Although Yosevitz was divided by the conflicting calls of Communism and Zionism there was no division in his mind when he considered the business of espionage and assassination. Only total efficiency was acceptable; if one agent was suspect then a whole network could collapse. And Hamid the Arab was suspect.
Yosevitz walked down the Nablus Road past the YMCA. The Walled City lay behind him. His cheap, pointed shoes looked very precise in the moonlight, his walk feline and deliberate. If he had been in charge of the operation he would not have worked with the Arabs. But his masters in Kensington and Moscow had insisted that the Arabs be consulted. Particularly the guerrillas who were now more powerful in the Middle East than kings or presidents. After all, they had said, it is their war. But what they had really meant was: We mustn’t let them think we’re trying to operate independently because we might lose their trust – and our footing in the Middle East. In other words: We must not let the Chinese in as we did in Tanzania.
As he approached the block where Hamid the Arab was waiting for him he was stopped by two patrolling Israeli policemen.
‘Shalom,’ they said.
‘Shalom,’ he said.
‘Are you a tourist?’
‘Not really – I’m here for the geological conference.’ He spoke in Hebrew.
They both nodded. One of them said: ‘You speak very good Hebrew. Perhaps you should stay in Israel. Do you like it here?’
Yosevitz said: ‘Very much.’ He answered immediately, spontaneously, truthfully.
They smiled. They reminded him of friendly New York cops on the beat. Or friendly Moscow militiamen when the frost was not too hard.
One of the policemen said: ‘There has been a bit of trouble inside the Old City tonight. Nothing very serious. A grenade near the Western Wall. We’re checking everyone who seems to be heading away from the walled city.’ He looked as apologetic as a policeman ever can. ‘Do you have any papers with you?’
Yosevitz smiled and inwardly applauded Israeli efficiency. ‘My passport,’ he said. ‘And a few other credentials. I’m staying at the Intercontinental if you want to check me out.’
They checked his passport and the senior of the two said: ‘That won’t be necessary. Happy digging, Mr Yosevitz.’
Hamid the Arab stubbed out the loosely rolled cylinder of hashish he had been smoking to help him forget the undignified events of the morning and listened with restraint strengthened by the marijuana to the wrath of Matthew Yosevitz.
Yosevitz said: ‘Why did you interfere? Tell me that, Hamid. Why?’
Hamid said: ‘It seemed the obvious thing to do. I should have thought that you would have organised something similar.’ He regarded a tray loaded with rice and mutton without enthusiasm and offered it to Yosevitz.
Yosevitz removed the tray from the small table in the apartment occupied by an Arab civil servant. ‘Did you act on your own initiative?’
‘I did what I knew was right.’ Hamid gave a benign, drugged smile. ‘You were not there so someone had to act.’
‘There are more sophisticated ways of tackling such matters. It seems to me that we are working against each other.’
‘I do not think so.’ Hamid split a matchstick and began to pick his teeth. ‘But you must understand my position.’
‘What position?’ Yosevitz stared angrily at the features of the Arab stupefied by hashish. First an incompetent Arab, now a drugged one. ‘Why did you snatch that briefcase, Hamid?’
‘Will you take a smoke?’
‘Of that stuff? You must be crazy.’
Hamid shrugged. ‘So I will tell you about “my position”. The fact is that although I do not think we are working against each other I do not feel happy about our partnership.’
‘And why is that, Hamid?’
‘I have already told you once – because you are a Jew.’
Yosevitz took off his gold-rimmed spectacles and polished them. In other circumstances Hamid would have been dead by now. Executed for disobedience, insubordination and incompetence. Better a corpse than a liability. He polished the lenses thoroughly and put his spectacles on again. Finally he said: ‘I do not think they would like to hear in Amman that you have jeopardised the supply of Soviet arms by disobeying Kremlin orders.’
Hamid frowned hazily. ‘They would not,’ he said. ‘But why a Jew to help defeat the Jews?’
‘Don’t bother yourself with the answer,’ Yosevitz said. ‘Now, where are the contents of the briefcase?’
Hamid carefully rolled another cigarette. His tigerish features, sleepy with marijuana, were apprehensive. ‘The briefcase was empty,’ he said.
Five minutes later Yosevitz lit a mentholated American cigarette and relaxed. The recriminations were over, his anger had spent itself: Hamid had bungled the snatch so comprehensively that he had firmly established his secondary role in their uneasy partnership. ‘You realise, of course, that you have scared Bartlett off?’ he said.
‘It seems to me that he had already been scared off. Otherwise he would not have emptied his briefcase.’
‘That does not necessarily follow. He probably took the briefcase into the Old City to go shopping. The fact remains that the only certain way of getting this information is to capture Bartlett himself and extract it from him. After that we can perhaps get the papers.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’
‘I shall need the help of some of your colleagues across the border.’ Regrettable, Yosevitz thought, but unavoidable. ‘Bartlett is going on a tour tomorrow with the Israeli girl Rabinovitz. I have taken the precaution of discovering where they are going.’
On the way back to the hotel Yosevitz again met the two Israeli policemen.
‘Shalom,’ he said.
‘Shalom, shalom,’ they said.
ELEVEN
From Jerusalem they drove north towards Nablus in a Jeep acquired by Raquel. At Nablus they took the right fork to Beit Shean.
‘There was some shelling there this morning,’ Raquel said. ‘A few Katyusha rockets. But that happens nearly every morning.’
In Beit Shean entrances to the apartment blocks were sandbagged, the walls scarred. It seemed to be a hot and dull place to Bartlett.
Raquel said: ‘And now you must see the River Jordan.’
They stopped a few miles farther on, knelt down and peered across the green valley of the Jordan – little more than a stream making its way round a windshield of cypress trees. Beyond lay the crumpled limestone hills of Jordan. Beside the road the grass was long and feathered and embroidered with yellow marguerites and crimson poppies.
Bartlett stood up to get a better view. To his right, on the Israeli-held bank of the river, he saw the snout of a tank nosing out of the bushes. In front of him, across the Jordan, there was a mound behind the cypress trees.
Raquel said: ‘I should get down if I were you. That mound is bristling with guns.’
Bartlett got down. In the long grass he saw a quail regarding him with a bright and cynical eye.
They were shown round the Gesher Kibbutz by a small alert man called Dubi. The name, he said, meant Little Bear.
Bartlett said: ‘Were you shelled this morning?’
Little Bear smiled. ‘Like every morning there is some shooting. But not often do the shells reach us. Sometimes they do.’ He showed them the deep pock-marks in the walls of the canteen.
Raquel said: ‘Dubi, tell him about the mines.’
Dubi shrugged. ‘There is not much to tell. Most nights the Arabs cross the Jordan and lay mines. We can always tell because we see footprints in the dust. But our tractors are specially protected with steel and not so many get hurt.’
Raquel said: ‘You see, Thomas, that is the spirit of these people. They live under the barrels of the Arab guns but they will not leave.’
In the shelters babies were still sleeping. On the surface two workmen were deepening the escape trench. Another was supervising the watering of the sweet peas and the cropped lawn
s.
Bartlett put his stock question to Dubi: ‘Can you see any end to it?’
Dubi said: ‘We must be allowed to negotiate our own peace. We have been let down before.’
Bartlett was becoming accustomed to the reply.
‘Are they not wonderful people?’ Raquel said as they drove parallel with the River Jordan towards the Sea of Galilee.
‘They are,’ Bartlett said. ‘Would you like to live on a Kibbutz?’
‘No,’ Raquel said. ‘Would you?’
‘No,’ he said.
They laughed.
They stopped at the southern tip of Galilee. Bartlett stood on a miniature Renault tank captured in the 1948 fighting and Raquel took his picture. The water was very calm and crowded by low green hills. Bartlett tried to imagine Jesus of Nazareth walking beside the water which was silver now and rippled with slight waves like fish scales. But biblical evocations did not come easily to Bartlett the geologist.
They drove to Tiberias along the shores fringed with rushes and marguerites and placards forbidding bathing. At Tiberias the smell of sulphur from the health springs was hot in the air.
‘And now,’ Raquel said, ‘we will leave Israel and visit the United States.’ The Jeep climbed the hills at the northern end of the Sea of Galilee and stopped outside a ranch called Vered Hagalila. It was run by an American from Chicago.
They ate chicken in the basket in the bar and read the brochure. It said: Stop over at Arab villages, dine with the Sheikh (or his assistant).
Bartlett said: ‘You are a very good guide. I’m glad you were forward enough to talk to me on the plane.’
‘If I hadn’t you wouldn’t have said a word throughout the journey.’
‘True.’ Bartlett sipped his wine. ‘Tell me one thing, though. Why are you showing me all this?’
‘Are you not interested? Am I wasting my time?’
She picked at a chicken leg. Her leonine eyes were angry.
Bartlett said: ‘Of course I’m interested. Don’t be so touchy. But I thought you had come out to implement some of the knowledge about soil irrigation that you picked up in the United States.’
‘Tomorrow I shall. Today I thought I would show you something of my country. But if you are not interested …’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ he said. ‘You know I’m interested. It’s the most wonderful tour I’ve ever had.’
Outside two American tourists led their horses towards the stables. A tourist, Bartlett thought, really got his money’s worth. The facilities of Texas, a biblical background – and the possibility of dining with a sheikh or his assistant.
Raquel said: ‘That’s all right then. I am glad that you like it. I do not know why you should question my motives.’
Bartlett raised his hand. ‘Forget it,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry.’ He picked out the wishbone from his basket. ‘Here, pull this with me.’
‘Why do you want me to pull the bone?’
Bartlett explained. They pulled the bone and Raquel won.
‘Now wish,’ Bartlett said.
She closed her eyes very tightly as if she were facing her executioners.
‘Have you wished?’
She nodded.
‘Well, don’t tell me what you wished or else it won’t come true.’ He finished his wine and added thoughtfully: ‘Did it concern me?’
‘Will it stop the wishing from coming true if I tell you?’
‘No,’ Bartlett said. ‘Did it concern me?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It did.’
‘Ah.’ He watched a noble horse trotting past with a plump woman ignobly astride it. ‘Perhaps you will tell me when it comes true.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Now I think that we should be going. I have a lot to show you.’
She stood up and Bartlett observed her breasts pushing at her silk blouse. Thoughts which did not follow in the footsteps of Jesus began to assert themselves. He said: ‘Where are we staying tonight?’
‘At a Kibbutz not far from here. But first I want to take you up the Golan Heights to show you. just how incredible our victory was.’
‘I know how incredible it was,’ he said.
‘You don’t want to go?’
‘Of course I want to go,’ he said.
They visited Mary Magdalen’s birthplace and the Church of the Multiplication where you could buy a biblical map for thirty cents and a bottle of sour wine. Then they ascended the Golan Heights pursuing the retreating white crest of Mount Hermon suspended in a mauve haze. The hills were buttered with marguerites and honeycombed with Syrian bunkers. Russian T34 tanks and armoured cars languished on the roadside, rusty and impotent.
Raquel said: ‘Was it not amazing how the Israelis captured these hills despite all the fortifications?’
‘It was pretty clever,’ Bartlett said.
‘In the old days the Syrians spent their time shelling the Israeli villages on the low ground. They used to kill many fishermen on Lake Kinneret – or Galilee as you call it.’
They drove through Kuneitra where the Israelis had turned the Syrian Army billets into a Kibbutz and headed south again towards Rosh Pina. It was dusk when they arrived at the Kibbutz near Galilee.
Bartlett showered and changed and bought a Scotch at the tiny restaurant bar. He scrutinised the diners in case there was a glint of gold-rimmed spectacles or the flash of a Nasser smile among them. He wandered into the foyer where tourists were examining showcases of watches and jewellery. It was not his conception of communal endeavour.
He went back to the bar and ordered another Scotch. The elderly barman looked at him as if he were a drunkard. Bartlett bought him a drink and the disapproval was converted into a conspiratorial smile. Bartlett jingled the ice in his glass and tried to analyse Raquel’s attitude towards him. It was difficult to believe that such a young and urgent girl could be interested physically in a geologist peering into middle-age. Nevertheless Bartlett’s egotism allowed that it was possible.
He also examined his own feelings towards Raquel. The affinity was already strong and when she wasn’t around he missed her. He didn’t think he was in love with her: he hoped he wasn’t. But there was no doubt about his desire to make love to her. Throughout his marriage he had never been unfaithful, despite Helen’s accusations of infidelity and her own adultery. After ten years of marriage it would be strange to make love to another woman. And sad in a way.
Raquel joined him and ordered a dry Martini. ‘That’s your American Jewess ordering,’ she said. ‘Not the Israeli.’ She wore a green silken dress cut low at the breast.
He said: ‘This isn’t how I imagined life in a Kibbutz.’
‘This isn’t like life in a Kibbutz,’ she said. ‘This is a Kibbutz hotel for tourists. The real Kibbutz is separate.’
They ordered soup and gefilte fish and chopped liver and red Carmel wine.
Raquel said: ‘We seem to have passed a day without an attempt on your life.’
‘The day is not over yet.’
She sipped her wine. ‘Have you really no idea why you were shot at?’
Again Bartlett considered telling her about the presidential call. But it would still make him sound certifiable. ‘None,’ he said. He made his first acquaintance with gefilte fish and decided not to prolong the relationship.
‘Have you a gun, Thomas?’
‘No, but I wish I’d had one with me yesterday.’
‘Yesterday?’ she said. ‘What happened yesterday?’
‘The Arab in the Old City. I told you about it.’
She looked at him intently. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you haven’t told me anything. What is this about an Arab in the Old City?’
‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘I could have sworn I told you.’
A dark-skinned waitress with blue-black hair brought them the liver. She smiled at Bartlett and he smiled back. It was certainly a friendly country, he thought.
Raquel said impatiently: ‘No, you told me nothing. What happened?’
‘An Arab pulled a gun on me. Luckily a couple of Israeli police came up. But later he managed to snatch the briefcase.’
‘Good God,’ she said. She put down her fork.
‘You sound more perturbed than you were when I dug up the bullet.’
She took a drink of wine and said: ‘It’s only that it all seems so incredible.’ She paused. ‘You’re so careless. Why did you let this Arab steal your briefcase?’
‘It could have been worse. I could have got shot.’
‘You don’t seem very worried about losing all your papers. You even forgot to tell me about it.’
‘What papers?’ he said.
Her impatience lapsed into irritation. ‘The papers in the briefcase, or course.’
‘There were no papers in the briefcase. Just a copy of the Jerusalem Post.’
Relief replaced the annoyance. ‘That was very clever of you, Thomas. Where did you put the papers? In the hotel safe?’
‘Initially,’ he said.
‘What do you mean, initially?’
‘I put them in the hotel safe and then took them out again. It seemed to me that if there were people so intent on stealing them they would not be put off by the combination of a hotel safe.’
Raquel looked at him admiringly. ‘You astonish me,’ she said. ‘Every day I am finding sides to your character which I never would have believed existed. It is perhaps such characteristics that helped you to win the war.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said.
‘Where did you put the papers?’
Bartlett poured them more wine. ‘If you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘I’d rather not tell you. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. But I think it would be better if no one other than myself knew.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
He put his hand over hers. ‘Of course I trust you. I just think it would be better that way.’
She took her hand away. Her face was haughty. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
The waitress brought them coffee.
The Twisted Wire Page 8