A Spy in Exile

“So what do you think?”

They were driving down the steep, winding road toward Deir al-Asad, hoping to find an open mini-market or grocery store.

“About what?”

“About all of this. About the group. About how quickly things are moving. About the fact that we’re going to be in another country in three days’ time.”

The tone of his voice was soft, almost intimate. She kept the conversation on official lines.

“I’m still thinking things over. Despite all the dramatic stories.”

“It’s like we’ve been selected based on our personal tragedies.”

“Or the manner in which we overcame them.”

“So you’re not just a pretty face . . .”

“Assaf, or whatever your name may be, don’t come on to me like that. It’s offensive.”

“My name’s Assaf Tidhar. I apologize. It just popped out automatically. To tell you the truth, you don’t look like a woman who can be won over with clichés.”

“Do you mean to say some can be? Okay, I’ll ask: What kind of woman do I look like?”

“What can I say? You don’t want me to say it, but how can I not? You have a face that isn’t easily forgotten, you’re sort of elegant, a little stern-faced . . .”

“Stern-faced?! Seriously?”

“Well, a little—like those women in the movies, with their hair pulled back, glasses with thick black frames, blouses modestly buttoned to the very top . . .”

“You aren’t going to keep this up, right? As I see things, you’re not good-looking enough to be that stupid.”

“You’re right. I don’t know what’s got into me. I don’t usually talk such nonsense. So please, tell me about yourself.”

Helena remained silent for a short while. She was focused on the road, the sharp curves. She was an excellent driver.

“I’m Helena, but that you already know. Helena Stepanov. My family immigrated to Israel from Russia—which you can hear in my accent, perhaps. Although I’ve been here since the age of seven. We lived in St. Petersburg before moving to Israel.”

“Do you remember anything from there?”

“Of course. And I’ve been back to visit three, no, four times since. It’s a beautiful and hard city,” she sighed. “Were you born in Israel?” She glanced at him, his fair hair blowing wild in the wind. She suspected it was always like that.

“Yes. At Kibbutz Gonen. I left the country for the first time only after my military service. I did the big postarmy trip and ended up staying in South America for almost eight years. I worked as a bodyguard for businessmen in Panama, and then in Mexico, before taking over the running of one of the companies’ security divisions.”

“Why did you come back?”

“It’s a long story. But without any drama. It just seemed to be a dead end. Too much money. Too many women. How can one live like that?”

“Do you always respond in this manner? Always resort to cynicism? But I won’t bother you right now. We need to find somewhere open. Can you cook?”

“I make a wonderful mushroom soup. That’s exactly what I’m going to make this evening. A mushroom soup befitting a winter’s day. As long as we can find some mushrooms, of course.” He looked around as if he was thinking about stopping and heading out into the woods around them to pick the wild variety. At that specific moment in time, Helena thought he seemed almost tolerable.

“Unlike you, I’m not much of a cook at all. I can make just a few things I learned from my grandmother. My mother didn’t cook at all. She worked at the academy from morning till late in the evening. She hasn’t changed. I was required to excel in many areas, but was spared the need to shine at cooking.”

“I just hope we aren’t going to be tested on our kitchen skills, on our ability to produce a three-course gourmet meal,” Assaf said, cautiously adding: “You said your mother worked at the academy . . . ?”

“Not that kind of an academy. An institute. The Weizmann Institute, Assaf, the Weizmann Institute. Israelis are so ignorant sometimes. Those associations are simply insulting. My mother is a well-known scientist and I’ve never met her standards.”

Helena refrained from looking at Assaf and focused her gaze on the road, her nose pointing straight ahead in defiance, her eyes ablaze, her lower lip aquiver. But she bit down on it and managed to conceal the subtle tremor.

• • •

Assaf’s mushroom soup was as wonderful as he had promised. Helena prepared a beef stroganoff from a recipe she found online. “If you’re as good in the field as you are in the kitchen, we’ll be just fine,” Ya’ara commented. “But more important, what’s for dessert?”

”You’re not going to believe it. We came back with a hundred Mallomars.”

“A hundred?!”

“Based on ten per person, with a few extras for anyone who may feel deprived.”

“We’d better get our act together—and quickly. Otherwise it’s not going to end well at all.”

Batsheva tried to remember the last time she had eaten one of those chocolate-coated marshmallow treats, while Aslan leaned over to Ya’ara and whispered, “We’ll meet later and have a drink. An adult dessert.”

“Lucky you’re here,” she replied in a low voice. “It’s not going to be easy.”