Jonathan de Shalit: Traitor

“To be honest,” Alon said, after realizing that Roberts expected him to say something, “to be honest, I first thought of approaching you about a year and a half ago, toward the end of 1981. As I’ve just written down, there on the forms,” he continued, nodding in the direction of the greenish papers, “I served as commander of a small shore-located naval base, with the rank of lieutenant. The navy is a small corps, but significant nevertheless. Almost all of the Israel Defense Forces’ operational plans include a naval element and perspective—troop transportation, search and rescue, intelligence and gunfire support, or even simply to be ready to counter an enemy response via the sea. Furthermore, we played a major role at that time in operations against the Palestinian terrorists in Lebanon. Naval commandos carried out operations of one kind or another almost every week, and the activities of the entire corps were focused on each one—truly the entire corps. So even the commander of a beach station was exposed to such operations, sometimes as the result of a specific mission he was required to carry out, and sometimes just to be in the picture in the event of unforeseen developments.

“We believe, and justifiably so,” he went on, “that in order to think big—in order to take everything into consideration, and in order to make educated decisions, one has to see the complete picture. Okay, I wasn’t always aware of every detail; but for a young officer in charge of a small and pretty marginal unit, I knew a lot.”

The young man paused for a moment. A tremor, unnoticeable, went through Roberts as he tried to regain the focus he had lost for a moment. He continued to listen, a look of concentration and interest on his face, while jotting down notes on the writing pad. Since the entire session was being filmed and recorded by a concealed audio-video system, he didn’t have to write down every word; experience had taught him, however, that such meetings always yielded extensive information. Usually random and insignificant, the details were sometimes important, and it was good to highlight various points and references by hand—for help later when writing up the summary report. It was important, too, for the walk-in—the term used to refer to someone who knocks on an embassy door and asks to meet with intelligence officials—to know that he was being taken seriously and that his statements were being noted. And yet, something about the manner in which this session had started appeared to indicate that something important was afoot, that this guy was serious. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly. His candor, perhaps, his straightforwardness. The fact that he was proposing a simple and clear-cut deal: Invest in me now, for an extended period of time, and you’ll get your money’s worth in the end. I have potential. My experiences to date—military service as an officer, integration into the circle of Israeli parliamentary aides, academic excellence at university—are testimony to this potential. You will enjoy the fruits of its realization. Perhaps his self-confidence, the calculated coolness with which he was crossing the line of treason, the frozen gaze in his eyes were what caused Roberts to sit up and listen more intently, awakening in him a latent instinct of sorts, a delicate flutter, a pleasant and evocative thrill, one he had thought would never again course through him.

“One day I received a top-secret envelope,” the young man continued, “the kind that has two red stripes printed in the corner—for my eyes only. As base commander, I was responsible for opening the envelope, studying its contents, and keeping it in my personal safe. The document bore the title ‘Large Pine—The Naval Campaign.’ Drawn up by the navy’s Operations Division, the document offered a detailed description of the role of all the corps’ units in the upcoming war. It left me astounded. I simply couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a plan for a complete takeover of Lebanon. To this end, the navy’s role included imposing a siege on the Beirut port, artillery and missile fire on targets from the sea, the defense of supply routes, deployment for the purpose of facing off against the Syrian naval forces in the arena, readiness to counter efforts by terrorists to infiltrate Israel from the sea—everything, absolutely everything. I have to say it troubled me. It troubled me a great deal. I was disturbed by the divide between the declarations concerning keeping the terrorist threat away from our northern border and the megalomaniacal plans to occupy Lebanon in its entirety and take control of its capital. As I saw it, and I knew so despite my youth and inexperience at the time, someone appeared to have lost his mind. An insane plan. And in a moment of desperation I thought to myself that you—yes, you—need to know of the existence of such plans. That you would realize we had lost it. That you’d have the power to prevent us from doing something foolish.”

“And…,” Roberts asked, “did you do anything about it?”

“I copied the order and I kept the copy in the safe of my small office on the base, too, and later I shredded it. And no, I didn’t do anything, I moved on, I must have pushed it to the back of my mind; and a few months went by, June arrived and the war broke out and, you know, it was too late by then…” he said, his voice trailing off.

“Yes,” Roberts said, “your situation in Lebanon, now, too—how should I put it—is a complex one.”

The young man sitting across from him blinked and quickly ran a hand over his eyes, seemingly inadvertently.

“It’s been almost two years since the war,” Roberts added. “What made you decide to come to us now?”

Ashen-faced, Alon hesitated. He tried to pour some water from the plastic bottle into the cup by his side, only to sheepishly find it empty. Roberts went over to the small refrigerator, retrieved a second bottle of water, and poured some into the empty cup. Alon sat up in his chair and said: “You are the world’s strongest superpower. You may not know it yet, but in the not-too-distant future, less than a decade maybe, the Soviet Union will fall apart. You’re focused constantly on the Soviet Union’s tremendous military might, but I’m looking at its economy. The Soviet superpower’s economy is rotten, sick, a wreck. The Soviet Union is going to collapse, and you will be left as the world’s sole superpower. History,” he declared, his eyes bright, “history is about to change, a lot sooner than most of the world thinks. And we, in Israel, need you. Your protection, your support, your guidance. You need to help us help ourselves, help us overcome our terrible fears and inclination to self-destruct. And I want to help you do so. I’m young; I’m resourceful—very resourceful, if I may say so of myself. I can go far. I’m already a parliamentary aide. I’ll be a ministerial official within a year, in the bureau of one of the ministers. Within ten, fifteen years, I could be your man in the most strategic locations. I’ll be there; I know it. I’m smart and ambitious. And you can assist my rise up the ladder. Guide me, wield all your powers—to the knowledge of no one, of course. Invest in me now, and together we’ll go far.”

The young man ended abruptly. His slim frame looked deflated. His dark eyes had narrowed, and appeared to Roberts to be slanted and cold. Roberts, too, suddenly felt exhausted by the deluge of words from the young man, who had spoken and spoken and tried so hard to demonstrate his broad perspective, his maturity, his ability to lucidly analyze global processes. He could feel the weariness spreading slowly behind his eyes. He had seen so many like him. Endeavoring. Groveling. But that same thing that had been echoing in his consciousness whispered to him to shake it off and fight through the exhaustion. Perhaps—after so long, way too long—luck had finally dealt him an ace.