Cornfield whistled in mock enthusiasm. “Well, I’m going to rest. Wake me up in an hour, and we’ll go and have dinner. You feel like fish or meat?”
Amira didn’t answer. She froze, charmed by the island views. Cornfield shrugged and limped to the bedroom where he threw himself on the bed and fell asleep immediately.
Dinner was marvelously delicious. They finished their meal with glasses of chilled Sicilian Regaleali Bianco wine, which had a wonderful aroma. Cornfield leaned back, looked at Amira, who was dressed in a red evening dress which made her look charming, and for the first time in quite a while, felt at peace. A large, reddish moon hovered above the restaurant porch. “Luna rosso,” called the waiter and pointed at the moon as if it were his own creation.
That night, Ben-Ami and Amira slept together in a large, soft four-poster bed. Perhaps it was the wine that dulled Cornfield’s constant desire for control. The couple ended up cuddling and kissing passionately until their passion dwindled, and they both fell asleep in each other’s arms.
At five o’clock in the morning, Ben-Ami’s cell phone rang, shattering the peace. Amira woke up with fright and saw an Israeli number on the screen and the name “David Fischer” above it.
“Hello?” she answered in a whisper. “Ben-Ami’s sleeping. Can he get back to you later, please?”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience and the early hour, but there’s simply no choice. Please wake him up. It’s urgent.”
Amira sighed and placed the phone between the pillow and her husband’s ear.
Fischer, sharper and more vigorous than usual, opened without introductions, “Wake up, Cornfield. Things are happening.”
“How come you’re running things? I’ve been away for a day, and you’ve already managed to crawl back into my seat?”
“Your seat is empty. Strictly speaking, you don’t have the cabinet’s official appointment yet. That is why they turned to me.”
Cornfield couldn’t stand the thought the information he needed was at the hands of another person. “What happened? Explai—”
“You’ll need to come here if you want explanations.” Fischer cut him short. All his European manners disappeared, and it seemed he enjoyed scolding Cornfield. “Aren’t you supposed to be the director of Mossad? Where have you disappeared to?”
“Sicily,” Cornfield mumbled in a voice hoarse with sleep.
“Which side of the island?”
“How should I know? I got here yesterday afternoon. The place is called Taormina.”
“I know where it is. We’ll send one of our own to take you to the airport. I’m arranging a private jet to bring you here within three hours. Keep your phone on.”
“What time is it in Israel?” Cornfield asked with a heavy voice.
“It’s already six AM here. Our man will hand you an envelope with background information for your eyes only. Please burn it before boarding the plane.”
“All right, all right, Fischer. Don’t fret. I got it.” Cornfield returned to his usual rough tone of voice. “Do I at least have time for breakfast?”
Fischer hung up. Cornfield sat in the middle of the bed, his graying hair disheveled, and his one healthy eye rolling in its socket.
“What’s going on Ben-Ami? The honeymoon’s over? You’ve had too much quality time with me?” asked Amira with open disappointment.
Cornfield answered her with a childish tone: “Enough, Amira. Come here and give me a good morning kiss. You think there’s something to eat around here? After last night, I’m as starved as a donkey in heat.” He flashed her the same smile that made magic forty years back. Before the injury that had distorted his face and made him lose his eye and right foot.
“Let’s have coffee first.”
They sat on the villa’s porch, which was surrounded by fragrant jasmine bushes, and drank from small, porcelain cups. A strong espresso for him and herbal tea for her. The first sunbeams broke through the eastern skies. Huge tourist boats docked in the bay.
Amira couldn’t conceal her sadness. “What did he want from you?”
“I don’t know,” Cornfield answered.
Amira glanced at him suspiciously. “You’re cutting our vacation short, stopping a wonderful process that could revive our relationship, and you’re not even willing to tell me why?”
“Because I don’t know!” Cornfield shouted. “Someone is coming to give me classified material, so even after I’ll read it I won’t be allowed to tell you anything. After all these years with me, you suddenly want to be in on the secrets?”
Amira rose and said with an expressionless face, “Go shower and prepare, I’ll go down to the bakery to get some bread and prepare us a light breakfast.”
When he came out of the shower, the familiar smell of Israeli food welcomed him. “Are you preparing shakshuka?” he asked with wonder while buckling his new prosthetic leg above a special sock. Amira didn’t reply.
Cornfield leaned on the kitchen table and watched her as she filled a frying pan with fresh garlic, eggplant cubes, tomatoes and capers. She fried the vegetables in olive oil, then carefully placed on them fillet slices of fresh sardines, a few canned anchovies, and some eggs. She sprinkled coarse salt and black pepper on everything and closed the lid.
“Now we just need to dig into that fresh bread you’ve brought,” said Cornfield with a wide smile. Amira continued to be quiet.
Cornfield dipped his finger and tasted the dish. His healthy eye widened and his smile widened even more. The food was incredibly tasty. “What’s it called?” he asked.
“Caponata,” she answered briefly.
The sound of the doorbell made them both jump. Cornfield looked at Amira. Uncharacteristically, she didn’t react. He wobbled to the entrance and opened the heavy wooden door. At the entrance stood a crop-haired woman. She looked about thirty-five, wore a close-fitting green leather suit and had a Bluetooth headphone in her ear. She spoke to him in Hebrew with a heavy Italian accent. “Hello, I’m Iris Fortisini. I’m from the ‘office’. I came especially for you.” Then she handed Cornfield a sealed brown envelope.
“How’d you know what house we’re at?” Cornfield was surprised.
“The moment you answered your cell phone, our satellite located you. I just put the information into my navigation software, and it brought me straight here. Simple, isn’t it?” She chortled.
Cornfield took the envelope and went into the bedroom. He heard his wife speaking to their guest in fluent Italian. “Would you like some coffee, signorina?”
“She’s so polite, it’s annoying,” he said to himself.
He tore the envelope open and quickly studied its content: assessments made by Dr. Alex Abramovich, head of the Research and Intelligence Division, regarding an assassin roaming the country with the intention of assassinating the division heads, possibly the director of Mossad himself. It also included a report about the assassin’s first operation: an attempt to assassinate Arik Bar-Nathan that had taken place at the entrance of Mossad’s headquarters this morning. “That son of a bitch,” Cornfield shouted angrily. “He’s always getting all the attention!”
“Did you need something?” Cornfield heard Amira’s voice from beyond the door.
He didn’t reply and turned to the restroom. The smell of fresh lemon coming from the scrubbed toilet was replaced by that of smoke as he burned paperwork. Cornfield allowed the ash to drop into the toilet bowl and flushed several times.
“Is something burning?” asked Amira as he returned to the porch.
“Just my heart,” Cornfield answered angrily.
The guest blurted a few words in Italian. Amira answered her, and they both burst out laughing. Cornfield was amazed. Since when did Amira speak such fluent Italian? How little did he know about his wife?
“Andiamo?” asked Fortisini and stepped outside, collecting Cornfield’s small trolley bag. Ben-Ami located his cane and, a moment before walking out the door, gave Amira an apologetic look. Amira returned a s
light nod and approached the door to close it.
“How long will you stay here?” he asked while placing his arm on her shoulder affectionately.
She released herself from his grip, demonstrating her insult. Iris turned her face from both of them, so as not to embarrass her superior, and opened the passenger door of a red Alpha Romeo Giulietta. Cornfield hissed a nasty curse. The sports car was too low and narrow for a man his size and with his handicap. He bent and forced himself inside with loud groans, humiliated. He felt a need to get back in control.
“How long have you been working for the office?” he asked in the lowest, most authoritative voice he could muster.
Iris remained silent and concentrated on driving down the winding road, shifting gears expertly. Her phone rang, and she answered in Italian. It sounded to Cornfield like she was instructing someone.
“What division are you in?” Cornfield moved on to the next question.
She still didn’t answer, and Cornfield stopped pressuring her. They both knew she wasn’t allowed to answer the questions of a stranger she had just met. All she was asked to do was to bring him to the airport. But he wasn’t “just a stranger” and felt a desperate need to prove it to her.
After about twenty minutes of fast driving the Alpha Romeo went into the airport through a back gate. A small private jet already started its engines at the end of the runway, ready for takeoff. The car slowly drove all the way to the plane’s passenger door. In Sicily, just like everywhere else in Italy, a few Euros allowed Cornfield to avoid going through the terminal and the usual security procedures.
“Have a good flight, sir. You’ll find a small cooler with some fresh cannolis from the finest bakery in the area. They told me you like Arabica coffee, so I’ve prepared a thermos as well. You’ll be in Tel Aviv two and a half hours from now. Have a good flight and say ‘hi’ to the homeland for me. Or, as we say in Italy, complimenti a casa.” She gave him a handshake, as firm as a tennis player’s, then turned to go back to her car.
“Hold on,” Cornfield called after her. “The name’s Iris, right?”
“Iris.” She nodded.
“And do you know who I am?”
“Yes, but only by word of mouth. As far as I’m concerned, you haven’t been identified.”
“All right, all right,” said Cornfield in a fatherly tone. “Can I ask you for something?”
“That depends,” she said with a smile.
“I don’t know where you’re normally stationed, but I’d like you to stay in the area and keep an eye out for Amira, my wife, so nothing happens to her. I don’t need a close surveillance. Just tail her from afar, all right?”
“I’ll let my station manager in Rome know. I don’t think there’ll be a problem with that. Have a good flight, boss.”
Cornfield smiled. That last word made him feel much more confident.
In the late afternoon hours, Amira came out of the villa and strolled toward the beach. She walked alone on the deserted beach, bending from time to time to collect odd-shaped and colored seashells for her grandchildren. The sun slowly set, coloring the sea and sky with gold and red.
When she turned to return to the vacation apartment, she noticed someone watching her from inside a red sports car. Much to Amira’s surprise, that someone waved hello to her, Amira hesitantly waved back. The vehicle door opened, and whoever was inside got out and walked toward her. Within seconds, the mystery was solved. Amira recognized the woman who had visited them in the morning.
“Buonasera,” Iris greeted her kindly. She wore a tight pair of jeans and white t-shirt that emphasized her slender, stalk-like figure.
“What are you doing here?” asked Amira in Italian.
“Oh, I decided I needed a little vacation too.” Iris smiled. “Feel like a swim? The water’s warm this time of year.”
“But I don’t have a bathing suit; I just came down for a stroll.”
“There’s no one for miles around, loosen up.”
Iris took off her clothes and placed them in a little pile on the sand. Amira, mesmerized, looked at her small breasts, her pubic hair, shaved into a narrow strip, and her tanned body.
“Are you coming or what?” asked Iris and began to walk toward the water.
Amira looked around with embarrassment. She felt both dread and excitement. She had not undressed in front of another woman since her days as a young soldier. Iris was nothing like her old army friends. She oozed carefree sexuality. When she laughed and hurled her body against the waves, her firm, tiny buttocks awoke new and unfamiliar sensations in Amira.
After she had made sure no one else was around, she took off her shoes and her clothes. She placed them on the sand, next to Iris’s clothes and walked to the waterline, covering her breasts with one hand and her crotch with the other.
Iris burst out laughing. “Are you ashamed?”
“I… How do I say it…” Suddenly all her Italian disappeared. “I’m not your age, I’ve had three pregnancies, and my chest…” She removed her hand from her breasts. “See for yourself. Besides, I haven’t even shaved my legs.”
“That’s just the way I want you,” Iris called and took her into her firm arms in a tight embrace.
Two hours later, the two lay naked and exhausted from pleasuring each other in the four-poster bed.
Iris lay in the same exact spot Cornfield’s heavy body had been just hours before. “If he knew you’re here…” Amira whispered.
“But he does,” answered Iris in a whisper. “He was the one who sent me.”
Amira straightened up, leaning on her elbow and giving Iris a penetrating glance.
“To keep you safe!” Iris completed her sentence and erupted into a loud, infectious laughter.
Chapter 11
Van Leer Institute—Jerusalem
Arik drove down the well-kept streets lined with Islamic style mansions with arabesques decorating their walls, tall mashrabiya windows, and large inner balconies concealing gardens or orchards. Arik allowed his navigation system to direct him to the Van Leer Institute. When he arrived, he saw that there was no parking available, so he simply parked on the sidewalk and placed the blue-red strobe on the dashboard. Then he checked the message he had received from Eva, which contained the full program of the convention at the Spinoza Center. The lecture series was open for the general public and focused on the subject of guilt, compassion and forgiveness, concentrating on the works of Friedrich Nietzsche. The convention was scheduled to start at seven PM. His watch indicated ten past seven.
He ran down the corridors of the modern building, hoping that, just like any other event in Israel, this one would be slightly late to begin as well. And so it was. When he reached the right lecture hall, he saw that the lecture had not yet started, but Eva was already up on the stage, dressed in a gray, tailored suit, her hair tied into a golden knot behind her head. Her large eyes brushed the audience, and Arik hoped she was seeking him. He sat at the end of the lecture hall and unsuccessfully tried to catch her eye.
Eva began her lecture in English: “Tonight, I don’t want to talk about guilt. It is a burden for us Germans to bear in the most obvious and noticeable way. When World War II ended, the German government took full responsibility and admitted to the mass murder of Jews. Since then, it has constantly sought to secure the position of Israel in both the financial and the military aspects. Tonight, I’d like to speak from my viewpoint as a young German about something much more difficult. I’d like to speak about compassion and forgiveness. The process of forgiving requires the active participation of both the seeker of forgiveness and the one who needs to forgive.”
Arik’s thoughts carried him far from there. When was the last time he had asked anyone for forgiveness? He apologized now and then, mainly to Claire, but almost never felt a real need to be pardoned. Who could he ask forgiveness from? His subordinates, from whom he constantly demanded perfection? The enemies he’d killed?
“So forgiveness is an interperson
al activity, but it is also a personal, reflective process. Sometimes it is an ongoing process, and other times it is done because of inner resistance. That is why, even when we know we ought to forgive someone, we find the act of forgiveness to be so difficult. Paradoxically, the more hurt we are, the more we need to forgive, but in such cases it is also much more difficult for the hurt party to forgive. A minor slight, such as pushing while standing in line, is easy to forgive, but the need for forgiveness isn’t very pressing. It is much more difficult to forgive something terrible, but the need for forgiveness is vast and critical. How can we solve such a paradox? Will the two parties ever be able to build a bridge that will connect the offenders and the ones who need to forgive?”
Arik’s thoughts now wandered to his parents. Did they ever find it in their hearts to forgive the ones who had tried to murder them? He never thought of asking them, and now there wasn’t really anyone to ask.
“Forgiveness doesn’t allow you to close the wounds of the past and open a new page; it only covers the events that had happened. It is more difficult, perhaps even impossible, for people who went through the Holocaust. Hence the origin of the forgiveness paradox. When I demand an apology, I force the offender to take part in a sort of humiliation ceremony which allows the creation of balance between the offender and the offended. This is why forgiveness allows a common life and eventually reflects the good character of the one who is forgiving.”
An uneasy murmur, mixed with restrained anger, passed through the crowd. Arik shifted uneasily in his chair as well because of Eva’s last statement. He wasn’t convinced by the concept of forgiveness as expressed by Eva. At heart, he was an avenger.
“I know what I’m saying may be difficult for some of you to hear, and I apologize for it. Forgiveness means the ability to overcome the feelings of humiliation and hostility. The emotional protest following forgiveness is not about restraining your grudge, but about overcoming it. Maimonides said that a wise man who knows God is immune to hurt from other people and, therefore, doesn’t feel like a victim. Hence, a person who holds himself in high esteem won’t feel hurt upon becoming a victim, as he is aware of his own worth. Based on such concepts, we need to correct ourselves before we can correct the world.”
To Kill a Shadow Page 6