The Volunteer by Michael Ross Read Free Book Online Page B

see her again . . .”
    I found that, with a good story and a hint of personal disclosure, most people will try to meet you halfway—say, turning the registry in your direction so you can scan it, without actually handing it to you. In other cases, where accomplishing the task just wasn’t in the cards, I had to realize as much and back off rather than force matters and cause a security problem. The adage that smart agents live to fight another day is an important principle in intelligence work.
    The tests varied, but they all had the same goal: to see how far I could be pushed before I broke cover. In the spy business, I was gradually learning, you simply never break cover. A spy’s cover is the most important weapon in his or her professional arsenal. These tests don’t have a high pass rate because many promising candidates break cover at the first hint of a threat. It’s a natural response: reverting to your true self feels like a safe move. It’s an instinctive way of saying “I’m not playing anymore.” Those who can resist are highly valued by intelligence services.
    I don’t know what it says about me—that I’m a good liar or a decent actor, or that I just don’t like to fail a test—but I never broke cover. After two days, Halleck and the anonymous ringleaders who’d been putting me through my paces told me I’d passed. No, I was not a Mossad officer yet—nowhere near, in fact. But I’d made it past the first big hurdle. They told me to go home. They’d call me when the next stage was set to begin.
    It was now spring of 1988, and I admired the wildflowers growing in the Jezreel Valley as I rode the bus home to my wife and son. I had been away for longer than usual this time, and was glad to be back in the warm embrace of family. We had dinner together, and then Dahlia and I had a serious talk. I described a little of what I’d been through, and where I thought it was all leading. I was still riding the wave of pride that came from making the grade in Tel Aviv. But she was worried, and she told me so.
    My mood changed quickly. Until now, I hadn’t seriously considered the rather obvious fact that Dahlia wouldn’t be thrilled about the prospect of my taking on a dangerous profession. She also reminded me that since we’d been married, we’d spent little time under the same roof. This training would keep me away from my family for months more. And if I got through, then what? Possibly a career that would make me an absentee husband permanently. Our child was then four years old. Did I want him to grow up without a full-time daddy?
    Over hours of kitchen-table conversations with Dahlia, I decided that family life was more important than whatever awaited me in Tel Aviv. The next day, I called the Office. I couldn’t reach my handlers, but spoke to a secretary and left a message: “Can you please let them know that I’ve thought things over, and would like to quit? Thanks.” Then I hung up, feeling comfortable with my decision.
    It was back to the cotton fields for me. I quickly fell back into a life that couldn’t have been more remote from the world I’d briefly tasted. I was out in the countryside, wearing nothing but shorts and sandals. I swam in the pool with my son and had barbecues with my buddies. Just an average Israeli kibbutznik.
    I was not the first recruit to get cold feet. The Mossad, I now know, has established procedures for dealing with such situations. A few days after I’d come back to the kibbutz, one of the recruiters phoned and invited himself up for a chat. To be polite, I acquiesced. He would have his say, I expected. All I’d have to do was hear him out and then let him know my decision was final.
    And so Benny appeared at our doorstep, and a lifelong friendship with my family was formed.
    If the Office had dispatched a slick desk jockey with a canned sales pitch, I