‘Amen,’ said three voices. The fourth, Orange, was contrary. ‘The Talmud insists on the truth,’ he intoned. ‘Find me a big-breasted houri and I may go along.’
‘Shut up!’ cried Yaakov, not amused.
‘What has happened to bring you here?’ asked the Mossad officer.
‘Insanity,’ answered the newcomer. ‘One of our people in Washington got through an hour after you left Hebron. His information concerned an American. A congressman, no less. He’s here and interfering—going under cover, can you believe it?’
‘If it’s true,’ replied the driver, gripping the steering wheel, ‘then every thought of incompetence I’ve ever entertained about the American intelligence community has blossomed to full flower. If he’s caught, they’ll be the pariahs of the civilized world. It is not a risk to be taken.’
‘They’ve taken it. He’s here.’
‘Where?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘What has it to do with MS?’ objected Yaakov. ‘One American. One fool. What are his credentials?’
‘Considerable, I’m sorry to say,’ answered Ben-Ami. ‘And we are to give him what leverage we can.’
‘What?’ said the young leader from the Masada Brigade. ‘Why?’
‘Because, my colleague notwithstanding, Washington is fully aware of the risks, of the potentially tragic consequences, and therefore has cut him off. He’s on his own. If he’s captured there’s no appeal to his government, for it won’t acknowledge him, can’t acknowledge him. He’s acting as a private individual.’
‘Then I must ask again,’ insisted Yaakov. ‘If the Americans won’t touch him, why should we?’
‘Because they never would have let him come here in the first place unless someone very highly placed thought he was on to something extraordinary.’
‘But why us? We have our own work to do. I repeat, why us?
‘Perhaps because we can—and they can’t.’
‘It’s politically disastrous!’ said the driver emphatically. ‘Washington sets whatever it is in motion then walks away covering its collective ass and dumps it on us. That kind of policy decision must have been made by the Arabists in the State Department. We fail—which is to say, he fails while we’re there with him—and whatever executions take place they blame it on the Jews! The Christ-killers did it again!’
‘Correction,’ interrupted Ben-Ami. ‘Washington did not “dump” this on us because no one’ in Washington has any idea we know about it. And if we do our jobs correctly, we won’t be in evidence; we give only untraceable assistance, if it’s needed.’
‘You will not answer me!’ shouted Yaakov. ‘Why?’
‘I did, but you weren’t listening, young fellow; you have other things on your mind. I said that we do what we do because perhaps we can. Perhaps, no guarantees at all. There are two hundred and thirty-six human beings in that horrible place, suffering as we as a people know only too well. Among them is your father, one of the most valuable men in Israel. If this man, this congressman, has even a shadow of a solution we must do what we can, if only to prove him right or prove him wrong. First, however, we must find him.’
‘Who is he?’ asked the Mossad driver contemptuously. ‘Does he have a name or did the Americans bury that also?’
‘His name is Kendrick—’
The large, shabby vehicle swerved, cutting off Ben-Ami’s words. The man from the Mossad had reacted so joltingly to the name that he nearly drove off the road. ‘Evan Kendrick?’ he said, steadying the wheel, his eyes wide in astonishment.
‘Yes.’
‘The Kendrick Group!’
‘The what?’ asked Yaakov, watching the driver’s face.
‘The company he ran over here.’
‘His dossier is being flown over from Washington tonight,’ said Ben-Ami. ‘We’ll have it by morning.’
‘You don’t need it!’ cried the Mossad agent. ‘We’ve got a file on him as thick as Moses’ tablets. We’ve also got Emmanuel Weingrass—whom we frequently wish we did not have!’
‘You’re too swift for me.’
‘Not now, Ben-Ami. It would take several hours and a great deal of wine—damn Weingrass; he made me say that!’
‘Would you be clearer, please?’
‘Briefer, my friend, not necessarily clearer. If Kendrick is back, he is on to something and he’s here for a four-year-old score—an explosion that took the lives of seventy-odd men, women and children. They were his family. You’d have to know him to understand that.’
‘You knew him?’ asked Ben-Ami, leaning forward. ‘You know him?’
‘Not well, but enough to understand. The one who knew him best—father-figure, drinking companion, confessor, counsellor, genius, best friend—was Emmanuel Weingrass.’
‘The man you obviously disapprove of,’ interjected Yaakov, his eyes still on the driver’s face.
‘Disapprove wholeheartedly,’ agreed the Israeli intelligence officer. ‘But he’s not totally without value. I wish he were but he isn’t.’
‘Value to the Mossad?’ asked Ben-Ami.
It was as if the agent at the wheel felt a sudden rush of embarrassment. He lowered his voice in reply. ‘We’ve used him in Paris,’ he said, swallowing. ‘He moves in odd circles, has contact with fringe people. Actually—God, I hate to admit it—he’s been somewhat effective. Through him we tracked down the terrorists who bombed the kosher restaurant on the rue du Bac. We resolved the problem ourselves, but some damn fool allowed him to be in on the kill. Stupid, stupid! And to his credit,’ added the driver grudgingly, gripping the wheel firmly, ‘he called us in Tel Aviv with information that aborted five other such incidents.’
‘He saved many lives,’ said Yaakov. ‘Jewish lives. And yet you disapprove of him?’
‘You don’t know him! You see, no one pays much attention to a seventy-nine-year-old bon-vivant, a boulevardier who struts down the Avenue Montaigne with one, if not two, Parisienne “models” whom he’s outfitted in the St Honore with the funds he received from the Kendrick Group.’
‘Why does that detract from his value?’ asked Ben-Ami.
‘He bills us for dinners at La Tour d’Argent! Three thousand, four thousand shekels! How can we refuse? He does deliver and he was a witness at a particularly violent event where we took matters into our own hands. A fact he now and then reminds us of if the payments are late.’
‘I’d say he’s entitled,’ said Ben-Ami, nodding his head. ‘He’s an agent of the Mossad in a foreign country and must maintain his cover.’
‘Caught, strangled, our testicles in a vice,’ whispered the driver softly to himself. ‘And the worst is yet to come.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Yaakov.
‘If anyone can find Evan Kendrick in Oman, it’s Emmanuel Weingrass. When we get to Masqat, to our headquarters, I’ll make a call to Paris. Damn!’
‘Je regretted said the switchboard operator at the Pont Royal Hotel in Paris. ‘But Monsieur Weingrass is away for a few days. However, he has left a telephone number in Monte Carlo—’
‘Je suis desolee,’ said the operator at the L’Hermitage in Monte Carlo. ‘Monsieur Weingrass is not in his suite. He was to have dinner this evening at the Hotel de Paris, opposite the casino.’
‘Do you have the number, please?’
‘But of course,’ replied the ebullient woman. ‘Monsieur Weingrass is a most charming man. Only tonight he brought us all flowers; they fill up the office! Such a beautiful person. The number is—’
‘Desole,’ intoned the male operator at the Hotel de Paris with unctuous charm. ‘The dining room is closed, but the most generous Monsieur Weingrass informed us that he would be at Table Eleven at the casino for at least the next two hours. If any calls come for him, he suggested that the person telephoning should ask for Armand at the casino. The number is—’
‘Je suis tres desole,’ gurgled Armand, obscure factotum at the Casino de Paris in Monte Carlo. ‘The delightful Monsieur Weingrass and his lovely lady did not have luck at our roulette this evening, so he decided to go to the Loew’s gaming room down by the water—an inferior establishment, of course, but with competent croupiers; the French, naturally, not the Italians. Ask for Luigi, a barely literate Cretan but he will find Monsieur Weingrass for you. And do send him my affectionate greetings and tell him I expect him here tomorrow when his luck will change. The number is—’
‘Naturalmente!’ roared the unknown Luigi in triumph. ‘My dearest friend in all my life! Signer Weingrass. My Hebrew brother who speaks the language of Como and Lago di Garda like a native—not the Boot or even Napoletano; barbarians, you understand—he is in front of my eyes!’
‘Would you please ask him to come to the telephone. Please.’
‘He is very engrossed, Signore. His lady is winning a great deal of money. It is not good fortuna to interfere.’
‘Tell that bastard to get on this phone right now or his Hebrew balls will be put in boiling Arabian goat’s milk!’
‘Che cosa?’
‘Do as I say! Tell him the name is Mossad!’
‘Pazzo!’ said Luigi to no one, placing the telephone on his lectern. ‘Instabile!’ he added, cautiously stepping forward towards the screaming craps table.
Emmanuel Weingrass, his perfectly waxed moustache below an aquiline nose that bespoke an aristocratic past and his perfectly groomed white hair that rippled across his sculptured head, stood quietly amid the gyrating bodies of the frenetic players. Dressed in a canary-yellow jacket and a red-checked bow tie, he glanced around the table more interested in the gamblers than in the game, every now and then aware that an idle player or one of the excited crowd of onlookers was staring at him. He understood, as he understood most things about himself, approving of some, disapproving of many, many more. They were looking at his face, somewhat more compact than it might be, an old man’s face that had not lost its childhood configurations, still young no matter the years and aided by his stylish if rather extreme clothing. Those who knew him saw other things. They saw that his eyes were green and alive, even in blank repose, the eyes of a wanderer, both intellectually and geographically, never satisfied, never at peace, constantly roving over landscapes he wanted to explore or create. One knew at first glance that he was eccentric; but one did not know the extent of the eccentricity. He was artist and businessman, mammal and Babel. He was himself, and to his credit he had accepted his architectural genius as part of life’s infinitely foolish game, a game that would involuntarily end for him soon, hopefully while he was asleep. But there were things to live, to experience while he was alive; approaching eighty he had to be realistic, much as it annoyed and frightened him. He looked at the garishly voluptuous girl beside him at the table, so vibrant, so vacuous. He would take her to bed, perhaps fondle her breasts—and then go to sleep. Mea culpa. What was the point?