Promised Land

by Martin Fletcher

  “So, do you know anything about it?” she said, pulling her hand from his.

  “No, I told you, I don’t. Why do you ask?”

  “He mentioned a name that his brother gave him once, somebody his brother said that if ever something happened to him, he should contact this person.”

  “To say what?”

  “He didn’t say. I think it was just to find out the truth. Whatever that is.”

  “So what was the name?”

  “A funny one. A German name. That’s why I thought of you.” She took out a piece of paper and read the name. “Willi Stinglwagner.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Mahmoud al-Faradis told his brother, my client, that this man was a Mossad agent working in Europe, a German, or more likely an Israeli. That’s all I know. And … so … guess who I thought of.”

  “Your brother-in-law.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you want help with the Shin Bet, to get them to leave your client alone.”

  “You’re so quick.”

  “Did you tell your client you knew someone in Mossad?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Tamara, it’s very important you keep it that way.”

  Peter stared out to sea, at the golden ball settling at water’s end, half hidden in clouds. A minute went by as he worked the odds. What were the chances that an Israeli Arab, brother of a Palestinian terrorist, could know that he was Stinglwagner? Why had he approached, of all the lawyers in Israel, his sister-in law? Chance? Peter didn’t believe in chance. But if they knew his identity they could reach him directly, they wouldn’t need to go through Tamara. In fact, they’d avoid her, rather than widen the circle. So maybe it was a coincidence after all. And why wait a year? Anyway, what would they want from him? Revenge, to kill him? To send him a message? He sucked his lip. For none of that would they need Tamara. Or to open a back channel? He swiveled his head. Could they be following her? Who? Why?

  No, he decided. Nobody could know who Stinglwagner really was. And going through Tamara was too complicated, too iffy. This must be a coincidence. But he would take no chances, he needed to find out who Tamara’s client was, have Shin Bet pick him up again, do what they do best, and find out what the hell was going on. Gingie would take care of that.

  “So,” Tamara finally said, “a penny for your thoughts. Did I hit a nerve? Do you want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

  “No, I don’t. I can tell you something else I’m thinking, though.”

  “Yes, Peter?”

  Jarred by his own words, as if he had challenged himself to speak up, Peter studied the sea. He watched the orange-tipped waves roll gently landward, until he found his hand reaching for Tamara’s. He held it in silence, felt its warmth, felt her fingers curling around his in response, knowing he could not stop now. There would never be the perfect time. And he had wasted too much of it already. Peter caressed Tamara’s fingers until at last he turned toward her, hope pounding in his heart.

  ARIE

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  December 1966

  Arie surveyed the tin roofs of Neve Tzedek, a low sprawl beneath him that stretched almost to the sea, an island of poverty in the midst of Tel Aviv’s building boom. I should buy out the Yemenites and Moroccans there, he thought, and build. He examined their crumbling roofs and dense alleys. It’s so close to the sea, that land is a gold mine, and it’s on my doorstep.

  On clear days, which was most of them, the view from his new offices stretched north past the power station at Sde Dov to Netanya and south to the hill of Jaffa and the cross of the church whose name he could never remember. He congratulated himself: It’s the best view in Israel, not bad for a boy from … He paused. A sense of irritation disturbed him, as it did each time he looked out. Why hadn’t he rented higher floors? The view is much better from up there. He still had the option for a residence on the top floor of the tower, but the municipality was claiming the building had no residential license, only commercial. Well, he’d deal with that. Why else had he been cozying up to the mayor and paying off half his staff?

  He turned as his secretary, Sharon, knocked and opened the door. “Your ten o’clock,” she said. “Larry Larone.”

  Arie managed a smile and pointed to the white leather sofa. “Larry! Sit down, please. How are you?” Larone was the uncle of his daughter’s American pen pal, Alice. The girl wanted to come and work on a kibbutz next Easter for a few months, and Larone had used that slim connection to meet the Israeli tycoon and pitch a truly off-the-wall business proposition. And yet, Arie had been intrigued. “Any luck at the dig?” Arie asked. His English was good, with an accent more staccato German than slurred Hebrew.

  The Texan, tall and thin with a carefully trimmed goatee, walked right by Arie to the double window, as did most visitors. “Oh my Lord,” he said, “what a view! And look at Jaffa for Heaven’s sake, there’s St. Peter’s, the beacon for pilgrims to the Holy Land. And the hill of Jaffa, where Saint Peter raised Tabitha from the dead. And to think, you gaze upon this holy sight every day of your life. You are indeed blessed, Arie, even if you don’t believe a word of it.”

  He shouted with laughter—Heh!—and slapped Arie on the shoulder: “Let yourself be guided by the Lord, Jesus Christ, our Savior, and all will be granted to men of faith.”

  “Thank you,” Arie said. “I will try. But in the meantime, any luck at the dig?”

  “The well, you mean. We’re not there yet. But have faith, for the Lord guideth us. Not to green pastures, but to black gold.” Another loud Heh! “But seriously my friend, I need to know, did you decide, will you invest? Can you improve your offer?”

  Arie poured a glass of water and reached across to the oilman, who in return gave him a colorful brochure. Arie could not decide whether Larry really was a devout Christian who truly believed the Bible pointed to vast oil reserves beneath the Holy Land, or a con artist.

  Apart from salt and a few chemicals in the Dead Sea, Israel had no known mineral wealth. Yet with half the Arab world growing rich from oil, it made no sense that there was no oil or gas buried beneath Israel. Why would it stop at Israel’s border, a line in the sand?

  Arie was deeply invested in transport, from building roads to selling and servicing cars, so the logical next step was to provide the fuel for the engines. Finding oil would be the master coup. But could he really trust this Bible-thumping, God-fearing evangelical Texan with the strange leather boots and silver string tie who had wrung a drilling concession from the government based on ancient biblical prophecy? Here it was at the head of the prospectus, in large bold blue type: “And of Asher he said, Let Asher be blessed with children; let him be acceptable to his brethren, and let him dip his foot in oil (Deuteronomy 33:24).”

  The Texan’s company was drilling near Haifa, in the Carmel mountains, part of a region known in the Bible as the “foot of Asher.” “Oh praise the Lord!” Larry had shouted, “the Lord keeps his promise. Trust in the Lord for His word is Truth!”

  So far the wells were dry. But the Bible was explicit. Referring to the land given to the twelve tribes of Israel, it stated that oil would be found where Asher’s foot met Joseph’s head. “Well, maybe not explicit, but more or less,” Larone had said. “It’s implied that where the two lands meet, that’s where it is. That’s where we’re digging, we’ve found signs of hydrocarbons. We’re reaching the Jurassic crest.” All man has to do is believe, dig, and wait for the gusher.

  And all this man, Arie Nesher, had to do was finance the wait. One million dollars would last a long time.

  Not a chance, Arie had said. After all, what if the Bible was referring not to crude oil but to olive oil? For the region was blanketed with olive trees and always had been. His offer: three hundred thousand for 51 percent of the company. It was worth a gamble, he thought, and what Larry didn’t know was that he was covering his bet by backi
ng an Israeli company that was searching for gas offshore.

  After twenty minutes, Arie walked the Texan back to the elevator through his offices, pointing out company names fixed in bronze to each cluster of doors: his empire, renamed Feather Holdings. “Textiles, construction, automobiles, a chain of grocery stores, another chain of pharmacies, an insurance company, and more. We’re a conglomerate now.”

  “So why so mean?” Larone said. “Make it eight hundred thousand, I could never persuade my partners to sell 51 percent for three hundred Gs.” They stopped by the kitchen, a recess with water and a coffee machine.

  “I shouldn’t have boasted about my company,” Arie said. “Listen, it isn’t only about money. With me you get contacts, proteksia, I can get things done, smooth things over with the mayors, the party, even the police if necessary. Think of me not only as a business partner but as a facilitator, consultant, analyst. The best there is. That’s who you’re bringing into the company.”

  When the elevator door closed on Larone, who promised to work on his partners, Arie returned to the coffeemaker and waited for the water to boil. He needed a moment. He had presented himself as the dynamic, successful businessman, image was everything, but that wasn’t how he felt. With all the buzz around him in the media, and his employees bustling in the corridor and others with their heads down at their desks, he still felt a cold sweat. All was not well with the business. Insurance and pharmacies were performing well, but they were the sectors with the least investment and external financing. Every other sphere was struggling to remain in the black while construction and automobiles, where he was most leveraged, were hemorrhaging money. His business plan was that his earnings grow to pay his debt, but instead his earnings were falling. His next meeting in an hour was at Bank Leumi, which was threatening to call in two separate loans. He needed to sell assets to pay the debts, and quickly, but the economy was drying up. Foreign investment had slowed, government financing was disappearing, immigration was down, so was demand for housing, cars, everything. He felt like banging his cup on the table. Moshe had warned of this a year earlier. He should have listened to the old coot. The economy was in free fall and he was going down with it.

  The oil and gas investments—should he do them? However bad the situation today, he still needed to build for tomorrow. He was on a bicycle that needed forward motion or it would crash. Borrow, buy, consolidate, profit, sell. That had worked so far, and for it to continue to work, to build more wealth, he needed to invest in the future while divesting some of the failing businesses. But again, back to the same problem: who will buy? Nobody can get financing.

  It seemed for Israel, after eighteen years of statehood, the party was over. The economy was a game of musical chairs and he was left without one. Arie felt ill. He was way overextended. But he couldn’t admit it or the sharks would lunge. His only way forward was to invest more, bluff, and extend the terms of his bank loans. After all, the banks knew if he went under they would lose their money too. This was a time for strong nerves and no false steps. Business as usual. He nodded at his chief accountant and smiled as heartily as he could at the personnel manager.

  On the way back to his office Arie stopped at Sharon’s desk, sipping his coffee. “How is it going, the presents?” Arie asked.

  The first day of Hanukah was a week away, December 18, in the Jewish calendar the 24th of Kislev, 5726. Sharon had brought presents for everybody on Arie’s list, from his own children to his parents-in-law, Tamara’s siblings Ido and Estie, as well as Peter and his children. All but one.

  “I don’t know what to get Tamara,” Sharon said. “I think you should pick something yourself, really, it’s too personal.”

  “Don’t worry, buy her some jewelry, she likes earrings.”

  “I bought her earrings last year. Or rather, you did.”

  “So a bracelet, then. Or a necklace.”

  “Or both?”

  “Better still, yes, both.”

  “With matching earrings? A ring? A set? Diamonds?”

  Arie gritted his teeth and nodded.

  As he walked to his office and slammed the door, she looked after him, shaking her head.

  TAMARA and PETER

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  December 1966

  Tamara froze at the foot of the ficus tree, half stripped of leaves by the winter chill. She didn’t move a muscle, barely drew a breath. Above her, maybe five feet, a white bird with an S-curved neck watched immobile from a jutting limb. It was large with a long yellow bill, sharp like a dagger, and thin black legs. It’s an egret, she thought, it must be lost. It should be on the migration route, in the Hula Valley. What is it doing here?

  She was bewitched by the dazzling white-feathered beauty, so noble, so close she felt she could touch it, until she realized she could ask the same question of herself. What was she doing here? She looked up at Peter’s apartment. Was she lost too? But her head movement, as she turned back to the bird, startled it, and with a flap of its mighty wings, so close she felt the shifting air, the egret soared, to seek its flock.

  She should leave too, she thought, this is madness. She belonged with her family.

  But the family was changing. The twins were sixteen and seemed to prefer the homes of their friends. Ever since Peter had asked to meet, alone, secretly, she had been racked with doubt. She lay awake at night, questioning every part of her life, but especially Arie, who rarely slept at her side. How long had he been cheating on her? Forever. And everybody knew. If she was her own client she would have advised herself to leave her husband years ago. And now here she was, doing the same thing as him. Or about to. She looked up again at Peter’s balcony, at the pants and shirts drying on the line, a bicycle’s handlebars visible above the brick wall, the ugly square air conditioner sticking out like a wart.

  She remained in the tree’s shade, absorbing the grace of the diminishing bird as its white body vanished among puffs of gray cloud. She looked around, over her shoulder. Is anybody watching, does anybody know me? All she had to do was walk the final few steps to the building’s entrance and climb the stairs into Peter’s arms. But with a sinking feeling she thought, I can’t, I truly can’t. Despite everything, this is so wrong.

  Upstairs, there was nothing more Peter could do but wait, and hope Tamara would come. He had changed the sheets, smoothed the pillows, collected the pile of shoes and sandals that littered the entrance and stuffed them beneath the hall table. He had taken all the toys and skates and dropped them in the children’s room. He had dusted the surfaces and rearranged everything that moved. The boys were at school and wouldn’t be home till two o’clock, while Rachel would pick up little Diana from kindergarten at midday and take her to her own home. He had four hours. But where was Tamara?

  Resisting the temptation to look out of the balcony every ten seconds, Peter poured a glass of lemon juice from the jug he had prepared for Tamara and sprawled across the sofa, resting his head on a cushion, his feet draped over the end. He closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing, but his mind kept turning to what would happen when Tamara knocked on the door. If she did. Would she? He placed his hand on his heart, felt its rapid beat; I could be on a stakeout, waiting for a target to leave the building. No, I’m never this nervous at work.

  How long had he wanted Tamara? He didn’t dare answer, even to himself, he didn’t dare consider that all the nine years he had been married with Diana he had loved someone else. It wasn’t even true, even to think it was disloyal and false. And yet … they had only come together because Arie had got in first with Tamara. There. Said it. He quickly banished the thought, but here it was again. Oh, Tamara.

  Will she come? But what about Arie? His own brother.

  Peter pushed that thought away too. He wouldn’t let him ruin it. He wanted to strip away all pretense, all borders, and finally, after all these years, let the chips fall where they may. For once he had to be true to himself.

  But where was she? He went to the b
alcony. He looked to the left and to the right, peered along the path through the trees. No sign of Tamara. He felt nauseous.

  So did Tamara, who was now at the door, her hand raised to knock, but slowly she let it fall to her side, her heart thumping.

  This is madness, she thought again. What if Arie found out? He would go crazy. Yes, she knew Peter had loved her, since they’d first met, that is what he told her on the park bench, that he had always loved her, that Diana had been his love too, his true love, but she, Tamara, had always been the one, the one he had lost. What made it worse was that his words were honey to her soul, they stirred her heart. She had held his hand tighter and tighter and when he had poured out his love, at the end, when he had asked if she would come to see him, and he had said they could no longer deny themselves, she had answered with one word, the one simple word that threatened everything she had and who she was. She answered, so quietly he could hardly hear, or believe what he heard, she answered with one daring, dangerous, deceitful word: Yes.

  * * *

  Peter looked at the clock. It was ten past ten, she was ten minutes late. That’s nothing, he thought. Maybe she couldn’t find a taxi, maybe it broke down, anything could be delaying her. At a quarter past a sense of desperation came over him. If she doesn’t come now, she isn’t coming. He had given her his heart, and she had rejected it. He could never offer it again. He had made his play, and he had lost. He couldn’t blame her. Life in a mansion with one of Israel’s richest men, even if it was a lousy marriage, was better than living with him in a messy two-bedroom apartment with three kids. What did he really have to offer? He must have been crazy, all these years of longing and frustration. Get real, Peter. The dream is over.

  At ten sixteen there was a tap on the door.

  Twice he had hidden Diana’s photograph in a drawer, and twice he had taken it out again. In the end he had left her where she always was, presiding over the room from her silver frame, in the middle of the sideboard.