Bashert

by Lior Samson

  The last time he saw Lev was at a small café in Haifa, Yafeh Nof. They sat at a table outside and looked out over the harbor in the distance without talking. It was warm but windy, and Lev placed his hand atop the paper napkin under his cutlery to keep it from blowing away. Migdal tucked his under the edge of his plate.

  Lev had made clear before they met that it would be the last time, that it would not be good for either of them to be seen together again. They sat for several minutes without ordering, without speaking.

  “Why?” One word, just one word. That’s all Lev said.

  Migdal didn’t know what to say. What was cause, what was effect? Had he quit because of the move? Did he start Trade Now because he had quit? Migdal only knew that it all fit together. It made sense. It seemed right. Like being with Shira, which seemed the most right of all and which made everything else more right.

  “Bashert,” he said, a one word answer for a one word question.

  Lev stood, turned slowly, and left. On the napkin where his hand had rested there was a faint image of a string of digits. Migdal casually picked up both napkins, crumpled them, and threw them into a waste container. As he walked away he entered the digits into the directory of his cell phone under the letter L.

  34

  2003 — Shira tucked Bini into bed and kissed his hand. “It will be all right,” she said. “Those bad men won’t come here. No one will hurt you.”

  “But what if they had Uzis and they grabbed Uncle Avi and put him in a box and then they used big machetes to chop down the door and come in here?”

  The mind of a five-year-old, she thought. “It’s okay, my imaginative boy. Uncle Avi and I will both protect you. No one will hurt you. Now, close your eyes. It’s almost light and you need to sleep.” She kissed him again, then left and gently closed the door behind her.

  Avi, who was no relation to Shira but was Uncle to everyone, opened his arms. “Come, my Shira, my singer of silver songs, you look wretched.” He hugged her lightly. “I’ll make some chamomile tea for you. With honey. It will help.”

  “I’m sorry to drag you into this. Migdal told us to come here. He’s into something, I don’t know what. I thought he was through with all that stuff, but something with Trade Now must have blown up in his face.”

  “Don’t tell me about it. That way if the bad men come with Uzis and put me in a box they won’t be able to get anything out of me.”

  Shira laughed. “Okay. I’ll take that tea now.”

  They sat in the tiny kitchen and sipped their tea and talked until daybreak, speaking of everything except Migdal and Trade Now.

  “You go get some sleep now,” he told her. “I’ll take care of Bini today. He can stay home from school one day. I’ll introduce him to some of my old IDF buddies who will show him some of their souvenirs and give him history lessons.”

  “Oh, just what he needs. More war stories to fuel his imagination.” She went around the table and kissed Avi’s neck. “Someday you’ll have to tell me one of your war stories. I still don’t really know how you and Migdal met, what got you together.”

  “I never met Migdal. I did meet a Mitchell Rossing once. Served under my command. Nice young man—spoke wretched Hebrew—but he was a good soldier.”

  “You are such a tease, Uncle Avi. But he’s not a young man anymore. He’ll be 60 in a few years—hard to believe. I keep finding myself thinking that he and I are the same age, that we’re just an ordinary young couple with a boy in school. Then I’ll look at him and notice how white his hair is and realize it’s the illusion I cast to keep from thinking about him getting old and me losing him. And then something like this happens, and I realize age has nothing to do with it, that I could lose him tomorrow.” She started to cry. Avi stretched to reach a tissue from the box on the counter. She wiped her eyes, then took a slow, deep breath. “British training,” she said. “My father never let us cry. He was army, too. The War, that was the only way he ever referred to it. The War, in capital letters and italicized. He never talked about it, just referred to it, except for how he met my mother. They both liked to tell that story, although actually the war was over by then.

  “I do go on, that’s for sure. Well, I’m off to bed for a few minutes. You may think you will take Bini today, but believe me, he’ll be by my bed fifteen seconds after he awakens, asking, as loudly and happily as only a five-year-old can, whether I am awake.”

  35

  To Karl, the stainless steel and stone of the arrivals hall at Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv looked much like any other modern airport. Aside from the Hebrew letters on the multilingual signs, it could have been almost anywhere in the world. But it was not. It was the gateway to the Land of Israel and differences quickly became evident. Aside from the uniformed guards and officials, there were those in plain clothes who simply stood around and watched. Every so often one would approach a passenger singled out for no obvious reason and start up a conversation. And there were the soldiers, in pairs and armed with Uzis, who were everywhere. They stood to one side as an official flipped rapidly through Karl’s passport like a Las Vegas hustler dealing cards. They followed with their eyes when Karl was told to take the line to his left. One look at the line and Karl knew he had been profiled. Ahead of him were two men in the white robes of traditional Saudi dress, ahead of them, a young man in coveralls and hair down below his shoulders leaned on his guitar case, and waiting at the yellow line a dark-skinned young woman in blue jeans and a loose sweater nervously picked at the edges of the hijab that covered her hair. They had all been singled out for special treatment.

  When Karl finally reached the immigration official, the questions began, polite but insistent. Why are you in Israel? What do you do? What kind of a consultant are you? Is this your only passport? How long were you in Switzerland? Did you like it in South Africa? Where are you staying in Israel? How long will you be in the country? What was the weather like yesterday in Bayern? This last was asked in perfect German, which threw Karl for a moment.

  “Schön, aber zu kalt,” he stammered.

  The agent handed him back his passport, then looked over his landing card. “You did not declare your laptop. It is required, you know.”

  “I don’t have a computer with me.”

  “What kind of a consultant did you say you are?”

  “I told you already, information systems.”

  The man looked up at him, his face pleasant yet nearly expressionless, but the tilt of his head conveyed disapproval.

  “Information systems,” Karl repeated. “I’m traveling light. I figured there must be Internet cafés somewhere in Israel. I can file blog entries and do email from …”

  “Please, just answer. And where are you staying?”

  “As I said, Tel Aviv. I’m staying in Tel Aviv.”

  “Where are you staying, Mister Lustig?” He pronounced the name as if it were German.

  Karl reached into his jacket and withdrew his PalmPilot.

  “That’s not allowed in here.”

  “Yes, of course, I forgot. But the name and address of the hotel is in here. I travel so much I never remember those things.”

  “And you are visiting whom in your consulting?”

  Karl, unprepared, thought quickly. “Siemens,” he said, certain that they must have offices in Israel.

  “Which office of Siemens?”

  “Headquarters.” More quick thinking.

  “But you’re staying in Tel Aviv. Siemens Israel is located in Rosh Ha'ayin.”

  “It’s not that far. I’m renting a car.” He bluffed, figuring that nothing was all that far in tiny Israel.

  The agent stared at him for several seconds, then handed over the declaration card. “Please take your bag over there, we want to check it.”

  After his bag was x-rayed again, they opened it on a table and began methodically removing its contents and laying them out neatly beside the bag.

  “And what is this?”

  Karl froze.
What had Ulrich done to him? “It’s a laser pointer. You know, for pointing at things when you make a presentation.”

  “It is prohibited on board. It could be used as a weapon.” Karl started to protest a rule that he had never heard of, but then stopped himself. “Please open it,” the agent said, handing it across the table.

  Karl unscrewed the cap and dumped the batteries on top of one of his shirts on the table. The agent looked over the batteries, then took the pointer back and inspected it carefully. He called out to one of the other agents, who came over.

  Be calm, Karl told himself. As Ellen used to say, the important thing is not to be afraid. Breathe slowly, act indifferent. He waited while the two inspectors talked in Hebrew.

  “I checked with my colleague. The power on this laser exceeds the limit allowed for import into Israel. In fact, it exceeds standards of the European Union, so you should not have brought it with you from America. We will have to confiscate it.”

  “Sure, okay.”

  The inspector lifted up the empty bag, studied it, and ran his hand around the inside. “Is this your bag?”

  “Yes, it’s mine.”

  “And these letters written on the inside—U. B.—what do they mean?”

  Karl shrugged. “I have no idea. They were there when I bought it in a second hand shop.” He was beginning to enjoy himself.

  “And where was this shop?”

  “In Cambridge—Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

  “Are you sure you did not get this in Germany? It is a German brand.”

  “Yes, that’s why I bought it. Good design. A lot of the stuff on sale at the shop must have been from foreign students.”

  “What is the name of this shop?”

  “I don’t remember. But I could take you there. It’s right near Harvard Square.” Karl smiled at the man.

  “Okay, you may put your things back.” He handed Karl his passport. “Have a nice stay in Israel.”

  After Karl picked up his rental car, he got on Highway 1 toward Tel Aviv, then drove directly to his hotel on the beach front. It was expensive but offered the anonymity of a high-rise that appealed to affluent American tourists and well-placed European business travelers. In his room he locked and chained the door before zipping open his bag and dumping the contents on the bed. He studied the rolling duffle Ulrich had given him, looking for clues, for anything that might distinguish it.

  He squeezed the release on the telescoping handle and pulled it out until it locked in place with a metallic click, then squeezed again and pushed it back. He opened it once more to inspect the broad rectangular tubing. It was held open by the usual arrangement of spring-loaded ball bearings in the inner tube that engaged small holes in the outer one. Karl squeezed them and tugged at the handle. It gave, and the whole assembly slid out. He took out his keychain with the little blue LED flashlight on it and shown it down into the tube protruding from the bag but couldn’t see anything. He upended the bag and shook it, but nothing came out. Then he turned to the other section. Unlike the sheet metal outer tube, the inner tube was a thick-walled extrusion. Odd, Karl thought. He tried to pull the handle from the tube, but then saw it was held firmly in place by blind rivets. He studied the other end. The spring-loaded ball bearings were in a kind of carrier assembly fitted inside the tube. He squeezed hard on the ball bearings, pressing them in as far as possible. The carrier wiggled. He reached for his keychain with his free hand and used the blade of one key to pry at the assembly. It sprang out and landed on the bed along with the magazine from Ulrich’s Glock. Karl shook the other parts out onto the bed.

  “What have you done to me, Ulrich Bremer? What have you done?”

  He put the pistol together and did some pretend target practice until the moves and the feel of shooting returned from the deep recesses of memory, until the long travel and extra force required by the Glock’s signature trigger-embedded safety became familiar. Then he took the time to run through assembling and disassembling the custom Glock several times before carefully returning the parts to the telescoping tube. It might as well stay with him, he figured. It might yet be needed. If it could get past multiple x-rays and Israeli security, it could go anywhere. But if he was right and it were to be more than just a symbolic comfort, he would have to get ammunition. Back home he knew he could just walk into a Wal-Mart for a box of ammo, but here he had no idea where to start. Well, it can wait, he thought as he clicked home the handle of the luggage.

  Although Shira Rozeyn had said nothing about contacting her first, Karl wanted to let her know that he was in the country before he drove up to Haifa. There had been two telephone numbers on her Web site, and he figured one of them must be a home phone. He dialed each on his cell phone and let it ring a dozen times before giving up. Well, he thought, I’ve come this far, I might as well go the distance.

  He waited until morning to drive up to Haifa. Under normal circumstances he would have taken great pleasure from the drive—new sights on a new road in a new country—but he was so anxious and so preoccupied with his current predicament that everything passed in a blur. In a sense, he still was not in Israel. Usually, Karl preferred smaller and more distinctive hotels, but in his room after checking into the hotel in Haifa, another high-rise, he thought about the advantages of the hotel hegemony, the few giant multinational chains that could be found everywhere. Once inside any such hotel, you could be anywhere —across town or across the world—and the surroundings were familiar.

  He grabbed the remote control off the night stand, turned on the television, and stepped through cable channels looking for CNN, hoping there might be an update on the sniper in München or the FBI agent killed in Boston. He watched with the sound muted and ordered room service as the abbreviated headlines crawled across the bottom of the screen.

  The war in Iraq, America’s Bushwar, as Karl referred to it, dominated the news and pushed out the smaller stories. Karl turned the television off and sat on the bed. He was thinking about what to do next when his cell phone beeped: an incoming text message. It was only three characters long, from Ulrich: “???” Karl sent back an equally terse response: “!!!”

  He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling until the faint pattern in the plaster melted into smooth pudding as he dozed off. Suddenly, his eyes opened. Who said that? Must be imagining things, he thought. He looked at his watch and did some quick math. You’re slipping Karl, you forgot to reset your watch to local time. It’s time, time to go meet Shira.

  36

  The café was crowded inside but only three people braved the late afternoon chill to sit at the outside tables. One, a dark-haired woman, sat alone, her head turned toward the restaurant as if she were reading something on the bare wall. As Karl approached, she turned and looked up at him with reddened eyes and a grim, tight-lipped smile.

  “Slicha, he said. “Shira?” She answered him in Hebrew. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Hebrew.” He pulled a Berlitz phrase book from his pocket and held it up. “Just a few words I picked up on the plane, that’s all.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry,” she said. “Yes, I’m Shira. And you must be Karl. Please, sit. We can talk here.”

  Karl sat opposite her and started absent-mindedly straightening things in the middle of the table before taking a menu card. “Oops, more Hebrew,” he said.

  “Turn it over for the other language of Israel.”

  “What’s that, Arabic?” he said, flipping the card. “No, English, of course. I don’t really want anything but a coffee anyway.” He turned and stared at the wall, as she had been doing a moment before, then faced her again. “Okay, so, I’m not sure just how to say this, but your husband …”

  “I already know,” she said, lowering her eyes. “A friend … a friend of ours called me a few hours ago and told me what happened. The … the friend is arranging for his body to be shipped back.” She choked back tears.

  “I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I still don’t even know why I’m
here or what any of this has to do with me. If you’d rather I just go, I’ll understand.”

  “No. I’ll be all right, at least for a little while. My training in British stoicism just needs to kick in. There will be time to fall apart later, but for now I have my son to worry about and too much stuff to sort out.” She paused, studying her folded hands for long seconds before beginning again. “My husband always led a somewhat dangerous life, Mr. Lustig. I suppose none of us should be surprised by something like this. You just always tell yourself that it is not going to happen to you. At least I did, and I suspect Migdal did, as well. I suppose by now you know that he was with Mossad, which was dangerous enough, although he never really talked about it. Then he started Trade Now, which I think was even more dangerous. I don’t know why he was killed, but I am pretty sure it had to do with that. Maybe one of his Palestinian clients was angry over a deal gone bad, or maybe the Israeli far right took him out, as you might say, because they wanted to end his work with the Palestinians. Sometimes Migdal even thought that Mossad was after him for quitting.”

  “Forgive me for interrupting, but that is interesting,” Karl said. “Maybe they, the Mossad, are after me, too, although I can’t imagine why.” He told about being followed, about his apartment being ransacked.

  “I am sorry that you’ve been dragged into this, but your apartment does not sound like the work of Mossad. Unless they wanted merely to frighten you, I suppose. It would be more like them to have gone through everything without you ever knowing they had been there. They are usually rather sophisticated in their methods.”