Juan Gómez-Jurado - Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

Andrea’s tongue searched desperately for Doc’s, and she returned the kiss. Doc pulled off Andrea’s T-shirt and traced the moist, salty skin of her breasts with her tongue. Andrea lay back on the mattress. She was no longer afraid.

The car raced headlong downhill, without any brakes.

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

Sunday, 16 July 2006. 1:28 a.m.

They remained next to each other, talking, for a long time; kissing every few words, as if they couldn’t believe that they had found each other and that the other person was still there.

‘Wow, Doc. You really know how to take care of your patients,’ Andrea said as she caressed Doc’s neck and played with the curls in her hair.

‘It’s part of my hypocritical oath.’

‘I thought it was the Hippocratic Oath.’

‘I took a different oath.’

‘It doesn’t matter how much you joke around, you’re not going to make me forget that I’m still angry with you.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth about myself, Andrea. I guess lying is part of my work.’

‘What else is part of your work?’

‘My government wants to know what’s happening here. And don’t ask me any more about it, because I’m not going to tell you.’

‘We have ways of making you talk,’ Andrea said, shifting her caresses to a different place on Doc’s body.

‘I’m sure I’ll be able to fight off the interrogation,’ Doc whispered.

Neither woman spoke for a few minutes until Doc let out a long, almost silent, moan. Then she pulled Andrea to her and whispered in her ear.

‘Chedva.’

‘What does that mean?’ Andrea whispered back.

‘It’s my name.’

Andrea exhaled her surprise. Doc sensed the joy in her and hugged her tight.

‘Your secret name?’

‘Never say it out loud. Now you’re the only one who knows it.’

‘And your parents?’

‘They’re no longer alive.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘My mother died when I was a girl and my father died in a prison on the Negev.’

‘Why was he there?’

‘Are you sure you want to know? It’s a shitty, frustrating story.’

‘My life is full of shitty frustrations, Doc. It’d be nice to hear someone else’s for a change.’

There was a brief silence.

‘My father was a katsa , a special agent for Mossad. There are only thirty at any one time, and hardly anyone at the Institute reaches that rank. I’ve been in it for seven years and I’m only bat leveyha , the lowest grade. I’m thirty-six years old, so I don’t think I’m going to be promoted. But my father was a katsa at the age of twenty-nine. He did a lot of work outside Israel and in 1983 he undertook one of his last operations. He lived in Beirut for several months.’

‘You didn’t go with him?’

‘I only travelled with him when he went to Europe or the United States. Beirut wasn’t a good place for a young girl back then. It wasn’t a good place for anyone, really. That’s where he met Father Fowler. Fowler was on his way to the Beqa’a Valley to rescue some missionaries. My father had a great deal of respect for him. He said rescuing those people was the bravest act he’d ever seen in his life, and there wasn’t one word about it in the press. The missionaries simply said they’d been released.’

‘I suppose that kind of work doesn’t welcome publicity.’

‘No, it doesn’t. During the mission my father uncovered something unexpected: information suggesting that a group of Islamic terrorists with a truck full of explosives was going to make an attempt on an American installation. My father reported this to his superior, who replied that if the Americans were sticking their noses into Lebanon they deserved everything they got.’

‘What did your father do?’

‘He sent an anonymous note to the American embassy, to warn them; but without a reliable source to back it up, the note was ignored. The next day a truck full of explosives crashed through the gate of a Marine compound, killing two hundred and forty-one Marines.’

‘My God.’

‘My father returned to Israel, but the story didn’t end there. The CIA demanded an explanation from Mossad and someone mentioned my father’s name. A few months later, while he was returning home from a trip to Germany, he was stopped at the airport. The police searched his bags and found two hundred grams of plutonium and proof that he was attempting to sell it to the Iranian government. With that amount of material Iran could have built a medium-sized nuclear bomb. My father went to jail, practically without a trial.’

‘Someone had planted the evidence against him?’

‘The CIA had its revenge. They used my father to send a message to agents all over the world: if you find out about something like this again, make sure you let us know or we’ll make sure you’re fucked.’

‘Oh, Doc, that must have destroyed you. At least your father knew that you believed in him.’

There was another silence, this time a long one.

‘I’m ashamed to say this, but… for quite a few years I didn’t believe in my father’s innocence. I thought he had grown tired, that he wanted to earn some money. He was completely alone. Everyone forgot about him, including me.’

‘Were you able to make your peace with him before he died?’

‘No.’

Suddenly Andrea embraced the doctor, who began to cry.

‘Two months after his death, a highly confidential sodi beyoter report was declassified. It stated that my father was innocent and supported this with concrete proof, including the fact that the plutonium had belonged to the United States.’

‘Wait… are you telling me that Mossad knew all about it from the beginning?’

‘They sold him out, Andrea. In order to cover up their duplicity they handed the CIA my father’s head. The CIA were satisfied, and life went on – except for the two hundred and forty-one soldiers, and my father in his maximum-security prison cell.’

‘The bastards…’

‘My father is buried in Gilot, to the north of Tel Aviv, a place reserved for those who have fallen in combat against the Arabs. He was the seventy-first member of Mossad to be buried there, with full honours and acclaimed as a war hero. None of which erases the unhappiness they caused me.’

‘I don’t understand it, Doc. I really don’t. Why the hell are you working for them?’

‘The same reason my father put up with jail for ten years: because Israel comes first.’

‘Another crazy person, just like Fowler.’

‘You still haven’t told me how the two of you know each other.’

Andrea’s voice darkened. That memory was not exactly pleasant.

‘In April of 2005 I went to Rome to cover the death of the Pope. By chance I got hold of a tape in which a serial killer said he had killed a couple of cardinals who were to be part of the conclave electing the successor to John Paul II. The Vatican tried to suppress the story and I ended up on the roof of a building fighting for my life. Let’s say that Fowler made sure I didn’t end up splattered on the pavement. But in the process, he made off with my exclusive.’

‘I understand. That must have been frustrating.’

Andrea didn’t have a chance to reply. There was a tremendous blast outside that shook the walls of the tent.

‘What was that?’

‘For a moment I thought it was… No, it couldn’t be-’ Doc stopped in mid-sentence.

There was a scream.

And another.

And then many more.

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

Sunday, 16 July 2006. 1:41 a.m.