The time spent in the nights of the Reef is starting to pay off. I’m still waiting for another breakthrough from Cliff, but for now, today I have a meeting with a truly special couple. (Here I jump in time; most interviews were done earlier, but this one feels more relevant.) We meet at the Pelikan, a club frequented by the Ukrainian-Russian diaspora on the Perem. Club, pub, cinema all in one. Tonight is sold out, and not just Ukrainians and Russians are here, but the very essence of the Reef. A star performer is expected; we wait. But for now, we talk.

—Hi. Can we go back? I mean, from your arrival at the Reef. Could you tell me a bit about that?

Daria – Sure. This is new to us, too. We were received as political refugees, but since then, we have obtained permanent residency. Many people from many countries stood by us. Julija (Navalnaja – ed.) and the union (the EU – ed.) helped a lot. But even aside from that, we found friends here.

Artem – And what friends! We slept on Alex’s (Alexander Tsoi – ed.) couch in the first weeks, then Julia and Leni (Julia Volkova and Lena Katina – singers of t.A.T.u. – ed.) handed over their old apartment to us. You know, it doesn’t work like on the continent; everything is state-owned here, except for those five. And supposedly, the Elder also spoke up in our favor.

Daria – Shush, ozornoy, don’t advertise that. Load it instead and let me talk.

Artem nods in acknowledgement, loads, we drink, and he leisurely rolls a cigarette while Daria starts talking.

Daria – We arrived not long ago, about a year ago. Not long after the Great and Beautiful Budapest Agreement. That night, November fourth, when the press wrote about it, Artem and I were already together. We listened to the radio together in one of Kupyansk’s hospital bunkers. Many of us were listening, Ukrainians and Russians together. We all cried. We mourned our country, our freedom, the years of war, and we mourned our dead. We sang Oj, letila strila together.

—Am I correct that you were a nun of the Saint Basil order at that time?

Daria (smiling) – Yes, I was. God’s ways, right? If I hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have met this milyy duren. (She strokes Artem’s beard.) But I was, and I got to know him. Not in any small way. Don’t ask, I’ll tell you. My great-grandfather was a Cheka officer, my grandfather was lost in the Holodomor, my father was a KGB officer, and I became a nun. My faith is strong, and God tested me. And I chose Artem. I saw his face, I knew he was Russian, a soldier, but the enemy didn’t look back at me—my life did. He was tired but wanted to live, and so did I.

—Love at first sight? Romeo and Juliet?

Artem – Yes! Definitely. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t believe in denazification. I believed in anything Putin said, but those blue eyes would have stolen me even if I hadn’t been lying on a Ukrainian bed in a Ukrainian bunker.

Daria – I hated the Russians back then. Artem and I learned Ukrainian together; I had only ever spoken Russian. I could barely talk to anyone else but this krasavchik.

—And still, what brought you together besides the Russian language?

Artem – Viktor Tsoi. That’s it.

Daria – Yes. Tsoi. And the realisation that this war means nothing—and yet everything. The future of the youth of two peoples, two countries. I think everyone has the right to choose where, how, and why they die. War takes that away. The right to self-determination. Imagine you put Russian and Ukrainian guys together at a concert: will it end in a fight or hugs?

—We’ll find out soon. Can we move on to your band?

Artem – Damn, I thought that’s why we’re here. (Coughs and hands over the joint.)

Daria – (inhales deeply, passes it on, holds it back, cackles) – So, the band. When Artem recovered, it turned out he plays bass, I play drums. We gathered my old band. Before the invasion started, I had a few bands, mostly playing in Kyiv. Csókolom, Ahnesa Pysar, things like that. We played in smaller clubs.

Artem – And on Maidan. Don’t leave that out, darling.

Daria – And on Maidan, indeed. But that was long ago, I was a child, in middle school. So when the boy got out of the hospital and the SBU surveilled us, we started rehearsing. The guys accepted it slowly but quickly. I think they trusted me and my choice. Still, the SBU kept an eye on us for months. I don’t blame them; it was war, and however it is, Artem is Russian, and I’m closer to Russians on the Bandera–Shukhevych axis than I should be. Whatever. We founded the tribute band Robertovich Ne soglasen (Робертович Не Согласен). We mainly play Kino songs, but we have original tracks too.

—So that’s why so many people, so mixed, are waiting for you?

Artem – Drug, these guys just want to party, pogo, flirt, laugh. They don’t want to remember the shame. Russians, that they crushed a country; Ukrainians, that they were crushed. Our job is to remind and help process simultaneously. Because no one forgets Bucha, neither the dead nor the children of the killers.

Daria – (winks at me, lightly smiles, grabs Artem’s wheelchair)

Artem leads, waving the stubbed joint wildly, his stumps kicking. The sudden-blonde girl pushes them where he says, her hazy, blind gaze sees some indescribable horror, but she doesn’t look at it anymore, just into the inscrutable future.

ngie, Angela. I met her somewhere in the Outer Zone. I was in bad shape, and she picked me up, carried me home — to her place. Chirp-chirp. That’s how it goes. I collapsed near the docks and woke up at her place. She made a soup that could raise the dead. She really did remind me of my grandmother. My hands were shaking from withdrawal, and she just kept spooning the good stuff into me. Fuck, I’m either going to die here or move on from here. For now, I just have to survive.

Janina’s grandfather was a lieutenant in the PLW (the independent Polish Air Force, Polskie Lotnictwo Wojskowe). They fled as far as England from the 1939 invasion. Janusz, the grandfather, trained the famous 303 Squadron pilots; his son, Stanisław “Stanko,” the squadron’s ace pilot, crashed over Normandy after ten confirmed kills. He left behind one daughter, the only descendant of the McGregors, Janina “Jennie.” She fled to the Reef to escape a life sentence. British governments from Thatcher to Starmer did everything to put this frail old woman behind bars on terrorism charges. I wrote “frail” and “old woman,” but that’s not quite true. Jennie is old, well over eighty, but not frail. She is one of the toughest fighters I have ever met. A terrorist? Who am I to judge. In British eyes, certainly.

Janina is not a member of the Five, at least not officially. Officially she isn’t even allowed to stay on the Reef. In fact, she’s not allowed in any country on Earth. She has no citizenship. Her decorations from the British Admiralty hang on an anonymous war memorial. Her friendship with the late Golda Meir is known in certain circles but generally belongs to the heavily suppressed category of urban legend.

That she seeks me out is the biggest surprise. She invites me to lunch, free of any conspiratorial frills. The rickshaw sent for me stops in front of a tiny Pakistani kiosk. I’m a bit disappointed — ever since I received her message, I’ve had some childish tingling that she would slip a burner phone into my pocket at the market crowd or something James Bond style.

I’ll be honest: I’m a little embarrassed.

No matter. She nods kindly and, with the same motion, sinks the phone I’d prepared for the interview into her bag. I’m about to ask, but she cuts me off.

Faraday bag. They know where you are and with whom, darling, but not what we’re saying. Better this way.

She waves across the street: out of the corner of my eye I see an old turbaned man wave back. Janina has embedded herself here as few from the West ever have. I fumble with my notes awkwardly. I give up fumbling and ask instead.

Can we start at the beginning? With the Real IRA connection?

Darling, of course. Everyone starts with that question. What are you curious about? Bobby? Should I tell you how he died, how they died? Well, he too was born of a mother.

You mean Bobby Sands, right? Actually, I wanted to ask about your past.

My past? — She laughs, coughing, her voice rough. — Sweetheart, my past is just like the O’Neills’. It bloody well doesn’t matter. I can trace back three hundred years which bastard Englishman we shot when, and they can do the same, back and forth. Likewise, I know which Polish noble, which Soviet officer, which Nazi we shot. Let’s leave that. The Tommies live here with us, we hate them, but they won’t leave. Nor will the Communists or the Fascists.

Yet you’ve lived here only one generation. How did you reconcile Polish traditions with the Irish-Scottish world?

In some ways it’s simple. I wasn’t even ten when we spent a good month in Budapest, in Horthy’s Hungary, already in the shadow of the swastika. Poland was a stone’s throw from the Kingdom of Hungary, and my father had Hungarian relatives. That’s how. During the Great War we already lived in London, or rather father lived in London and we around Aberdeen. When the Admiralty was looking for manpower, it was no question I’d volunteer. Alan (A. Turing — ed.) personally assessed and recruited me along with that girl who seemed silly at first, Joan or whatever her name was. My father should have meant a straight path. But it didn’t. — She smiles. — Alan didn’t make it. Sinéad and I did. You know, being gay back then was a criminal offense. — She smiles again, but not happily. — The authorities turned a blind eye to two lesbians but couldn’t let a queer man run free, not even if he was a war hero. Especially since he wasn’t a war hero. Section 5 wanted to erase him and everything he’d done. And they did. — She drifts off again. — I ramble, sorry. Eastern Europe and all that comes with it is my heritage. The Second Great War, papa and my father too, that’s my heritage. And Bobby is, too.

That’s what I wanted to ask: how did you get involved, if at all, with the IRA? What shadow did it cast on your ties to British intelligence?

Boy, I got into this circle back when Alan did. The Brits denied everything, by reflex. Maybe Fleming was the only vent for the steam. The entire Western bloc denied — that was the reaction: deny first, then see.

Did the attempt on Lord Mountbatten’s life fundamentally change that?

No and yes. Yes but no. The Dickie hit had many consequences. This was at the same time as the Warrenpoint ambush. Even the Kings disagreed, the IRA was divided. My codename back then was “Queen Annie’s Revenge” and in that capacity I took part in the Kings’ meetings. The Brits based a raid on my cover. I based a turn on theirs. (A “turn” — in spy slang — is when you flip an agent to your side — ed.) — She muses, drawing deeply on her cigarette. — Look, son. Brighton was a turning point. We saved Thatcher but lost part of the Cause. Enniskillen — there I fought on the side of the Cause. We failed. I was only a supporter in the Flavius operation, and I had nothing to do with the Deal bombing except providing operational support. Gary Davis and Gordon Smart, they were my guests. We didn’t coordinate with the Kings; that bombing happened without my knowledge and sealed my fate on both sides.

The Deal bombing happened in 1989. By then you were no longer a double but a triple agent.

Double, triple, thousandfold. Son, in this world there aren’t sides but weights. As a Pole, an Irishwoman, a Brit, and yes, as a Jew, I leaned not toward sides but ideas. In youth, during the war, British law and order obviously attracted me. As a Pole, anti-Communism did the same. During the Cold War the Irish idea of freedom was stronger than anything except Israel’s struggle for survival. And yes, Golda flipped me in one conversation. She was an exceptionally strong character, a fearsome person in her quiet way. Not even comparable to that chala’á, ben zoná Bibi. — She spits sharply, her face showing for the first time deep emotion: genuine hatred. I would be stunned but she composes herself so quickly there’s no time. — Zevel, I tell you. If Israel is ever truly pushed into the sea, then Nyahu’s tombstone will be our last memory. Shame on us to the seventh generation.

I’m embarrassed again. Awkwardly arranging my notes. I want to return to the Golda Meir connection and Israel.

Let me help. — She lights another cigarette. — Golda reached out to me, not personally, in early 1970. And no, it’s not true she did it through the British government. Not personally, but let’s say through the 00s. — She laughs. — Fleming would really enjoy this conversation. So Golda reached out through David. (It’s unclear if she means Ben-Gurion — ed.) The West Germans and MI6 organized the rendezvous, I assume with CIA support. I assume, but can’t confirm or deny. We met in London, then in Paris with De Gaulle’s tacit consent. The General had died a few years earlier, but the Republic respected his will. We did too. At that time the Republic and the State of Israel didn’t have a smooth relationship, at least on the surface. But everyone was preparing for war, the one you call Yom Kippur. The French, the Brits, the Jews, and the Arabs all knew the time for the next trial was coming. Our only advantage was the minyan and the tenth man. Originally that was ten men gathered for prayer, but in the new age the tenth man’s duty is to doubt. If nine agree, the tenth must disagree. That’s how we won the ’73 war and the Z World War as well. — She winks over the cigarette smoke, mischievous but her gaze holds more pain than joy. — That’s how I met Golda. After the war. We won, if you can call it that. She didn’t. Suriyah and Mitzráyim, if not Israel, broke the Israeli society and especially Golda. The state has never recovered since. As I see it, it won’t until Bo ha-Mashiach. So never. There is no God, no Messiah and no peace while we chase those two.

With that you’ve summed up your view of Israeli politics and, I think, the two-state agreement as well. Yet in light of that, what brought you to the Reef?

Oh, son. — She laughs, coughing, lighting yet another cigarette. — I made enemies of all the great powers of the West and of Israel too. Where else would I go? These stupid hippies grew up on idealists like me. Who do you think the Old Man read when he was still Young? And what world did I dream of when I was young? This one. And so did they. At least the world before the Troubles.

What did you offer before the Troubles? Could you outline a functioning system for them?

She thinks, drawing long on her cigarette. — No, I couldn’t, and I’d have been lying to them, to the Old Man and to myself, if I’d offered a functioning system. Look, I never dealt in better systems. I was never a believer in the two-state agreement. I wanted it, I want it, but I didn’t believe in it, because I couldn’t afford to. I didn’t believe in the Reef either, not even when the Old Man poured his whole soul into what we now see failed.

It’s late in the evening, but if I may, would you tell me more about your role during the Troubles?

With a quiet smile she takes my phone from her handbag, slides it under my hand, pays, and with the elegance of a near-hundred-year-old lady blows a kiss and leaves. I’m stunned, struck. My words caught. I stagger home dizzy.

 From here, it’s a cat’s jump to Masada — 17 minutes, nothing for the IDF, and even less for Hamas. Less still if they swear their oath here.

מצדה לא תיפול שנית – Metzada lo tipol shenit – “Masada shall not fall again.”

Masada is a neuralgic point for Israel, and it’s no coincidence that it is for the Defense Forces as well.

Footnote: Masada was the last bastion of Jewish resistance. Around seventy years after Christ, nearly a thousand Jews committed suicide here — and, my Catholic friends, that’s the greatest sin. The ultimate act of self-sacrifice.

Imagine everyone you love burning on a pyre — that’s what the people of Masada did. And Rome burned everyone alive.

Not the first time, not the last, but once again this goddamn pulp-shot saved my ass and mind.

No, fuck no, not Tubi, you dirty mother. Tubi. Is. Shit. Period.

But Fi’s mix, different story. Here’s the recipe: half an orange, one lemon, half a green shite (lime, I assume how the little angry goblin called), all squeezed out, helluva-strong curry, pepper, cinnamon, and one big dose of fuck you, plus a splash of “shit-my-guts.”

Light up a ciggie—never hurts. Hurts, but what not. You’ll crap yourself anyway, first figure out what and where you’re having breakfast. And a shit. Keep your eyes on the shitter, rule number one.