At seven o’clock al-Husseini had picked Ari up at the New Ommayad and driven to the Caves du Roi Club, where they sat waiting for a third party, someone al-Husseini wanted him to meet. The restaurant was designed to approximate the atmosphere of an underground cavern. The walls and floor were of a rough stone. A sheet of red cloth covered the ceiling and the same colored shades circled the dimmed hanging lamps. The tables and chairs were of unadorned wood. Soft music rippled through the background.
“There he is now,” al-Husseini said, setting down his glass of arak and pointing to a tall, elderly man who despite his age moved hurriedly in their direction. He had fair skin and gray hair. The Trade Bureau director slipped off his seat and stood as the man approached. “Herr Hoffman, I would like to introduce Sabri ibn Mahmud.”
Ibn Mahmud bowed slightly and extended his right hand. “My pleasure,” he said in French, though everything about him was German, from his appearance down to his manners and the abruptness of his body movement.
As they moved to a table in the far corner of the small room Ari turned to Ibn Mahmud. “You are German?” he asked in that language.
“That depends on who’s asking.”
“Herr Hoffman can be trusted,” al-Husseini interjected. “He is a friend of the Syrian ambassador in Bonn. He carries a personal letter of introduction.”
Ibn Mahmud nodded. “My real name is Franz Ludin. I was formerly first officer in the Propaganda Ministry of Dr. Josef Goebbels.”
A smile spread over Ari’s face. “This is indeed a great honor. So few of Germany’s true sons are still alive. We meet all too rarely these days. Herr Ludin, if you will allow me I would like to propose a toast.” Ari lifted his glass and raised it toward the ceiling. “To those that died and to those forced to scatter over the globe, seig heil.”
“Seig heil,” Ludin exclaimed, emptying his glass. Then pouring out another round of arak, he looked over at Ari. “You are a member of the National Socialistische Arbeiterpartei?”
“Waffen SS,” he said proudly.
Ludin added water to his arak and the clear grape alcohol turned a milky opaque. “Where were you trained?”
“At the police school in the woods near Rabka. That’s in the Carpathian mountains not far from…”
“The Polish ski resort of Zakopane,” Ludin finished his sentence for him. “I knew the school well, it was run by SS Oberscharführer Oskar Walke.”
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, Herr Ludin. The school Commandant was SS Obersturmführer Wilhelm Höfle of Hamburg.”
Ludin smiled and took another sip from his glass. “I apologize, Herr Hoffman, for attempting to trick you, but the Jews are everywhere, one cannot be too careful.”
“One can never be careful enough,” Ari agreed.
“Where were you stationed during the war?”
“Dachau concentration camp,” Ari said, looking down at his plate. “I was only a minor functionary, an Untersturmführer in charge of organizing the productive work of the prisoners in the labor kommando. No war crime charges were filed against me.”
Ludin stared across the table at the man more than a dozen years his junior. “You seem almost embarrassed that no one is hunting you.”
Ari nodded weakly. “Somehow I feel I could not have served the Führer to the utmost if…”
“Don’t be naïve, Untersturmführer Hoffman. You had your task to perform, others had theirs. By chance you were not chosen to assist directly in the extermination of the Jews. If you had been you would have complied without hesitation. And nobody would have tried to stop you. Why do you think Allied bombers leveled Munich, but left Dachau, a mere eleven miles to the northwest, untouched? Because the Americans knew if they rescued the Jews, they would have had to absorb them in their borders, and they wanted them as little as we did.”
“Herr Ludin donates his services as an expert on the Jewish Question to the Syrian Ministry of Orientation,” al-Husseini said.
“There are Jews in Syria?” Ari asked, acting puzzled.
“A mere four and a half thousand,” al-Husseini explained.
“Dealing with them is like asking the designer of the Aswan Dam to teach a child how to block the water draining down the side of the street,” Ludin said.
Ari nodded understandingly.
As al-Husseini had taken it upon himself to order for his guests, soon steaming plates of Kharouf Mechout, stuffed roast lamb, were brought to the table. With their meal the waiter suggested a bottle of Domaine de Tourelle, a popular Lebanese rosé. Ludin nodded his approval and the waiter hurried after the wine.
The three men ate with relish. The minutes fell away as they alternated arguing Middle East politics with telling war stories. Ari played his role with the polish of the professional. He wanted to appear ingenious, a bit naïve. He felt he could win over the aging Nazi by playing on his vanity, on their common past. Ludin could be of invaluable service if manipulated skillfully from the outset.
As the baklava and coffee were served Ari yawned. “Pardon me,” he said, looking at his watch. “It’s later than I realized. I’ve had a long day.” Though genuinely tired, he was anxious to return to the hotel for a quite different reason.
Al-Husseini lifted his cup to his lips and drained the contents.
“Don’t hurry yourself on my account,” Ari said. “I don’t mind taking a taxi.”
“In that case please feel no obligation to stay,” al-Husseini said, lowering his coffee to the table. “Besides, the two of us have some business to discuss that I’m sure would only bore you.”
“Then I think I shall avail myself of some much-needed sleep. It was indeed a pleasure meeting you, Herr Ludin,” Ari said, rising. “As I know virtually no one in Damascus I hope I can take the liberty of calling on you at your convenience.”
“No need to be so formal, my friend. First of all, you must call me Franz. Second, all government offices are shut on Friday, the Muslim holy day. Why don’t we spend the afternoon and evening together and take in a few sights?”
“That’s kind of you, I’d enjoy that very much.”
“Good, then I shall pick you up at three, the day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it.” He shook hands with both men and left the restaurant.
Back at the hotel, Ari went immediately to the front desk, where the night clerk informed him that a Kim Johnson had registered two hours earlier and could be found in room 204. Even though the second floor was only one flight up he took the elevator. Moving down the hallway, he knocked on her door, waited, then pounded harder; but to his surprise no one answered. Wondering where she had gone at such a late hour, he wrote her a note, slipped it under the wood, and took the elevator up to his suite.
Kicking off his shoes, he sat on the edge of the bed, then stretched out and tried to push the tiredness from his limbs. He’d put the loss of the transmitter out of his mind all day but now the impact of what had happened began to hit him. The Colonel, assuming he was too experienced an agent to misplace the toiletry case, had not arranged an alternate method of communication. If any more unexpected problems arose there would be no way to contact Jerusalem. He was cut off—on his own until he met Lieutenant Shaul Barkai in the Christian quarter of Damascus on the twelfth.
Ari yawned out loud and let his thoughts drift elsewhere. A large part of him resented that he was in Damascus, resented the fact that he’d volunteered, almost begged for assignment to a mission intended for two less experienced agents. Sure, he wasn’t a hundred percent as sharp as he used to be; he began to realize that on Cyprus, but certainly he still had a number of good years left. Years that could be spent…
Just then he heard a light tapping at his door. With a smile on his lips he moved across the room and opened it. Kim was standing in the hallway. For a long second he just looked at her. He kept forgetting the strong physical impact she had on him until they met after an absence and it struck him again. Dressed in a short skirt, her legs in clo
th boots laced to the knees, her blue-gray eyes softly shaded and sparkling, she seemed more the creation of a long-suppressed dream than a woman he’d grown to know intimately.
“Well, are you going to let me in?” she asked, bringing her hands to her waist in mock anger.
“I think I could be talked into it.”
She entered the room and he drew her into his arms, comforted by the familiarity of her touch and the musky fragrance of her perfume. She kissed him, letting her lips linger over his, then moved toward the chair next to the dresser.
“I’m exhausted,” she said, sitting down. “I wanted to see the city. I’ve been walking for… I don’t know… hours.”
He sat on the bed near her and looked at the open door leading to the balcony. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous for women to be out alone here at night?”
“No,” she said, the edge of irritation cutting through her voice.
Even before she answered he was sorry he’d asked the question. He really wasn’t worried about her safety; that’s not what had prompted his supposed concern.
“How was your flight?” he asked quickly, changing the subject.
“Fine. I’m glad you convinced me to go through Greece instead of Cyprus. I really enjoyed myself in Athens.”
Even if one had the foresight, as Kim had, to request her Israeli visa be stamped on a removable piece of paper, flying from Nicosia to Damascus was tantamount to advertising the traveler had begun his journey in Tel Aviv. Once in Syria all passengers arriving on flights from Cyprus were closely watched—a pointless policy since no one attempting anything subversive was foolish enough to enter a Muslim state from the island country so near to Israel’s coastline.
Kim fingered the long strands of her champagne-colored hair, trying to draw the static electricity out of it. “Did you complete the necessary business transactions with your partners in Frankfurt?”
He nodded, hating to lie to her.
She looked up at him. “Is anything the matter?”
“No. Why do you ask?” It made him uneasy that she could immediately sense when something was on his mind; then again, her ability to reach into him was a great part of what made her so attractive.
“I don’t know. You seem a little tense.”
“I’m sorry. I’m probably just tired.” He massaged the back of his neck with his hand. “It’s been a long day.”
“Here, let me do that,” she said, moving onto the bed. She worked the flesh in his shoulders and neck, kneading the tightness out of his muscles.
“You’re going to put me to sleep,” he said as a liquid warmth flowed under his skin.
She stopped and circled her hands around his chest. “Actually I wouldn’t mind that. I’m absolutely worn out.”
He turned and kissed her on the forehead. “Let’s go to bed.”
They undressed, slipped under the covers, and entwined in each other’s arms, drifted from the world of conscious thought.
8.
SEPTEMBER 5
After meeting Michelle, Guy Lavalle drove directly to Larnaca Airport and boarded a CypAir flight for Paris. He spent a day roaming the banks of the Siene, visiting art museums and viewing his favorite paintings. He was especially fond of Manet’s Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe and Pissarro’s The Orchard, hanging in the Jeu de Paume at the edge of the Tuileries between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde. Both Manet’s bold plains of color and Pissarro’s splashes of light depicted the outdoors with extraordinary feeling. Lavalle appreciated their artistic innovations. Finally, certain that he wasn’t being followed, he met his contact and switched passports. Resuming his real identity, Lieutenant Shaul Barkai, member of the Mossad since 1968, youngest agent ever to be awarded the Ot Haoz medal, a man on his way to a very promising career in Israeli intelligence, flew back to Tel Aviv.
The Colonel stood at his window, waiting for Barkai to be brought in from the airport. Below, in President’s Park next to the Knesset, he watched a group of children playing war. One intrepid boy climbed a tree, waiting until two unsuspecting comrades crossed under him; then he jumped and quickly stabbed both of them in the back with a rubber dagger. The two boys fell to the ground in mock death throes. Seconds later they got up and began arguing about who would play the paratrooper next and who would have to be the Arabs. Though their game saddened him, the Colonel felt a vague sense of well-being—at least in this generation the Jews would fight back.
The sight of the children made him think about Rabbi Sassoon’s and Nissim Kimche’s offspring. It was not beyond the Syrians to induce parents to cooperate by threatening to torture their children; they’d done so before, most recently on the eve of the American news-cameramen’s arrival in Damascus. The Colonel reached into his pocket for a cigar, then changed his mind. For weeks he’d wondered if it was worth risking two and possibly three agents to save seven children. He knew why, in the end, he’d decided it was. The potential propaganda value of the kids was enormous. For why would the leaders of a community voluntarily send away their children knowing if they did that they would never see them again? The international news media had to draw the correct conclusion: the plight of Syria’s Jews was that bad.
The Colonel closed his eyes and tried to rest for a moment. Lately he had been burdened by a growing sense of national insecurity—a feeling that Israel was alone among the nations, a thorn sticking in the massive flank of the world, a state whose existence irritates even her friends. The pressure grew increasingly harder for him to shoulder after the expulsion from UNESCO, as Israel was pushed still farther from the family of nations. Sometimes he wondered if the world wasn’t right. Maybe the Jews were committing some fundamental, perhaps catastrophic error, which if not rectified, would doom the Israelis and Arabs to Semitic suicide.
“Excuse me, Colonel,” Lieutenant Barkai said from the open doorway.
The Colonel slowly turned back from the window. “Please shut the door and sit down.”
Barkai complied immediately. “I wasn’t interrupting you, was I?”
“No,” the Colonel said, falling heavily into his chair. “I was waiting for you. How did it go on Cyprus?”
“Satisfactory, sir. By now the Syrian Second Bureau should be on to Ari.”
The Colonel nodded and lit a Montecruz. “Do you think there’s any chance she suspected you were an Israeli?”
“No, from her point of view I could be from any one of a dozen intelligence services. Besides, looking at it from the other side, why would we be setting up our own man? If we wanted to get rid of him surely there would be more direct methods.”
The Colonel looked hard at the Syrian-born lieutenant. “You spoke to Ben-Sion before he left for Damascus. What did you think of him?”
“Well,” Barkai stalled. “I don’t think he’s quite as sharp as he once was. Apparently he never realized you maneuvered him into volunteering for the mission.”
“Beyond that?”
“I’d rather not say, sir. I really don’t know him well enough.”
The Colonel blew a puff of smoke into the air. “You didn’t like this assignment much, did you?”
“It’s not a question of like or dislike,” Barkai snapped. “I followed your orders.”
The Colonel nodded, pleased that Barkai understood the moral code of field agents. “Lieutenant, intelligence work has one law: it’s justified by results. At times you may be asked to do things that will seem immoral to you. Indeed, in the Biblical classroom, in the everyday world, they are immoral; but not to the Service. Results, not morality, save lives, and the business we’re in is saving Jewish lives.” He snuffed out his cigar. “That’s what Ari went to Syria to do.”
9.
SEPTEMBER 6
In the morning Kim took the stairs to the second floor. Though Ari would have liked her to stay, the plan developed in Jerusalem demanded his bed be available. After she left he went down to the lobby and waited for Mustafa Suidani, al-Huesseini’s assistant. The next few
hours proved to be commercially productive. Ari bought a hundred and fifty backgammon sets and ordered them shipped to his company in Frankfurt. If anyone cared to check, the firm, Transworld Enterprises, was a legitimate one. When he left the factory he took one of the sets with him, explaining that he would send it ahead as a sample. He would mail it to Frankfurt, but not until he had coded a message about the lost transmitter and hidden the slip of paper in the board game. Richtman, certain to find the arrival of the small package unusual, would search it carefully.
After Suidani dropped him back at the hotel, Ari went to the desk and arranged for two picnic lunches to be made up. He phoned Kim’s room, and a half-hour later they were speeding in a rented car toward Mount Kassioun, intent on escaping from the heat that hung over the city. Driving out Farouk El Awal Boulevard, they entered the orchards of al-Ghutah. On both sides of the road trees pushed up through the dry earth, their branches laden with apples, plums, figs, and mandarins. Irrigation channels flowed everywhere, fighting a constant battle with the sun. Farther north, on the outskirts of the Mohajirine district, women, holding their pantaloons above their knees, crushed apricots in stone troughs, while children picked the kernels from the gruel. At the base of the rolling foothills of Mount Kassioun, the road ended.
They climbed through the trees, the air cooling as they wound upward along a path cut by the hooves of sheep and goats. Finally Ari plopped down on a grassy knoll. Kim collapsed at his side, somehow panting and laughing at the same time.
“It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed.
He nodded, following her gaze up to Jabel as-Sheik, Biblical Mount Hermon, where Nimrod the hunter had dwelt, and near which the tribe of Dan had settled after fleeing from the Philistines. For a long time he stared at the snow-capped peak, beyond whose summit stretched the land he loved, but between whose borders he was not content to live. An ironic paradox.
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