Ari nodded, blowing smoke into the air.
“Maybe you’d like a nineteen-year-old, small, dark and defiant—another Rachael.”
Ari crushed out his cigarette. It was important that he gain this Nazi’s respect; it might be crucial later. “Listen, I’m not asking you for anything,” he said, almost angrily. “If you want to do me a favor, fine, I’ll accept it. But I won’t bend down and kiss your feet in gratitude.”
Ludin touched him gently on the arm. “Do not get defensive, my friend. We are both Germans of the old order. There are not so many of us left that we can afford the luxury of dissension among ourselves. Go back to the hotel, have dinner and wait. I’ll deliver someone to your room in a couple of hours.”
Ari smiled faintly and hurried out of the restaurant.
◆◆◆
Close to three and a half hours elapsed before there was a knock on his door. When he opened it two uniformed policemen shoved a young girl into the room. She was short, dark, and had small brown eyes that darted quickly around the hotel suite. Ari didn’t need to be told that she hated her captors. The girl tried to squirm free from the arm one of the policemen held tightly around her waist.
“If she doesn’t stop that throw her on the floor,” Ari said. At the sound of his voice the girl went rigid. “You may let her go.” The policeman dropped his hand and the girl, suddenly with no one to fight, remained still.
“We were instructed to deliver this woman and to leave a number where we can be reached. You may phone us when you want her returned,” the officer who had held the girl said, holding out a slip of paper.
Ari nodded and took it from him. “You two may go now, thank you.”
The officers turned and left.
“What did they tell you?” Ari asked, gazing at the young Jewess.
“They said that if I didn’t come and please you my father and mother would be beaten.” She spat out the words and began unbuttoning her blouse.
“Have you ever slept with a man before?”
“I’ve been raped twice,” she said coldly. “Once by a Palestinian and once by the policeman I reported the crime to.”
“Your name is Rachael Khatib, isn’t it? You have a brother named Yair who lives with his wife and two children on Haroe Street in Halifa. Your favorite color is yellow and you have a scar on your upper right thigh from a pot of boiling water that Yair accidentally spilled on you.”
In fabricating the story of his sexual transgressions at Dachau he had described Rachael as the type of Jewess he desired, mentioning her name in the hope Ludin would send her and not another girl. The plan was not as tenuous as it first seemed, for Rachael was the only young Jewess left in Damascus with the fire to fight. Ludin would know that.
Ari slipped a ring with a small turquoise stone off his finger and held it out to her.
She took it hesitantly, staring at the ring and then back at him, fear frozen on her face. “How did you get Yair’s ring? How do you know about me?”
“I’m an Israeli,” he said.
She stared at him in utter disbelief. “But the police…”
“They think I’m a former Nazi. You needn’t concern yourself with the details. I’ve come to take Rabbi Sasoon’s and Nissim Kimche’s children to Israel. We’re worried they’re going to be used to pressure their parents into cooperating with the authorities. Success will depend on how quickly we move and how quietly. I don’t want you to speak to anyone except Nissim Kimche about what I’m going to tell you. Everyone else is to think you were raped. Is that clear?”
She nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“First of all,” he got up from the edge of the bed and brought a chair over, “I think you will be more comfortable sitting down.” She smiled and took a seat near him. He was amazed at her calm, at the tears she had not shed when confronted with her brother’s ring. Ari now knew why the Colonel had insisted he contact her—she was controlled and unusually strong. “Now,” he said, trying to comfort her with a smile, “I want you to arrange it so that two weeks from today on the twenty-second…”
Just then there was a knock at the door. “Quick, on the bed,” Ari whispered. Understanding, she kicked off her shoes, loosened her blouse. And dropped onto the mattress. He pulled his shirt off and ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it. When he opened the door Kim was standing in the hall wearing a short skirt and a tight-fitting body blouse, cut well below the neck. She smiled at him and stepped into the room; then she saw the girl lying on the bed. For an instant she stood immobile, unable to speak, her eyes attached to his naked chest.
“Kim.”
“I should have called, but I didn’t think…”
“No, it’s not what it looks like.” A heaviness pressed down on him. It was happening again; his job was encroaching on his private life, threatening to destroy it, the way it destroyed Yael.
“It couldn’t possibly be what it looks like,” she said sarcastically. “You’re just having a business meeting. She’s quoting you the latest figures on Damascene furniture.”
“Come outside.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the hall, closing the door behind them.
“I know I’m young, but shouldn’t that girl be home doing her schoolwork.”
“Stop it,” he said roughly. “I can’t explain, but there’s nothing between me and that girl.”
“I can see that—you’re half undressed.”
“Kim, no,” he half demanded, half pleaded.
“If there’s nothing going on why is she lying on your bed and why can’t you explain?”
The hall was empty, quiet. “Because if I explained your life would be in danger.” As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted speaking them.
A shadow of fear crossed her face, darkening her eyes. “What is it? Who is that girl? What’s she doing in your room? What are you doing in Damascus?”
“I can’t tell you!” he said, frustration breaking off the edges of his words.
She clutched onto his arm. “Let’s get out of here, out of this hotel and out of Damascus. I’ll go with you anywhere you say. We can take a plane in the morning. I’ll finish my pictures later. I’m frightened. You’re involved in something dangerous. I know it. Please, let’s leave now, forget whatever it is you’re doing.”
He drew her close and kissed her. For a second she seemed to fight him, but only for a second.
Dropping her head to his shoulder, she looked up at his small eyes. “Please let’s leave. It can’t be that important.”
“It is. Trust me.” Gently he pushed her away from him. “I have to go inside now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
With that he turned and went back to Rachael and the Service.
11.
SEPTEMBER 8
In the morning Ari picked up the scrap of paper lying next to the phone, dialed, and arranged for the officers to come for Rachael. As she emerged from the other room he suddenly thought about Dov Elon. This girl would have been perfect for him. He could just picture them romping through the fields on Dov’s kibbutz, wringing the sweetness out of life the way one squeezed the juice from an orange. What was the use? For all practical purposes, Dov was dead.
He crossed the room and stared out the window at the harsh sunlight already glinting off the tiled roofs of the city. Ari wondered about his colleague. Strangely enough, though one of the things he was supposed to find out was how much Dov had told his interrogators, he didn’t even know what the young intelligence officer had been doing in Damascus. When he’d asked, the Colonel had hedged, explaining that the knowledge could be an unnecessary burden in the event he was captured and interrogated. Such secrecy bothered Ari. In the old days the Colonel had never withheld information from him.
After Rachael had been taken away Ari sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the bottle of arak resting on the nightstand. The liquid was clear with a slight green-black tint to it. He’d been drinking a bit too much recently and he knew it. Reachi
ng over a pillow, he poured a glass half full and gulped the liquor quickly, as if by throwing the contents down his throat he could faster forget his drinking it.
Remembering the unmade bed in the next room, he slowly got up. Details are of paramount importance, he repeated to himself. The whole mission could be foiled by a cleaning lady finding underwear bearing a suspicious label, or the extra bed slept in when the gentleman had brought a young woman to his suite for the express purpose of sexual liaison.
He tugged at the sheets and blankets on the bed where Rachael had slept, trying to smooth the wrinkles out of them. But whenever he pulled on one end of the blanket, inevitably a new crease appeared someplace else. Angrily he moved to the head of the bed and drew the blanket taut, stuffing the edges underneath the mattress. When the bedspread was in place he moved back into the main room, noting, to his dismay, that his breathing was labored and his forehead damp.
He was slipping and although the realization was painful, he no longer could avoid admitting it to himself. First there was the untimely affair with Michelle on Cyprus, then in Damascus Airport he let that stupid kid take the transmitter from under his nose. But an incident that occurred in Jerusalem, right after the Colonel’s final briefing, worried him most of all.
Late in the afternoon he had been walking past the construction site at Kiryat Wolfson when a terrific explosion rocked the earth. Instinctively he dove to the ground. He lay there huddled against himself for a long time—his hands shaking, his heart beating wildly. Finally he realized the blast had been caused by construction workers dynamiting foundations through the stony crust of the city. An hour later his hands were still trembling.
The Colonel would call it a sign.
Ari wiped the sweat from his brow and reached for the phone. When the receptionist came on he asked for Kim’s room. The phone rang for a long time before she answered.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
“No, I was in the shower.” She sounded distant, detached.
“Can we have breakfast together?”
“What about your friend? Isn’t she hungry?”
“She’s gone.”
“Already. What’s the matter, wasn’t she very good?”
“Kim!”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” She paused and then spoke softly. “I’m sorry.”
“What about breakfast?”
“I can’t. I’m going out to take some pictures this morning. The Foreign Ministry phoned a little while ago; the Israelis bombed the refugee camp at Khan esh Shih just after sunrise, killing a lot of civilians. The Ministry offered to provide a car and driver if I was interested in photographing the damage. I’m being picked up in twenty minutes.”
“I see.”
There was a long silence parted by Kim. “Can we have dinner instead?”
“I guess so.”
“What time?” she asked.
“How about seven, here in the hotel?”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
Kim slowly returned the receiver to its place and relaxed the grip on the towel wrapped around her body. It fell to the floor exposing her full breasts and flat stomach. She looked at herself with satisfaction. It pleased Kim that he wanted her.
◆◆◆
Ari wandered aimlessly through the Suq el-Bzouriye, thinking about the mission. He would meet Rachael one more time, pass the information to Lieutenant Barkai, then fly out of Damascus. In less than two weeks the children would be in Jerusalem. Ari wondered where he would be.
He turned the corner into a dark and deserted passageway. Muddy water trickled down the alley, flanked by jewelers working in tiny, glass-fronted shops. Their wares—turquoise-studded bracelets, agate rings, and heavy brooches—were all oppressively alike. Farther on an old man sitting on a stool in the dirt, smoking his nargileh, looked up at Ari.
“English. You speak English?” he asked, the lines crisscrossing his face dancing as he talked.
Ari smiled and stopped.
“An American tourist?”
“Something like that,” he said.
The old man pulled a wooden box from under his stool and lifted the lid, exposing a jumbled array of glass vials. He reached in, grabbed a handful, and motioned his potential customer nearer. “Perfumes, the sweet blossoms of Damascus.” He studied the labelless vials for a long moment, finally choosing an amber-colored one. Uncorking it, he dabbed Ari’s wrist with the top. The smell of sandalwood rose from his skin.
“It’s very nice,” Ari said, bringing his hand close to his nose.
The old man grinned, exposing a set of rotting teeth. Quickly he dabbed Ari’s arm with the tangled aromas of musk, violet, jasmine, and chypre.
“Enough,” Ari said, as the scent of orange blossoms was rubbed near his elbow. “How much?”
The old man studied his customer’s face, trying to decide how tough a bargainer this foreigner was. “One for four pounds or five for fifteen pounds,” he said after a minute.
Ari smiled. “Surely you are not serious. The bottles are tiny. I’ll give you ten pounds for five of them.”
“Ya-allah! That is half price. It’s impossible. I cannot.”
He started to put the vials away, then stopped. “Ten for twenty-five pounds. Think of your woman. Give her my perfume and she will make love to you fifty, a hundred times more passionately.”
Ari smiled. “Five for twelve pounds.”
“I cannot possibly go lower than fourteen.”
“Not even to thirteen?”
“No. It’s too cheap. You are stealing the food off my table. My grandchildren will starve.”
“Well, then I guess we cannot agree on a price.” He shrugged and started to walk away.
“Thirteen pounds fifty piasters is my final offer,” the old man called after him.
Ari turned and took out his wallet. Hunting through the thick wad of currency, he found a twenty-pound note, handed it to the old man, and received his change and the bottles in return. The merchant smiled; he’d made a healthy profit.
As Ari continued down the deserted alley he realized suddenly that someone was following him. He glanced up ahead. Wood doors leading to cramped apartments lined both sides of the passageway. Quickening his pace, he listened. There were two, no, three pairs of feet that also increased their gait. Caught in an alley with no avenue of escape, he cursed himself for not bothering with extra precautions.
The footsteps were approaching rapidly. He searched the ground for a stick, a sharp stone, a piece of glass. There was nothing. But there’s always something: a watch, an ashtray, a business card—anything that can gouge out or cut becomes a weapon in trained hands. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a ball-point pen, and as the alley curved, broke into a run. The footsteps chased after him. Ari glanced back. Three young Arabs. No chance of escape. He spun around and crouched, clutching the pen like a dagger. He was quite calm.
The Arabs stopped and approached slowly. Two carried club-like sticks. The third held a length of pipe menacingly in front of him. Ari backed up against the wall. Give them less of a target, he told himself.
“We want your wallet,” the one with the pipe said. “You’re going to give your dollars to the Palestinians for a change.”
They must have watched him buying the perfume. “I’m not an American,” he said. “I’m a German, a friend of the Arabs.”
“Liar.”
The young man lifted his pipe and moved closer, his eyes scorched with hate.
“Wait!” Ari shouted, reaching for his back pocket. “Here.” He tossed his wallet and pen at the man’s feet. As the Arab looked toward the ground Ari rushed forward. He grabbed the arm holding the pipe and pulled it hard against his knee. The pipe flew out of the man’s grasp and bounced noisily on the floor of the alley. Then with a powerful cutting blow he drove the side of his hand into the man’s neck, pulled him up again by the shirt, and hit him in the face with an upward thrust of his open f
ist. As he slumped to the pavement the other two charged.
Ari bent his left shoulder low to the ground and lashed out with his right foot, catching one Arab in the small of the stomach and propelling him against the wall. The other swung the stick at his head. Ari managed to throw up his arm. The blow glanced off it and harmlessly hit his shoulder. With a cutting chop he struck the man’s wrist, knocking the club to the ground, then quickly drove a knee hard into his groin. As the man cried out and fell backward Ari heard the sound of the first Arab coming up behind him. He turned around just as the blow came. It seemed to part his skull. The alley spun. He felt a warm, tingling sensation. Then nothing. As he lost consciousness he thought he heard voices and the sounds of a scuffle around him.
◆◆◆
He woke, surprised to find he was propped against the wall of the alley. He’d been struck somewhere in the middle of the narrow street; he must have fallen to the ground there. Who could have moved him? On a hunch, he felt his back pocket. His wallet was in place. He pulled it out and found, as he expected, that nothing was missing. Not even the Syrian currency.
As he stood up a wave of pain rolled through his head. He touched the back of his skull. There was no blood. He wasn’t hurt badly. He took a few steps in the direction he’d originally come from then bent to the ground. Something had caught his eye. A series of weaving lines parted the thin layer of dust and dirt covering the pavement. There were six of them. It was as if three men hand been dragged away by the shoulders, the heels of their shoes leaving these tracks.
Slowly Ari walked back toward the Street Called Straight, trying to sort out what had happened. If the muggers were irate Palestinians, and even that was uncertain—then who had attacked them, returned his wallet, and fled rather than reveal their identities? He saw only two possibilities. Lieutenant Barkai, following him for some unknown reason, could have rushed to his aid the moment he was in physical danger. But he dismissed that idea immediately. Barkai was due in the country on the twelfth, four days from now. He wouldn’t have arrived early, even as a precautionary measure, not unless he was involved in something much bigger than the escape of seven children. And that was impossible—Ari would have known.
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