But being children of the Levant, everyone understood this to be merely the opening gambit in the dance of the bazaar.
As the nature of the demands were purely military, the mission fell—after a squabble with Mossad—to AMAN and Special Operations. Benni Baum selected one of his men, a former Matkal commando, to carry the return note—a request for a formal meeting. Dressed in the clothes of a Lebanese farmer and armed only with a pistol, an air extraction beacon, and the legs of a sprinter, he slept alone at Abu Zibleh for three nights, until the pigeon hunter returned. . . .
At the first secret encounter between unofficial representatives, held in a seaside café on Cyprus, only two Israelis were in attendance. One was an attorney, Advocate Ori Neviim, who was trusted by Hizbollah because he was not an employee of any official Israeli body, but had labored for the release of POWs on a purely voluntary basis. The other was Lieutenant Colonel Benni Baum, who had been chosen as Chief of Security for Moonlight. The Minister of Defense had mentioned that Hizbollah’s point man, Sheik Tafilli, had been educated in Frankfurt. Itzik Ben-Zion proposed his German-born Chief of Operations as Tafilli’s opposite number.
While ten Israeli AMAN officers and Matkal commandos hovered anxiously out of sight, Baum and Tafilli quickly established a rapport in Hochdeutsch. They each absolutely refused the other’s conditions, and the four Shiites and two Israelis left the café, pleased that progress had been made—at least in Middle Eastern terms.
After three more meetings, in Monte Carlo, Athens, and Palermo, Ori Neviim had reduced the Hizbollah demands to acceptance of the imprisoned Sheik Sa’id, three hundred pairs of tires, and four tons of nonlethal battle gear, such as combat webbing and field first-aid kits.
The Israeli politicians and general staff were terribly suspicious, and Ori Neviim warned that Hizbollah’s move was, essentially, a separate peace. Other groups, such as Islamic Jihad and Hamas, might certainly attempt to foil such a deal.
Baum insisted, to the initial shock of his employers, that the exchange take place at sea. He reasoned that while the ability to attack an exchange site on any continent was common to all terror teams, the sea power of such factions was negligible. When Baum presented his argument at another emergency Council session, complete with maps, little ship models, and his bellicose yet irrefutable logic, the commander of Israel’s navy said, “And here I thought us White Hats had all the brains. Kol ha’kavod, Baum. All the respect to you.”
And so it was that in less than two weeks’ time, an Israeli missile boat carrying Sheik Sa’id would drop anchor off the northern coast of Morocco. A Hizbollah freighter flying a Liberian flag and hosting Dan Sarel would coast to a halt, and it would be reminiscent of the old cold war exchanges at Berlin’s Checkpoint Charlie. Baum would cross by flexible connecting bridge or Zodiac to take Sard in hand, and Tafilli would do the same for Sheik Sa’id.
Baum would be back in his office, packing up his photographs, and home in time to read the splashed headlines of a story in which his name would never appear. . . .
Benni spun the old-fashioned dial on the big steel safe and placed the Moonlight file inside. He closed it, lit a cigarette, took one last look at the snow-covered cathedral, and was heading for the door when it swung open.
“Good thing I caught you.” Itzik Ben-Zion filled the frame again. He closed the door and backed up against it.
“Don’t worry, Itzik,” said Benni, assuming that the general wanted to reiterate his ban on Eckstein’s participation. “I won’t make a break for it.”
“It’s a bad piece of news.” Itzik never softened a blow. “Just came over encoded, but all the papers will have it in an hour.” He paused.
“Nu?” Baum placed his fists to his hips, while the cigarette hung from a corner of his mouth. Bad news was how he earned his keep.
“A bomb attack at our consulate in New York,” Ben-Zion continued. “Two dead, five wounded, one seriously. It looks like a suicide attack. . . . As a matter of fact, a human bomb.”
Now Baum understood, but he was not diving into this with Itzik just yet. “It’s not Hizbollah,” he stated.
“Who says?”
“I say.” Baum tried to control his exasperation. “At this point, if they want out of the exchange, they know they can just pick up the phone or send another fucking farmer to Abu Zibleh. They don’t have to go blowing up people in Manhattan, koos shel ha’imayot shelahem.” He added the Arabic curse on their mothers because he was not quite convincing himself.
“And he was dressed as a Hasid,” said Ben-Zion.
“A Hasid?” Baum’s eyes widened, and he almost laughed. “Nonsense.”
“It’s on the GSS videotapes.” While Benni’s brow furrowed, Itzik spilled the worst of it. “The seriously wounded man is a Shabaknik. It’s Moshiko Ben-Czecho. He’s just hanging on. Lost a hand and an eye.”
Baum opened his fists and dropped his arms to his sides. He inhaled a long breath and took the cigarette from his mouth. He had fostered Ben-Czecho, encouraged him, coached him. The faces of other men and women who had been crippled by his nurturing flickered briefly through his memory. When would he ever learn that a recommendation to the services was not the same as helping a young man into college?
Itzik finally moved from the door. He sat down on the conference table, while Baum continued staring into space. “Give me one,” said Itzik quietly, and Baum reached into his breast pocket and fished out the pack of Time in slow motion. Itzik lit up with his own lighter.
“He keeps asking for you, Baum,” said the general, in an empathic tone that few ever heard from his lips.
Benni turned to his boss, their narrowed eyes meeting through the smoke. What was Itzik saying? Was he telling Baum that Moshiko needed his adopted father figure at his side but that it was out of the question with Moonlight on the horizon? That would be typical of Ben-Zion, so Benni just waited, and watched.
“Shabak and Mossad will already be all over this like flies on camel shit,” Itzik said.
“That’s right. No reason for AMAN to stick its prick in too.”
“However, given the priority of Moonlight, if my Chief of Operations suspects that this act could be the work of Hizbollah, or a rejectionist faction, and that it might have some bearing on the exchange . . . well, that’s another story.”
Okay, Baum, Benni cautioned himself. Don’t cut off your own nose. “Well, it might be Hizbollah,” he said. “It would be insane, but so would any man who takes them off the suspect list without seeing the evidence up close.”
Itzik nodded slowly. They were making a deal, and Baum would owe him, which was a rare and precious IOU to have.
“Moshiko keeps asking for you,” Itzik said again.
“I heard you.”
“He may not live very long.”
“So why am I standing here?”
“Three days, Baum.” Itzik raised a warning finger. “No more.” Then Benni hesitated, feeling as if he were about to buy a used Mercedes from a taxi driver. Was this some sort of setup? Was Itzik trying to get him out of the way while he turned Moonlight over to another officer or ran the mission himself? But so what? So Benni would not get that one last shoulder clap from the Prime Minister. It wasn’t as if he would have to scratch the chapter from his memoirs, because he couldn’t write them anyway.
New York. Yes, the most important thing right now was to get over there and hold Moshiko’s remaining hand. And just as important, a piece of information most probably forgotten by the boss, was Ruth.
Benni’s only daughter was working on a Ph.D. at Columbia University. She had been there four years now, and they had not seen each other for two. But it was not the physical distance that separated father and child.
They were not on speaking terms. It was a pain that caused Benni, at least twice a day, to rub a spot on his chest like a man who has eaten too much hareef. Some mad bomber far away was offering him a chance to save a soul, and he knew whose soul that was.
“Agreed,” said Baum. “Three days.”
“And you’ll report to me from the consulate,” Itzik ordered.
“As soon as I get there.”
“And if Tafilli gets cold feet from this and wants to push up the timetable”—Itzik wagged the same finger—“you’re on a plane.”
“First flight out,” Baum promised. He looked at his commander. Perhaps Itzik had learned something from his own personal misfortunes. Sorrow changes all of us, he thought.
The general stood, went to the door, opened it, and yelled “Yudit!” at the top of his lungs. He never used an intercom. It was a power thing. Then he turned to Baum. “There’s a military flight out of Ben-Gurion in one hour. I can hold it for fifteen minutes, but no more.”
Baum walked behind his desk, bent to a lateral file drawer and pulled a worn, prepacked valise from inside. When you came to Queens Commando from some other combat unit, your “war kit bag” was exchanged for a suitcase. Instead of clean fatigues, boots, grenades, and ammunition, it held clothing with foreign labels, “backstopping” papers that upheld your cover, toiletries from foreign countries, and a trio of passports, none of which was Israeli. If you had to put a pistol in there too, the chances were fifty-fifty that you were not coming back.
Benni picked up the phone and called Maya. He told her he was leaving for three days and he held the phone away from his ear and grimaced while she yelled at him. Then he shouted back, “I’m going to see Ruth.”
There was silence for a while, then Maya said something in German, then Benni said, “Ich liebe dich auch,” and he hung up.
Yudit appeared in the doorway. She had black curls and bright eyes and a disposition that had made it possible for her to hang on as Itzik’s secretary for two years—longer than any other young soldier had ever suffered it. She treated the general like a senile father, and he enjoyed it even as he growled at her. It was as if he still had one child who tolerated him.
“What is it, Itzik?” she demanded. “I have a date.”
“You’ll have to cancel,” he ordered. “Baum here has to get to the airport. Now. You’ll drive his car.”
“Benni,” she implored, “why can’t you drive it there yourself? Really.”
“I can—” Baum began.
“No you can’t,” said Itzik. “We’re short on vehicles, and I don’t want one sitting in long-term parking for no reason. Now move.” And with that, Ben-Zion strode out into the hallway, having recovered his wits after suffering the temporary discomforts of his own sentimentality. “And call me, Baum,” his departing voice echoed.
Benni shrugged apologetically, wrestled into a leather car coat, and hefted his valise.
“I am sorry, my dear,” he said as he touched Yudit’s shoulder and headed out the door. “If we hurry, you might make it back to your date in time for the good parts.”
“Why, Colonel Baum!” She addressed him with facetious formality. Yudit was twenty-four now and an officer, but she had been working with Benni since her first months in the army. He was like a favorite uncle. “It so happens that I am still quite virginal.”
“Of course,” said Baum. “So is my wife.”
She laughed, closed the office door, and slipped her free hand through his heavy arm. As they headed toward the darkened stairwell, Benni tried to maintain the levity.
“Well, at any rate,” he said, “think of the overtime you’ll be making.”
“A fool’s fortune,” she scoffed, for if the Israel Defense Forces actually paid such bonuses, she would have been as wealthy as a princess.
She looked up at Baum, expecting to continue their banter. But she saw that he was not smiling, his eyes unfocused, on something far away. Something lying in the shadows.
She had seen that look before, when he was flying off to bring back a body rather than a trophy.
Chapter 2: New York
Martina Ursula Klump dined alone, in the farthest corner of the room.
She had a predilection for the last compartment on any Continental train, the dark and cramped repose of final seats inside the tails of airplanes. She preferred the apexes of triangles, where all approaches funneled toward her scrutiny, bringing friends and foes alike into sharp focus.
She had her back to the wall, and usually she was most comfortable that way. Yet tonight her position seemed doubly precarious.
She brought a glass of red Traviche Oak slowly to her mouth, the chiseled tips of her blond hair drifting from her collarbone toward the goblet’s stem as she tipped her head. Yet her metallic-gray eyes failed to focus on the smooth white stucco walls, the polished oak tables and chairs, the waiting water glasses tucked with precisely folded napkins.
Instead, she dropped her gaze to the stack of newspapers piled at the table’s edge. The cover of the New York Post showed a middle-aged man supporting his grief-stricken wife at their daughter’s graveside. The headline postulated in three-inch scarlet letters: JEW VS JEW??
Fools. Martina silently chastised the paper’s editors for their careless speculations, even as she wished against all logic that they might be correct. A tidy conclusion to the mystery of this bombing would certainly ease her discomfort, but she harbored no such delusion, for the investigators in place would quickly look beyond the Hasid’s frock coat for the wolf who no doubt wore it. The saboteur’s technique too much resembled her own signature, and because she was innocent of any involvement, the rage of being plagiarized was multiplied.
Until this moment, all the pieces of her plan had been clicking nicely into place. Now everything was in jeopardy, an unwelcome sensation, as if she sat in a rocker at the prow of a schooner.
She set the wineglass down, raising her eyes to the wall chandeliers throwing flickers over etchings of riding gauchos, framed prints of Buenos Aires, and the pelt of a mountain cat hung beside the lanyards and stones of a bola. Perhaps the Argentine Pavillion was a nostalgic venture into memory, but Martina indulged the digression without shame. It was one of the only restaurants of its kind in New York, lost among a hedgerow of Brazilian haunts on West Forty-sixth Street. She did not go there often, but when she needed to ponder in an ambience that soothed, she would wait until the business crowds had gone and the only other customers were a few lonely Argentine expatriates.
The music was always the same—pianos, accordions, and Carlos Gardel’s warm tenor vibrato, trembling with the soft tango rhythms of years long gone. And the waiters were all immigrants, sad quiet men in black trousers and vests, billowy white shirts, and crisp bow ties. The one who served Martina bowed and called her Señorita, and then he kept his distance.
She felt the waiter’s sidelong gaze upon her, from far away behind the thick oak bar, and she knew that any fantasy of his was chilled by her demeanor, for nothing in her face or form suggested need or friendship. Draped neatly across the finials of her chair, a black leather Andrew Marc jacket framed her upper body, whose athletic curvature was softened by the folds of a white turtleneck. Her legs, long yet sinewed like those of a tennis player, were crossed at the knee and concealed to the ankles beneath a slim black woolen skirt. Her boots were high and laced through many eyelets, with a sole like a runner’s shoe.
Martina never wore a heel unless she absolutely had to.
Like lacquered nails, lace underclothes, and finger rings, makeup also held a lowly place in her fashion lexicon. Her high North European cheekbones, long eyebrows darker than her hair, and slightly cleft chin made artificial emphasis redundant. Although the Middle Eastern sun had added some fine etches at the corners of her eyes, her skin was smooth and thirtyish, six years younger than her passports would have shown, had they been genuine. Her nose was balanced to her features, although its tip was somewhat sharp, and her mouth was very wide, turning slightly downward at the corners.
Empathy was not a trait she projected, yet she did have a smile in her repertoire, a bright and flashing thing that she could summon on demand. But she kept that smile hidden, wearing it behind her li
ps the way New York women wore expensive necklaces, tucking them away to discourage sprinting snatchers.
Martina wore no jewelry besides a silver Rolex watch, although that choice was not in deference to Manhattan street thieves, for she could summon bursts of speed that would leave a mugger gaping. Her body was a tool of her profession, kept taut and lubricated by the running that she favored for its lack of ties to gyms and gear. Still, fleeing was the last response with which Martina faced aggression, for in addition to the Walther P-38 that made her handbag heavy, she had been schooled in hand-to-hand techniques devised for maiming, rather than dissuasion.
She was a woman for whom liberation meant continuing to live as she always had, with the exception of some months in Germany’s Bruchsal Penitentiary, an anomaly she intended never to repeat. Her independent outlook had not altered much since teenage years, nor, hardly, had her appearance, although she had learned that men were quickly fooled by fashionable costumes and sexual misperceptions. A man who saw her crop-haired Wanted poster in the antiterror halls of the Bundeskriminalamt in Wiesbaden would fail to match it to the face that dipped once more toward the newspapers, though no surgical wizard had ever touched her features.
She had also bought the Times and the Daily News, but the Post’s postulations would most likely list her name among the suspects, if that was in the cards at all. Despite the eyewitnesses, Uri Dan, the paper’s Israeli correspondent, was scoffing at the idea that the bomber had indeed been a Hasid. He listed motivated men of Hizbollah, Hamas, and Ahmed Jabril’s PFLP-GC, while on the editorial page Evans and Novak spun a web of reasoning for Zionist conspiracies, a ridiculous theory that the Israelis might have bombed their own consulate. A double spread of inside photos showed the lifted fists of gleeful Amal fighters in Sidon and the bug-eyed visage of Arafat as he sidestepped a full denunciation of the carnage. But nowhere in these pages, or in those of any other paper, did Martina’s name appear.
The Nylon Hand of God Page 4