A Spy in Exile

HAMBURG, DECEMBER 30, 2014

Matthias appeared thinner, Ya’ara thought, when they sat down together at the small restaurant in Hamburg. Thin and pallid and elderly, as if his years had finally caught up with him. It didn’t matter to her in the least.

“They found Martina’s body in an abandoned warehouse near the port in Bremen,” he said to her, his painful gaze closely scrutinizing her.

“I’m sorry,” she replied.

“She was tortured before they killed her. She was tied up, and someone shot her in both feet. She bled out for a few minutes at least before she was shot in the head. The person who did it used a Glock. We know from the ballistics results. Two more of the same pistols were found at the farm.”

“Her Russian handler may have killed her. He may have thought she was endangering the others, and the operation. It’s best not to think about it.”

“Maybe.” Her words clearly hadn’t put his mind at rest. He wasn’t simply a grieving lover, he was also a proficient intelligence official. Ya’ara wondered if he wanted to know the real answers.

She touched Matthias’s hand, caressing it absentmindedly, tracing its contours with her fingertips. She had always thought his hands were beautiful and masculine, and now she wanted him to hold hers. But his hands remained limp. She was wearing a necklace of large pearls that shone like pale moonlight. Her fair hair was tied up. Her beauty took his breath away. But at the same time, and for the first time, he also noticed a sharp stab of iciness that pained him.

“They arrested the remaining five members of the group,” Matthias continued. “And they found the computers with the field dossiers and the weapons, Kalashnikov assault rifles and Glock pistols. Based on what the investigators have learned thus far, the group was supposed to operate in pairs, simultaneously. The police received an anonymous call from a woman, a GRU officer, but you know that, of course. The conversation was very detailed and focused. Very convincing at least. Attested to by the fact that they acted that same night.”

“Did Tomas, your friend at the security service, ask you anything?”

“Nothing. A good friend knows when not to ask, too.”

“Matthias,” Ya’ara softly said, “let’s go away somewhere, for a week or two, just the two of us, you and me. We’ll rent some cabin in the forest or, if you want somewhere warmer, we’ll go to southern Italy. Sicily, perhaps?”

The look in his eyes that her blue-gray orbs encountered was primarily one of weariness. “I can’t right now, Ya’ara,” he said. “More than once I’ve thought to myself that I’d like nothing more than to be with you, just to be with you, no matter where, just to be there with you. But now I need to be here. With myself. Maybe they’ll get to me during the course of their investigation into the entire affair, and I don’t want them to think I’ve fled. And I also don’t want them to draw a connection between us, certainly not in this context. And there’s also Martina. Or who she was, in other words. We need some time, Ya’ara.”

He saw the shadow of pain flash through her eyes, but he knew things had to be the way he said.

“You took some crazy risks for me. I know. You went to the ends of the earth for me. I appreciate it a lot more than I’m able to express. You know I’m not a man of words. I know you saved me. And you certainly saved the lives of three of the most senior bankers in Germany.”

“We weren’t able to save those who were killed in England. And it was nothing but luck that left the governor of Italy’s central bank wounded and not dead.”

“Are you positive that all the incidents are related?”

“They must be. Everything happened, or was supposed to happen, simultaneously. On the same day. Retro attacks in three locations. The IRA, the Red Brigades, the Baader-Meinhof Gang. Someone has a very creative and demonic imagination. Someone who’s saying: Look what we can do. Look at the murder and mayhem we can spark at any given moment. Someone’s saying: Look at me. You can’t ignore me. I have the potential to cause enormous damage. And we all know about the ties to Russian intelligence.”

“It’s hard for me to believe that the Russians, as a state, are tied to the affair. That’s simply madness on their part, if it’s them. And they’re very calculated and rational, after all.”

“We identified Kovanyov.”

“Maybe he’s operating on his own account. Maybe he’s a rogue agent who’s out of control and out of his mind.”

“Maybe. Anything’s possible. But I don’t think so. The Russians have taken several extreme measures over the past year. They truly are calculated, you’re right, but they believe they can raise the risk threshold significantly. How would you describe what’s happening in Ukraine if not as a calculated but daring move on the very edge?”

They sipped their wine in silence. When it was poured into the glasses, the red beverage looked almost black.

“Tell me, Matthias,” Ya’ara asked in a soft but clear voice, “could the Russians have exposed you? Could they have identified you as an intelligence official? Perhaps they wanted to use Martina to implicate you, and the BND in turn, in this whole affair?”

“I have no idea. But having a source at any governmental entity in Hamburg would be enough for them to learn who I am. I’m well known to certain customs officials and the Interior Ministry and the police and the authorities at the port and in the free-trade zone and the Chamber of Commerce . . . The list is endless. When you’re someone of my rank, you have no choice but to reveal your true position to your peers and affiliated organizations. So yes, I may very well have been made by Russian intelligence.”

“I’m worried that you’re in danger. Maybe you should ask for a transfer to a different role, somewhere else, to make a fresh start?”

“I can’t run away. And if they take the ships and the port and the seamen away from me, I’ll no longer be myself.”

“There’s always a moment when one has to move on, isn’t there?”

“Right now, Ya’ara, I feel like I’m at my peak. I’m in the right place; the only way on from here is down. I can’t sentence myself to a slow death because of an imaginary threat.”

“Don’t be melodramatic. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I feel very clear-headed actually. And besides, I can think of worse ways to die than by a bullet from a Russian-made Makarov pistol. Wasn’t it Hemingway who said he wanted to die at the hands of a jealous husband armed with a shotgun?”

“Do you really think he said that? If he did, he was a perfect fool. And in the end, he shot himself. And there’s nothing heroic about being liquidated by the Russians.”

“Hemingway was a genius. And since when have you been such a big coward?”

“But I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Ya’ara sensed that something in her voice was about to break, so she stopped suddenly, taking a deep breath.

“Are those tears that I see in your beautiful eyes?” Matthias was genuinely surprised.

“I’m just tired and stressed. You’re right. You know what you’re doing. I can’t be your mother.” She thought for a moment. “And I really don’t want to be.”

“The thought of you as my mother makes me shudder. Come on,” Matthias said softly, “we’re both tired. Let’s call it a night. Are you organized?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “I’m at the hotel at the end of the street. Are you going home?”

“Maybe after a brief review at a bar or two. I need to make sure that the quality of their schnapps hasn’t deteriorated.”

“Go to sleep. Don’t wander around like that in the middle of the night.”

When they left the restaurant, wrapped in their thick coats, Ya’ara buried her head in his chest, and his large hands stroked her silky hair. Tiny snowflakes were drifting silently through the air, melting into tiny droplets of water as they landed on her head and sparkling like diamonds under the light of the streetlamps. He had the feeling that this would be their final embrace, that he had to let go of her.

“Happy New Year, Matthias,” she said after emerging from his arms.

“Happy New Year,” he said, and wondered if he meant to wish her a good life, a life that would always be lived far from his own.