The Consulate Conspiracy

by Oren Sanderson

  Got to get out of here right away, the thought struck him as he dressed hastily. He was on the fourth floor of a hotel in Houston’s western suburbs. He took the elevator down to the first floor, but the front desk clerk caught him red-handed. “Just a minute!”

  Almost made a clean getaway, he thought, then said impatiently to her, “What seems to be the problem?”

  "The bill,” said the clerk, in a rude and imperious manner, presenting him with a long computer printout. The final amount was close to four hundred dollars. For one evening! He was shocked at the thought, but said nothing. Almost made a clean getaway, he thought again.

  "We cannot accept foreign credit cards,” the nasty clerk snapped, watching him with a sour disposition. Gelber pulled four hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and threw them contemptuously on the counter, waiting for his change. He picked up the few bills the clerk gave him and turned to go.

  "One more moment,” the clerk raised her voice again. Gelber turned around in disbelieving horror.

  "Southern breakfast is included."

  "No, thank you.” He still hoped to make his escape quickly.

  “You should go and eat,” said the clerk. “They’re waiting for you there.”

  Gelber found O’Brien, impeccably dressed, in the dining room, polishing off a full breakfast of three fried eggs, baked beans, and hash browns. O’Brien stood, introduced himself, and pulled out a chair for Gelber. “In the spirit of Southern hospitality.”

  Gelber said nothing, waiting to see what might come next. To him, O’Brien was a dark, threatening, hulking figure. He wondered fleetingly: a name like O’Brien and a complexion like that?

  Trying to hide his enjoyment, O’Brien took out a manilla envelope. “We want you to feel at home here, but you really outdid yourself.” O’Brien threw the envelope on the table, and photos spilled out in front of Gelber. Now the previous night’s escapades were coming back to him, and perhaps he had gone too far. It certainly went far beyond Rachel’s ministrations in Kiryat Menachem. “Far from home, far from the heart,” the song went, and it was all there, in living color. Backwards, forwards, and upside down.

  “She’s a good mother,” O’Brien said maliciously, tilting his head to try to decipher the spaghetti of twisted limbs in the photo.

  “Are you FBI or KGB?” Gelber demanded. “This is un-American!”

  “This is as American as apple pie, my sabra friend,” O’Brien said mildly. “We weren’t the photographers. Obviously, someone handed them off to us. But here, you cannot escape the long arm of the law. That’s why we have it. This is not your Middle East.”

  Gelber was quiet, as he considered his options.

  “What would Mrs. Gelber think of this little slideshow?”

  “She doesn’t care,” Gelber replied, truthfully. “She knows what I do.”

  “And the media? Wouldn’t they be interested.”

  “Wrong again,” Gelber responded tranquilly. His interlocutor might be determined, but he had his limits. He wasn’t all-powerful. “The papers won’t publish them. We have an understanding with them. There are things they won’t do.”

  “Honor among thieves?”

  “Call it that if you like. But why me? Why did you choose me?”

  “You’re more flexible than others. You have perspective. You know how to maneuver.” O’Brien recalled his conversation with Noni.

  "How may I help you?” Gelber asked pleasantly.

  "I’m about to arrest them all,” O’Brien announced simply.

  "Everyone?”

  "Everyone. You too. Maybe Almog too. There is a clear terrorist threat to the national security of the United States.”

  "We are making every effort to stop the bad actors,” Gelber declared, which sounded like a political statement.

  "Cut the crap.” O’Brien sighed. “I want this matter to be settled as much as you. I’m going to arrest everyone.”

  "You would need approval from the highest authority."

  "My supervisor has talked to the president. He does not like it, but he will have no choice.”

  “So the president of the United States is still with us,” Gelber mused with a momentary sense of relief. The pictures on the table still bothered him. “How may I help you?” he repeated the question.

  “You have twenty-four hours to make these lunatics vanish, but the Harris County DA is demanding an arrest for this. At least one.”

  “Barkat?”

  "No good. He has too many friends here.”

  “Almog?” Gelber felt a smile rising from deep within his body.

  “Very complicated. Volatile,” O’Brien said.

  Gelber sank deeply into thought.

  “You’ve been looking for the RSD for a while…” he said cautiously.

  “Yeah, Porat. He’s been subpoenaed. Where is he?”

  “We’re looking for him too. Will the DA be satisfied with him?”

  “I think so. No one will raise a big stink over him. The DA will have everyone else deported.”

  “Including Almog?”

  “Including Almog.”

  “You didn’t need the pictures to get me to cooperate,” Gelber announced cheerfully.

  O’Brien shrugged. “Maybe not, but I like to cover my bases.”

  61.

  The white acoustic tiles of the ceiling and the overpowering smell of disinfectant told me that I was in a hospital bed. I blinked once, absorbing vivid smudges of color. Flowers, how nice. I heard a constant and disturbing buzzing, reverberating in my skull. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I still did not have the strength to hear stories and answer questions. By my feet I could hear the muffled sounds of a whispered conversation. I recognized Sharon, the press officer, and Nurit, the accountant. Wonderful that they’ve come. I usually didn’t have many dealings with them.

  "He might have died a while ago,” Nurit whispered, as a matter of fact. She may have also started calculating in her head the modest death benefit the consulate would have to pay to those I’d left behind. But whom had I left behind? Who did I actually have left? Besides, I did not agree with Nurit’s pronouncement of my death. If she were right, I‘d already be looking at them from the great beyond, at peace and at rest. Instead, I was suffering infernal pains in my shoulder, let alone the terrible headache. Ghosts don’t have headaches, right? I continued, at least at this point, to reside in my corporeal form. Besides, if I had died, I would not have been left in a hospital bed. This battered body would have been moved to a refrigerated drawer in the morgue, subject to the gracious down-home hospitality of Barb, much like our friend Mark had been stuck there for days until someone had come to claim his body. And who would even have claimed me?

  I smiled, but only on the inside, so as not to attract attention.

  Sharon was also outraged by the idea that I was actually dead. “Bullshit!” she protested. “He looks better than me!”

  “No, seriously?” Nurit objected, and I hoped she wouldn’t be proven right. I wasn’t ready to die. “Here at St. Luke’s, they are world-class heart specialists. Transplants, bypasses, valves, everything, you know... so anyone who comes here, no matter what their condition, as long as the heart is fine, they’ll keep it beating. Even without anything else. No lungs, no liver, no hands or feet, nothing! The heart is enough. After that, when they need it, they’ll take it.”

  Enough, I thought. I tried to judge how much airspace there was between me and the ceiling. What else was there? Tubes, IVs, a crash cart? I couldn’t feel anything in me, which was worth something. At least I wasn’t a vegetable on a ventilator. Through the headache I heard a buzzing, something familiar. Where did I know it from?

  Once the two of them had left without my saying anything, I opened my eyes. Noni was sitting in the corner quietly. He had not participated in the conversation.

 
“Noni?” I asked hesitantly.

  He looked up but didn’t seem ready to reply. Maybe he wasn’t sure I was alive, like our coworkers? It couldn’t be him, could it? In a normal-looking polo shirt and jeans?

  “Noni?”

  “Pardon?” He bit his lip in embarrassment; his pockmarked face tormented.

  "Where’s your beautiful suit?”

  "The visit ended yesterday. It was fine. Elroy left. Today I have to clear some things up, at the police station and at the morgue. Body repatriation procedure. Remember?” He smiled so sadly that I really felt terrible for him.

  "How long have I been here?”

  The constant buzzing in my head is clearer now. It’s a squadron of Liberators on their way to a mission.

  "You arrived this morning unconscious, but with a serious injury of two bullets to the shoulder and broken bones. You had severe blood loss, which almost killed you. You were close to cardiac arrest.”

  So I was still lucky to be in St. Luke’s, which specializes in cardiology.

  "Did they do a heart transplant?”

  "Don’t be insane. I am sorry for what happened to you."

  He’s sorry. After trying to sell me out. Still, a young and tormented widower — it was impossible not to feel sorry for him.

  "Shoshi was disturbed,” I said.

  "She was a good woman in her own way, but she was miserable and sick.”

  "And you knew?”

  "I did not know anything. I thought all women were like that. We tried for a long time to have children, without success. Maybe I was not good enough for her.”

  "She wanted you to be consul general.”

  "She believed in me and I let her down. Maybe that’s why she…” He paused.

  "Noni.” He did not reply. “She was crazy. That’s all.” I sank back into the world of hallucinations.

  Amidst this purple glimmer, amidst the golden glow and the strange noise, I clearly saw the moments of my parting from Giora. We were both accomplices in the crime.

  "Don’t even think about it,” he read my thoughts. I struggled to get to my feet. “They would start a nuclear war in the Middle East. That would be the end of it all.”

  "But the warheads were neutralized.”

  "It would be bad enough that they launched them, even with neutralized warheads. Our ship is waiting in Galveston?” he asked as we moved the body of the airman from the driver’s seat of the tanker to where the bodies of Barkat and Hinenzon lay.

  I had already seen corpses during my military service, but not such peaceful ones. Not of people who until recently had existed and talked, as if nothing would ever happen to them. It surprised me how much it did not bother me. Nor did it bother Giora. He was right. They were dangerous and ready to kill — and not just us.

  The gas station’s spacious restaurant was empty. The parking lot was dark. Along the access road, long cargo trucks were parked, with only their parking lights on. Drivers were fast asleep for the night. At three in the morning, in an hour, they would wake up and continue to their destinations. Thousands more miles ahead of them. No one was arriving or leaving the gas station, so the tanker blocking the opening did not bother anyone.

  The three corpses looked frozen peacefully in place, like plastic dolls. There was something about this localized neutron bomb, the “pencil.” Death comes in a split second, immortalizing the victim’s last moment. Just amazing. No grimaces, no panic, no regrets.

  “Until tomorrow at noon,” I answered his question about the cargo ship in Galveston, as Giora adjusted the driver’s seat and mirrors.

  “We will not see each other for a long time. Will you be able to get to the restaurant alone?” he asked, as the engine roared to life in the dead of night, sending a puff of exhaust into the unmoving air. For a moment, I felt a sourness in my stomach.

  “It’s fine,” I told him. “We’ll see each other, definitely. Give my regards to Anat. You’re a decent guy.” I couldn’t be sure that he even heard my last words.

  Finally, I could fly to other worlds, in which I would glide and sometimes land, in that bed in St. Luke’s, as I heard my mother’s haranguing.

  62.

  I woke up dizzy, as Almog and Laure sat by the bed.

  "Lara... Larissa Fyodorovna Antipova. The fairy from the legends. Julie Christie,” I told Laure. I had been conscious enough to understand that she did not yet know that Barkat would not return. Now I was allowed to go off script. “Marry me.”

  "I don’t know. I’ve never been married before.”"

  "There’s always a first time,” remarked Almog.

  "Marry me,” I repeated.

  "You’re ill.” After some contemplation, she added. “Also, you’re poor. And not very smart.” That was no way to talk to someone in a hospital bed.

  "But I’m yours,” I told her, really meaning it.

  "Don’t talk. You shouldn’t overexert yourself."

  "Is my mother still here?”

  "I told you not to talk. Your mother? Didn’t she die a few years ago?”

  "Probably. And Noni?”

  "He was here before. Poor thing. He’s not a bad guy. But his career is over,” Almog noted.

  "Are you really here?” I asked Laure, struggling to distinguish between reality and hallucinations.

  She reached out and stroked my cheek, then bent over and kissed me. That smell. God loved me. She was real.

  “Don’t forget that Almog is here,” she whispered in my ear. Maybe she wanted me to address him.

  “I’m proud of you!” Almog announced. “We are all proud of you. I knew from the beginning that you could be trusted.”

  "What about you?” I whispered.

  "I brought you a model to assemble,” he replied, embarrassed, bringing the buzz back to me. I heard the Liberators all the time. I’d lost my taste for assembling models.

  "I mean what’s happening with you?” I whispered to Almog.

  "I’m considering my options.” He grinned to himself. “We’ll have to leave.” The little hair he had left, had turned white over the past couple of months. “It’s not that bad,” he said, as if to himself. “It’s hard for me to be away from my family anyway. My son has decided to return to Israel from South America. Maybe we’ll do something together. I need my circle of friends. We have a choral group… maybe you wouldn’t understand.” He paused and looked around the bed. “This whole deal of Jews and business might be suitable for someone else,” he sighed, “but I’d have to study."

  "What about Amparo and Paul?”

  "They’ll get along without me. They got along without me before. I’ll send them money.” It seemed to me that his voice was cracking.

  "They don’t need your money,” Dorothy tore him apart, appearing out of nowhere. It wasn’t appropriate for her to address Almog like that, but I was glad she had.

  Evening had descended on the room.

  "I wanted to ask you,” said Almog. “How did you know…?”

  Laure silenced him. “He shouldn’t overexert himself.”

  Dorothy was sitting by my bed, her hair braided and gathered around her head, interwoven with green and yellow ribbons. I reached out a hand to make sure she was really next to me.

  "Everything is from the stars, and everything is preordained,” she announced. “From the moment they recruited Moses, they had no chance. His sect of Seventh-Day Adventists from Wyoming, of Evangelical Christians, always destroy everything they touch. Including themselves. Only the Jews know how to keep the Sabbath and emerge unscathed from any challenge.”

  "By the way, you have an honored visitor from back home,” Almog said. “He’s coming soon. We have to talk to you. Everything worked out. You have nothing to worry about.”

  "Hinenzon?” I asked.

  "Gone. Did you know he was with these distu
rbed people? They’re looking for him now. Do you know anything about that?”

  "Not really".

  “There’s only one more thing,” Almog said apologetically. “You must tell us where Giora is.”

  63.

  A tall man entered my hospital room, wearing a shocking mustard-colored jacket.

  He greeted Laure as if they were old acquaintances; then he approached me and, to my amazement, kissed my forehead. After that he stroked my hair, and if I had been fully conscious, I’d have sworn his eyes were moist with tears. I think I knew who it was.

  "You’re okay,” he reassured me. “You did well. You did the right thing. We don’t have many who are capable of that.” He smiled — a wide, captivating smile. Now I was really ready to fall into a restful sleep; but the buzzing wouldn’t let me, the humming of the Liberators.

  "Hello, Rami,” said Almog and shook the man’s hand. “The head of the GSS.” He introduced my visitor. I didn’t react; I felt too exhausted to get excited.

  "You’ve had some difficult experiences. Your people performed really well,” said Rami.

  "What people? Shoshi?” I felt a need to understand, a compulsion.

  "Well…” he surveyed those sitting in the room and decided to explain, “it was a combination of insanity and ambition. In coordination with Hinenzon, they’d transfer four million dollars or more every week in the diplomatic mail. The United Israel Appeal, they called it. In Houston, they’d replace that with diamonds, which would go to Antwerp, waiting for the operatives from Bogotá. It was a huge money-laundering operation, funding the operations of the Third Temple lunatics.”

  "Did you know about it?” Laure, sitting off to the side, examined the speaker with a half-smile that annoyed me.

  "We could not have managed without your help.” He smiled back at her, giving me a stomachache.

  "What went wrong for them was that the Bogotá security officer was captured,” he continued. “So they tried to finish transferring the cash in two large shipments. The second problem was that your girlfriend Angela got worried — and grew a conscience. She worked for Klein Exchange, which made the deal every week. Klein apparently had no idea, but you never know.”