Vicious Circle

  “Ask, ask,” Apfulbaum cooed like an owl. “I will play the cards God has dealt me as long as I am able to. I understand that when you grow bored, you will pull this stinking hood over my head. I understand that when you become fed up with my failure to provide answers, you will kill me.”

  Yussuf’s voice drifted through the partially open door:

  Wherever you may be, death will overtake you, though you should be in raised-up towers.

  “You misunderstand the game, ya’ani,” the Doctor said, slipping the leather hood back over the Rabbi’s head. “You have reached what the followers of the Messenger Jesus would call the last station of your cross. I am not offering to exchange answers to my questions f or your life; I am offering to exchange them for your dignity. You and your friend here will live or die depending on whether your government meets my demands. You will live or die with or without dignity depending on whether you meet my demands.”

  Returning to the outer room, the Doctor went immediately to the laundry sink and scrubbed his hands again to purify himself after the contact with the infidel. Petra, who did the shopping and brought back newspapers every morning, prepared the evening meal on the electric hot plate and served it on porcelain dishes: there were zucchini stuffed with meat and covered with a milky sauce, soft cheese and pitta bread, tea and almond biscuits. Yussuf finished his reading of the Qur’an and joined the Doctor at the low table. “How did it go?” he asked. “Do you think he will talk before the deadline comes and we are obliged to kill him?”

  “I locate his center in an invincible arrogance,” the Doctor said, thinking out loud, “and his arrogance in the seemingly unshakable conviction that Jews are superior to Muslims, Israelis are superior to Palestinians and he is superior to me. If, with God’s help, I can shake this conviction—if I can bring him to respect me, to love me even—his arrogance will abandon him and his center will fall apart, at which point he will tell us what we want to know; he will rack his brain for details to convince us that he is not inventing answers.” The Doctor smiled to himself as he recalled some lines from the holy Qur’an. “‘We will draw them on little by little whence they know not,’” he murmured. “‘My guile is sure.’”

  In the back room, it was Azziz’s turn to stretch out on the cot. Yawning, Aown pulled the hood over Efrayim’s head, then shuffled in his open-backed slippers to the Turkish toilet in the corner, dropped his trousers and squatted above the hole in the floor.

  Rocking back and forth in his chair, choking on the foul smells emanating from the leather of the hood, Efrayim moaned to himself. “Ah, I am condemned to death.”

  “Stop sniveling and pull yourself together,” Apfulbaum whispered harshly. “We are all condemned to death. Our friend was right: Nobody lives a second longer than God gives him to live.”

  Efrayim was horrified. “You’re quoting from the Koran, Rabbi.”

  “The Koran stole from the Torah, Muhammad plagiarized Moses. Abraham, a patriarch to the Jews, is reincarnated as one of several Messengers for the Islamists.”

  Efrayim barely heard him. Wracking his brain for omens, he found one that caused him to catch his breath. “He permitted me to see him, which means he doesn’t expect me to leave here alive.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “His face looks as if a smile has never crossed his lips. He is smug, and cock-sure of himself. He thinks that God is on his side.”

  “I could hear that much in his voice. I meant physically.”

  “He is a short man with short cropped hair and the delicate fingers of a concert pianist. He wears small round spectacles which are so thick they magnify the pupils of his eyes.”

  “He suffers from tunnel vision,” the Rabbi guessed. He snickered. “God’s metaphor.”

  “There is an injury on his forehead, not unlike yours. His skin is bruised, the bone of his skull bulges as if he’s been butting his head against a wall.”

  “You are describing a frustrated Palestinian.”

  Efrayim asked, “What does it mean, this word ya’ani that he repeats over and over?”

  “It is a nervous tic, the equivalent of well or you know, not a term of endearment.”

  “He means to kill us,” the secretary repeated. “It is against government policy to trade Jewish hostages for Arab prisoners.”

  “When the time comes to die,” the Rabbi told his young secretary, “we must do so with such dignity that the one who slays us will understand the Jews are the chosen of God.” And he added: “If the game is dignity, I will be an apt player.”

  An Excerpt from the Harvard “Running History” Project:

  I have to hand it to you, you’re asking all the right questions. You need to understand that in the best of times the Middle East portfolio is a can of worms. The President’s Special Assistant for Middle Eastern Affairs walks a tight rope between the Jewish lobby in America and the Arab reality in the field; between the Defense Department and the CIA; between the White House and the State Department; between the Congressional hawks, who are ready to fight to the last drop of Israeli blood, and the doves, who haven’t learned anything from history about appeasement. Inside any administration the long knives are always sharpened and out when it comes to Israel and the Arabs. Which explains why you noticed my secretary fitting on the headset and taking down the conversation I had with the President in shorthand. Henry Kissinger used to do the same thing when he was sitting in the basement of the White House working for Richard Nixon. Like Kissinger, I want to have a record of the conversation in case things go from bad to worse and the White House Praetorians decide someone has to fall on his sword.

  You guessed it, that someone won’t be me.

  As for the conversation with the President: after what seemed like an eternity she finally came on the line. There were no apologies for keeping me waiting, no small talk. “What do you make of this kidnapping, Zack?” she said, her voice as curt and crabby as ever. I don’t think I’ll ever cease being awed by the woman’s ability to turn on the charm in public and yet be so graceless in private. I once saw her, her photo-op smile pasted on her lips for the benefit of the cameras recording the moment, tell an Undersecretary of State, sotto voce, “I don’t give a damn what you think. Just do it.”

  You’re right, I am straying from the subject.

  The subject is Israel. The subject is the kidnapping of this crazy Rabbi what’s-his-name. That’s it. Apfulbaum. I reported to the President that we had gone into a damage control mode, our object being to keep the lid on long enough to get this peace treaty signed in Washington. I told the President I’d talked to both sides again this morning. The bottom line is the Israelis won’t wear sackcloth and ashes if Apfulbaum winds up dead. From the Prime Minister’s point of view, that’ll be one less critic of the peace process to deal with. On the other side of the fence, the Palestinians won’t light memorial candles for the Abu Bakr Brigade for much the same reasons.

  “So I’m off the hook,” the President said. (Her use of the first person singular wasn’t lost on me; seen from the Oval Office, it’s the President’s opportunity to win a Nobel Prize, as well as America’s security and regional stability, that’s at stake.) Yes, “I’m off the hook” were her exact words; I can have my secretary show you her shorthand notes if you’d care to see them. After which the President added, “Even if this ends in a shootout, they’ll still turn up in Washington for the signing, right?”

  At which point I said something like, “Wrong, Madam President. For the record, the signing is still on the agenda; neither side wants to be seen to be the first to back away from the peace agreement. Off the record, both sides are saying the same thing: they’re afraid of getting sucked back into a vicious circle. It’s the principle that plagues them: if an Israeli politician is to survive politically, Jews who get murdered by Palestinians must be avenged, and vice versa.”

  I got the feeling that the President’s patience was being sorely tested. “Listen, Zack,” she
said; I’m quoting her from memory again. “I want you to read them the riot act. Lean on them—the President of the United States expects this to be treated as an isolated incident. Let them let the police deal with it. The President of the United States won’t permit the tail to wag the dog; she won’t put up with a return to the status quo ante, where the lunatic fundamentalist fringe on both sides drove policy. You remind the Israelis that my get-tough-on-Israel policy plays surprisingly well in the streets. You remind the Palestinians that you can count the Palestinian voters in the U.S. on the fingers of one hand. God damn it, Zack, I haven’t come this far to let the peace thing slip through my fingers.”

  That’s correct. That’s what she said. “Peace thing.”

  No, there was no goodbye, only the shrill peal of the severed connection ringing in my ear.

  ELEVEN

  THE SHIN BET MANDARINS DIDN’T BEAT AROUND THE BUSH. “We appreciate your coming over on such short notice,” said the bald man presiding over the morning session in the Tel Aviv conference room. He introduced himself and the others around the table using first names. “I’m David. This is Zev. This is Itamar.”

  “I wouldn’t pass up an invitation from Israel’s illustrious FBI,” Sweeney said sweetly. He nodded toward the portly man in sun glasses sitting on the sill of the window. “Who’s he? J. Edgar Hoover?”

  “He’s from Amnesty International,” David said with a straight face. “He’s here to make sure we don’t tickle you to death.”

  “You guys are a laugh a minute,” Sweeney said. “Do any of you have last names, or do you go through life using only first names?”

  The men around the table avoided each other’s eyes. At the window sill, J. Edgar, as Sweeney now thought of him, actually cracked a languid smile. David said, “Our press people got hold of the story you wrote on the Aza wake. It was very moving. Our hearts bleed for poor Anwar, who had the bad luck to be wounded while murdering four Jews and abducting two others, and was then shot in the brain by his own side so he wouldn’t fall into our clutches.”

  “War is hell,” remarked Sweeney.

  The man called Itamar said, “You’ve been in Israel long enough to know that the Shin Bet is in the life and death business of defending Jews from terrorist attacks. You could make our work easier if you told us more about the mujaddid, or Renewer, you mentioned in your article.”

  “Does this Abu Bakr, whoever he is, actually claim to be the Renewer,” David wanted to know, “or are some Islamic fundamentalists claiming it on his behalf? What is the relationship between the individual who goes by the name Abu Bakr, and the Abu Bakr Brigade which claimed responsibility for the kidnapping of Rabbi Apfulbaum and his secretary? Is Abu Bakr the active leader of the brigade, or just its spiritual leader?”

  “Did Jesus claim to be the Messiah,” Sweeney shot back, “or did the disciples hang the label around his neck? Was there any connection between this Messiah and the uprising against the Romans organized by Barabbas?” He stretched his lanky body in the chair. “Whichever, everything I know about the Renewer is in my article.”

  The agent called Zev tapped a stack of loose-leaf books filled with photographs of Palestinians. “We have pictures of thousands of people who took part in intifada demonstrations. You would be rendering a service to Israel if you could identify the cleric who guided you to the store, as well as the kid who was served up as the next martyr.”

  Sweeney said, “Don’t tell me, let me guess; if I cooperate, you’ll plant a tree for me on a barren hillside and hang a plaque on it identifying someone named Max—no last names, please—as a righteous gentile.”

  Itamar flattened a map of the Jabaliya refugee camp on the table with the palm of his hand. “It would be useful if you could tell us where the cleric took you—even if you only have a rough idea.”

  “There were too many twists and turns for me to pick out the route even if I had a sense of direction, which I don’t. Look, it’s obvious to me even if it isn’t obvious to you that the cleric and the kid were the B team engaged in public relations for the Islamic fundamentalist folks. I know you guys think Palestinians are dumb, but even they aren’t dumb enough to trot out the A team for an American journalist who’s bound to be questioned by Israelis with only first names. The whole thing—the talk of a Renewer, the cleric, the kid—was a PR job.”

  David observed coldly, “That’s not what you said in your article.”

  “I wrote it the way it happened. The reader is free to put any spin on the story he wants.”

  Itamar said, “You didn’t write about the Rabbi’s kidnapping the way it happened. You barely mentioned the four dead Jews. You left out the business about the finger being cut off.”

  Sweeney shrugged. “You guys are trying to make me feel guilty for going into Gaza and talking to a father who was mourning the death of his son.”

  From the window sill, J. Edgar said quietly, “The four dead Jews have fathers who are mourning the deaths of sons. You didn’t knock on their doors.”

  “Look,” Sweeney said, “as long as I don’t jeopardize Israeli security by spilling state secrets, whom I interview and what I write about is my business.”

  David tried one more time. “You were taken to meet the martyr who is supposed to step into the shoes of the dead Anwar. That makes it Shin Bet business. You may be right—the cleric with the pointed beard who took you into Jabaliya, the fresh-faced kid you met there may come under the heading of public relations. But we have to act on the assumption that the kid you interviewed could walk into a crowded Tel Aviv movie theater tomorrow carrying a knapsack crammed with explosives—unless you pick out his photograph and we can convince the Palestinian Authority’s cops to incarcerate him first.”

  Sweeney swallowed a yawn. “The least you guys could do is serve coffee and doughnuts at this hour of the morning.”

  “How about it, Mr. Sweeney?” David said pleasantly. “Do us a favor and take a look at our loose-leaf books.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  Itamar lost his temper. “What do you want, a medal or money?”

  Sweeney scraped back his chair and stood up. “I work for a respectable leftwing publication, not the Shin Bet. The moment I become an agent for the Shin Bet, I lose my credibility as a journalist.”

  David said quickly, “I guarantee nobody is going to know you helped us.”

  “Why didn’t you spell that out before? The kid you’re looking for is seventeen years old, has dirty feet and the angelic smile of a choir boy. Ah, yes, and he chews gum.” Sweeney had to laugh. “Listen, I can personally name three reporters who cooperated with you. If I know who they are, you can bet the Palestinians know who they are. And if the Palestinians know, everyone in the Middle East knows. Which is why two of the three are afraid to set foot outside Jewish Jerusalem. The third still goes into the West Bank on assignment, but he’s suicidal.”

  Itamar angrily folded the map. “We’re wasting our breath. This is the guy who wrote the article about the reservist complaining he was ordered to break the arms of Palestinians.”

  “You fellows tried to get me kicked out of Israel over that one,” Sweeney noted. “You backed down when it turned out the reservist did complain, and arms were broken.”

  David pushed a small button on the telephone console. A uniformed guard opened the door. “He’ll show you out,” David said.

  “I’m a big boy,” Sweeney said. “I can find my own way.”

  “That’s what you think,” Itamar mumbled.

  J. Edgar came off the window sill. “It goes without saying, this meeting, what was said during it, is off the record.”

  Sweeney turned back at the door. “Hey, it doesn’t go without saying. Here’s the deal: everything is on the record until someone says it isn’t. I promise not to quote anything you say from here on out.” Sweeney looked from one to the other. “Don’t get nervous, I’ll only use your first names when I write about how the Shin Bet tried to recruit an Ameri
can journalist.”

  “Anti-Semitic prick!” Itamar muttered under his breath.

  “I heard that,” Sweeney said. “Too bad it’s off the record. It’d make a perfect kicker to my story.”

  TWELVE

  IT WAS BARUCH, WITH HIS DETECTIVE’S MANIA FOR DETAIL, WHO fitted the first two pieces of the puzzle together. He had phoned his wife from his Jerusalem office to say he would be late for supper. “So what’s new?” she had asked with a faint laugh in her voice. Baruch never talked shop at home but knowing him, she took it for granted he would be burning midnight oil after the kidnapping of Rabbi Apfulbaum. “Only once, call to say you’ll be home early,” she had quipped, “I’ll die of a heart attack.”

  “Thanks,” Baruch had said.

  “For what?”

  “For being there. For having a sense of humor. For keeping the food warm.” He had added quietly, “For keeping the flame alive.”

  “Are you all right, Baruch?”

  His answer had almost been lost in a low growl. “I’ll never be all right.”

  “Me neither. I miss her so.” She had caught her breath. “Sorry. We weren’t supposed to … Sorry.”

  Hanging up, Baruch turned on the desk lamp and picked up the silver-framed photograph of his daughter. He had snapped the picture the day she finished officer’s school. The back of her hand covered her mouth, trying to stifle a smile of pride, but her eyes gave her away. She was nineteen years old and freckled and lean and beautiful in her short khaki Army skirt and khaki sweater. “Do me a favor, phone up when you get back to the base,” Baruch had said when he dropped her off at the bus station after her leave. “Oh, aba, I’m an officer in the Israeli Army, not a school girl.” She had pulled a face. “If it will make you happier, I’ll call.”