Israel (85 page)

A child was throwing a tantrum nearby when Herschel saw the Arab coming around the far side of the carousel, heading directly for Wilbur Burns. He saw him, squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, expecting the hallucination to vanish.

It didn't. It was he, looking exactly as he had the day Herschel watched him enter the coffeehouse in Jerusalem. Today, of course, he was not wearing his fez.

The Arab shook hands with Wilbur and said in faintly accented English, “I'm so glad you have accepted our offer.”

“Well, you know how it is,” Burns stammered, obviously stalling and most likely wondering where Herschel was. “Fifty thousand is a lot of money. You people must want my design something awful.”

“Of course we value your work, Mr. Burns,” the Arab replied diplomatically. “However, as I mentioned to you on the telephone, what is most important to us is your guarantee that the other interested party will not receive it.”

“Hey—”

The Arab froze as Herschel stepped from behind the
tree. Glancing sorrowfully at Wilbur, he took several quick steps to separate himself from the gunsmith and then focused his attention on Herschel. “It is you and I once again, my old friend. Always, I suppose, it shall be you and I.”

He's always known me, Herschel thought. He remembered how the Arab seemed to recognize him in the bazaar in Jerusalem. He scrutinized the Arab's features—low, dark hairline, thin nose, wide mouth and weak chin—but he had no idea who it was. His enemy seemed to sense Herschel's confusion and his black eyes sparkled with mirth.

As Herschel approached, the Arab transferred his briefcase to his left hand and unbuttoned his suit jacket, affording Herschel a glimpse of a gun butt in his waistband. Herschel slid his hand into his own pocket to thumb off the Beretta's safety.

The Arab's gaze flicked down. He looked philosophical. The two of them were no more than ten feet apart. A trio of children towing rainbow balloons ran between them. The balloons bobbed and swayed in the breeze and the Arab used his briefcase to deflect them from his face. Herschel looked for the cop and found him still there, still eating his candied apple, but in a slower, somewhat preoccupied manner. He was watching the tableau formed by Herschel, Wilbur Burns and the Arab; his policeman's intuition warned him that trouble was imminent. The cop was not going anywhere fast, Herschel knew.

The Arab looked over his shoulder at the policeman. “No, this isn't the place,” he agreed, “unless, of course, it is your wish to languish in an American prison as you once did in a British one.”

Herschel forced himself to let go of his gun and remove his hand from his pocket. “Who are you?”

“I identified you to the British. It was because of me that you went to prison. In those days the lrgun knew me
as Eagle Owl, the slayer of Jews, and it was I you hoped to kill with your grenades.”

“But how do you know me?” The carousel's sprightly bells and chimes formed an ironic counterpoint to Herschel's terror. “How did you know my name?”

“Like father, like son,” the Arab smiled.

Herschel began to sweat and shiver.
The gun was in his pocket—

“Your resemblance to your father was once quite remarkable, but prison has aged you.” Eagle Owl looked sympathetic. “I too had a short childhood, Herschel.” He switched from English to Hebrew. “It was Yol who taught me your language. I used to practice my Hebrew with Yol and your father.”

“Ma, leggo my balloon!”
a three-year-old wailed.

Herschel made no sound as he stared beyond the pushcarts and balloons at his father's unmarked grave near Degania. Silently he began to weep.

“He used to tell me about you, Herschel. I probably spent more time with him than you did. He had his arm around me in a fatherly embrace when I sank my blade between his ribs.”

Herschel bit down on his lower lip to keep from screaming. His fingers itched to claw out his gun, but he kept his hand at his side, remembering Wilbur Burns' advice. Even if he managed to kill his father's murderer, the Arab would end up the winner, for Herschel's arrest and the subsequent publicity would destroy Zionism in America.

“Not here, not now, Jibarn Ahmed,” Herschel announced in Arabic, “but someday I will kill you.”

“Dry your eyes, Jew,” Jibarn Ahmed replied in the same tongue. “At a time and in a place that I deem appropriate, I shall reunite you with your father, though he deserved better than a dog for a son.”

He turned to Wilbur Burns. “Good-bye, Mr. Burns. I fear you have lost a great deal of money.”

Wilbur Burns looked at him distastefully. “Money ain't everything, sonny.”

Jibarn Ahmed backed away and in seconds had vanished into the throng.

Burns came over to Herschel. “What the hell just happened?”

Herschel tried to speak but couldn't. He shook his head.

“You got the safety on?” Burns whispered, keeping his eye on the munching policeman.

Herschel sighed. “Thanks.” Hé reached into his pocket to secure the Beretta. “I do now.”

“Been around guns all my life,” Burns muttered knowingly. “A revolver's safe as home in bed, but you can't go neglecting those pocket autos.” He peered at Herschel. “You look pale, son, and your lip is bleeding like a son of a bitch.” He offered his handkerchief, which Herschel pressed to his bloody lower lip as they headed for the car.

“Figure you and that Arab don't much care for each other,” Burns observed.

“No, we don't.”

“Figure he did something bad to you.”

“Yes, it was bad.”

“Glad I didn't sell to him.”

After that Herschel Kol fretted about the security of the various operations sponsored by Sonneborn's Institute, but there was nothing he could do. His job was to amass weaponry, not engage in counterespionage, as he was repeatedly reminded by his superiors.

It was inevitable that a certain amount of sensitive information would leak. The several dozen wealthy Jews who formed the Institute's core, along with the many volunteers from all walks of life, could not be insulted with investigations or cross-examinations. Herschel was reminded that the Palestinians were in America as guests and supplicants. If on occasion a contributor committed an indiscretion, that was to be expected, even condoned. As many new connections had been made as secrets lost in such fashion. Herschel let the matter drop, resolving privately to keep a tighter rein on the security of his own group.

He did all he could on his own to try and ferret out Ahmed's whereabouts. He even asked Benny Talkin to lend a hand, but all efforts came to nothing. At last he forced himself to put the incident out of his mind. He and Jibarn Ahmed would one day meet again; it was inevitable. It was time to get back to work on the Canadian venture.

*     *     *

Throughout the fall of 1946 Herschel and Rebecca continued their meetings in coffee shops, hotel lobbies, cocktail lounges. Finally all the telephone calls had been made, all the groundwork laid. Rebecca scheduled a business trip to Toronto for the first week in November. Herschel would travel there separately and they would meet with some who were willing to help transform Wilbur Burns' designs into reality.

Pickman listened quietly as Becky told him the real reason behind her trip to Toronto. They were seated on the sofa in their living room overlooking Central Park. Carl took Becky's hand as she spoke excitedly of the progress she'd made on that fellow Kol's behalf. He had known before this Becky was working with Kol, but those meetings had lasted only an hour or so once or twice a week. Now she was asking his blessing on a week-long trip with him to another city. Carl trusted his wife; fidelity was not a concern. It was just that he felt excluded from this Palestine work; never mind that he wanted to be kept out of it. He was jealous of the way it monopolized Becky's time. It made him feel very lonely, very old. At the same time he knew he could not forbid the trip, much as he dreaded her being away.

“You and Herschel have gotten to be good friends, I imagine.”

Becky looked thoughtful. “I suppose. For the time being, anyway,” she said somewhat cynically. “I don't have any real friends.”

Carl was troubled. “What about Grace Turner and Phil?”

For a moment Becky looked angry, but then she affectionately squeezed his hand. “I guess we're so busy we hardly listen to one another. Don't you remember what I've told you about my differences with Phil?”

“Have you?” Carl frowned.

Becky kissed him. “My absent-minded artist. Lucky for you I'm not the sort of wife who likes to chase her errant husband with a rolling pin.”

“Yes.” Carl nodded, not really listening. “What?”

“I said like
Jiggs and Maggie
, you know, the comics.”

“Yes, of course, dear. It's just that someone the other day castigated me on my forgetting something.” His brow furrowed. “Who was it?”

“If you came into the store more often you'd be more up on what's going on.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Carl mused. “Anyway, what about your friendship with Grace?”

Becky shrugged. “Grace and I haven't really been close for a long time,” she sighed. “I thought my promoting her would draw us closer together, but the opposite has happened. She's always polite and respectful, always ready to chat, but she keeps her distance. I'm afraid the only thing that I've accomplished by promoting Grace is antagonizing Phil.”

“That's what comes from having power and authority, my dear,” Carl said sympathetically. “The trappings of success afford one respect, but affection is another matter entirely.”

“Carl, it would help if you came into the office more often. I know it would. Everyone misses you. I think sometimes they blame me for your absence. I know that's silly, but—”

“I understand. I—well, I haven't wanted to burden you, Becky, but I haven't been feeling well, I've been having bad headaches. It's annoying, really. I wake up and within an hour the pain is on me. It lessens toward evening, but I'm getting so little done . . .”He paused. “My dear, you're crying.”

Becky rested her head on his shoulder. “I thought you were unhappy with me or—I didn't know what to
think.” She rubbed her wet eyes. “Why didn't you tell me you were ill? How long has it been going on?”

“Since last year, I'm afraid.” He felt sheepish. “Perhaps you should be chasing me with that rolling pin. At first I just dismissed it as the result of warm weather. Then when the headaches began—Well, I suppose I've just been waiting and hoping that whatever it is would go away.”

“Have you been to the doctor?”

“Yes, but he wanted me to check into the hospital for tests, and I didn't want to begin our marriage that way.”

“Well, you must go now.”

“Yes, but not while you're away, my dear—”

“Then I'll cancel the trip.”

“You can't. It means too much to too many people. You simply have to go. I'll make arrangements to check into the hospital after you've come back. I just can't bear to be away from our home and you at the same time, my love. A few weeks now aren't going to make any difference. Most likely the tests will turn out inconclusive anyway. I suppose I'm just getting old. I know that I haven't been very much of a husband to you, Becky.” He thought about the young, dynamic Palestinian. Did she regret it when she left that fellow to come home to him? “This last year has been one of the happiest in my life, but what about you? Are you sorry you married me?”

“No, Carl. I love you. Remember what I said before about not having friends? Well, we're friends, Carl, kindred souls. What we have is much more than I've seen in other marriages. When you're well, when you've regained your strength, we'll take some time off. We'll go back to Salem Farm. We'll go to the stables and make love in the hay—”

Carl, his heart pounding, pressed his face into her hair. “I love you so much.”

*     *     *

Toronto in November was a grey and frigid city. To Herschel it was just one more strange place he had to endure. The winters in this part of the world were long and debilitating. Herschel was both mentally and physically exhausted. How he missed his mother and Yol, how he missed Degania. There'd been letters during his twenty months in America, but they could never substitute for a loved one's embrace or the smell of cornflowers and the look of Galilee's rugged hills beyond the fertile fields.

He and Rebecca stayed in different hotels. She was in the luxurious Toronto Hilton. His own compulsion to spend as little as possible on himself led him to a clean but depressing little pension near the Yonge Street shopping district.

Rebecca, it turned out, had business other than his to conduct. Herschel spent two days waiting, lying on his bed in his room, listening to the wind sweeping off Lake Ontario.

On Wednesday evening Becky gave a dinner in a steak house that overlooked the city's harbor. Her guests were Horace Crown, who supplied wooden hangers to department stores, and burly pockmarked Max Ross, the former chief engineer at the John Inglis Company of Toronto, which manufactured Browning automatic weapons.

It was a wonderful meal, and Herschel, who rarely drank, ended up giddy from the wine. Thanks to Becky, everything quickly and easily fell into place. Horace Crown even volunteered to fund the project. Tomorrow Herschel and Max Ross would get together to hammer out the specifics.

After dinner Herschel was excited, unable to bear the thought of returning to his dreary pension. He begged Becky to join him for a drink in the restaurant's lounge. She seemed reluctant, but he reminded her that they'd had many such private meetings back in New York, so what harm could there be in a drink tonight?

The lounge was a shadowy, candlelit place. They were shown to a secluded table with comfortable leather chairs and a majestic view of the harbor. When their drinks came, Herschel lifted his glass to Becky. “You were magnificent tonight. You managed everything. When Crown offered to pay, I nearly stood up and cheered.”