“Oh, exceptionally well,” Noni agreed. “This is what you might call… symbiosis, good for both parties.” O’Brien smiled sheepishly, through the mustache of the beer on his upper lip, and thought that he might be starting to rattle his guest.
“We give them a raison d’être: protecting the State of Israel. They give us global support.”
“Global?”
Noni put down a stubborn shrimp tail, which he had been trying to separate from the rest of the crustacean. “The Jews here have access to the halls of power in the United States, and America leads the free world.” He went back to his appetizer.
“It’s different than any other community.” O’Brien shook his head. “I’m Irish, but I don’t know how much we care about Ireland’s problems. Or how much Italians care about Italy, for that matter.”
“Yes,” Noni agreed. “But that’s about to change. The Soviet Union has fallen, which creates enormous economic opportunities. You’ll see that the Armenians will soon be organized like us, now that Armenia is its own country again. Even the Greeks are beginning to learn how to work here.”
“But unlike them, you are our strategic partners,” O’Brien said, holding a hot wing in three fingers and nibbling at it.
“It’s indeed different,” Noni agreed. “The food here is excellent.”
O’Brien went on to show interest in Noni’s daily life — which proved to be utterly uninteresting. This young man was not very different from hundreds of ambitious but empty young men O’Brien met on so many college campuses.
“So how can I be of help?” Noni asked after the conversation ground to a halt, to his disappointment, over dessert.
“It’s about the murder of Jay Delanconia, the commander of the airport police. You knew the guy?”
“Since when does the FBI deal with murder?”
“The FBI deals with every question concerning public safety that exceeds the narrow local context.”
“What does that mean?”
“You have a consul general who used to be a general in the IDF. Now he’s receiving death threats.”
“C’mon, that cannot be the reason for your involvement. What’s the real story?”
“A cop was killed, a high-ranking one. You don’t need a better reason than that.”
Noni shrugged. “The new consul general never even met him. I don’t think he knows anyone else here. The only one who was in contact with Jay was our information officer, Mickey. He’s Israeli, local personnel. The guy who caught Jay when he was shot.”
“That’s the ticket. Mickey and Jay — the connection between them was professional or social?”
“Both professional and social. Am I under investigation?” Noni looked up from his banana split, ice cream dripping from his spoon, and O’Brien felt that he had missed his opportunity.
“Certainly not,” O’Brien smiled reassuringly. “We’re just talking here, two public servants. Schmoozing, I think you people say. So you feel Almog doesn’t really fit in here?”
“He’s trying hard to fit in, and it’s our duty to help him. Just… off the record, you know… I don’t think he’s got a chance here. He has no basic understanding of American issues.”
O’Brien tried to conceal his astonishment. No American consul would have dared to talk about his head of mission this way. He thought that he would never understand these Israelis.
“And what about the strategic cooperation between our two nations?”
“What are you talking about?” Now it was Noni’s turn to be surprised.
“The Johnson Space Center, for instance.”
“Just a goodwill exchange of information and scientific cooperation.”
“You know that it’s much more than that.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Noni replied, to O’Brien’s great surprise.
23.
It was Wednesday, eight thirty in the morning, half-an-hour before the weekly cabinet meeting, when a white Peugeot 505 entered the courtyard of the prime minister’s office. The driver crossed the barrier at the outer entrance, another internal checkpoint, and then pulled up to the entrance to the prime minister’s office. The head of the Arab Affairs section of the General Security Service, an elderly man, silver-haired and dark-faced, got out of the car. From the other door, the head of the GSS emerged, a tall, balding, and disciplined man dressed in bright cloth trousers and a beige-colored turtleneck. They walked quickly to the door of the office. The security guard pressed a buzzer that allowed them to pass through the glass doors. The small lobby was packed with people: Chief of the General Staff of the IDF, Inspector General of the Israel Police, the Minister of Justice and his spokesman, and two other advisers of the prime minister.
“Don’t you guys have jobs to do?” asked the GSS head.
The minister of justice laughed. “This is the weekly bazaar. We get to pick and choose. We can resolve small issues directly. You should know that better than anyone.”
The GSS head shrugged.
The military secretary to the prime minister, who scheduled all meetings between the GSS head and the PM, took a vigorous step, followed by a pleasant elderly woman who was carrying a writing pad and a tape recorder.
“Let’s go, Rami,” he said. “We certainly have some work to do.”
The military secretary passed the clerks of the bureau, the GSS head behind him, and the last in line was Rivka, the stenographer, who had to attend all the PM’s meetings with the heads of the intelligence community. They sat around the prime minister’s desk, the men in wooden armchairs, as the stenographer pulled her chair up to the table and arranged her equipment.
“How was the wedding?” asked the prime minister. The son of the GSS head had gotten married the night before, at Oranim Garden in Tel Aviv, in the presence of the entire top echelon of the state.
“Nearly perfect.” Smiled the GSS head. “We missed you there.”
“Indeed,” said the prime minister, rubbing his nose and moving restlessly. “Sorry, I was at another party. These events are sometimes too messy for me. How was security?”
“Impeccable.” The GSS head smiled again. “No one does it better, right?”
“Well, modesty was never your problem,” said the PM, almost to himself.
“You know, Mr. Prime Minister,” interpolated the military secretary. “Rami believes that anyone who is excessively modest has good reason to be so.” The three chuckled. Rivka entered all of it into the record.
“We’ll follow the usual order,” said the prime minister, taking a tiny sandwich from a plate in front of him. “The territories, Arabs, subversion, security, and counterespionage. We have twenty minutes until we start the cabinet meeting, right?” He glanced at the military secretary.
“We have as much time as you decide,” he replied. There was a good rapport between him and the boss.
The GSS head made his report quickly and efficiently. Toward the end, addressing counterespionage issues, he got to the latest events in Europe and the United States. “In Houston, we’re continuing to passively monitor the Israeli group. No new developments.”
“What about the investigation into the murder of the local police commander, the one with the Italian name?” asked the PM.
“They have made no progress yet.”
“How does the American project progress?”
“As far as they’re concerned, it could take five years to get started. They are in no hurry.”
“And the Israelis are calm?”
“It’s quite doubtful. They are gradually growing more agitated, and that will erupt sometime soon. The time is not yet ripe.”
An aide came in, took out the empty sandwich tray, and placed a new tray on the prime minister’s desk.
“How is our cover?” the PM went on when she had left the room.
> “Effective.”
“Someone in the group?”
“Are you sure want to know?” asked the GSS head.
“Fine, fine,” said the PM angrily. He didn’t want to get involved in dirty tricks on American soil. Plausible deniability.
“Anyway,” said the GSS head. “The answer is yes. Our cover is good. We have Freddy, plus another player — Quill, if you’ve read the latest reports.”
“I read one yesterday,” said the military secretary, who only passed on the most critical data to the prime minister. “This Freddy is not bad at all.”
“‘Not bad’ is not good enough,” said the prime minister. “I want to start seeing all the reports from there myself.”
24.
I woke up at five in the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. Jay kept haunting my dreams, telling me to beware of something creeping behind my back, something that vanished whenever I turned around. I lay awake in bed and tried again to remember everyone who was there at the funeral. There was someone else there that I couldn’t remember.
Having nothing better to do, I got up and went to paint the B-24; my painstaking efforts had finally allowed me to complete its construction.
Most of the mahogany body I painted khaki brown, the belly blue and gray so that it would blend with the sky, escaping the eyes of the anti-aircraft gunners. As I reached the cockpit, it dawned on me: I had seen Laure at the funeral.
When I arrived at the consulate later that morning, I knew that I had to look into Laure’s rehabilitation file; but something stopped me. I was afraid of what I was going to find there; and whenever I was on my way to look at it, I found something else, something more urgent, to do.
We were required to regularly report on “mood and sentiment.” This was a summary of what we received from the general public throughout the region: advice for the Government of Israel, suggestions for new warplane paints containing anti-aircraft elements, tips about anti-Israel plots in the Kalahari Desert — all this kind of stuff. We received many inquiries about the political situation, the weather in Israel and quite a few prayers for the wellbeing of the state. It was very interesting if you had enough patience and time. I didn’t.
Noni’s line lit up, went dark and then lit up again. Something was happening. I picked up to listen in even before his interlocutor picked up the phone; it seemed to be a long-distance call, according to the number of beeps and taps on the line.
“Office, hello.” It was the low voice of Hector Frenkel, chief of staff to the Deputy Director General of the Foreign Ministry in Jerusalem. Noni was shooting off some long-range missiles this morning. Hector was his point man for far-reaching strategic moves.
“Hey, Hector, how are you?”
“Great, and you?”
“Suffering in silence. The big man hasn’t learned anything.”
So this was going to be a litany of bitter complaints about Almog. Foreign Ministry Deputy Director General Yehezkel Gelber was in charge of North America, and thus he was Almog’s boss.
“And he is not going to learn,” said Hector’s voice. “Things are getting complicated there.”
“Indeed they are. You mean the demonstrations, right?”
“Not only that. You know that Almog has gotten all sorts of people in the office worried. We have received many complaints about tactless and thoughtless treatment at the consulate.”
“Not ‘at the consulate,’ but ‘by the consul general,’” Noni indignantly corrected him.
“Of course. But the fish, as we know, stinks from the head. I’m wondering if you could help us. You know that such crises are an opportunity for good people to stand up.”
There was quiet on the line, as Noni was trying to digest the message. In previous conversations, Noni had always made sure to supply Hector with a few poisonous little stories about Almog; Hector appreciated that because it helped his boss, Gelber, whom Almog didn’t treat with enough respect.
“I do the best I can,” said Noni, choking.
“It’s nice but not enough,” said Hector, losing his patience. “More needs to be done. It’s not enough that only you and I know about the ongoing failures. Okay, I’ve got to go. Did you want something else?”
“Wait a minute,” Noni sounded distressed. “You mean the media ought to hear more about it?”
“Stop screwing around,” Hector shot back, impatient. “I think you understand exactly what I mean.”
“Oh yes, I do… but could you help me out a bit?”
“All I know,” Hector enunciated every word now, “is that if someone were to prudently provide relevant information to the public, the harm of the ongoing failures would be greatly reduced. As you well know, we all detest political appointments, especially failed appointments like the one I’d prefer not to mention. So if someone were smart enough to make sure that such a poor representative of the State of Israel returns home, the odds would be in favor of that someone finding himself promoted to the position of consul general. Have a good day.” The receiver was slammed down on the other end of the line.
25.
A state-of-the-art Boeing 757, flying direct from Mexico City, landed at Houston Intercontinental Airport’s Mickey Leland Terminal. It came to a halt adjacent to the jetway, with a jolt and a huff, as airport workers and maintenance teams approached it. Saar was with them, helping me receive the diplomatic courier from Mexico City, as I watched through the window of the passengers’ hall. Standing on the runway, Saar looked confident and reassuring. According to procedure, he had to watch the rear door of the plane while it was being unloaded.
The telegram from Mexico City reported a courier with eleven bags, so I went to the door to await his arrival. McFlaherty greeted me with a mixture of interest and nausea, but I didn’t think it was personal. The expression of disgust on his face was simply a permanent thing. Oddly enough, unlike his predecessor Jay, he was exercising his privilege by not wearing a police uniform. That flew in the face of my own experience, which stated that the higher an officer’s rank, the more eager he was to display his bars and stars and oak Ieaves.
Since Jay’s murder, the airport police had increased security considerably whenever official representatives of Israel landed. Still, there was no progress in the investigation of Jay’s murder. McFlaherty was cursing up a storm, hurling his invective at the diplomatic couriers, the IAH general manager, the FBI, and whoever else was mucking up his daily routine.
“Is this the courier from Mexico?” he asked, sounding like he expected trouble.
I confirmed that it was.
“Someone important?”
“Well, that depends on how you look at it. He’s the director of the Latin America division of the Foreign Ministry, visiting New York for the UN General Assembly; so he takes the opportunity to visit all those missions, especially in Central America. You know, Lima, Bogotá, Costa Rica. Missions that do not exactly interest anyone else.”
“I understand,” McFlaherty said. “The DEA guys already asked about him. Anyone going to Latin America these days must be doing some drugs.”
“He is not the type for that,” I said cautiously.
“Too old?”
“That too. He is not even the type to have a beer.” As if McFlaherty was the type for anything fun.
McFlaherty would not leave my side, so we both studied the route, the plane, the surroundings. I began to think that he was deliberately clinging to me, as if I might lure Jay’s murderer to come out and take another shot. However, no one approached us, much as I searched for a curly-haired joker, perhaps looking for cans in the garbage.
“Is this the line which has been giving you problems?” McFlaherty asked. He meant the line to South America that had been screwed up recently.
“Anything can be a problem. It’s all a question of perspective.” I wasn’t going to make it easier for
him.
The terminal, my second home until recently, was not so friendly anymore. I loved the international atmosphere, the sense of action, the stylish people of all kinds. But not anymore. Everything looked suspicious. I was more alert, trying not to miss anything. The terminal. The flight attendants. McFlaherty. It was an awful situation. You couldn’t tell where the next shot might come from.
Saar was playing a major role in receiving the courier. He’d taken the most convenient spot on the tarmac to watch the cargo, and left me inside the terminal. I watched the door to the jetway as it was finally opened by a Latino flight attendant, who managed to look both exhausted and efficient. He nodded at McFlaherty and me.
The passengers started to come out, looking tired and battered. The courier ought to have been among the first, but for some reason he wasn’t coming out. Twenty passengers passed, and I was on the verge of exploding. I looked in all directions to see what was happening — and he finally stepped out. Smiling, chubby, balding, sweating, laden with two packages he carried with him. One of them, I immediately saw, was his personal case, and the second was the top secret courier bag, holding sensitive material.
When he received the briefing in New York at the beginning of the trip, he was told to treat the “top secret” courier bag as equal to a living person. “If there is an attack, you must risk your life, even sacrifice your life, to protect it.” It was a bit idiotic, but the professional Foreign Ministry couriers, perhaps, were trained to do that. He was not a professional courier, not even part of the mail department or logistics. These people loved to go on such missions so that they could bill for their overtime and expenses, then pocket the money. He was here because he carried a diplomatic passport and was on an official tour. The Foreign Ministry saved the cost of a ticket by having him schlep all the sacks and envelopes of the diplomatic pouch and take responsibility for them.
He was not high up in the hierarchy of the ministry. He was not a deputy director general or a department director, just a division head. Even so, a division head with more self-confidence might have refused to travel with eleven diplomatic bags and another he had to keep on his person — even when he went to pee.
The Consulate Conspiracy Page 13