‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll know how I felt about Lenny. He was wasted on the lush. He was wasted on the hooker. Great guy.’ He shook his head. ‘Totally fucking wasted.’
Weill stooped to the picnic table, retrieving the empty bottles of Rolling Rock. Emery watched him tossing them into a waste-bin, one after the other, crash, crash. ‘That last year …’ he said again. ‘Who did he work for?’
The last bottle hit the bottom of the waste-bin. Weill wiped his hands on the backs of his jeans, still staring at the bin. ‘I tell you that …’ he said slowly, ‘and I’m …’ He shook his head, letting the sentence expire.
‘But it wasn’t the Israelis?’
There was a long silence. A big truck ground past on the highway, the dust settling slowly behind it. Emery put the question again. Finally, Weill looked up. His eyes were puffy behind the thick pebble-glasses. ‘I told you already,’ he said. ‘The Israelis wouldn’t pay what he wanted. They never pay that kind of money. I told you. The country’s fucked.’
‘So he went somewhere else?’
‘Of course. The guy had to. Lola like that.’
‘Selling the same deal. Selling what he knew.’
‘Sure.’ Weill nodded. ‘Selling himself. Selling whatever.’
‘All the stuff he’d picked up on the West Coast?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And in Tel Aviv?’
Weill looked at him for a long time, tussling with some private decision. Then, abruptly, he extended a podgy hand, a brief sweaty touch, before turning away and lumbering back towards his car. Getting in, gunning the engine, nosing on to the highway, he didn’t once look back. Emery stood by the picnic table, watching the Corvette accelerating away. Minutes later, walking back to his own car, he was still smiling.
*
McVeigh, dreaming of Billy, heard the footsteps outside the hut. He opened one eye. It was still dark. He inched his wrist from beneath the single sheet and checked his watch. Half-past three. The footsteps were louder now, heavy boots on the line of paving-stones that marked the path to his door. The footsteps paused, very close, and McVeigh was barely upright, one foot feeling for the tiled floor, when the door crashed open.
McVeigh, crouching on the edge of the bed, squinted into the beam of a powerful torch. Beyond the torch, invisible in the darkness, he heard a soft laugh, far from pleasant. For a moment nothing happened, then something landed at his feet and the disc of light followed it slowly down the line of McVeigh’s naked body to the floor. McVeigh looked down. A pair of old working gloves, the ends of the fingers frayed and open.
The torch snapped off. A voice came out of the darkness, guttural, gruff, male. ‘Four o’clock,’ it said. ‘Hader ochel. You come.’
The figure turned and pulled the door open, and in the faint spill from the security floodlights McVeigh saw someone tall and broad. The face had a beard, and in his left hand, loosely gripped, was a small sub-machine-gun. The mesh door crashed shut again, and the footsteps receded briefly before pausing at another hut, a knocking this time, a word or two of Hebrew and a sleepy acknowledgement from inside. Work, thought McVeigh, reaching for his jeans, letting the adrenalin settle back into his system, thinking again of the man’s laugh, and the slow drift of the torch beam, a message all the plainer for being unvoiced.
Twenty minutes later, McVeigh joined the mêlée of sleepy kibbutzniks at the back of the dining-hall. There were trucks parked in the darkness, their engines already running, their headlights on. Someone shouted a name and there was an answering bark of laughter, then figures began to clamber into the backs of the trucks. The trucks were open at the back, and when they began to move, lurching on to the tarmac road that wound down the hillside to the valley floor, it was suddenly colder.
McVeigh stood near the rear of the lead truck, the gloves tucked into the waistband of his jeans, bracing himself with one hand against the constant lurch and sway as the driver pulled the big vehicle round a succession of hairpin bends. The truck was packed with men and women, all ages, rough working clothes, patterns and colours bleached by the sun. No one said very much, no one smiled, and when McVeigh looked slowly around, curious to see whether he could recognize the face with the beard, no one followed his gaze. Central Line, he thought glumly. Just one more working day.
Minutes later the truck picked up speed, following the road across the valley floor. Left and right there were orchards, thousands of apple trees in orderly rows, and when the trucks stopped and the men and women clambered out, it felt instantly warmer. Behind them in the east, the darkness was beginning to lighten, the mountains skylined against a cold, hard dawn.
The kibbutzniks divided into gangs, trudging off into the trees. McVeigh stayed by the roadside, waiting for instructions, recognizing the odd face here and there, finally attaching himself to an older man with a haversack. Amongst the trees the grass was shin-high and wet with dew.
A half-mile walk took McVeigh deep into the orchards. A dozen people stood round a trailer. A canvas tarpaulin was folded back and inside the trailer was half-full of apples. Beside the trailer, on the ground, was a pile of metal baskets. The old man with the haversack began to distribute them, squatting on the ground beside the pile, tossing them left and right without a word. McVeigh caught the last one, copying everyone else, adjusting the diagonal strap across his chest and shoulders, fitting the basket against his belly. The group disappeared into the trees, every man and woman collecting a light aluminium ladder. McVeigh followed them, finding a ladder for himself, and a line of trees laden with fruit. The gloves, when he put them on, were a perfect fit. His hands were nearly back to normal, the blisters burst, the flesh newly pinked beneath.
The work went on for hours, a steady rhythm, top of the ladder, the basket filled and refilled, each new load of apples carried back through the trees and dumped into the trailer. In a curious way, McVeigh liked the work, the monotony of it, the lack of interference, the way the warmth gradually stole back into the landscape, the valley flooding with light, the sun raising the sweat on his back and shoulders. It was, he knew, the price of staying on the kibbutz. To get to Cela, to work towards the conversation he knew he had to have, he was obliged to pick apples. It was as simple as that.
Last night, walking back from the school, she’d agreed to meet him again. The arrangement was loose, they’d probably run into each other at lunch, once the day’s work was over. Afterwards, maybe, there’d be time to talk. Knowing there was no point in hurrying the thing, McVeigh had nodded and accepted her whispered ‘Goodnight’ with a smile. As she’d stepped into her father’s house, pushing open the unlocked door, he’d called after her, remembering about Billy. He wanted to get in touch with the boy, tell him that everything was OK, and she’d hesitated for a moment in the darkness, thinking about it, promising to try and find him a phone. The name Billy, the sound of it, for some reason made her smile. McVeigh had noticed the reaction two or three times already. The smile was utterly spontaneous, a sunny, uncomplicated thing, and McVeigh grinned to himself now, thinking about it.
Below, in the orchard, people were beginning to gather by the trailer. There’d been no signal, nothing formal, but the baskets were coming off, and small glasses were being passed around from the old man’s haversack, and a boy had appeared through the trees with a metal urn. He joined the group by the trailer, squatting over the urn, filling the glasses with something thick and black.
Smelling the coffee, McVeigh reached for a final cluster of apples. He was up in the very crown of the tree, his feet wedged in the branches below. He dropped the last apple into the basket and began to ease his body down, his feet feeling instinctively for the top of the ladder. Not finding it, he looked down. A face was gazing up at him. The beard was black and the eyes were steady. There was a basket, half-full, around the man’s belly, and his left hand held McVeigh’s ladder, upright, in the long grass. The two men looked at each other for a moment or two, then the man smiled, a
cool, hard smile, a warning, and let go of the ladder. The ladder fell sideways into the grass and the man turned away, walking back towards the trailer, loosening the strap around his shoulder, pulling it over his head. McVeigh, still up the tree, watched him empty the basket into the trailer and then shout across to the boy with the coffee urn. The boy nodded, pouring a fresh glass, getting to his feet, giving him the coffee. As he did so, he gestured towards McVeigh’s tree, saying something in Hebrew, a question of some kind, and the man with the beard laughed, shaking his head, his eyes on McVeigh again, the glass tilted in a contemptuous salute. Same voice, McVeigh thought. Same voice as this morning. The torch at the door. The gun slung from the shoulder. He looked at the man for a moment longer, returning the stare, then shrugged and reached for another apple.
*
Heading south on the Hamburg–Bremen autobahn, half-past eleven in the morning, Telemann sat in the back of the big Mercedes, listening to the news.
With US troops still pouring into Saudi Arabia, Secretary of State James Baker had embarked on yet another tour of Allied capitals, touching hands, offering reassurance, pledging aid or trade or credits, as determined as ever to keep the coalition together. To German ears, this tireless American diplomacy carried a special significance. Banned by post-war treaties from any form of foreign military adventure, the Republic’s contribution would be solely financial. Given the size of the German wallet, American expectations were high. If Germany wouldn’t – couldn’t – fight, then at least she could write a sizeable cheque. Chancellor Kohl, though, had other views. Already paying huge sums to return East Germany to the real world, he was determined to limit his country’s exposure to the costs of the coming war. Bonn was talking guardedly of a multi-million DM contribution. To Telemann, converting the sum to US dollars in the back of the speeding Mercedes, it seemed a huge sum. But in Washington and London, as the German commentator acidly pointed out, the German offer was regarded as little short of an insult.
The news over, Telemann leaned forward. Blum was driving, the girl beside him. They’d left the apartment in Hamburg an hour earlier, Telemann’s big grip in the back. Blum had been evasive about their exact destination, dismissing Telemann’s questions with a shrug and a tired yawn, but Telemann knew it must be somewhere in the vicinity of Bad Godesburg. Bonn, perhaps, or even Cologne, or one of the endless dormitory suburbs that dotted the west bank of the Rhine.
Telemann fingered the tightly sewn seams of leather at the back of Inge’s seat, looking at Blum. ‘Tell me again,’ he said, ‘tell me the way you think it’ll go.’
Blum’s eyes found his in the driving mirror. ‘I’ve told you already,’ he said. ‘I haven’t changed the plan. The plan stands.’
‘And if he turns up with more guys than you expect?’
‘He won’t. He never comes with more than three. The people at the hotel get uncomfortable. This is Germany, remember. Bad Godesburg. Not Dodge City.’
Telemann nodded, conceding the point. The phone call to Assali had been simpler than he’d expected. The phone had been answered by a woman, his wife perhaps, or a secretary, but he’d come at once, listening courteously as Telemann explained who he was, making no comment when he touched on Assali’s problems with the US Immigration Department and the possibility that there might be alternative methods of acquiring citizenship. At the end of the call, Telemann had given the man Sullivan’s Washington number, 456 1414, the main White House switchboard, repeating it twice more when Assali found a pen and paper. Before ringing off, Telemann had promised to make contact before nightfall. Time was a problem, he said. He was running on a tight schedule and had to be back on an airplane before the weekend. Perhaps there was a place they could meet, a local hotel maybe. Somewhere quiet, discreet. He’d call back with a suggestion once Assali had found Sullivan at his Washington desk. Non-committal, but still courteous, Assali had thanked him for the call.
Now, 12 kilometres short of Delmenhorst, Telemann returned to the plan, the moment when the talking stopped and the guns came out, and the Arab slipped quietly into Mossad hands.
‘Me.’ he said. ‘Where do I fit?’
Blum frowned, feigning a moment’s bewilderment, his eyes still on the road. ‘You?’ he said mildly.
‘Yeah. Me. You go to the Dreisan. You have the assets in place. The cars. The guys in the lobby. All that I understand. Very neat. Very elegant. But what about me? What do I do? When push comes to shove?’
‘At the Dreisen?’
‘Sure.’
‘You won’t be at the Dreisen.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ Blum shook his head, emphatic, the tour guide keen to spare his clients unnecessary worry. ‘You will be with Inge. At the point of delivery.’
‘You mean the safe house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why’s that?’
Blum didn’t answer for a moment. Then the eyes were back in the mirror, pure candour, the readiest form of reassurance. ‘Operationally,’ he said, ‘we have control. We never share it. Never. You know that.’
‘I wasn’t asking for control.’
‘It’s the same thing. The same issue. You’ll be there. It complicates things. It’s unnecessary.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ll see him later. Not much later, but later. So—’ he shrugged, the eyes returning to the autobahn ‘—what’s the problem?’
Telemann said nothing for a moment, watching the speedometer as they slipped past a huge truck, speeding south. At 140 k.p.h., there was barely a whisper from the engine. He glanced at the girl. Her head was back against the leather and she appeared to be asleep. Telemann leaned forward again, his mouth very close to Blum’s ear. ‘My friend,’ he said softly. ‘I need to be there.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I do. Because I’ve been there before. Because I’m not some eighth-grade bimbo.’ He paused. ‘Whatever you might think.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘That’s not what I said.’ Telemann paused again. ‘You should listen.’
Blum’s eyes flicked back to the mirror. He said nothing, but invited Telemann to carry on with the merest nod of his head. Telemann smiled, his hand on the Israeli’s shoulder, spelling it out.
‘This afternoon you drop me at the Dreisen. I check in. I talk to the Arab again. I tell him I’m staying at the hotel. I suggest we meet there. Most natural thing in the world. We make an arrangement. I phone you with the details, or maybe we meet some place. Up to you. Your call. But whatever we decide, whenever it happens, I’m there, the guy in the lobby, Uncle Sam, the magic handshake. You with me?’
‘Of course.’ Blum frowned, the irritation plain in his face. ‘But you realize it may be dangerous?’
‘I thought I told you. I’ve been there before. Most of my life I’ve been there.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ He shook his head, impatient now, dropping the Mercedes into manual to take another queue of trucks. ‘I’m talking politics. You really want to be there? In the middle of it? With your name in the register? Whatever alias you’re using?’
‘Lacey.’
‘OK. Nice American name. Nice American passport. You really want to take that risk? Have them check it all out?’
‘Sure.’ Telemann shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘You don’t think …’ Blum shrugged, something new in his voice, a curious indifference, and Telemann leaned back, content to let it all wash over him. For a kilometre or two there was silence in the car, and when it was finally broken it was by Inge’s voice, not Blum’s.
‘We can say no,’ she said, looking straight ahead, her eyes on the road. ‘Have you thought of that?’
‘Sure.’
‘So what do you say? You want the Arab. You want to talk to him. What if we just say yes, go ahead, you and Mr Assali and his three friends. You think he’ll talk? You think he’ll really tell you what you need to know?’
Telemann sa
id nothing, gazing out at the neatly cropped fields, harvest gathered in. Autumn, he thought. Then winter.
‘You have a choice,’ he said at last. ‘Either we do it my way, me at the Dreisen, me in the lobby, you in operational control. Or—’ he shrugged ‘—I don’t make the call.’
‘To Assali?’
‘Sure.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘I am.’
Blum eased his body in the driving seat, accepting a cigarette from Inge, reaching for the lighter in the dash. The cigarette to his lips, he dipped his head briefly towards the glow of the element. When the smoke cleared, there was a smile on his face.
‘Your boss,’ he said, ‘you think he’s sympatico? You think he’ll understand this? Your Uncle Sam?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Forgive you if it all goes wrong?’
‘No question.’
‘Think you played it all OK? Nothing—’ he shrugged, an expansive wave of the left hand, loops of blue smoke ‘—too subtle? Like shitting on your Uncle Fritz’s carpet?’
Telemann shrugged, immune now to the heaviest sarcasm. ‘Your choice,’ he said again. ‘Your call.’
Blum half-turned in the seat, looking directly at Telemann for the first time. The smile, if anything, was even wider. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘we take you to the Dreisen.’
*
The first time the old man, Abu Yussuf, went back to the Public Library, the girl at the information desk wasn’t there, replaced for the afternoon by a helpful young black. The old man, disappointed, mumbled his apologies through his broken mouth, his face swollen and livid with bruising, and turned to go. The young black watched him limping away towards the door, another refugee from the mugging statistics. ‘She’s back tomorrow,’ he called. ‘Come around four.’
The old man was back next day at four, waiting out the last few minutes in the shade of a drooping plane tree beside the entrance. He hated America now, the hot streets, the garbage, the taste of the air, the pale kids with their begging tins and their dead eyes. He thought he’d seen poverty at home, certain villages on the West Bank, little food, no work, land sold to settlers over the villagers’ heads, even the water cut off, hours at a time, days sometimes, no warning, no explanation. But this was different, a different kind of poverty, and for the first time the old man realized that being poor had nothing to do with money. New York was awash with money. It was everywhere, in every shop window. He’d seen enough money on a woman’s wrist to feed his family for a year, for two years. Yet still there were the kids with their bowls, and older men, evenings on his way to work, huddled in doorways, knees to their chins, human refuse, discarded by a city too busy to care. Even Tel Aviv, he thought, is better than this. Even the Israelis are kinder than these strange people.
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