The Heat of Ramadan, page 33
Benni looked around. All heads were angled toward him to hear his low tones, and no one expressed surprise or consternation.
“I might remind you, as volunteers,” he continued, “that as the old saying goes, ‘Success has many fathers, while Failure is a lonely orphan.’ All those who wish to withdraw may do so within the next thirty seconds.”
Then he looked down at his watch, following the sweep second hand without raising his eyes, until half a minute of silence had elapsed.
“Good!” He clapped his hands together. “Now, speaking of fathers, I have just discovered that Eckstein here will be one in less than nine months!” He slapped a palm onto Eckstein’s naked shoulder. To the accompaniment of some congratulatory whoops and shouts, Benni asked Yudit to help Simona round up a sufficient number of glasses from the kitchen.
When the wine was poured, and as ten mismatched glasses converged to clink together, Baum made his toast.
“To the ‘new’ Eckstein. And to the success of Operation Flute. L’Chaim.”
* * *
By the time Eytan emerged from a cursory shower, his home had already been transformed into a bustling satellite of AMAN’s Special Operations. Wearing blue jeans and a grey T-shirt, he walked barefoot along the second-floor landing as he toweled off his hair. The bedroom telephone had been pulled into the hallway, its white wire taped down to the old carpet and its handset also secured to the cradle with silver duct tape, to prevent anyone from disturbing the communications link. A second black wire continued from the telephone and along the floor to Eytan’s study at the far corner of the flat. He followed it and poked his head into the office.
Horse and Sylvia did not even look up. The small bald man had cleared Eytan’s desk and set up a portable fax machine. He was busy setting a fresh roll of paper into the platen. Sylvia had pulled a chair up to the fold-out guest couch, where she was laying out the intercept files that came from Horse’s massive “accountant” cases. The intercepts were all decodes and translations on thick stacks of folded, perforated computer paper. They were color-coded, each according to its source—foreign embassy, overseas illegal intercept, local telephone land line, satellite transmission.
Eytan wondered what bluff Baum had used to get twenty kilograms of top-secret material out of the building. He stepped quietly over to the iron railing of his second-floor landing and looked down. Baum was seated directly below at the round common table, his great bald head looking like a science model of the planet Mars, replete with sunburned patches and meandering scars. Typical of Benni, he had no paperwork spread out beneath his meaty hands. He was keeping the table cleared for the landing of steaming coffee cups, melon slices, cakes and whatever else Simona might concoct.
Eytan smiled. Baum was sticking his neck way, way out on this one, and again Eytan chastised himself for his temporary lapse of trust. Just after the toast, Benni had taken his arm and escorted him up the stairs, suggesting a refreshing shower before beginning work. It was simply an excuse to get Eytan alone.
“Just listen to me, Eytan, because there isn’t much time,” Baum had said as he turned on the shower taps and closed the bathroom door. “When Pearlman had his accident in New York, I didn’t think much of it. But when Samal died, I got on your ‘frequency.’” He held the bath curtain open. “Go ahead, get in.” Eytan stepped out of his underwear and welcomed the spray of hot water. Baum poked his head inside the curtain, ignoring the residual spray that beaded on his rotunda. “I started putting this thing together right there and then, but I didn’t tell you in case I couldn’t muster the support. Then I turned around, and you were off to Europe.” He scratched his head and laughed. “That was a crazy move, Eytan, but it did the trick. I hope you understand that I couldn’t back you up in Itzik’s office. It would have tipped him off.”
“You not backing me might have tipped him off.”
“No chance. His ego is too enormous.”
“Who’s the American?”
“Arthur’s the deputy CIA station chief over at the U.S. consulate on Nablus Road.”
“So what the hell is he doing here?”
“He’s a good man, I’ve known him for a long time and he has a double motive. First, he’s pissed off because of his government’s impotence on the TWA 206 case.”
“And second?”
“Second, a close friend of his was a case officer at the U.S. embassy in Frankfurt. He was coming home for Christmas, on Flight 206. Arthur wants Kamil, too.”
“Now there’s a motive I can understand,” said Eytan grimly as he rinsed himself of soap.
“I’m going to call in every favor I can,” said Benni. “It’s about noon in Washington. Even later in Europe. We’ll have to work fast, and we’ll work all night.”
“What do you expect to get?”
“Just enough to prove our case when the shit hits the fan, Eytan. Not a miracle—just a little mazal and one break. That’s all we need. Now dry off and come on down.”
Eytan looked out across his salon. The main telephone line had been stretched across the room to the low pass-through that accessed the dining room. The wire had been spliced through a switch box, so that the phone would still ring, while a secondary line ran to a modem on the dining table. Yablokovsky was in there, hooking up a portable GRID computer. Yudit was setting up behind a portable electric typewriter.
In the middle of the salon, Danny Romano and Arthur the American were working over a powerful cellular telephone set. Romano chewed enthusiastically on his empty pipe stem while Arthur screwed a large antenna into the base unit. They appeared to have hit it off, having discovered some mutual history. They were conversing in a Sicilian dialect.
Over by the television set on the far wall unit, Uri Badash was busy unhooking the roof aerial and effecting a connection to a powerful field radio—a modified AN PRC unit which he usually used in his car to contact security units around the country.
Eytan dropped his towel on the railing and came down the stairs. He joined Benni at the round table and poured himself a cup of coffee. Already the room was beginning to go blue with cigarette smoke.
“Are you clean?” Baum asked as Eytan sat down.
“As a virgin bride.”
“Now, I’ve already taken the liberty of handing out assignments.”
“Brief me.”
“Basically, we’re putting out requests to personal contacts at CIA, MI6, Scotland Yard and SDECE.”
“Asking for?”
“Updated information on all recent Kamil sightings, or even speculations.”
“The sightings will come up negative.”
“Probably.”
“Why do we need speculations?” Eytan asked.
“To cover our bare asses. We’ll keep the ones that match our theories and throw the rest out.”
“Very bureaucratic of you, Benni.”
“Don’t insult me, boy.”
From the dining room, Yudit’s electronic typewriter began to clack.
“What’s she doing?” Eytan asked.
“Keeping the record.”
“More ass-covering?”
Benni wagged a finger at Eytan. “Extreme bravery should always be based on meticulous preparation.”
“Okay,” said Eytan impatiently. “What else?”
“Listen,” Baum instructed as he pointed at Danny and Arthur. The CIA agent was sitting on the couch, pressing the cellular handset to his ear.
“Jerry? Hey, buddy. It’s Art. Got anything for me yet?” The American waited for a moment. The connection must have been weak, for he inserted a finger in his free ear. “Okay, pal. Soon as you can, call me back at—” He leaned over the base module. “Oh-two, five, five, niner, zero, one, niner. Roger that. Out.”
“He’s talking to CIA station in New York,” said Benni. “They’re working on Zvi Pearlman’s case.”
At that moment, Arthur got up from the couch and walked over to the table. Eytan stood up to offer his hand.
“Art Roselli,” said the American. His grip was calloused and powerful.
“Friendly cover name,” Eytan grinned as he switched to English. “Eytan Eckstein.”
“My pleasure,” said Roselli. He examined Eytan’s blond hair, light eyes and European features. “You don’t look Israeli,” he said.
“You don’t look like a spook,” said Eytan.
Roselli laughed and clapped Eytan on the shoulder. He grew serious for a moment.
“I want this bastard, too, Eytan.”
“I know you do,” said Eytan. “We all do.”
Arthur turned to Benni. “Well, Baum. It’ll be a while. What else can I do?”
Baum looked up at the American and rubbed his jaw.
“Look, Arthur. I don’t want you to get burned. But we could use Langley’s latest pickups on anything related to Kamil or TWA 206. Even seemingly unconnected intercepts. Can you do that?”
Arthur smiled. “Can Special Forces kick ass?” He had been a Green Beret in the early days of Vietnam. He turned and walked back to his phone.
Yablokovsky came out of the dining room, cleaning his glasses with his T-shirt. He was tall and bony, looking like he played too much basketball and didn’t eat enough. His hair was mussed and stuck up all around his head like untrimmed grass.
“Okay, Benni. I can talk to Paris,” he said proudly.
“Fine, Yablo, but very careful now.” Benni continued, “First, ask for an Eyes Only contact with Pierre Chandesais. When you have him, call me.”
Yablokovsky walked back into the dining room and sat down at his GRID.
“What’s he using?” Eytan asked.
“Telex software.”
Simona came out of the kitchen. She had brushed her hair and changed into jeans and one of Eytan’s shirts. Eytan smiled at her, wondering what she would look like all bloated and waddling.
“Can I do something other than cook?” she asked.
“Apparently so,” said Benni and he gestured at her stomach.
“No, really.” Having worked in the Hole at General Headquarters during her army service, Simona was used to the atmosphere of feverish operations. Actually, she was somewhat enjoying the nostalgic feelings brought on by having her house commandeered.
“As a matter of fact,” Eytan said, then he turned to Baum. “Is the phone working?”
“Yes.”
“Mona,” Eytan said. “We don’t want any surprise visitors.”
“Oh!” She put a hand up to her mouth. “That’s a real possibility. Especially with our recent news.”
“You’d better call everyone around who might just pop on over tonight. Yael, Shlomi and Lisa. And your folks. Tell them everything’s okay, but you’re feeling lousy and you’re going to bed.”
“Good idea,” said Baum.
“And not too far from the truth,” Simona said as she touched her stomach. She pulled a chair over to the dining room pass-through, picked up the phone, and began to dial.
“Shhh!” Benni hushed everyone in the room as he gestured toward Simona.
Eytan leaned toward Baum and whispered, “What’s on upstairs?”
“Horse is handling MI6. Sylvia’s got her work cut out for her. She has a week’s worth of intercepts, the routine red flags marked by Tel Aviv for investigation.”
“It’ll take her all night.”
“So what? She’s not going dancing.”
Uri Badash walked over from his radio set and sat down at the table. He poured a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. “Well, can’t do much more. Every border unit and investigation team has been ordered to report to me with details of all male detainees. I couldn’t give them much to go on. I just said males, not necessarily Arabs, between thirty and forty years old, 180 centimeters in height.”
“Thanks, Uri,” said Eytan.
“Anything to fuck your commander, my friend.”
“We don’t need to fuck him,” said Benni. “We just want to go around him.”
“Then leave the fucking to us,” said Badash with a malevolent grin.
Simona finished her last call and came slowly over to the table. She was holding her forehead.
“I didn’t have to do much acting,” she said. “I think I’ll throw up, just for fun, and go to bed.”
Eytan began to rise, but Yudit came out of the dining room and took Simona’s elbow. “I’ll help her,” she said.
“You’re a sweetheart,” said Baum. “When you’re done, Yudit, canvass everyone and update your files.”
Simona kissed Eytan on the head and the two women went up the stairs.
The cellular telephone rang with an electronic burbling. Arthur answered, said a few cursory thank yous, and hung up.
“Ninth Precinct in New York says Pearlman’s death was hundred-percent accident,” Arthur said with some apology. “And my office has checked out the driver, up, down, and sideways.”
“Okay.” Eytan gave the CIA man a thumbs-up. Kamil may have had nothing to do with ‘Harry Webber’s’ death, but to Eytan it was as if Zvika’s final act—stepping out in front of an errant taxi—had been a warning to his compatriots of an oncoming storm.
“I’ve got Chendesais,” said Yablo from the dining room.
“Tell him Hans-Dieter Schmidt would like to discuss an old matter in private,” said Benni.
“Ruth,” said Yablo, using the Israeli Army radio term for Roger.
Horse came bounding down the stairs, which amazed Eytan, for he had never seen the little man even walk quickly, let alone scamper. He was rubbing his hands together.
“We’re going to get a description!” he announced.
“What?” said Eytan.
“MI6 has been ‘loaned’ the Scotland Yard file on the murders of Samal and the Indian store clerk. Apparently a bus driver gave a description of a man who accompanied Serge into Kensington. Three days ago, they took that sketch around to every hotel in London. A pension clerk recognized it and filled in the rest of the detail. The sketch’ll be faxed to me within thirty minutes.”
“Mitzooyan, Soos!” Benni stood up and pinched his little brainstormer on the cheek. “Fabulous. Get back up there.” Horse turned and trotted back to his post.
The joy was temporary, as Yablo reappeared wearing a hangdog look.
“No go, Benni. Pierre Chendesais says he can’t end-run any information around your commander. Apparently his C.O. and Ben-Zion party together in Paris on a regular basis. Their fathers were together at Suez in ’56. Says it’s too risky.”
“Damn!” Benni slammed the table.
Danny Romano ambled over. “Fucking French,” he said as he tapped his cold pipe. “Want to let me have a go at the Italians?”
“Negative,” said Eytan. “No offense. They look beautiful but they’re full of holes.”
“No argument,” said Romano.
“Excuse me,” said Art Roselli. “Give it to me in English. Maybe I can help.”
“Arthur,” said Benni. “The French won’t cooperate with us.”
“What a surprise,” said Arthur. “Fucking Frogs.”
“Securité is usually okay with us,” said Eytan. “But we’re asking for sub-channel stuff.”
Roselli ran his fingers through his curly hair. “Why don’t you let me try them via Langley? I’ll false-flag the request.” He meant that he would disguise the inquiry as a purely American one.
Uri Badash looked up at him with surprise. “Now you’re thinking like an Israeli,” he said.
“Too much falafel,” said the CIA man as he returned to his telephone.
Uri Badash’s field radio hissed. He had the speaker on very low volume, so he walked over to the set to receive the communication.
In less than half an hour, Horse came springing down the stairs again, holding a piece of fax paper in his hand as gently as a butterfly wing. He lay the sheet on the table and everyone gathered to examine it.
It was a standard police sketch—well executed but aesthetically wanting. The best-remembered features were emphasized, the curly hair, strong jaw, slim nose and narrowed eyes. The image caused all the men to furrow their brows, for something about the face jogged synapses of memory. Yet gradually, one after another, they all shook their heads.
“Looks familiar,” said Uri Badash. “But not from any of the Shabak files.”
“Yes,” said Baum as he held his chin and studied the fax.
Eytan released an exasperated sigh. “It’s no Amar Kamil I’ve ever seen. Not that I’d expect it to be.”
“You have another page,” Sylvia’s voice croaked from the landing above. Horse ran back upstairs and returned with the second transmission.
“It’s the description on color and details,” he said. Then he read the English. “Hair: red-blond. Eyes: green. Skin: ruddy with some freckling. Curved, one-inch scar beneath right occipital.”
As Baum listened to Horse he picked up a pencil. The fax of the sketch had come over somewhat smudged, as such transmissions are wont to do. With the lead point he drew in a curved line just beneath the right eye.
“Ya Allah,” Uri Badash whispered. “That can’t be.” He lifted his head and took a step back.
“What is it, Uri?” Eytan demanded.
“That’s Rami Carrera,” the GSS agent whispered.
“Who?” said Benni.
“I swear, that’s Rami Carrera. He’s a major with Planning and Logistics.”
“What?” Romano’s usually cool demeanor was punctured by his own gasp.
“He’s an advisor to the PM,” said Badash. “I see him all the time, whenever I’m checking out our team at the Knesset.”
Eytan snatched the sketch from the table and stared at it. Years back, when he was an officer candidate, Rami Carrera had been a staffer at Training Base One. “It sure as hell looks like Rami Carrera,” he said.
Benni took the sketch. “I would say you are all out of your minds, if I did not also have a memory for faces. But what is Carrera’s face doing on this transmission?”
