done your research, I see. Good, but I mean my Sasha.” She paused to let that sink in. “I want you to understand why she’s mine, and why we share a mutual drive to find her, even if for different reasons, I must tell you her little known story. The one that won’t appear on any of your reports or files, even after I tell you.”
“Understood,” Ochoa said.
“I like you already,” she said. “A man of action that gets it straight away.” She turned to Odehl, and said, “Robert be a dear and hand me a bottled water, if you have one in that tiny fridge I hear humming behind you.”
Odehl complied, and by the time he handed her the bottle, she had tossed a pill in her mouth which she now chased down with a gulp of cold water.
“When Americans hear the word ‘Iran,’ they think of hostages. In Israel we think of a vibrant diaspora dating back to the time of Esther and decimated in the years leading up to the 1979 revolution and immediately thereafter. Many emigrated, many were killed or imprisoned, and of the few that remain—” She paused, melancholy flashing on her face. “The census counts are inconclusive because, as a matter of survival, many of the stranded do not acknowledge their ancestry nor practice their religion openly. You may call these the stranded, hidden diaspora. Sasha Javan, whose real name is Rachel Bauman, came from a family in this latter category.”
Chana took a sip of water and slowly swirled it in her mouth for a few seconds before she continued. “Sasha never knew this. Her parents died of causes unknown when she was still an infant. She never knew them, or has ever been told about them. Adopted by Iranian family friends, she grew up an Iranian girl through and through, though she never quite fit in. She was rebellious and quite modern, too modern for Iranian society. Her mother, a childless woman with only Sasha to fill the void, sent her away to England for her college studies.”
Chana took a slow sip of her water. Her eyes grew distant, as if her memories had transported away.
“It was there I met her. After discovering my family connection to her, that she was my niece, through means not relevant to your investigation, I sought to meet her and finally did. I never told her she was my niece, figuring that would ruin many things. By then she was nearing completion of her undergraduate work, as you call it here, and wanted to come to America, to Boston’s MIT.”
Chana Bauman shifted in her seat and took another sip of water. “This was quite expensive, and a visa would be required. So I put her in contact with a British-based Iranian charitable organization that quite enthusiastically agreed to send her to America, all expenses paid. I knew some friends that knew some friends, I told her, and that took care of the visa.”
“You paid for her education, too, I take it,” Ochoa said.
“Sharp,” she said. “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”
“I didn’t. I just asked.”
She smiled. “You didn’t ask, and you know it.”
“You wanted her to work for the Mossad, for you,” Ochoa said. “That’s why you didn’t tell her how you were related, figuring she’d be far more effective if she thought she was full-on Iranian.”
“Sharper still,” Chana said. “But I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss any further details about her recruitment or her involvement with my prior employers. For that I refer you to my embassy and the prime minister himself.”
“Why then do you tell us this story, Mrs. Bauman?” Ochoa asked.
“To help you navigate the minefield, Agent Ochoa. Everyone with half a brain knows Martin Spencer is going to Sasha, my Sasha, like a heat-seeking missile honing in on a bonfire. When you find him, you’ll find her as well. Give her back to me, unharmed, and you’ll have my deepest appreciation.”
“My mission is to retrieve Martin Spencer. I cannot guarantee anything but that.”
“Not so sharp, Agent Ochoa. Not sharp at
“Understood,” Ochoa said.
“I like you already,” she said. “A man of action that gets it straight away.” She turned to Odehl, and said, “Robert be a dear and hand me a bottled water, if you have one in that tiny fridge I hear humming behind you.”
Odehl complied, and by the time he handed her the bottle, she had tossed a pill in her mouth which she now chased down with a gulp of cold water.
“When Americans hear the word ‘Iran,’ they think of hostages. In Israel we think of a vibrant diaspora dating back to the time of Esther and decimated in the years leading up to the 1979 revolution and immediately thereafter. Many emigrated, many were killed or imprisoned, and of the few that remain—” She paused, melancholy flashing on her face. “The census counts are inconclusive because, as a matter of survival, many of the stranded do not acknowledge their ancestry nor practice their religion openly. You may call these the stranded, hidden diaspora. Sasha Javan, whose real name is Rachel Bauman, came from a family in this latter category.”
Chana took a sip of water and slowly swirled it in her mouth for a few seconds before she continued. “Sasha never knew this. Her parents died of causes unknown when she was still an infant. She never knew them, or has ever been told about them. Adopted by Iranian family friends, she grew up an Iranian girl through and through, though she never quite fit in. She was rebellious and quite modern, too modern for Iranian society. Her mother, a childless woman with only Sasha to fill the void, sent her away to England for her college studies.”
Chana took a slow sip of her water. Her eyes grew distant, as if her memories had transported away.
“It was there I met her. After discovering my family connection to her, that she was my niece, through means not relevant to your investigation, I sought to meet her and finally did. I never told her she was my niece, figuring that would ruin many things. By then she was nearing completion of her undergraduate work, as you call it here, and wanted to come to America, to Boston’s MIT.”
Chana Bauman shifted in her seat and took another sip of water. “This was quite expensive, and a visa would be required. So I put her in contact with a British-based Iranian charitable organization that quite enthusiastically agreed to send her to America, all expenses paid. I knew some friends that knew some friends, I told her, and that took care of the visa.”
“You paid for her education, too, I take it,” Ochoa said.
“Sharp,” she said. “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”
“I didn’t. I just asked.”
She smiled. “You didn’t ask, and you know it.”
“You wanted her to work for the Mossad, for you,” Ochoa said. “That’s why you didn’t tell her how you were related, figuring she’d be far more effective if she thought she was full-on Iranian.”
“Sharper still,” Chana said. “But I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss any further details about her recruitment or her involvement with my prior employers. For that I refer you to my embassy and the prime minister himself.”
“Why then do you tell us this story, Mrs. Bauman?” Ochoa asked.
“To help you navigate the minefield, Agent Ochoa. Everyone with half a brain knows Martin Spencer is going to Sasha, my Sasha, like a heat-seeking missile honing in on a bonfire. When you find him, you’ll find her as well. Give her back to me, unharmed, and you’ll have my deepest appreciation.”
“My mission is to retrieve Martin Spencer. I cannot guarantee anything but that.”
“Not so sharp, Agent Ochoa. Not sharp at
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