And then the ruse. He was called back to the army for more training. A three-month advanced intelligence course. Okay. Fine. No problem. Everyone in Israel is in the army. Then another course. A more advanced intelligence course, at a much higher salary, the salary of an Israeli Army captain, which was a small fortune in those days. By this time it was becoming obvious what was happening. The subjects covered in the course included covert communications, demolition, small-arms training, how to operate inside urban areas.
And finally the graduation ceremony. He was roused from bed in the middle of the night and taken to the airport, where he was given a false French passport and $10, put on a plane, and flown to Frankfurt, West Germany. Leaving the plane they gave him an address and told him to be there in ten days. Until then he was on his own, speaking no German, with $10 in his pocket. He had to survive in a strange country for more than a week without giving away his identity.
So what did he do? He survived. He stole a car and drove around Germany. He was a French student on holiday, he told people. He lived by stealing money. Purses, wallets. It helped that he hated Germans. He arrived ten days later at the address they had given him driving a brown Mercedes, with a new set of clothes and the lipstick of his German girlfriend still on his cheek. He was one of the few recruits who made it. Some of the other boys had slept in the bushes near the airport, eaten food from trash cans, and called the Israeli Embassy in desperation after two days. They were not survivors, like Levi. Perhaps they were not scared enough.
They said, Okay. You have survived. You are one of us. Go to France, to Marseilles. Settle down. Disappear. Take classes at the university. Build an identity. Apply for a passport. It’s legal; you were born in France. Here are the supporting documents. Money arrived every month at a numbered bank account in Nice. It was like a long vacation, until the French passport arrived in the mail. A few days later came a message from a Mossad case officer, and the beginning of the awful fear.
Levi went to work as a courier, making runs behind the Iron Curtain. He travelled as a French businessman, servicing dead drops and agents in Warsaw, Prague, Lithuania, Kiev, Moscow. He carried money, messages, assignments for Mossad agents in the East. They were Jews, nearly all of them. People as frightened and determined to survive as Levi was. He would collect their information in a quick meeting at a railway station in Warsaw, or in a brush pass in a Moscow subway station, or by retrieving a set of documents from a metal can hidden in the spout of a rain gutter in Bratislava. He travelled on a precise itinerary, pre-programmed down to the minute. Each contact set for a precise time, with a fall-back twenty-four hours later in a different place if the agent didn’t show or the dead drop was empty.
All he could really remember about those trips was the fear. The perspiration dripping down his shirt as he stood in the line for passport control, the struggle to control his voice when a policeman stopped him on the street on his way to meet an agent and asked him where he was going. So scared that he worried he would shit in his pants. So scared that he couldn’t think of anything else except surviving and staying alive. And when he had crossed the frontier at last, and made it out alive, he would go back to Marseilles and wait, like a condemned man, to do it again.
He was very good at it. One of the best. That was Levi’s curse. It had landed him in Beirut.
We are pushing at the seams, the chief of the Mossad station in Beirut liked to tell his young officers. Pushing at the seams of a garment that is unravelling. The Arab world is a myth. There are no Arabs. There are Christians and Moslems; Palestinians and Syrians and Lebanese; Sunnis and Shiites and Druse and Maronites and Melchites and Alawites and Copts and Kurds. They live in make-believe countries that were created by the colonialists of Europe. The fabric is ready to break, the station chief would say. The false thread of Arabism won’t last another generation. Just look, he would say, at Lebanon.
The chief of station was a man named Ze’ev Shuval and Levi was in awe of him. He became convinced, in the way that a junior officer can, that it was Shuval who kept them all alive. But for the station chief, Levi thought, they might all walk through the streets of Beirut singing the Israeli national anthem, the Hatikva. Shuval was restless, thoughtful, playful, and furtive. He had translucent skin, a face that was slightly reddish and freckled, and a balding head with the few remaining strands of hair combed carefully over the top. He looked like a prim and proper French businessman. His French was nearly flawless, but there was a hint of another accent-perhaps Dutch-from long ago.
Shuval invited Levi to dinner one night in the spring of 1970. Did Levi remember, as he rang the doorbell that evening, that there was anything special about that particular night? And was he surprised to see several other people from the station at the chief’s house? The other guests included a young woman who worked as a courier when she wasn’t typing letters and weigh bills, and a couple in their mid-forties who handled bugs and cameras and other surveillance gear.
Levi did not realize what was happening at first that night at Shuval’s apartment. He saw Shuval’s wife go to the window and close the blinds tightly, but that was normal enough. He noticed that there was one extra place at the dinner table, but maybe they were expecting someone else for dessert. It was only when he looked carefully at the table itself that he realized what Shuval had done. Laid out on the table were a plate with three pieces of matzoh; a roasted shank bone; a sprig of parsley next to a dish of salted water; the top of a horseradish root; a boiled egg; and a paste made of apples and nuts.
Shuval is mad, thought Levi. It is too dangerous to celebrate Passover here. Someone will see us. Someone will hear us. But Shuval emerged from the kitchen smiling broadly. He had on his head a yarmulke and presented one to Levi and the other male guest.
“Will someone please turn on the radio,” said Shuval. Levi turned the knob. The radio was tuned to the Voice of the Arabs from Cairo, which was repeating a week-old speech by President Nasser. The Egyptian leader was talking in a monotone about the efficiency of Egyptian industry.
“Thank you,” said Shuval.
The lights were dimmed and Shuval’s wife went to light the candles. With tears streaming down his face, Levi listened as Shuval recited the traditional blessing of the candles in a voice that was quiet, just above a whisper, but still rising above the drone of Nasser’s speech.
Barub Atab Adonai Elobeinu…
“In praising God, we say that all life is sacred. In kindling festive lights, we preserve life’s sanctity.”
Levi was crying. So was the code clerk. But Shuval’s voice was strong and full of hope.
“With every holy light we kindle, the world is brightened to a higher harmony. We praise thee, O Lord our God, majestic sovereign of all life who hallows our lives with commandments and bids us kindle festive holy light.”
“Sit down, everyone,” said Shuval’s wife.
Levi looked at the table. The matzoh, because there had been no time fleeing Egypt to make leavened bread. The tender herbs of spring, the green of hope and renewal, to be dipped in the salt water of tears. And the maror, the bitter horseradish root, standing for the bitterness of life in Egypt, and the greater bitterness and pain of the 2,500 years of exile in the Diaspora. And the sweet paste of apples and honey, the mortar with which we build our dreams.
For once, Levi felt that he understood what he was doing in Beirut and remembered that he was part of a very long journey indeed.
16
Beirut; March 1970
Rogers returned home from Kuwait to find Hoffman in an especially cranky mood. A few days earlier, a crisis had erupted in Lebanon between the Christian militia and the Palestinian commandos.
Like so much else in Lebanon, it was a game of tit for tat. Christian gunmen had ambushed a Palestinian funeral procession as it passed through the village of Kahhaleh along the Beirut-Damascus highway. The Christians claimed that the mourners were carrying weapons illegally. Palestinian commandos in the Tal Zaatar refugee camp retaliated by attacking a neighboring Christian suburb. Gunfire had spread to other parts of the city and there were fears that the fighting would escalate.
The lights were still on in Hoffman’s office when Rogers stopped by the embassy on his way in from the airport. The station chief looked exhausted. He was sweaty and unshaven, with a cigarette in his mouth, a cup of
