Stateless (31 page)

‘So you owe me? This is to repay a debt?'

‘Perhaps . . .' said Shalman, suddenly feeling the intensity of the young Arab man's gaze, ‘. . . or perhaps it's because I like you. We're the same age, and if you lived next door to me, we'd be friends.'

‘How could an Arab live next door to a Jew?'

‘With that attitude, we're never going to be able to share this land of ours.'

Mustafa looked at him in amazement. ‘Ours? Our land? The Jews want all of this land for themselves.'

‘And what do the Arab leaders say? They want us gone so that this land is only for the Arabs. Why is your philosophy better than ours?'

Mustafa sighed. He didn't answer for a moment. Then he said softly, ‘You're right. I was reading about that man you told me about: Gandhi in India. Maybe cooperation is the best way.'

Shalman said softly, ‘Unfortunately, he was talking about non-cooperation.'

‘Yes, I know, but I'm only an ignorant Arab. How do you expect me to know the difference?'

Shalman looked across the cave mouth at Mustafa. The young Arab's face was a mask of innocence. Then they both burst out laughing.

They devolved into silence, but when they were confident that the Spitfire had gone away for good, Mustafa looked deeply into the cave, and said, ‘The roof has collapsed. Nothing here.' He then turned to leave but something held Shalman back. He looked closely and saw a gap between the top of the pile of rocks and the roof of the cave. Instead of leaving, he climbed to the top of the pile where the rocks had fallen from the ceiling. He began pulling the upper rocks away from the pile.

Mustafa turned and saw what Shalman was doing. ‘Why are you doing that?'

‘I don't know. I'd just like to see if there's anything beyond this rock-fall. It might only have blocked this part of what could be a bigger tunnel.'

Mustafa returned, climbed to where Shalman was pulling rocks down from the top of the pile, and joined in.

It took them half an hour to make a large enough space for them to shine their flashlights inside the depth of the cave. The rock-fall had prevented men and animals from entering the cave. So as they peered in they saw that the depths had been undisturbed from time immemorial. They pulled more and more rocks down, until natural light from the cave mouth was able to penetrate and shine a dim glow into the interior of the chamber.

The young men climbed over the lowered top of the pile, then half fell and half scampered down to the rock-strewn floor until they were able to enter the rest of the cave.

As he shone his torch around the interior, Shalman's heart leapt. On ledges carved out of the rock wall were three mummified bodies, wrapped in shrouds, as well as two caskets of white
sandstone, still sealed with pitch, once jet black but now grey with age.

‘My God,' Shalman said softly to himself.

‘
Allahu Akbah
,' whispered Mustafa as he shone the torch deeper and deeper into the cave.

Mustafa walked gingerly up to one of the shrouded bodies.

‘We really shouldn't disturb anything here, Mustafa. This is untouched,' warned Shalman.

Mustafa nodded. ‘These shrouds; they've gone as thin as paper. You can see that they started off white, but now they've turned brown with age. But there's something here, Shalman,' he said, pointing to what looked like an object tucked inside a fold in the linen covering one of the skeletons. ‘Look, you can see something sticking up above the material.'

Shalman walked over and shone his torch at the skeleton. It was true. An object of some sort had been placed inside the folds of the ancient linen. Mustafa began to reach between the sheets of cloth.

‘No, Mustafa. You shouldn't touch it. This is amazing. We need professional archaeologists.'

Mustafa paid no attention and slid his long fingers delicately between the sheets, grasping what appeared to be a stone or metal disc. He manoeuvred it out delicately, and held it in the light of his torch as Shalman drew closer, transfixed.

Mustafa turned it from front to back. It was still distinct, saved by the cloth from degradation by aeons of dust and debris. The folds of linen had insulated it.

Shalman took it carefully from him, and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He read out what was written, first on the front and then on the back of the amulet. ‘I am Ruth, wife of Abram the doctor. I walk in the footsteps of Yahweh.'

He looked at Mustafa. ‘It's written in Hebrew on the front and Aramaic on the back. It must be from one of the early
centuries around the time of Christ. This is . . . This is . . .' But Shalman had no words for his amazement.

Mustafa gazed at the shroud, and wondered at the skeleton inside the folds.

‘What sort of a woman was this Ruth? Who was this Abram?' The young Arab man's face glowed in the light of the torch, though his beaming smile seemed to reflect more light than the torch globe.

‘Was this Ruth tall or short, beautiful or ugly? Did she live to an old age or die young? Where did she come from? What did she do? How did she die . . .?'

Shalman smiled and laughed. ‘Very good questions, my friend . . . and that's why I'm going to help make you an archaeologist.'

Jerusalem

1947

J
udit sat with Anastasia in a small, one-room apartment that was a designated safe house for NKVD operatives. Anastasia sipped at a small tumbler of vodka as she sat on the edge of the bed. The room had only one chair and Judit was seated on it.

She had been summoned to the meeting by the usual dead-drop note and had expected to see a gathering of the same group of operatives previously brought together. But when she arrived, Judit found only Anastasia seated on the bed.

As she sipped her own vodka, Judit could not help but take in the figure of the woman before her. The years she had known her had been short yet Anastasia had seen Judit grow from schoolgirl to woman and spy. Judit remembered the training, the instruction and the motherly hand of Anastasia always on her back pushing her forward. The memory of her own mother seemed by contrast to be as indistinct as a faded photograph.

When Vered was born, Judit had unwillingly found herself reflecting on her own childhood – a childhood she had long since pushed aside – and her own mother, whom she'd come to think of as weak and broken. But her imagination often
confused the beautiful face of Anastasia with the reality of what she was, a master spy, a woman who had ordered a sniper rifle to be put into her hands, and for her to assassinate her own mother or father. Sure, it was nothing more than a test with an empty rifle, but Anastasia's hand on her back was a touch that brought back sharp memories, not all of them good.

The test hadn't broken her; it had made her strong. As she looked at Anastasia, Judit felt that the woman was proud of her and that somehow this mattered. Anastasia stood from the bed, and walked over to the table in the apartment to refill her vodka glass.

‘You've now met all of your colleagues, the men and women who will bring our plan to fruition. And I have to make a choice.'

‘What's that?' asked Judit, having no inkling of where Anastasia was going with this or why she had even been summoned.

‘Which of them should lead? Who should carry responsibility? Who is capable enough?'

Judit thought back to the group. According to Anastasia they'd disbanded and gone their separate ways. Some to Tel Aviv, some to Haifa or Jerusalem or Bethlehem or Nablus or Nahariah, some to Cairo and Damascus. Each had their role to play and many Judit might never encounter again.

Some of them had been given the names and biographies of politicians, governors, newspaper editors, journalists and political advisers who they'd been instructed to befriend and influence, to sleep with and seduce, so that when the crucial time came, they could be blackmailed. It was all in an effort to swing allegiances away from America and the United Kingdom in favour of the USSR. Others had been given a list of future Israeli politicians and influentials who were not well disposed to Mother Russia and would need to be exterminated.

She knew that this had been going on in Palestine from time to time already. The newspapers occasionally carried stories about prominent people being killed or dying in strange circumstances. She knew that this was communist Russians in place. But the real task in the months ahead would be handed over to Judit and the group.

But who should be the leader? Judit looked at Anastasia, who was still waiting for a considered answer. The young woman didn't answer immediately, but quickly went through all of the men and women in her mind, discounting the majority as being good operatives, but less likely to be good leaders. Eventually she came up with two names at which Anastasia nodded and smiled.

‘Goshia is a brilliant woman. Viktor is highly resourceful and reliable. Hmmm . . .' said Anastasia finally.

‘So who will it be?' asked Judit.

Anastasia smiled and sat back down on the edge of the bed that was closest to the younger woman. Her knees touched Judit's.

‘Not all situations require the same leaders. Leaders are not all the same. What we need is someone who can and will do what needs to be done. Someone who can see the past, present and then judge the right action for the future.'

Judit frowned.

‘You, my little dove. It's you,' Anastasia said softly.

Judit said nothing but placed the glass down on the table and looked at her handler quizzically.

‘It's you I need. It's you I want . . .' And she let the last word linger in the air for a moment before she continued. ‘Goshia and Viktor are capable but they're not leaders. It's you who is so very special, my dear.'

‘But I'm too young,' protested Judit.

Anastasia reached over and put her hand on Judit's knee and smiled sweetly. ‘I recommended you to Comrade Beria himself.
Long ago, after your group's training in Moscow had finished. He agreed but ordered me to wait a year or two until you'd had field experience as an assassin. That's why we encouraged you to join Lehi. And now you're ready, my dove. You're bloodied, and sharp and wonderful. You have a natural, an innate ability to command. You will be the leader, but I will be here every minute of the day. You will answer only to me. I will be here in Jerusalem, as an attaché to the Russian Mission.'

Too stunned to speak, Judit just nodded.

‘This is not an easy burden, I know,' she said, and Judit was only vaguely aware of Anastasia's hand absently stroking the top of her thigh. ‘You are married. A wonderful and loyal man. And you have a child. A beautiful child. Yet you sleep with other men . . .'

Judit twitched in reaction but Anastasia continued.

‘At least two other men in two different groups. One called David Law and the other Yossi Schwartz. This is right, my darling. We know everything.'

Trained not to show emotion in times of trauma, Judit simply said, ‘Yes,' but she felt her pulse quickening.

‘How would Shalman feel about this?' asked Anastasia.

Was this another test? thought Judit. What was her handler looking for? What answer did she seek?

Judit had slept with David to elevate her position in Lehi, and with Yossi in case she decided to move over to the Palmach, the elite strike force of the Haganah. Both were strategic manoeuvres. She could and did rationalise them. But the question of how such news would affect Shalman pained Judit more than she wanted. She hated cheating on him but, having done so, she had come to the notice of the most senior men in the two forces, not as a woman of easy virtue, but as a much-discussed fearless and potent fighter for the cause. Making love to them was little more for her than a calling card
that empowered her to serve the objectives of her homeland, Mother Russia.

‘I did what I had to do.'

‘Of course you did, my darling.' Anastasia's hand stroked Judit's thigh once more. ‘Just one of many things you will have to do. Are you prepared to do them?'

‘Yes,' answered Judit as straight and as coldly as she could.

‘And what of the Jews? The hardships they have suffered, the faith and traditions they cling to? The things they believe . . .?'

Judit was acutely aware of the word ‘they'.

‘What are these things to you?' asked Anastasia.

‘I am Jewish,' said Judit, though even as the words slipped from her lips she knew that it was the wrong thing to say. She expected Anastasia to pull away, get to her feet. She expected a change of gear in the test. Perhaps anger. But there wasn't. Instead, the beautiful, elegant woman, who had so much shaped Judit's life, leant in closer still.

‘No, my child. Jewish is how the world sees you. But it cannot be who you are.'

Anastasia left one hand on Judit's thigh and raised the other to her chest, placing an open palm at the base of her throat, her long fingers spread to touch against the tops of her breasts beneath the thin cotton of her blouse.

‘In here, leave the Jewish girl behind. Be what you must be: a daughter of Russia . . .'

Outskirts of Jerusalem

1947

D
ov splashed vodka into his glass unceremoniously. It was thrown back and then quickly refilled before Shalman had even raised his own to his lips.

The two men stood in the dark on the outskirts of Jerusalem. There were no street lights and no houses nearby, only the lights of the ancient city in the distance and the sounds of crickets in the night air. They were alone.

Shalman had received word that Lehi command wanted to meet with him. He had now been back several weeks after the trip into the gorge with Mustafa where they'd made their extraordinary discovery. His every waking thought was to return and he had promised Mustafa that he would. A strange and unlikely bond had formed between the two young men, and yet when he had said goodbye, promising to return soon, Shalman could not help but feel that Mustafa did not wholly believe or trust that he would.