California Triangle

by Uzi Eilam

  Gideon glanced at the two business cards while Ryan was speaking. He noticed that Dr. Frank Miles was the VP of projects for a company called Communication Technologies Investments, Ltd. The other man, Edward Richman, was the company’s CFO. Neither of them are white Protestant Americans, he noticed. Despite his musical ear, he couldn’t identify their accents from the few words they said when they shook hands.

  “You’re exaggerating,” Gideon responded. “Yes, I do advanced research, and I find it fascinating, but I’m only one of many. And when it comes to music, one of the most important things about it, which Ryan knows as well as I, is to know how to listen. I promised Ryan I’d come to meet you and to listen to you. I’m all ears.”

  For a moment, no one spoke. Gideon noticed the men exchange glances, and Ryan stole a concerned look at them. Gideon waited patiently.

  “Why don’t you start, Frank, and present your company and the way you work?” Ryan encouraged the VP of projects, who seemed to be the senior of the two.

  “All right,” Dr. Miles answered and opened his laptop with the screen facing Gideon and Ryan. This presentation showed a short summary of the company’s two-year history since it was founded and the main projects it had funded. Frank Miles was eloquent, and to Gideon, he sounded informed on developments in technology. He mentioned that it was their second round of selecting startups from the Silicon Valley to invest in, and he mentioned two success stories, both in computer communication projects.

  “Tell me, Frank,” Gideon interjected, allowing himself to use the man’s first name, “I understand that you’re focusing only on communications. Do you prefer software or hardware projects?”

  The advantage of direct questions was something he’d learned during his Stanford days. It had helped him later, too, when he was involved in joint Israeli–American research projects.

  “No,” Miles answered. “We also fund hardware projects, but we find it easier to estimate the chance of success when the scientific breakthrough has already been achieved. You know better than we do that hardware development projects gobble up budgets.”

  “I’d say that only a third of our projects involve hardware,” Edward added, “and from an investment point of view, we allocate more than half of our budget to these projects. Another thing. The time necessary to make an exit with hardware projects is much longer.”

  “We at Cisco,” Ryan said, “acquired a company from Communication Technologies that developed a successful algorithm, which took us way past our competitors in increasing the volume of communication. In fact, that’s how I discovered Communication Technologies.”

  “Do you work only in the United States?” Gideon inquired cautiously. “Or do you have investments in other countries as well?” Speculations regarding the identity of these people popped into his mind, but he preferred to ignore them for the moment.

  “Mostly in the United States,” Miles answered, “but we’re expanding our activities to other countries, including countries in the Middle East.” Miles examined Gideon’s face for a reaction.

  “The list of projects I saw in the presentation,” Gideon decided to be daring, “seemed to be civilian. Does that mean that you’re sticking to the private market? Don’t you get involved with projects that the government is involved in? Is that your policy?”

  The two of them exchanged silent glances, and before either could respond, Ryan jumped in and said, “Until now, they’ve had no interest in projects with government involvement. I understand that the control processes on such projects lead to lengthier schedules and weigh heavier on the budget.”

  “That’s true,” Richman added. “It’s easier to operate in fields with less paperwork, and the considerations are only technological and economic.”

  Following Deutsch’s advice, Gideon decided to listen and not get drawn into saying anything that could unnecessarily expose confidential information. Under no circumstances, he told himself, should I mention the financial aid that Ryan mentioned in our earlier discussions. He decided it was time to end the meeting.

  “Well, thanks for the instructive review,” Gideon said sincerely. “It was fascinating, and I wish you fruitful meetings here in the Valley.” Then he turned to Ryan and said, “Thanks for the initiative. We’ll be in touch, right? And don’t forget what time the concert is.”

  Ryan accompanied Gideon to the entrance and waited until the security guard returned his license. From the corner of his eye, Gideon saw Ryan give the man an envelope. They parted with a handshake and a “See you soon.”

  Gideon walked off to his old Chevy. Who are they? he asked himself. And what do they really want? Why was the meeting held after office hours? And what was with that envelope? He reminded himself to bring Deutsch into the picture and thought perhaps it was time to let someone on the Israeli side know, if he only knew who.

  21.

  Before leaving for Berkeley, Nurit got up early and made herself an espresso in the coffee machine. She could hear Yudke shuffling down the hallway toward the kitchen. When he saw her, he yawned and grunted, “Good morning.”

  Is that for me? Nurit rolled her eyes.

  “Can I get you a cup? Your usual?” She tried to be nice, remembering that she wanted to soften him up.

  “Yes, thanks,” Yudke said sleepily.

  “I’m leaving soon. Remember—you promised to transfer money to my account. Lately, the ATM in Berkeley’s been refusing to respond.” She brought the painful subject up carefully.

  “I promised? Oh, yes, I remember that I also asked you where the money was disappearing to.”

  Nurit didn’t want an argument so early in the morning, and she certainly didn’t want Yudke to dig his stingy heels in. She’d long given up hope that he’d change his attitude toward money. It always brought her to tears.

  “So please, don’t forget,” she whispered almost inaudibly as she served him his coffee and then left.

  Even when she was halfway there, she was still turning the conversation over in her mind, unable to relax. We aren’t in financial difficulty, so why do I have to beg every single time? she asked herself.

  When she’d told Yudke about the apartment in Berkeley, he had wrinkled his nose and refused to give her the full amount for the rent. It was always the same.

  She loved the charming apartment, so she decided to make up the money by using savings she’d brought from Israel for a rainy day.

  There’s nothing left in my account, she thought sadly. It’s all gone, just like Yudke’s attention. Since the break-in, he’d hardly said a word to her. She felt her heart sink as the photo she’d found on her windshield and the threat on her computer screen popped into her mind.

  The tiny apartment welcomed her, and for the first time since she’d woken up that morning, Nurit felt the muscles in her neck relax. Thinking of Gideon and their nights of lovemaking brought a smile to her face. Then she remembered that she was meeting Francois in the evening.

  ***

  Nurit had heard about Chez Panisse, the renowned French restaurant, but she’d never been there. It took her ten minutes to get to Shattuck Avenue, at the corner of Cedar Street, and to find a parking spot. Earlier, she still wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing. Now, after Yudke’s frustrating remarks, she was happy to accept Francois’s invitation. I’m not going to give up Gidi, she thought, trying to justify her actions, but Francois is just so intriguing. How did he get a reservation so quickly when it usually takes three weeks? And why is he trying to get closer to me? Could I be risking my newfound love with Gideon?

  She walked into the restaurant and immediately noticed Francois sitting at the bar waving eagerly at her. He was grinning from ear to ear. When she got closer, he stood up, shook her hand warmly, and pointed to the empty chair by his.

  “I’m so glad you could make it tonight,” he said, his French accent even more pronounced than she rem
embered. “I hope that you find Madame Panisse’s delicacies as delicious as I do.”

  “You dressed up for dinner,” Nurit remarked, flattered by Francois’s efforts. “You look different on campus.”

  “Ah bon? Really? You noticed?” Francois replied, slightly embarrassed. “We call it coming dressed in my thirty-one.”

  “Why thirty-one?” Nurit asked, puzzled. “Is it a date? As in the last day of a month?”

  “Exactement,” he said admiringly. “You are very intelligent.” He kept the compliments flowing. “It refers to the thirty-first of December, when everyone comes dressed in their best clothes… But you too. You haven’t come here dressed in rags,” Francois commented, looking at her floral pantsuit. “What do the Jews call that date? Rosh Hashoina?”

  Nurit laughed. “That’s probably how your in-laws pronounce it. We say Rosh Hashanah.”

  “I see. Our table will be ready in ten minutes,” Francois explained. “Should we start the evening with a toast? I know that the restaurant offers a fine French wine cellar. They must have a selection of white wines to choose from.”

  “Why not?” Nurit said.

  The bartender answered Francois, saying they had an excellent Pouilly-Fumé, and returned quickly with tall glasses.

  “À la vôtre! To your health!” Francois lifted his glass.

  “L’chaim,” Nurit toasted back in Hebrew. “To life!”

  Oh, this is just what I need! she thought, and emptied her glass in three large gulps.

  Francois waved to the bartender and pointed to Nurit’s empty glass. It was filled immediately.

  “Something’s on your mind?” Francois half asked, half stated.

  “Nothing special,” she answered quickly. “Why do you ask?”

  The headwaiter came over to lead them to their table, helping her evade the question and to weigh just how much she wanted to share with him.

  After Nurit and Francois sat down at the table, the two glasses of wine from the Loir Valley spinning her head, Nurit wondered what Francois’s aim was, making such an effort to impress her. There was always the possibility that he had romantic intentions, but her instincts, sharpened by decades of courtship and counter-courtship, told her that he had some other motive for his chivalrous behavior.

  For the first course, they had a salad of red-green tomatoes with strips of anchovies and mozzarella. “A chilled Chablis will go well with this dish,” Francois said, and called the sommelier over and asked him to bring two glasses.

  I hope I don’t lose my head by the end of dinner, Nurit thought.

  The main course arrived: grilled quail with roasted peppers. The chef had arranged their plates like paintings. Nurit looked at the table, her mind somewhere else. She didn’t touch her plate.

  “What’s the matter, Nurit?” Francois looked at her intensely. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  Nurit pushed her hesitations aside. She felt wrapped in the warmth that Francois was radiating. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger, she thought.

  “I have a few personal problems.” Nurit hesitated. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about them.”

  “Try me,” Francois said. “We have all night.”

  “Well,” Nurit said with a sigh, “it’s an old story that’s been weighing on my mind for quite some time—my relationship with my husband, Yudke.” She wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  “These things happen,” Francois said. “I told you that I went through a divorce when we realized, Francine and I, that we weren’t suited on so many levels.”

  “Yes,” Nurit continued, thankful that Francois had given her an opening. “Yudke is always busy, and I didn’t mind as long as I was busy taking care of the kids. His lack of availability started troubling me when the kids grew up and didn’t need me anymore.”

  Francois just listened, looking at her encouragingly.

  “With the house empty, there was nothing to hold us together as a family,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  “And you thought it would be different here—in California?” Francois asked her keenly.

  “In part. I did agree to Yudke’s proposal to move here for a few years,” Nurit explained, “but I soon realized that it didn’t change a thing.”

  “But your studies are interesting, and you have the challenge of doing your doctorate… That’s good for you, isn’t it?”

  “Joining the doctoral program at Berkeley was a good move,” she replied, “but it didn’t solve everything, I’m afraid.”

  Francois didn’t take his eyes off her. “I’ve also had periods in my life when I felt empty,” he confessed, “and I discovered that I feel much better when I keep myself occupied, active.”

  “How?” Nurit asked.

  “I wrote a book, and to collect material, I went on a journey in the footsteps of Jacques Vergès… I’ve told you about him. Our hosts from the old days went out of their way to provide the data and were very hospitable.”

  “And what did you write at the end of your fascinating journey?” Nurit asked, genuinely interested.

  “I wrote a five-hundred-page book called The Atlas of Popular Protest Movements. The book was originally published in French, but it’s been translated to English, Spanish, Russian, Arabic, and even Chinese,” Francois said, his eyes shining with pride.

  “That’s a huge undertaking,” Nurit said. “It also requires substantial funding.”

  “With the boom in technology in the Silicon Valley, I believe you won’t have any financial issues either.”

  “That isn’t quite true,” Nurit responded quickly. “Although Yudke is part owner of an established and strong company, he still gives me a meager allowance.”

  “When you get to the stage in your doctorate that you can breathe a little, we can think of a project that you can join,” Francois said helpfully. “There’s always funding available for good subjects.”

  They’d hardly touched their plates, but Nurit was more interested in funding than in quail.

  “Should we order dessert?” Francois suggested. “The quail is delicious, but I’ve had enough.”

  For dessert, Nurit had berry cake with slices of peach and strawberries, and Francois chose dark chocolate fondant with raspberry ice cream.

  Life can be sweet, Nurit thought hopefully when she tasted the light cake.

  “Thanks for a wonderful evening,” she said as they ended the meal with the inevitable digestif. “I enjoyed every minute.”

  “I’m the one who should thank you, for the wonderful company and the interesting conversation,” Francois said quickly. “I’m here if you’d like to see me again.”

  When he took her delicate hand in his, rough from playing tennis she now knew, it was clear to them both that this was only the beginning.

  22.

  Chinatown bustled with activity from the early hours of the day. Ryan passed Dragon’s Gate at the southern entrance and made his way through the sea of tourists and Chinese residents who filled Grant Avenue, despite the freezing wind. His hands were cold even though he wore thick gloves. He knew the colorful neighborhood well, with the smell of dried fish, spices, and herbal remedies. One could find almost anything in the small shops that lined its streets. One could drink fragrant green tea in the teahouses for pennies, and the restaurants offered a tempting selection of eggrolls with a choice of fillings, fried rice, noodles, chicken, sweet-and-sour seafood, and spicy beef. Ryan’s favorite was dim sum filled with minced meat, fish, seafood, or spicy steamed vegetables.

  He didn’t stop this time. Instead, he walked briskly by the low-key Grant Plaza Hotel, dating from the 1920s, on the corner of Pine Street, toward the building at 469 Grant Avenue, which looked like many others in Chinatown. The ground floor housed mainly family shops, while the others were residential. The shop owners lived on the floor above the shop
s. Ryan skipped up the front steps of the building and found the entrance door open. The clean stairwell was familiar from previous visits. The building was obviously well-maintained. The door to apartment 6 on the third floor was no different from the other doors, and it, too, showed no sign of the tenants’ identities. Ryan knocked three short, quick knocks and then another. How appropriate, Ryan thought to himself. Just like the opening theme of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, just like on the day the Allies invaded Europe. Nothing happened for a few long seconds, and Ryan waited impatiently. He knew that he was being examined through the peephole in the door and possibly by the camera hidden above the doorpost.

  “Good morning, Rustam!” Farid Madhani greeted him. The bearded man was his regular contact. “How good that you managed to get away today to visit us.”

  Ryan was already used to Farid calling him by his Persian name. That was how his people strengthened his sense of belonging and identification with his roots and with the missions he’d been given.

  “Good morning, Farid,” he answered. “Yes, I’m supposedly visiting students from Berkeley who will be graduating soon.”

  He knew that his contact belonged to the powerful Iranian Revolutionary Guards. Farid was one of those boys recruited to fight with old-fashioned rifles against the Iraqi army after Saddam Hussein attacked Iran when she was at her weakest. Farid had told Ryan amazing stories of the heroic children who died believing they’d go straight to heaven. After the war, he was sent to study engineering. He did his BA at Tehran University and then his master’s degree at Stanford.