “I’m here, right here.”
“I’m waiting,” Bill said to Aharon, who promptly began pouring the amber-colored liquid into his host’s glass, its smoky scent delightfully filling his nostrils. Groaning slightly, he then turned his attention to the ice bucket in an effort to trap a cube between the silver tongs.
“Here, let me help you,” Ya’ara said, and the glow from the flames in the fireplace illuminated the unpolished pearls around her neck.
“So that’s the story,” Aharon concluded, forty-five minutes later. “You now know all we do. We’ve come to you to see if there’s anything that maybe, just maybe, rings a bell from your perspective. Like I said, there’s an American side to this Cobra affair. Cobra’s handler is a Russian intelligence official who is living very deep undercover in the United States. He may have been born here, in America, or he may have come here at a young age. He appears to have an Australian or South African background. Whatever the case, the KGB entrusted him with the handling of one of its top-level agents. What do we know about him? Next to nothing. He’s able to pass himself off as an authentic American, his cover is that of an academic, an expert on the ancient Near East. Knowledgeable on the subject of ancient art. His Canadian passport identifies him as Brian Cox, but that of course means nothing.”
Bill remained silent, his eyes closed, the fingers of his right hand tapping on the armrest of his chair. “You’ve assumed from the outset that Brian is American,” he then said. “But theoretically at least he could also be Canadian. I’d like to consider that possibility, too. From my experience, however, Brian’s Canadian passport suggests in fact that he’s from the United States. It fits the Soviets’ modus operandi—disconnection and misdirection, and the more the better. If this Brian guy is based in the United States, his operational passport will probably be a Canadian one. And vice versa. Your Katrina also said he was from the United States. She didn’t say why she thought so, but she probably came to that conclusion based on the various indications she received, and despite their stringent compartmentalization procedures. So Brian in all likelihood is from here, from the United States, that’s the first thing. Second, he probably really is a professor. Field operatives typically go for a cover story they find easy to live with. They only change the particulars that could expose them. So where in the U.S. is he from? Yes, several regions experience snowy winters. But, just like your intelligence officer, by the way, my money’s on the East Coast. The newer universities in the U.S. have indeed started to develop faculties dealing in classical studies and the study of the ancient world in recent years. But if Brian really is an expert on the subject of the ancient Near East, he’s far more likely to be from Yale and not the University of Nebraska. And this is where I have something that could tie in with your story. It may be a little out there, a shot in the dark of sorts, but it ties in with something you said. And as a rule, never underestimate the instincts of an old bloodhound.”
Silence fell in the room. And although Aharon remained motionless in his armchair, Michael could tell he was on edge. He recalled their drive to Ashdod, and the way in which Aharon had described Hagar Beit-Hallahmi in the same words, as an old bloodhound. He thought about all those bloodhounds in the service of intelligence agencies around the world, mythological figures in modern-day secret orders. Oh, my, the countless tales and legends that were woven around them. Tales passed on in a whisper. He himself had felt so at home in his secret order, and only now, in recent months, had he dared to poke his nose out and catch a whiff, cautiously but with a sense of euphoria, too, of the air of the real world. And Aharon Levin, the bastard, was dragging him back in now by the hair. Just look at what you’ve escaped from, Michael, he thought to himself, this is what happens to someone who wastes his time in the secret services, all the bloodhounds grow old eventually, and they withdraw to some real or imaginary estate, eagerly awaiting the arrival of pilgrims who come to drink from their fountains of experience and wisdom. And those pilgrims are so few and far between, Michael ruefully thought. And their numbers will dwindle further, and the world will close in on those old bloodhounds, and get increasingly smaller. He shook off his thoughts and listened attentively. Ya’ara was also looking intently at Bill Pemberton, her eyes open wide.