“And what if it’s real and you’re not sure? If your security guard reports live fire, you have no room to maneuver. It’s a fiasco, period.”
We sat in the conference room, sipping coffee, as Giora got to work on Noni. “Look, I don’t have to report any mishaps. I know you’re a hard worker, and as far as we’re concerned, you’re usually fine.” Noni, like a scared rabbit and scolded, actually made me feel sorry for him. He raised skeptical eyes to Giora.
“Forget it, that’s enough,” Giora said encouragingly. “Next time you’ll do better.”
We sipped coffee silently.
“You want to know about the diplomatic pouch,” Noni figured it out.
“That’s right.”
“Mevorach really had a heart attack?”
“Yes,” Giora confirmed. “But nowadays heart attacks can be arranged. Murder is only getting easier as time passes. He was robbed, and we’re going to find the pouch, the thief, and/ or the murderer. Both of them, unless it’s the same person. But let’s start with your diplomatic procedures.”
We go through the procedures of the diplomatic mail for two hours straight. Giora had to finish the inspection that day, because the next day, Hinenzon, the regional administrative director (RAD), was due to start his inspection.
“Was there anything out of the ordinary in the last round?” asked Giora.
“Not really,” said Noni.
“Mickey?” All eyes were on me now.
“Not really,” I agreed. “Only the UIA mail used to come to us, now it goes directly to New York.”
“UIA,” Giora said in a grave voice. “That’s big money coming from Latin America. Jewish money, smuggled to Israel.” He glared at us, vicious and suspicious. I didn’t really care, but Noni was looking into every corner of the room, trying to avoid Giora’s eyes.
27.
The red light on Noni’s extension blinked off, ending the third call this evening, snitching to Frenkel in the Jerusalem office. Then the light went on again. Who was next in line for his whining?
Two weeks had passed since the day I had decided to go outside for a short walk, and when I’d gotten back to my desk, Noni was standing there, fiddling with my telephone. He claimed that he had received an urgent call, so he’d had to use my phone. This was after he had asked me, on a number of occasions, if I could listen in on other extensions from my multiline phone.
“That’s the last time you use anything on my desk when I’m not here.” I looked him straight in the eye; he looked in every direction but my own.
“But—”
“Last time.”
“You can’t—” His voice cracked.
“I sure can. Don’t forget it.”
Since then he had not come into the room, only talking to me from the doorway; my multiline phone continued to be connected.
Right now, there were ten beeps on the line from Noni’s office, an outside call in the United States. Two attempts, but the other side’s line was busy. Two more attempts, and finally Noni got through.
“Avidor,” growled the voice on the other side. He was the New York correspondent for Yedioth Ahronoth, Israel’s biggest newspaper. His name was Avraham Dornberger when he was a sports reporter in the north of the country. After he excelled and was reassigned to the hottest position, reporting on the settlements and the Occupied Territories, he shortened his name to Avi Dor. The name became a portmanteau once he got the plum job in the Big Apple.
“Hi, how are things?”
“Who is this?”
“Noni, from Houston. How are you?”
“Houston!” Avidor roared with feigned enthusiasm. “How’s our army man? The fearless general? You came to me just in time, Noni, I gotta say. So how are you? What’s the matter? Did they catch someone screwing with your diplomatic mail?”
“What’s the matter? What do you mean by that?”
“Come on. Are you playing with me? You were visited by the RSD and the RAD. Did they catch someone?”
“Not yet.” Noni’s voice is dry. “The RAD hasn’t shown up yet, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Oh? I’m listening.”
“It’s Almog.”
“Talk, talk. Don’t toy with me.”
“Look, you can’t publish anything yet, but he’s trying to raise a huge sum for the Soldiers’ Relief Fund — for a commission.”
“Fantastic.” The joy is evident in Avidor’s voice. “Do you have anything concrete about it? What does it have to do with the Diplomatic Corps?”
“It has to do with the Bogotá security officer. But you cannot go to print yet with this.”
“What, Danny Koren? The censors have already stopped us. What has that got to do with it?”
“There is a connection, but they will not let you put it out there.”
“Tell me, what are you doing? You’re not really giving me anything.”
“Why not? You can use the fact that Almog raised an unprecedented contribution of twelve million dollars, then lost it. He told the whole world about it himself. You can check with the Soldiers’ Relief Fund or the Ministry of Defense in Israel.”
“Or with him.”
“By no means!” Noni sounded decisive.
“Got it. Thanks. Bye.” From the moment Avidor got his claws on his prey, he was ruthlessly efficient.
28.
“Don’t go in there,” Dorothy warned. She had at least seven necklaces on, every color of the rainbow.
“Are you dressed up for an exorcism?”
“No, you ignoramus!” she rebuked me. “It’s not about chasing away evil spirits, it’s about welcoming good spirits. Anyway, don’t go into there. He’s in an epically bad mood.”
I opened the door and he beckoned me to close the door behind me and sit down.
Advanced Snake Studies, he wrote for me on a piece of paper. His boots were on the corner of his desk as he listened to a call on speakerphone: the susurrant voice of Hector Frenkel, mostly familiar to me from Noni’s conniving conversations.
“Of course it’s a dick move,” said Hector’s voice. “But perhaps, to avoid such things, you ought to keep an eye on the people around you.” Hector had no idea there were eavesdroppers.
“Which people around me?” Almog played it innocent, winking at me.
“Who am I to teach an IDF general to read the situation on the ground?”
Flattery never hurts, Almog wrote to me on the other side of the note.
“I still have a lot to learn from you,” he sweet-talked Hector. “I have all kinds of people around me.”
“What dick move?” I wrote to Almog, so he passed me the latest edition of Yedioth Ahronoth, which featured a headline: “$12 MIL VANISH FROM HOUSTON CONSULATE.” The sub-headline elaborated, stating that a donor had attempted three times to donate twelve million dollars to the Soldiers’ Relief Fund, but both the donor and the money had disappeared, thanks to the negligence of the consular staff. The article concluded by citing anonymous sources, who indicated that the money had eventually gone to the Houston Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
“Is your boss around?” Almog asked.
“Sure.” Hector efficiently transferred the call to Deputy Director General Yehezkel Gelber.
“How could anyone remain sane with a name like that?” Almog muttered. “His parents must be Holocaust survivors.”
“Gelber,” said a pleasant baritone, behind which lay a scheming, oleaginous man.
“Yehezkel, hello. You need to know that I am not going to overlook the leaks here.”
"Almog?”
“Affirmative.”
“What are you referring to?” Gelber’s voice was steady and deep. He could have been a radio broadcaster.
“Someone is testing me here, and I don’t care fo
r it.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Gelber, listen to me.” Almog’s face grew serious and his voice sharp. “I’m not going to play your nasty, petty games. Someone’s telling tales out of school, trying to screw me over. And I will not accept it. That’s not how I work. Play it straight with me, is that clear?”
There was silence on the line.
“Are you with me?” Almog asked.
“Mr. Almog…” Gelber paused for emphasis. “Such a statement is unacceptable, as is the manner in which you have expressed it.”
“Unacceptable? Unacceptable? Why? What is acceptable? Knifings? Poisonings? I want to know who’s cooking up these stories about me!”
“Mr. Almog, listen to me.” Gelber spoke like a patient teacher addressing a first-grader. “I have not the slightest inkling to what you’re referring. We all encounter challenges in our professional lives, and we must contend with them to the best of our abilities. That is what I am asked to do daily, and the same is asked of you.”
“What?”
Gelber gathered momentum. “The consulate you head has an existential duty to convey to our interlocutors our positions, political and otherwise. And recently, I have not seen great successes coming from your consulate.”
“What?”
“My interlocutors have not indicated that your assessments and briefings are lucid and loquacious.”
“Loquacious, huh?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You don’t mean ‘eloquent’?”
“Indeed.” Doubt crept for a moment into Gelber’s voice. He might have used the wrong word, but he did not intend to lose momentum.
“I got you,” Almog barked into the phone.
“Excellent, so—”
“Listen and listen well, because I’ll only say it once,” Almog roared; nothing would stop him. “This consulate excels at what it does, plain and simple: the staff, the work, the results. Neither you nor your wimps have any right to judge me. I am not interested in your rankings or your rumormongers. The only one I answer to is Avi — that’s Mr. Foreign Minister to you. And it ought to be clear to you, that as long as Avi is the FM, you’d better crawl, kiss ass, and dance for him, however he wants it. Any more comments about Houston or interlocutors or loquaciousness or eloquence out of you, and I will see to it that you pay for them dearly. And when it comes to Avi, I wouldn’t try any knifings, because he could teach you a thing or two about that.”
After a long pause, the speakerphone chirped, “Empty outbursts will not avail you at all.”
“Let me cut you off,” Almog replied. The smile returned to his face. “I know exactly what you’re doing, and if you value your life, you ought to stop right there.”
The call ended with a receiver being slammed down.
“How could you know it came from him?” I wondered.
“Avidor from New York, who published it, protects his sources. This is a tremendous clusterfuck, and I don’t know who handed him the story, but one thing I do know: Gelber had a conversation with Goodes, editor of Yedioth, a week ago. He complained to him about political appointments in the Foreign Ministry, and pointed to me as an example. There is a limit to the number of turns a man can take, and make a clean getaway. Gelber may feel like he is the big insider, but he forgets that there are still some left in the country who value friendship. It’s that simple. You can’t put a price on friendship.”
I wasn’t sure Almog was right.
A smug smile spread across the doughy face of Yehezkel Gelber. He dialed an extension. “Come on in,” he said briefly and in a soft tone to Hector.
Hector immediately went in and sat quietly in the recliner next to the deputy’s huge, empty desk. He knew the monologue that would come now.
"He’s threatening me,” Gelber said in a velvet voice. He folded his hands behind his back and stared dreamily into the air.
"He’s threatening me. We’re going to have fun. He doesn’t know it yet. He believes the minister will pressure me, and I have no room to maneuver. Fantastic. How stupid he is. How naive.”
There was silence in the room. Gelber tried to stifle his breath, panting with rage.
“It’s… inconceivable,” he said after a short pause.
“The mind reels…” Hector prompted gently, knowing the next sentence by heart.
Gelber did not disappoint. “The mind reels. After all, who is the foreign minister? A heavy-handed, haughty man who thinks the world should roll out the red carpet for him. Does he have fortitude or intelligence? Is he the only one who counts? Leader of a gang of army brats who will fritter away all our political assets? Who can stop them, if not us? I ask you, if I quail before the FM, who will protect the people and the nation?”
“But prudently,” Hector interjected the necessary proviso.
“Prudently, of course. But what am I to do? Should I answer folly with folly? After all, we have more than enough room to maneuver and to act, even more than the FM or the PM!”
“As long as you are not adversely impacted.”
“Of course.” The color began to return to Gelber’s face. “I’m just the messenger.”
“With a professional duty.”
Hector set up the ball for Gelber to spike it. “Certainty.” The smile of satisfaction on Gelber’s face was real this time. “I used to be chief of staff for Abba Eban, our greatest foreign minister, who had been chief of staff to our greatest president, Chaim Weizmann, God rest his soul. When Eban realized that Weizmann’s sun was setting, didn’t he make better arrangements for himself? Didn’t he sell Weizmann to Ben-Gurion?
“So what was good for Eban, whose prudence one could doubt, isn’t that good for his successors? When Eban’s fortunes began to wane, did everyone around him have to go down with the ship? So he was tossed away like an old shoe, but did we have to join him in the dump? Are we supposed to engage in sati, throwing ourselves on the funeral pyre of our deceased master? Fine, is Almog trying to use Peled to threaten me? I have beaten better and greater men than he. Does he think I cannot make mincemeat of Peled? He can’t be serious.”
Hector nodded in agreement, as was expected of him.
29.
The prime minister was scheduled to open the Agritech exhibition at the Tel Aviv Exhibition Center at six in the evening. At five o’clock, he sat in his office with his chief of staff, reviewing his schedule for the next week. The date of his next personal meeting with the head of the GSS was set for five days later, before the cabinet meeting.
“Maybe we ought to see him right now?” the prime minister asked. “He’s nearby, and there is the issue of Lebanon.” The Guardians of the Cedars had proposed a new alliance for Israeli-Lebanese cooperation, to push Syrian forces out of the country. The prime minister did not believe a word of it, but there were quite a few in the system who were willing to jump on any bandwagon, risky as it might be. The prime minister was concerned and wanted to hear from the GSS head so they could coordinate ahead of the cabinet meeting.
“No problem,” said the chief of staff, who excelled in direct thinking, cutting right to the heart of the problem. The military secretary, participating in the General Staff meeting in Tel Aviv, was instructed to leave for the GSS headquarters in Tel Aviv. The prime minister offered the stenographer Rivka a lift in his car.
It was now fifteen minutes after five, a congested hour on the Jerusalem-Tel Aviv road; forty-five minutes to drive there and to meet with the head of the GSS was a very short time. Too short, in fact, so the security detail not only escorted the PM’s vehicle, but cleared out a lane for the convoy. They drove at an average speed of one hundred miles per hour, which made the stenographer Rivka feel like the car was hovering a few inches above the road.
The prime minister was interested in the well-being of her husband, who was a retired senior officer a
nd now very ill.
“Everything will be fine.” She smiled, with her constant optimism, which was completely baseless in this case. “He’s not complaining.”
“They’re giving him morphine.”
“They don’t call it that anymore, but he’s on it all the time.”
She had begun in the prime minister’s office as a soldier in mandatory service, when Moshe Sharett had been prime minister in the mid-50s, between Ben-Gurion’s two terms. All the prime ministers had respected her, and she had loved them all. She loved this one especially and was anxious for his wellbeing.
They have known each other since the days of Moshe Sharett, when the prime minister was a young and handsome officer. In the years that followed, they would regularly see each other at joyous social gatherings, but she had known to make a complete separation between her work and her social life. The prime minister did not always know how to do so and would suddenly surprise her by recalling a meeting of one kind or another at which she had been present. She would listen with a smile and not say a word. She had been privy to the most sensitive secrets of the State of Israel for almost forty years now.
The sentry at the gate of GSS headquarters saluted, even though the PM was dressed in civilian clothes. Security guards and the military secretary were waiting for them at the door, and she was among them. Then the others left, leaving Rivka, the military secretary, the prime minster, and the head of the GSS. The latter two discussed Lebanon with professionalism and understanding. There were no disagreements about the futility of involvement there.
“What’s this newspaper story about Houston’s millions?” asked the PM toward the end.
“Blood money,” the GSS head replied in English. He explained that it was the proceeds of the smuggling in Bogotá. “The security officer there, Koren — we brought him back to Israel already. Koren opened a private channel for drugs from the cartel. An American agent marked the money in Colombia. Sooner or later, they’ll figure it out.”
“So what’s all the ruckus for?”
The Consulate Conspiracy Page 15