Deaths of saints
Lyon, France
― Let’s start with a round of introductions. My name is James Banner, but you can call me Jim. I insist that you call me Jim, actually. I am originally from California, but most of my working life I’ve spent here at Interpol headquarters. Right now my main task is to coordinate the international investigation into the death of prime minister Bishara. Now, as for the two of you …
Banner gestured towards the woman sitting next to me, inviting her to continue the introduction.
― My name is Katya Prochazkova. I am a field operative for the FSB, the Russian Federal Security Service. I’m based in Moscow.
― And you come highly recommended, Katya. According to your boss, you’re the best. Is that true? Are you the best, Katya?
― Yes sir, I am.
― That’s good to hear. And please, call me Jim.
Banner turned towards me, gesturing that it was my turn to introduce myself.
― Me, I said, I am Jean-Christophe Zidane. I work as a forensic neuroscientist at NeuroSpin, a research institute in Saclay, near Paris.
― Enchanté, JC. I hope you don’t mind my calling you JC. So … people have told me that you can read minds. Is that true?
― Well, under specific circumstances I can decode the visual cortex of recently deceased rats. That’s not quite the same as …
Banner raised his hand.
― Ok, let me stop you right there, JC. I liked Katya’s answer much better. So here’s the deal: I’m about to invest a lot of money in you. But before I do that, I want to know that you can do what people have told me you can do. I want to see what Aisha Bishara saw before she died. I want to get a bag of popcorn and watch her die through her own eyes like it’s a fucking movie. Now can you do that for me, JC?
Banner looked at me. His expression, which seconds ago had been warm and friendly, was now strangely vacant. I was thrown off and unsure how to respond. A gravity-defying sea of sweat accumulated in my armpits.
― Putain …, I mumbled.
― Don’t swear, JC. It doesn’t become you. Now I asked you a question: Can you do that for me?
I recomposed myself and lied:
― Yes Jim. I can do that.
― Very good. Excellent.
We were silent for a moment. Banner had regained his friendly smile and seemed relaxed, as though the three of us were having a friendly get-together. Katya seemed neutral. I probably seemed as nervous as I was. Banner continued:
― I’m sure you’re wondering why exactly we asked you to come here. So let’s get down to business. As you know, Aisha Bishara, the first female prime minister of the Palestinian West Bank, was found dead a few days ago. The official cause of death is a heart attack. But the circumstances are, well … suspect. And because this is such a politically charged situation, the international community has launched an investigation to get to the bottom of it.
― And is the West Bank government ok with this investigation? I asked.
― Yes they are. The West Bank government has agreed to cooperate fully, and so has the Israeli government. Whether they will actually do so is another matter. But at least they’re both nominally on board. Otherwise we wouldn’t be able to do this at all.
― And what is the role of Interpol in all of this? I asked.
― We coordinate the investigation. Interpol is politically neutral, which is important, because otherwise people are bound to be skeptical of whatever the investigation will find. But Interpol is not a law-enforcement agency. Therefore, all ground members of the investigation are either agents from a national service with a recognized jurisdiction, like Katya here; or they are people with a unique set of skills, like you, JC.
― Do you think Bishara was murdered? Katya asked.
― I honestly don’t know, Banner replied. The best-case scenario is that it really was just a heart attack. But of course the worst-case scenario is that she was murdered by a Jewish extremist. That would certainly re-ignite the tensions between Israel and Palestine. And in my experience, worst-case scenarios are more likely than best-case scenarios. But either way, good or bad, we need to find out what happened. And with ‘we’ I mean ‘you’. You need to find out what happened.
― How? Katya asked.
― Let me first explain how the investigation is structured. There are three task forces, each with a specific assignment. There’s the Coroner and Crime Scene task force, which is charged with analyzing the body and the crime scene. And there’s the Information task force, which is charged with analyzing photos from social media, email communication, and whatever else they find floating around cyberspace.
― And our task force? I asked.
― The two of you are the Reconstruction task force. That is, you are charged with reconstructing the events that led up to the death of prime minister Bishara. In your case, Katya, this means going out there to figure out what she was up to in the period before her death. And in your case, JC, this means using your mind-reading magic to find out what she saw before she died. We suspect that her body may have been moved, and we especially hope to get a good view of where and with whom she was when it happened.
Banner gave us a triumphant smile like the case was already solved and closed.
― The thing that you’re doing, JC, he said. I have a feeling that it’s going to revolutionize forensics the way fingerprinting did in the early twentieth century. Or DNA profiling back in the eighties.
There was a pause during which I should have gracefully accepted his compliment, but did not. My face turned red.
― Well, he continued, I think you know all you need to know, don’t you?
I certainly did not feel like I knew all I needed to know.
― So let’s get to work then, Banner continued. If you leave my office, turn right, and follow the corridor to the end, you will find Sandra’s office. That’s office 3121, but you can ask someone if you get lost. Sandra is our tech girl. She will give you your gadgets.
Katya got up and walked towards the door. I followed her.
― Make me proud, Banner said. Let’s try to avoid World War Three.
I turned around and gave him a disturbed look.
― Just kidding, Banner said. Kind of. Now off you go.
Katya and I walked through the corridor towards Sandra’s office. Katya walked in front. I trailed one step behind.
― It’s ok, she said.
― What do you mean?
― Banner was just testing you, exerting a little pressure to see how far you’d bent. That’s how people like him operate. But you’re here because he knows you can do it.
― Thank you, but I’m really not so sure that I can.
― Banner is.
I wondered how someone like Banner could possibly know whether or not I would be able to reconstruct neural activity from a dead brain. What did he know about receptive-field reconstruction? About blood oxygenation? About post-mortem haemodynamic-response decay?
The door to Sandra’s office was open. I had pictured it full of gadgets, like Q’s lab from a James Bond movie. But it was just a regular office, like Banner’s but smaller. She greeted us.
― Dr. Zidane? Agent Prochazkova? Come in.
We went inside and sat down in front of her desk.
― So now that Dr. Banner has brought you up to speed, it’s my pleasure to give you some nifty gadgets. Here they are: your phones and your laptops.
She pointed at two phones and two laptops that sat on her desk. They looked ordinary.
― You will leave your own phones and laptops here. We will keep them for you, and of course you will get them back once the investigation is over. But for security reasons, you are only allowed to use Interpol-approved hardware and software during the investigation. All digital communication should go through these devices.
Katya reached for her bag. She took out her own laptop and phone, and put them on Sandra’s desk. I followed her example. Then we took the Interpol-approved devices, and put them in our bags. Sandra continued:
― And also, Dr. Zidane, your lab has been equipped with all the hardware, software, and animals that we figured you would need. But of course if you find that something is missing, you can let me know and I will make sure that you get it right away.
― My lab? At NeuroSpin?
― Right, no … I’m sorry. I assumed that you had already been briefed on this. We’ve set up a temporary lab for you in Israel. It’s in Be’er Sheva, about an hour’s drive from Tel Aviv. It’s nice, you’ll like it.
― But I cannot just walk into a new lab and continue my research by myself. I need my team from NeuroSpin. Especially Chin-An. He’s a post-doc, and I rely on him for much of the technical stuff.
― We figured. Chin-An will arrive tomorrow.
As a successful scientist at a prestigious institute I had little reason to complain. But I was still used to sluggish bureaucracy, and to having to fight for every cent. And now I suddenly found myself with a brand new lab, with my post-doc flown in, and with all the equipment I could ask for. And all of this seemed to have been arranged within days.
Sandra continued:
― Bishara’s body is in cryogenic storage right now. That’s a bit inconvenient for the Coroner and Crime Scene task force, but Dr. Banner said that the body needed to be frozen to preserve something called the haemoglobin response.
― The haemodynamic response, I corrected her. But yes, that’s right.
― And your phone contains some data file that Dr. Banner said you’d need. I believe it’s some sort of brain scan of prime minister Bishara from when she was still alive.
― Right, I would indeed need a specific kind of brain scan.
I wondered if the file on the phone would be of any use. Sandra seemed to read my mind.
― Neuroscience isn’t really Dr. Banner’s field of expertise, Sandra said. But he seemed confident that this file contains data that is important for you. And when Dr. Banner is confident about something, he’s usually confident for a reason.
― What, if I may ask, is Dr. Banner’s field of expertise?
― He holds a PhD in theoretical physics from Stanford.
I looked at Katya. Her expression was neutral. Or maybe there was a trace of a smile on her face.
― One final thing, Sandra said. You’re flying to Tel Aviv tonight. Your tickets are on your phones.
Aisha Bishara had been elected prime minister of the Palestinian West Bank two years earlier. She had been an unmarried woman, and her candidacy had seemed unlikely, her victory unthinkable. But there was something about her that had captured the hearts of the Palestinian people. She was eloquent and fluent in Arabic, Hebrew, and English. She consistently avoided the kind of inflammatory rhetoric that had so often before disrupted negotiations between Israel, Gaza, and the West Bank. She had never been connected to any man. And she was beautiful, her soft face always accentuated by a modest headscarf. In the end, she had won the elections by a substantial margin. Even more importantly, she was accepted by most of her political rivals in the West Bank, and by the governments of Israel and Gaza. Within a year of her election, dialog between Israel and the West Bank had resumed. Yoshua Alon, the Israeli prime minister who was known for being an uncompromising hardliner, had made several remarkable concessions, including a partial re-opening of the West Bank barrier that separated the West Bank from Israel. And negotiations with Hamas to reunite the Gaza and West Bank governments were in an advanced stage.
But now she was dead. Threats and accusations had quickly followed. The Israeli government maintained that prime minister Bishara had died from a heart attack; they had conveyed their condolences, and expressed the hope that the people of the West Bank would choose a worthy successor. The official position of the West Bank government was also that Bishara had died from a heart attack. But there was a widespread belief among the Palestinian people that she had been murdered to obstruct the peace dialog. The government of Gaza had even explicitly accused Mossad, the Israeli secret service, of assassinating prime minister Bishara. Two years of progress had been undone in less than a week.
Be’er Sheva, Israel
I walked into my temporary lab. Chin-An was already there. He sat behind a computer, calmly working as though he had never worked anywhere else.
― Hi JC, Chin-An said without looking up. Fancy seeing you here. Good trip?
― Good trip, I replied. Good trip?
― Good trip.
― Well, you didn’t waste any time, did you? What are you up to?
Chin-An pointed towards an inside window that provided a view onto another room. Inside the other room was a huge machine. Inside the machine lay a rat.
― Do you see that? Do you know what that is? Chin-An asked.
― Uh, well, you’re scanning a rat, I said.
― Yes, obviously. But with what kind of scanner?
― I don’t know … ?
― It’s a kilotesla rodent scanner! Chin-An exclaimed. Do you remember that article in Nature about a prototype 1000 Tesla MRI scanner developed by Philips-Huawei?
― Vaguely, I lied. So I guess it’s available now, then?
― No, this is the prototype! It’s so exciting! A thousand tesla! Do you know the kind of resolution this gives us? We can measure brain activity in an area of about one-thousandth of a cubic millimeter.
I walked towards the window to take a closer look at the scanner in the other room. At the center of the scanner was a small, tube-like opening. The rat lay inside, perfectly still, its eyes open. Its head was enclosed in a curved screen that showed abstract colored patterns that were continuously changing. The rat was under complete anesthesia and unaware of its surroundings. But the visual areas of its brain continued to respond to these patterns.
― I couldn’t wait, Chin-An continued. So I already started the sensory-stimulation protocol. It should be done in a few minutes.
The sensory-stimulation protocol was straightforward. We showed different kinds of visual stimuli to the rat. And then we measured which parts of its brain became active. For example, when we showed something to the right of the rat, certain areas in the left hemisphere of its brain would become active. The protocol consisted of presenting stimuli of many different colors, many different sizes, and in many different locations. And then we measured brain activity in response to all of these different stimuli. Based on this, we could then construct a mapping that allowed us to predict what the rat was seeing based on which parts of its brain were active. In other words, as Banner had put it, we could read the rat’s mind.
A computer somewhere beeped.
― Ah, the protocol is finished, Chin-An said.
He entered the scanning room and took the rat out of the tube. He laid the rat on a small surgical table, put its head inside a miniature guillotine, and decapitated it. Then he put on gloves, picked up the head, and put it inside a small cryogenic container. A display on the container indicated the temperature inside. It read -150°C. The rat’s brain would be frozen instantaneously.
― Shall we do the sensory reconstruction right away? Chin-An asked.
Post-mortem sensory reconstruction was a technique that had largely been developed by my team and me. Reading the mind of a dead rat really isn’t so different from reading the mind of a live rat. It’s mostly the details that differ. When an area of the brain becomes active, there is an increase in oxygenated blood flow to that area; this is what is measured in a traditional brain scan. We had just taken this idea one step further. Blood oxygenation decays in a predictable way that leaves chemical traces, and this allowed us to measure not only how active a brain area was right now, but also how active it had been ten seconds ago, one minute ago, or even two minutes ago. We could do this in a live brain, but also in a dead brain, as long as it had been sufficiently well preserved, ideally in cryogenic storage.
― Yes, I said. Let’s start the reconstruction.
Chin-An took the rat’s head from the cryogenic storage container, and put it back inside the scanner. We would now scan the brain again, but in a different way from before. This time we wouldn’t measure brain activity—there was none—but instead measure chemical haemodynamic-decay markers.
The scanner hummed and buzzed for a few minutes. Then we were done.
― How long will reconstruction take, you think? I asked.
― This is where things get really cool again, Chin-An replied. They gave us remote access to some kind of supercomputer. It’s so fast that reconstruction happens almost instantaneously.
― Really?
At our NeuroSpin lab we also had powerful computers. But post-mortem sensory reconstruction still took several hours of computing time.
― Yes, really. It’s already done, actually. Are you ready? Chin-An asked.
― Hit me baby, I replied.
Chin-An started the reconstruction video, which showed what the rat had seen during the last two minutes of its life. Or rather, what it would have seen, had it not been anesthetized. The beginning of the video was noisy and difficult to make out. This was because brain activity became progressively more difficult to estimate, the further back in time from the moment of death you went, with a practical limit of about two minutes. But as the video progressed, the image became clearer. The first part of the video showed what the rat had seen inside the scanner, during the sensory-stimulation protocol. Then it showed how the rat was taken out of the scanner and laid on the surgical table for decapitation. Finally it showed how the rat’s head was put into the cryogenic storage container. There was a strange moment during which the rat could see its own decapitated body lying on the table. The final seconds of the video were crystal clear, an almost perfect reconstruction of what the rat had seen before its brain had been frozen.
My phone buzzed. It was a private message from Katya through the Interpol Secure Messaging app.
― Just checking in. How are things in Be’er Sheva?
― I’m still settling in. And I’m still more than a little overwhelmed. But the lab is great. How are you?
― I’m in Ramallah trying to figure out who is who and who to talk to.
― Be careful.
― You too.
― I’m safely in my lab. Worst case I get bitten by a rat ;-)
― There’s no such thing as safely here.
The Coroner and Crime Scene task force was the first to report on their progress. They had examined prime minister Bishara’s body and noted a few things. a) She had indeed died as the result of a heart attack. b) It was unclear whether the heart attack had occurred naturally or whether it had been induced, although c) her blood contained no traces of any compound that was known to induce a heart attack. d) There were traces of alcohol in her blood. e) There was no sign of recent penetrative sexual intercourse. f) Her body had been moved after she had died, although g) it was unclear from where, how, or by whom. Finally, the task force expressed their dissatisfaction about having to work with a frozen body.
Banner instantly replied with a message that was broadcast to all task forces.
― sounds pretty fishy to me. but great work guys. keep it up.
Tel Aviv, Israel
I waited for Katya on a bench in a park in Old Jaffa. The bench overlooked the Mediterranean. It was sunny. Tourists walked around with ice cones in their hands and cameras around their necks. Right here, right now, I didn’t feel like I was in a country that was on the verge of violent conflict. Only the armed forces, which were always visible, machine guns at the ready, broke the illusion.
― JC, hi.
I startled. Katya had approached me from behind.
― Haha, easy, she laughed. No need to be jumpy.
― Well, it was you who said that there’s no such thing as safely, I replied.
― True, true.
She sat down next to me.
― Oh it’s so nice here, she said, closing her eyes and turning her face up slightly.
― Nicer than Ramallah?
― Yes. And also nicer than Moscow. I love the sea and the sun, you know. It’s not easy to love the sea and the sun and to live in Moscow.
We were silent for a moment. She opened her eyes, and noticed that I had been looking at her. I averted my gaze, a little embarrassed. Then I asked:
― Do you think we can we talk freely here? How can we be sure that no-one’s listening?
― Someone’s always listening, she replied. If not, what would be the point of talking?
This struck me as a deliberate non-sequitur. But I did not press the matter.
― So what’s new? She asked.
― Not much, I replied. We’ve pretty much set up the lab now. And with all the equipment that they gave us, we’ve actually been able to make considerable progress. I don’t want to bother you with the technical details …
― Try me.
― Ok, well, if you want to know. Right now, if we want to decode brain activity from a deceased rat, we need a particular kind of brain scan that was made when the rat was still alive. It’s something that we call our sensory-stimulation protocol. But this is no good if we want to decode Bishara’s brain, because of course she did not go through our sensory-stimulation protocol. So now we’re working on a way to make the procedure more flexible. Essentially, we want to do away with the sensory-stimulation protocol, and replace it with any kind of brain scan from when the rat, or the person, was still alive. Does that make sense?
― It does, yes. Kind of.
― And how about you? Have you made any progress in retracing Bishara’s steps?
― Some. The West Bank government has been very cooperative. They’ve given me access to Bishara’s schedule, a calendar with all her official appointments.
― And did you find something interesting?
― Maybe. There are regular gaps in her schedule during which no appointments are listed. Usually in the late afternoon.
― Why is that interesting? Maybe she just worked in the office sometimes.
― Maybe. I also checked with the governmental transportation service. Their records show no trips for Bishara during these gaps. So on the surface that seems to match. It seems like she simply stayed at the office sometimes, which, as you say, isn’t necessarily a strange thing.
― But? I sense a ‘but’ coming.
― You sense right. I also checked with other transportation companies in Ramallah. And one of them actually did have records of transporting Bishara during these gaps in her schedule. They escorted her to various hotels and conference resorts in the area.
― And this company just gave you all of this information? I asked.
Katya looked at me with an amused smile.
― When I want information, I bring a smile, a platinum credit card, and a gun, she said. One of these always works.
Be’er Sheva, Israel
As Sandra had promised, my phone contained data of a brain scan that Aisha Bishara had undergone several months before her death. Bishara had been invited by a religious organization to participate in an experiment that would prove the purity of her mind and her devotion to Allah. In this experiment, her brain was scanned while she saw a slideshow of many different pictures. Some of these pictures were neutral, some were sexual, and some were religious. The experimenters had analyzed the brain scan and triumphantly declared that Bishara’s brain responded only to religious pictures, and not at all to sexual pictures. No details of the analysis were provided, and the whole endeavor reeked of a publicity stunt. But it had been successful in further boosting her popularity, especially among conservative Muslims, not all of whom were comfortable with her leadership. And now it provided us with valuable data.
I uploaded the data to our server and showed it to Chin-An.
― It’s not quite our sensory-stimulation protocol, I said. But at least we have brain activity of Bishara looking at pictures. Do you think you’ll be able to do receptive-field reconstruction based on this data?
― Well, it’s going to be a challenge for sure, Chin-An replied. But I like a challenge. Give me a few days.
Jerusalem, Israel
Katya and I walked through the old town of Jerusalem. I had rarely seen so many tourists in one place, not even in central Paris. But the narrow streets and the omnipresence of armed forces created a tense, muted atmosphere. I did not like it. We paused in front of a souvenir shop.
― Do you want to buy something? Katya asked.
― Not really, I replied. But look at these souvenirs.
I pointed at a shelf with little statues of soldiers and weapons. There was also a stack of t-shirts with the text “Uzi Does It” printed cheaply below a picture of a submachine gun.
― That’s so grim, I said. Who buys this kind of stuff?
― I don’t know, she replied. But if you don’t like it, why don’t you just get a mug or something? Or one of these scarfs? They’re kind of nice. You could give it to someone.
I pictured Katya with one of the colorful scarfs wrapped around her neck, walking through snowy Moscow.
― Let me buy you one, I said. You could wear it when you get back home, as a memory of this bizarre trip. And of me.
― That’s sweet, but no thanks, she said. And in any case, in Moscow you need more than a scarf to keep warm. In winter at least.
I made a mental note to buy a scarf for her later.
― But seriously, I continued. Don’t you think that these souvenirs of soldiers and weapons are a little disturbing?
― I’m not easily disturbed, she said.
We were quiet for a moment.
― But I see what you mean, she said.
We left the old town through Damascus gate. We found a small café that was nearly empty, and sat down at a table in the back. Most of the customers appeared to be Palestinian. A young man walked up to us to take our order.
― I’ll have a mint tea, I said.
― Yes sir, the man replied in fluent English.
― I’ll have a beer, Katya said.
― Certainly, the man replied.
― Wait, I said. I didn’t realize that beer was an option. I’ll have a beer as well then.
― So that’s one beer and one mint tea for you, sir?
― No, just the beer, please.
― Certainly. Two beers coming up.
The man walked off and promptly returned with two bottles. For a while we drank in silence. It wasn’t so bad here, I thought. I hadn’t cared for the old town, but from here, having a beer with Katya in a friendly café, Jerusalem didn’t seem like such a bad place.
― So I’ve actually found out some interesting things, Katya said. Do you remember the gaps in the schedule of prime minister Bishara?
― Yes, of course, I said.
― I requested her phone records, and the West Bank government actually gave me access to them. I was a bit surprised by that, to be honest. They’ve been very cooperative.
― And I imagine there was something interesting in those records?
― Absolutely. Just before each gap, say a day or only a few hours before, she always called, or was called by, the same phone number.
― Whose number?
― Wait for it, Katya said with a teasing smile. I’ll get to that.
― Ok.
― I first asked the Information task force to get all the information about this number from a local telecom provider. Turns out the number belongs to a prepraid card that was sold anonymously.
― I’m still waiting.
― I know. So then I looked at which base stations the phone had connected to, and when.
― So that allowed you to track where the phone had been, right?
― Yes that’s right. And guess where the phone went?
― Well, I’m guessing it went to the same hotels and conference venues that Aisha Bishara also went to during these mysterious gaps.
― That’s right. But there’s more.
― What? Jesus, Katya, spill it!
Katya took a sip from her beer. Slowly.
― You need to learn how to be patient, JC.
― Alright.
― So then I also analyzed the movements of the phone at other moments. It mostly moved between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, which is not that surprising, because where else would you go in Israel. But what’s more, when in Jerusalem, the phone often moved around the Knesset.
― Ok, so it likely belongs to a government official.
― That’s right. And then I looked where the phone had been during public appearances of one particularly well-known Israeli official.
― And?
― And I think the phone belongs to Yoshua Alon, the Israeli prime minister.
Be’er Sheva, Israel
― Chin-An, you are so, so awesome, do you know that? Without you I would be nothing.
― I do know that. And you would be absolutely nothing.
― Can I kiss you?
― Not in front of the rats, JC.
Chin-An had spent the past two days working non-stop to perform receptive-field reconstruction based on Aisha Bishara’s brain scan. He had developed a complex algorithm to deal with multicollinearity and various artifacts that made the data from this scan much harder to use than the clean data that we were used to from our sensory-stimulation protocol. He had tried to explain the algorithm to me, but while I felt that I might be able to grasp it on a good day, right now I was mostly interested in one thing: It worked.
I sent a message to Katya and Banner:
― I have some good news to report. We’ve been able to perform receptive-field reconstruction based on Bishara’s brain scan. This means that we will likely also be able to reconstruct what Bishara saw before she died.
Banner responded immediately:
― that’s amazing, jc! well done
― Credit where credit is due: It was mostly my post-doc Chin-An, I replied.
― did you kiss him?
― I will once we get some privacy.
― i wonder how he dealt with multicollinearity. looking forward to learn the details at some point
Katya joined the conversation:
― That’s great, JC! Congrats. Good luck with the next steps.
Then she sent me a private message:
― I’ll be in Tel Aviv again tomorrow. Do you want to meet up?
― Yes, I replied. When and where?
― 10:00, same place as before?
― Yes :-)
― :-)
Tel Aviv, Israel
Katya was already sitting on the bench. Her eyes were closed, and her head was slightly tilted back. She was enjoying the sun. For a moment I stood still and looked at her from a distance. Then I approached, slowly and, I thought, quietly.
― Hi there, JC, she said without opening her eyes. Why don’t you be a bit louder? There were some deaf people in Haifa who didn’t hear you sneak up on me.
― Well, at least give me some credit for trying.
― Some, she laughed. Not much, but some.
I sat down next to her. Her eyes still closed, she reached out with one hand, and gently touched mine. Then she opened her eyes and looked at me.
― Congrats on the progress, she said. That’s pretty impressive.
― Thank you, I replied. It’s all Chin-An, really.
I waited for her to disagree, to insist that I shouldn’t be so modest. But she just smiled at me and said:
― I’m starting to like it here. I’ll be sorry to leave when the investigation is over.
For a few moments we sat quietly.
― So what did you want to talk to me about? I asked.
― To be honest I don’t have as much to report on as the last time, she said. I hope you don’t mind, given that you had to come all the way from Be’er Sheva?
― No of course not! And it’s just an hour’s drive anyway.
― I’m glad.
We sat quietly again. Then she continued:
― I’ve been trying to find out more about these clandestine meetings between Bishara and Alon. So let me ask you: Why do you think they met like this?
― I guess they wanted to negotiate in private, I replied. Without the scrutiny of the public eye on them.
― Right. That was my first thought as well. That would also explain why Alon made these huge concessions seemingly out of the blue: because they had been secretly negotiating for a while already. So that all makes perfect sense. But there’s still something that doesn’t sit quite right with me.
― What?
― Look at how clumsy they’ve been in hiding these meetings. Consider Alon. He has the entire Mossad at his disposal. They could have easily set up these meetings in such a way that I would never have been able to find out about them. But what does Alon do? He goes around with a prepaid sim. In an activated phone no less, like an idiot. Totally trackable.
― I see. But what does that mean?
― I don’t know. I’ve tried to get some answers in Jerusalem. But the people there haven’t been very forthcoming. So that’s where I am now.
― Don’t you think you might be reading too much into this? Maybe Alon was just being careless.
― Maybe. But I’m going to keep digging.
― I know you are. But not right now. What are you doing this afternoon?
― That depends on you.
― Let’s grab a cup of coffee. I saw this café a little ways back. It looked nice. A little touristy maybe, but nice.
We walked through Old Jaffa. It was not as picturesque as the old town of Jerusalem. But the atmosphere was more relaxed. We found the café and sat down.
― You know, I said. Sometimes I just cannot believe that you’re an FSB agent.
― I violate your stereotype of a spy, do I?
Katya laughed. But then she became serious again.
― I am FSB, though, she said. And I’ve done bad things. You should know that. Very bad things.
I didn’t know how to reply. And I didn’t know what she was trying to say. What are very bad things?
― I believe that, I said. But I’m sure you had good reasons.
― I had reasons. But whether or not they were good is a matter of perspective.
― Everything is.
― Do you know this dilemma where a trolley is heading down a railway track towards five people? These five people will be killed unless you pull a switch to divert the trolley onto another track. But there’s also a person on this other track. Just one. And if you pull the switch, this means that this one person will die. And the question is whether you would pull the switch or not. Some people say they would; some say they wouldn’t. Would you pull the switch, JC?
― Well, I suppose I would, yes. Five lives are worth more than one.
― But what if these five people were far away? So far away that they were hardly flesh and blood; just a vague notion of five anonymous strangers. And what if that one person would be a little girl, near enough for you to touch, to smell, and to read the fear on her face?
― Stop it, Katya. I don’t want to think about these things. Fortunately I don’t have to make such choices.
― But I do. And I’ve pulled that switch many times.
I looked at Katya. She avoided eye contact.
― So how do you manage? I asked. How do you live with having done these things that you call very bad?
― Let me ask you a return question: Do you believe that rats have feelings?
― Yes, of course. In their own limited, ratty way, they are conscious, and experience feelings and desires. Just like we do.
― But you’ve killed many of them, right? By the dozens, with a little guillotine like a proper Frenchman. So how does that make you feel?
― I suppose I don’t really think about their feelings when I kill them. Or sacrifice them, as we’re supposed to say. It’s not on my mind when I’m working, so to say, even though I do believe that rats have feelings. But if I thought about the feelings of every rat that I sacri … that I killed, then I wouldn’t be able to continue my work. And I believe that my work is valuable enough to be worth those … sacrifices.
― So there’s your answer. That’s how I manage too.
I thought about whether I agreed with the parallel that Katya had just drawn.
― But there’s an important difference between you and me, she continued. I’m becoming less and less confident that my work justifies the sacrifices.
I still looked at her. She still avoided eye contact.
― You know, I said. When we taken a frozen rat brain, we can reconstruct activity in any brain area. We focus on visual brain areas, because I work in forensic neuroscience, and for forensic purposes visual input is the most important thing. But in principle we can look anywhere in the brain. I’ve never told anyone this before, but once I did look somewhere else.
― Where?
― In a part of the brain that is called the amygdala. It’s an area that becomes active when an animal is afraid.
― And had the rat been afraid before you killed it?
― Well, no, not exactly. Our rats are used to being handled by people, and so they’re not afraid when you pick them up. And they don’t know what’s coming until it’s too late. So the rat hadn’t been afraid before I killed it. But after I had killed it; after I had cut off its head, and before I had put it into the cryogen box; in those few seconds, that’s when the rat had been really afraid. And you know the strange thing?
― No?
― It had been under complete anesthesia. It wasn’t supposed to be aware of anything.
Katya looked at me. I thought that I saw a faint trace of horror in her eyes.
― Well, she said, a few seconds isn’t that bad. A person can take much longer to die.
This time I was the one to reach out with my hand, touching hers.
― I got you a scarf, I said.
― I knew you would. I will wear it when it gets cold in Moscow. Underneath a coat that will actually protect me from the cold. But I will wear it. Thank you.
Jerusalem, Israel
Chin-An and I had spent two days at the neuroimaging unit of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, trying to reconfigure their system for haemodynamic-decay scanning. Their 11T Siemens scanner worked differently from the 17T Philips-Huawei scanner that we had at NeuroSpin, and it took many calls to the Siemens support desk before the scanner was properly configured. But in the end we got it done.
The cryogenic storage container that held Bishara’s body had been transported from the morgue to the neuroimaging unit. Chin-An and I inspected it with a mix of trepidation and excitement. Four paramedics were standing by to help us.
― Ok, I said. Let’s do this.
I opened the container. Bishara’s body looked oddly blue, but otherwise perfectly intact.
― Lift her up and put her on the stretcher, I said to the paramedics. And make sure you don’t touch her directly. She’s very cold. Gloves only.
The paramedics lifted the body onto a stretcher.
― Ok, now let’s get her into the scanning room, I said. We’re on the clock. She’s defrosting.
We rolled the stretcher to the scanning room. There, the paramedics lifted the body into the scanner. Chin-An sat down behind the computer that controlled the scanner.
― Make it so, number one, I said.
Chin-An activated the scanner. It buzzed and hummed for a few minutes. Then the scan was complete. We now had all the data that we needed for the reconstruction. The procedure had been so quick that it was almost anti-climactic. The paramedics removed the body from the scanner, and transported it back to the cryogenic storage container.
I sent a message to Katya and Banner:
― We’ve successfully scanned Bishara’s body. We’re now heading back to Be’er Sheva to do the reconstruction there. As soon as we have results, I will let you know.
Banner replied immediately:
― great work guys. so excited.
Then I sent a message only to Katya:
― How are things on your end? Any progress?
Be’er Sheva, Israel
― I’m sharing my screen now. Can you see it? I asked.
― Crystal clear, Banner replied.
― Do you know what’s keeping Katya?
― I sent her an invitation to join this conference call. But she didn’t get back to me. Well, let’s just go ahead. We’ll bring her up to speed later. Do you see the button with this little triangle that’s pointing to the right?
― … Yes?
― That’s the play button. Press it.
Chin-An and I had successfully rendered a video that showed what Aisha Bishara had seen during the last two minutes of her life. I pressed play. We watched as the last two minutes of Bishara’s life unfolded in front of us.
― Ok, Banner said when the video had finished. That’s interesting.
Lyon, France
― So here’s what’s going to happen, JC.
I sat in Banner’s office, in the same chair where I had sat less than a month ago. But this time the chair next to me was empty.
― Nothing, Banner continued.
― What do you mean? I asked.
― Nothing is going to happen with the information that we have. The outcome of the investigation will be that former prime minister Aisha Bishara did indeed die as the result of a heart attack—which is even true. And that’s all there is to it. No further details will be released. Aisha Bishara is a saint, and that’s what she needs to be. There’s no reason why anyone should know what’s on that video.
― It only makes her more human to me.
― The world doesn’t need humans. It needs saints.
Banner reached into his drawer and took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured two generous servings.
― Here, he said, handing me a glass.
― Thanks.
― To a job well done. Really, JC. Well done.
We drank in silence for a few moments. Then I asked:
― Jim … What about Katya?
― She has been awfully quiet. And her phone has been switched off for the past six days. That’s not good. I have notified all relevant services, and they are looking for her. But it’s still not good.
― What do you think happened to her?
― I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.
― Please, you can tell me what you think. I know you don’t know. But you must have a hunch. I need to know.
― My hunch is that Mossad didn’t like that she was going around asking about Alon’s whereabouts. And when Mossad doesn’t like someone, that person tends to go missing.
I looked at my glass. It was empty. I handed it to Banner. He filled it up and handed it back.
― But I honestly don’t know, JC, he said. It’s just a hunch. For all I know she simply got tired of doing very bad things and decided to quit this awful business. She could be walking around Moscow wearing your scarf right now.
― … How do you …
― There is no privacy here, JC.
I felt violated, knowing that Banner had been listening in on our conversations. Had Katya known? She must have.
― I’m tired as well, I said. And unsure about things. I need a break.
― What will you do? Banner asked.
― I will go to Moscow and look for her.
― You’d be looking for one woman, whose name you don’t know, and who is quite possibly dead, in a city of over ten million.
― That just means that I can keep looking forever.
I left Banner’s office with a slight buzz from the whisky. I walked down the corridor towards Sandra’s office, where I would reclaim my own phone and laptop, and give back the Interpol-approved devices. I wondered what would happen to the information that was on them. Most likely it would be destroyed. A job well done, perhaps, but all for nothing. Then I stopped walking. I switched on the phone, and watched the video one last time.
The first thirty seconds or so were grainy and difficult to make out. But it was immediately clear that someone else was in the room with Bishara. The point of view was low, as though she was lying down. The quality of the video gradually improved as the moment of her death approached. She was lying on a bed. There was a bottle of wine on a bed-side table. And there were two half-empty glasses. She was wearing stockings, and possibly nothing else, although that was difficult to say because she did not look at her own body. Then something seemed to be wrong. She grabbed her left shoulder as though she was in pain. The other person hurried towards her, and held her. They looked at each other. His face, normally cold and determined, now showed worry and affection. Then the video ended, as the prime minister of the West Bank died in the arms of the prime minister of Israel.