Ophir has left Israel,” Dani Amit, head of Collections Directorate, said.
Director Yadin nodded. “I know.”
“You know everything, Memune.”
“Don’t flatter me, Dani. It’s as cheap as a paste diamond.”
The two men sat opposite each other at a café along Tel Aviv’s harbor. They were in sight of the Director’s sailboat. Someone on board was putting in stores, moving in that slow, calm, considered way of all boaters, whether amateur or professional. The two men, dressed similarly in white cotton short-sleeved shirts, lightweight slacks, and colored espadrilles, looked like family. Father and son, perhaps. And, as members of Mossad, they were family, a close-knit group, one relying on the brain power and expertise of the other.
Amit toyed with the small dish of olives. “Do you know where he’s going?”
“Wherever Bourne is.”
“But do you know?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You trust Bourne that much?”
The Director took a sip of iced tea. “I trust Bourne with my life.”
“Ophir’s going to kill him,” Amit said in his matter-of-fact manner.
“Well, he’s going to try.” The Director bit into a chicken sandwich and chewed reflectively. “Yes, he’s going to try.”
Amit eyed his boss judiciously. “By which you mean you believe he’s going to fail.”
Yadin sat back, stared up at the blue sky, the white, puffball clouds scudding by on the considerable breeze.
“It’s a good day for a sail. Of course, you always think that when you set out, but how can you really know? An unexpected storm might be lurking just over the horizon, for the moment out of sight, but moving in so quickly it catches you unawares, vigilant though you might be, as accomplished a sailor as you are.”
The Director returned to his sandwich, dredging the corner of it in the shallow bowl of hummus that sat between them. “You’re not eating, Dani. Have you no appetite?”
“I have no appetite for the secrets—”
“Find another occupation, Dani.”
“—for the secrets you withhold from me.”
“We all have secrets that have no business seeing the light of day,” the Director said, “let alone being shared, even among colleagues.”
Amit paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. At last, trying not to make a hash of the conversation, he said, “Everything seemed to change when Rebeka was killed.” He waited a moment, hoping for a reply, even a word of encouragement, but when none was forthcoming he plowed on, thinking, In for a penny…“Then everything changed again when Bourne showed up on our doorstep.”
“Can you blame him?” The Director took another swig of iced tea. “He was with Rebeka when she died.”
“I never figured him as a sentimentalist.”
“He’s not—so far as I can tell. But he is human. It was a very human reaction for him to come here, to attend her funeral, to mourn her passing.”
“And then, even while the funeral was in progress, you figured out a way to use him.”
“You make me out to be so cold.”
“Well, how would you characterize your thought process, Director?”
“Is that a rebuke, Dani? Because my job, as I understand it, is to safeguard the State of Israel. That’s the job we’ve all undertaken—it’s why we’ve committed ourselves—our lives—to Mossad. Am I wrong?”
“No, Director.”
“Then let us proceed accordingly.”
“Well, that’s the problem,” Amit said. “In this instance, there is no we. There is only you.” He spread his hands. “I simply want to help, Memune. We’ve been like brothers.”
Yadin’s gaze drifted to his boat, to the broad, round-shouldered back of the man who was methodically sluicing the deck.
“Ophir and I have been like brothers also, Dani. Should I tell him all my secrets?” His eyes slid back, gripped Amit’s. “Do you think that wise?”
“To be truthful, I’ve never gotten along with Ophir. You know that, Director.”
“Of course. As you say, I know everything.” He sighed, pushing his plate away. “In fact, I did, once upon a time. But the world changes. Every day brings new puzzles to be solved, but now the complications are of such a magnitude that I often feel lost inside the forest of enemies that seek to rip from us their pound of flesh.”
Amit leaned forward. “All the more reason to accept my offer of help, Memune.”
“I made the mistake of confiding in Eden,” the Director mused, “and now he’s dead.”
“I’m not afraid of death, Memune.”
“Nor are any of us.” The Director finished off his tea, then he nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, after all, Dani.”
For the next ten minutes, he spoke in a soft, low voice. Not once did Amit think to stop him or ask a question. He was far too dumbfounded to utter a word.
Later, after Amit had left to return to the office, Eli Yadin paid the check. Then, baseball cap on his head, hands in the pockets of his trousers, he strolled down to the harbor and went out onto the dock where his sailboat was berthed. The afternoon had turned hot. Despite the breeze, the sun burned down from the top of the vault of heaven. Clouds seemed to flee from it, as if terrified.
The man who had been preparing the boat turned the moment Yadin stepped aboard.
“It’s done?” he said.
“It’s done, abi.”
Yadin’s father was a bear of a man, his barrel chest a mat of white hair. In his mideighties, he had the energy of a man twenty years younger. He had a wide face, with large ears and open features. He looked like a Greek sailor. Yadin often imagined him as Odysseus, setting sail for a life at sea, defeating every challenge the jealous, resentful, covetous gods threw at him. He also thought of him as the unnamed fisherman in Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.
Though his father was more than a decade removed from his retirement as Mossad Director, he had not let the years get the better of him. He was as up-to-date as any of Yadin’s people. He was also the only human being Yadin confided in, despite his false confession to Dani Amit.
“You’re sure it was the right move to make?” the old man said as, together, they made ready to cast off.
“It was the only move to make.”
Yadin’s father nodded, and the Director started the engine.
“Truly, I don’t envy you,” his father said. “When I was Director I had friends inside Mossad.”
“Another time,” Yadin said, “another place.”
The old man came up and put his hand across his son’s shoulders. “You’ll beat them, Eli. You’ll beat all of them.”
“Im Yirtzeh Hashem,” the Director said, guiding the boat out into open water. If God wills it.
His father expertly let the sails full out to get the boat running before the wind. “God has nothing to do with it,” he said. “Jason Bourne does.”
But his words were lost to the quickening wind.