Promised Land

by Martin Fletcher

  The only thing he looked forward to was the chicken soup with kreplach. And the apple strudel with vanilla ice cream.

  Keton was a landmark, a restaurant older than the state, that began as a kiosk serving ice cream and watermelon and was now famed for its chicken schnitzel and potato salad, as well as stuff from the shtetl he wouldn’t touch, like ptcha and kishke.

  They met at the door at 12:30. “Two yekkes,” Arie said, taking Peter’s hand. “The only two punctual Israelis.”

  “Have you booked?” Sara, the owner, said, as she always did, indicating the empty restaurant. Peter laughed, as usual. “Please try to squeeze us in.” On purpose he led the way to a corner table. He knew Arie loved to sit by the window or outside on the sidewalk where people could see him and he could greet them with his regal wave. The mogul with the big cigar. Peter preferred the anonymity of a table by the wall. “Look,” he said, nudging Arie. “The heavy man with the hat who just sat down outside? Igael Tumarkin. The artist.”

  “I just bought one of his sculptures. For the office lobby. He thinks a lot of himself.”

  “You mean it was expensive.”

  “Any luck with the ladies?” Arie asked, but regretted it; it was a clear segue to Tamara.

  “Not as much as you,” Peter replied, inspecting the menu. “Actually, that’s a sore point.”

  “Why? Sounds interesting.”

  “Believe me, it isn’t.”

  “Try me.” Arie hoped to distract Peter from his sermon of the day. But Peter trod lightly: He was glad Carmel was happy with her new pen pal. Things were quiet at work. Little Diana liked to dance but every time she tried the hora she spun and fell over. The sweetest thing. After they ordered apple strudel and Peter started on Noah and Ezra’s schoolwork, Arie had to interrupt.

  “Sorry, Peter, not that your boys’ Torah classes don’t fascinate me, but you said there was something you wanted to talk about?”

  Peter took a long drink of his beer and set it down with a sigh.

  “Actually, yes. You’re in trouble.”

  “So what’s new?”

  “No. I mean real trouble.”

  Now what? Arie thought. Loans due? Interest. Banks. Debt repayments. Surely he doesn’t know about Miriam. “Why? What do you mean?”

  “A journalist is working on an old police case.”

  “So?”

  “The Schwartz file, the guy they found near the Yarkon River.”

  “Him? That was ten years ago. And it had nothing to do with me. Not that anybody knows, anyway. It was an accident. I don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “I’m not so sure. He found that English policeman, Ludlow, who Harel closed down. He’s retired now, lives in Ashdod, and he’s got a big mouth.”

  Arie leaned forward, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles. He scanned the restaurant, which was filling up. Three people had joined Tumarkin, artist types.

  “Ludlow told him the top floor closed the case,” Peter continued. “He knows there’s a Mossad connection.”

  “So isn’t that the end of the road for him, then?”

  “No. It just makes it a better story.”

  “What can happen?”

  “Worst case? He writes a dramatic story, they reopen the murder investigation, and you’re the main suspect.”

  Arie’s lips tightened. “Could they?”

  “Depends what he learns. You were seen arguing with Schwartz. Your sister-in-law Diana asked for his police file. Ludlow found out. Harel got the police chief to close the file.”

  “Well, he can’t interview Diana.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “That’s not what I meant. But why does he care so much? It happened a decade ago.”

  “I don’t know. Cold murder case? Police cover-up? Mossad?” Peter watched two couples sit at tables nearby. He lowered his voice further. “The name of the millionaire Arie Nesher comes up. It’s a good story for a young up-and-comer trying to make a name for himself.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Yoram Shemesh.”

  “You said he’s young? How young?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “What? Nineteen?” Arie wrote the name on a napkin, then tore it up. No records. “That’s all? Why isn’t he in the army?”

  “He got some kind of deferment. Unfit to serve.”

  “I bet he is,” Arie said. “Who is he writing this rubbish for?”

  “He’s a freelancer. HaOlam HaZeh is interested.”

  “That left-wing rag.”

  He’s cool as a cucumber, Peter thought, but hard. All he wants to do is fight back. Never underestimate him. “You know the editor, Uri Avnery; a police cover-up is right up his street.”

  “I’ll get someone to do a story on the kid, get him before he gets me. If he avoided army service, let’s get him on that. Did he lie to get out of serving? Is he a pacifist, a conscientious objector? Maybe he’s got a police record himself? How close is he to publishing something? I’ve got a couple of big deals going through, bad publicity could rock the boat.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Arie. If you plant a story against him, he’ll find out it came from you and that will make it worse. It’s probably better at this stage to lie low, don’t draw attention to yourself.” That’ll be the day. Lying low was not his brother’s forte. “There’s something else,” Peter said.

  “Don’t tell me it gets worse. What?”

  “About something else. About Tamara.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, there’s enough on my mind right now,” Arie hissed, hitting the table with the palm of his hand. The young couple two tables away looked up at the bang. “Mind your own business.”

  “You talking to me or them?” Peter said, pulling back slowly from the table, his calculating eye’s fixed on his brother’s. Arie’s burst of anger faced Peter’s cold appraisal, for with one phrase from Arie, they both understood their fight was in the open: Tamara was Peter’s business, and always had been.

  Peter finally asked the question whose answer he already knew. “The letter I gave you, years ago, before you married her, for Tamara. You never gave it to her, did you.”

  “What letter?”

  “You know very well. When we first met Tamara, and I went away on a job, I gave you a letter for her, asking her to wait for me. You didn’t give it to her, did you?”

  “What? When? Fifteen years ago? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You have a very selective memory, don’t you.” Peter said.

  Arie shifted in his chair, folded his arms. “It’s true, I block some things out,” Arie said. “That’s how I carry on. But a letter for Tamara? No, never happened.”

  PETER and ARIE

  TEL AVIV AND PARIS

  May 1964

  The Paris station was Mossad’s largest in Europe but Mahmoud al-Faradis would speak only to Peter Nesher. “If anybody else turns up, I leave,” he warned the station chief.

  Peter had recruited the Egyptian army officer, code-named Nile, during his years sabotaging Nasser’s rocket program, and earned his confidence by keeping every promise he had ever made. When Nile’s infant son needed surgery for his polio Peter had even arranged a private clinic in Paris, as well as, to relieve Nile’s understandable stress, a tall blonde. A camera lens concealed in the hotel room’s ceiling lamp had recorded their grunts and groans, but that was routine.

  Nile was a useful source of information, and when he switched from the army to the Mukhabarat, Egypt’s General Intelligence Directorate, he became a gold mine. Because his new area of responsibility was the same as Peter’s, only the opposite. His job was to help the Arabs of Palestine. Peter’s was to stop them.

  Now in Paris to meet leaders of the nascent Palestine Liberation Organization, Nile had obtained their first plan of attacks against Israel’s water carrier, as well as against Israeli targets in Europe.

  Places. Times. Methods. Names.

  An intelligence coup, for
Nesher’s eyes only, in return for fifty thousand American dollars wired to the Swiss bank account Peter had set up for Nile years earlier. Peter needed to fly to Paris immediately.

  “It’s just one night,” he told Rachel, “maybe less. I’ll try to come back the same day.” The trip was poor timing for Peter. Diana, one-and-a-half now, could manage an hour at Gan Dahlia, Dahlia’s play-school, but then bawled for her father, couldn’t be consoled, and had to be taken home. He was hoping she would learn to enjoy the other children and would stay longer, maybe the whole morning, to give Rachel a break. Dahlia said she would adjust with time. But Peter was worried he didn’t have time, that Rachel would give up her job of mothering his daughter. What then? She also cooked lunch for the boys. Was it becoming too much for her? He paid her well, but if she stopped, and he couldn’t blame her if she did, who would look after his children?

  He wasn’t much of a dad, but what else could he do? Fate had been more than unkind. He loosened his seat belt, pushed back his seat, and closed his eyes. Six hours to Paris.

  He tried to sleep, thought of his children, and then … oh, Diana. A low groan escaped his throat. It had been a year and seven months. Every day when he held his daughter, played with her, kissed her, he thought of Diana. He always would. Poor little Diana, with no mother. Poor little Peter, with no wife.

  He woke up thinking of Nile. Fifty thousand was way too much. He’d get him down to ten, with the promise that they’d buy a lot more information. Nile wouldn’t be happy, he needed money to pay his son’s hospital bills, fund his gambling addiction, and support the wife he couldn’t abide who managed their villa in Cairo and their horse farm outside Alexandria. But lately Nile had shown signs of independence, as if he thought his new job gave him the upper hand. If Nile didn’t agree to ten thousand, it may be time to use the photographs, although somebody else should play bad cop. It wouldn’t go down well in Cairo that the tall blonde was a man.

  A few hours in Paris should be enough. The station chief was ready, three rings of security, with a twist. Everything was arranged for Nile to meet Peter in the Café des Sports in Saint-Sulpice, except that when the hour came and Nile entered the café, an agent brushed against him at the door and told him to leave and go straight to the Bar de la Nuit in the parallel street.

  Peter was waiting alone in the corner. Two elderly men at the bar dipped almond biscuits in their coffee and cognac, watching soccer on a small television set high on the wall. Behind the shiny wooden counter a stout lady in spectacles dried beer glasses. At a window table a young couple held hands over a plate of cheeses. Good people. Peter had helped oversee their training course.

  Even though he hadn’t met Nile in six months, Peter wanted to get this over as quickly as possible. He hoped to make the evening flight back to Tel Aviv, to be at home in the morning when Diana went to play-school. He felt the good-bye ritual gave her confidence and it was important that she feel good there. He really couldn’t afford to lose Rachel, she was a safe port in the storm. He had to sort his life out.

  Peter stood when Nile approached and indicated the chair. He greeted him with a German-accented Arabic salutation, to which Nile replied in German, “Grüss Gott.” Their usual friendly sparring. Nile placed his leather attaché case at his feet and before he sat ordered a double cognac. Peter raised an eyebrow and continued in English. “What’s that? Celebrating? Drowning your sorrows? Plucking up courage?”

  “None of those,” Nile said. “Just trying to get through the day.”

  After inquiring about the health of his son and his other children, and the well-being of his wife, Peter broke the news, in a low voice, that he could only pay ten thousand dollars, and even that only when the Office had analyzed the documents and agreed they were worthwhile: “To be paid in the usual way.” He was surprised by Nile’s quick agreement.

  “Is something wrong?” Peter asked. A bead of sweat on Nile’s hairline glistened in the electric light. Was Nile’s hand shaking? Peter glanced around the room, met the eyes of the woman at the window table.

  “Do you have the papers?” Peter said.

  “Yes, I do.” Nile hesitated, leaned forward and reached into the attaché case beneath the table. His hand searched in the case. Peter tensed. Three feet away the young man pushed his chair back while the woman flicked the safety catch of the gun in her purse.

  * * *

  At that moment in Tel Aviv, Arie shook the hand of Yoram Shemesh. “I heard you were a young journalist,” Arie said, “but, to be honest, you look as if you should be in middle school.” He was thin and frail. He looked as if he could do with a good meal.

  “People say that. I feel a lot older though. Nice office.”

  “Thank you. Follow me, this is the lobby. Tea? Coffee? Water?”

  “Nothing. This sculpture—Tumarkin, yes?”

  “You have a good eye,” Arie said as he passed the reception desk. “Tammy, a coffee for me please, and some lemon water.” At the end of the corridor he held his office door open for the young man.

  Shemesh crossed to the window. “Quite a view.”

  “Sit down. Here,” Arie said, indicating the suite of sofas around a coffee table. The journalist set down his backpack and took in the office: a large wooden bookcase with few books but sculptures in bronze and clay. On the wall hung paintings and framed photographs of Israel, Bedouin rugs were scattered around the wood floor, and the desk was piled with papers and files. A second sitting area by the corner windows.

  “This may be the largest office I’ve ever been in,” Shemesh said.

  “How can I help you?” Arie said, throwing out his arms. “I understand you want to write a flattering profile of Israel’s leading businessman.” His smile was not returned. Shemesh seemed lost for words. Arie waited, accepting a coffee from his secretary.

  “Well?” Arie said.

  At last, Shemesh asked, “Why did you agree to see me? You have a reputation for avoiding the press.”

  Arie shrugged. “Why not? Times change. Every businessman could do with some good publicity. I have nothing to hide. Fire away.”

  Shemesh took out his notebook, his pen hovered. Avoiding Arie’s eye, he said, “I probably should have said earlier, but it’s not exactly a business profile I’m working on.”

  “Oh, really? Then why did you ask to interview a businessman?”

  Shemesh blushed. The silence was becoming awkward. “Well?” Arie said.

  He blurted it out. “I’m writing a report about a police murder case and I was told you may have done it. Or rather, you may be a suspect. Or you were. Once.” He tried to look at Arie but couldn’t.

  “What? Done what? What are you talking about?”

  The young journalist’s face creased, almost in pain. He’s plucking up courage, Arie thought, and became almost impatient: Come on, out with it, how much do you know? He waited.

  Finally: “Did you know a man called Hans Schwartz?”

  That took Arie by surprise. “No, I don’t. I didn’t. Who is he?”

  “You may have known him as Yonathan Schwartz. Or Yoni.”

  “Ah,” Arie said. “Yonathan Schwartz. Now that rings a bell. Let me see, now.” All he wanted from this meeting, the reason he’d agreed to see the journalist, was to find out how closely that English policeman had linked him to Schwartz. Did the police know they’d met the night he died? Had they been seen together? Did this young man know everything the police knew, or just some of it? “Why do you ask? What about this man?”

  “You knew him then?”

  Arie exhaled. “I certainly know the name. But you’re going back a long time. I’m not sure I can remember much. Why don’t you help me, why do you think I know him? And what if I do?”

  “As I said, the police think you murdered him.”

  “Oh. Do they? Why would they think that? And if they do, why don’t they arrest me?”

  “You’re very calm?”

  “Am I? How should I react to such a lu
dicrous claim coming from nowhere, or rather, coming from the mouth of … how can I say this politely … you. You come into my office for an innocent interview and then you accuse me of…”

  “Not me. The police.”

  “When am I supposed to have committed this murder?”

  “Ten years ago.”

  Arie laughed. “Well, I didn’t kill anybody ten years ago, or any other time. Why do they think I did? And why are you writing about it now, after all this time?”

  He could see the journalist was nervous. He gripped his pen tight, he was beating his foot. Arie poured him a glass of water. “What is it?” he said. “Are you all right?”

  Yoram Shemesh took a long drink, and a deep breath. “The police report,” he began with a shaky voice, that became firmer, “shows that Yonathan Schwartz was found with his head crushed. They found blood nearby and footmarks of at least two people. The marks in the grass and earth were over each other, deep, in a small area, as if there had been a struggle. So they believe there was a fight and Yonathan Schwartz either fell or was beaten.” He studied Arie’s reaction.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. The police know Yonathan Schwartz argued with a man the same day in a Dizengoff café. They say that man was you. Is that true?”

  “So they think I killed him.”

  “They wanted to interview you, but they were told to drop the case.”

  “I suppose because it was a stupid thing to believe.”

  “No. The policeman investigating you was very angry to be pulled off the case. It was hushed up.”

  “Hushed up? Who by? And how do you know?”

  “I spoke to the policeman. He told me himself. He said there was only one suspect. You. He also said you knew Yonathan Schwartz from the war. That you were in the same concentration camp.”