Stateless (48 page)

‘I am not. I am a merchant, I have money and I –'

‘Silence!' shouted the duke. ‘Nimrod, why is this man of concern to you?'

‘Since the death of your treasurer Jacob, my lord, I have been unable to do my work. And I am not skilled at figures. This man, though, is a merchant, and were we to spare his life, he could be useful.' Nimrod walked over to the side of the man still held by the soldiers. ‘This man is clearly not a Turk, nor an Arab. He may be of value to you, my lord.'

‘Value?' The duke pointed a gloved finger at the merchant. ‘Value to me?'

Nimrod quickly spoke before Roux had a chance to speak. ‘This man will ensure that the Church and your estate are paid their due from the plunder. This man has value, my lord.'

The duke pondered Nimrod's words and paced forward to put a hand on the Jewish doctor's shoulder. To Nimrod's surprise, the duke leant down and whispered in his ear.

‘Yes. I need a treasurer. And I also have great need of a doctor. He may sleep in your tent.'

He turned to Roux. ‘This Jew belongs to Nimrod the doctor. He shall be entrusted with my accounts.'

And without looking back, the duke strode away leaving Nimrod standing alone with Michel Roux and the merchant. The soldiers let the merchant go and he quickly drew himself away from them and towards Nimrod.

Roux eyed them both coldly. ‘Mark my words, Jew,' he spat at Nimrod. ‘You are in the duke's sight for now but you had better pray you die before he does, Christ-killer, for once he's gone, you and your new merchant will be mine, to dispose of as I wish. And on that day, you'll have wished you'd died here, in Antioch, with my sword piercing your godless heart.'

And with that, Roux spun on his heel and stormed away, followed by his guards.

The man whose life he had just saved turned to Nimrod. ‘Simeon. My name is Simeon, son of Abel. And I thank you.'

Nimrod looked the man up and down with weary eyes. ‘I sincerely hope you are good with numbers, Simeon. For both our sakes.'

Moscow, USSR

19 January 1948

G
olda Meir looked the very archetype of the Jewish grandmother. Her elegant dark blue twinset, white top, pearls and grey hair tied in a matronly bun gave her a non-threatening air that defied her determination and political savvy. Like a mountain lion, she looked benign as she walked along the street, but anybody who crossed her risked the worst mauling imaginable.

Formally she was Head of the Jewish Agency for Israel and charged with political negotiation with the British. More pragmatically she was a fund-raiser, building networks of donors to fund the soon-to-be-established Jewish nation of Israel. Nobody could extract vast sums of money from American and European Jews like Golda. When she spoke, people felt guilty if they didn't give, especially when she reminded the comfortable and assimilated Jews that Israel was their birthright. In a more subtle reality, Golda was a deft diplomat, weaving international alliances. Of all her roles and motivations, it was this that brought her to Moscow.

Golda walked down the gentle slope on Teatralnyy Prospekt and turned back to gaze up the hill towards the offices of the
terrifying Lubyanka headquarters of the MGB. She knew that anybody who entered there as a prisoner was never seen again. The lucky ones died in interrogation; the less fortunate were sent to Siberia and worked, sometimes for years, until they dropped dead from the biting cold or their bodies simply gave up from the aching exhaustion of slave labour and inadequate food.

She'd never been inside the Lubyanka, but from all the reports that came to her, Golda knew more than most Russians about the torture, the murders and the disappearances that were concealed by the building's four walls.

Golda walked smartly past the Bolshoi Theatre as she left the Metropol Hotel, crossed the street and entered the massively guarded complex of red walls, multi-coloured onion domes and grim towers that was the Kremlin.

She showed the guard at the fortress gates the slip of paper and the official stamp of office and, without any words, was escorted through the courtyards to the inner sanctum.

Within minutes, she was shown into the offices of the Soviet Union's Minister for Foreign Affairs, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov. The dapper man rose from his desk as his secretary ushered Israel's most prominent woman into his office and walked around, extending his hand and smiling in a gesture of friendship.

‘Mrs Meir,' he said. ‘I've been looking forward to meeting one of Mother Russia's most engaging and important women.'

‘And it's a pleasure to meet you, Comrade Vyacheslav Mikhailovich.'

‘How does it feel to be back in Moscow after so many years' absence? What is it? Forty years?'

She smiled. ‘This is my first time in Moscow, comrade. I was born in the Ukraine, and left when I was but a child to join my father in America.'

‘But your Russian is excellent . . .'

‘Then thank Gogol, Tolstoy and Pushkin. I've a facility for languages.'

They sat in the armchairs, and waited until Molotov's secretary had laid out the tray of black tea and cakes before continuing.

‘I was somewhat surprised to receive your note, madam. When it arrived from Jerusalem, I was concerned about meeting with somebody, even someone as important as you, at a non-government level. As Foreign Minister, I have to be careful to meet with my counterparts, and not people who are, in effect, private citizens, albeit ones as important as –'

‘And I appreciate you giving me this time, Comrade Foreign Minister. But I think that as this meeting is top secret and nobody in Palestine knows of my visit other than my Prime Minister and the head of our secret service, this will not leak out. Unless, of course, the plumbing in the Kremlin has degraded since the time of the Revolution.'

Molotov let out a small laugh but looked more closely at her. Her face was typically lined from living for so many years in a hot country, but the eyes were what held his attention. Golda Meir had the eyes of an ancient mother of Israel, burning with intensity and sharp intelligence. Molotov loved trying to analyse people through looking into their eyes.

‘You said in your note that this meeting was of great importance to the future of relationships between our two countries, when your Israel is established by the United Nations. Of course, that's an assumption that may or may not be –'

‘It will come to pass, comrade. Believe me when I say that Israel will be the world's youngest country in a handful of months. With a voice and a vote at the United Nations we will enjoy the same stature as the Soviet Union, and the United States of America.'

Molotov suppressed a smile. ‘My dear lady, while what you say may be true, it doesn't behove us to exaggerate our importance in the world. When Comrade Chairman Stalin was told how Russian Catholics could help us win the Vatican's approval, he said, “The Pope! How many divisions has the Pope got?” You may have one voice among many, but Mother Russia has many army divisions, ships, aircraft and guns.'

‘I'm not exaggerating the importance of Israel, comrade,' Golda said. ‘Merely pointing out to you that we live on a lump of rock floating on a sea of petroleum oil. And your tanks, planes, cars and factories need oil to turn.'

Molotov raised an eyebrow. ‘But Palestine has no oil. Your Moses turned left towards the sea when he brought your people out of Egypt. He should have turned right and settled in Iraq or Persia, in Saudi Arabia or the Gulf. I can't see what point you're making, madam.'

Like a grandmother dealing with an intransigent grandchild, Golda Meir spoke softly and patiently. ‘Comrade, who has the oil today may not have it tomorrow. You, more than I, know the geopolitics of the region. The Arabs sold themselves to the highest bidder in the First World War, vacillating between the Turks and the British. In the Second World War, they remained out of the fray, having learned their painful lesson, except for the Mufti of Jerusalem, who became Hitler's best friend, but he's in exile and no longer counts. But the Arabs are not nations, even though they have national borders. They are tribes and there is as much dispute between tribes within their country's borders as there is between warring nations.'

Molotov frowned. ‘And?'

‘And soon there will be war. Egypt, Iraq, Syria, Trans-Jordan and Lebanon. There are some Palestinians who will participate, but we anticipate no true opposition.'

‘This we already know, madam. But what army does Israel have to mount? Our estimates are that the Arab armies will
number 60,000. They have planes, tanks, modern weaponry. How can a small nation without an army match this might?' Molotov asked.

Golda knew that this was a rhetorical question, and that he already knew what her answer would be. ‘Comrade, in the Yishuv, we have four experienced fighting forces, the Haganah, the Palmach, the Irgun and Lehi. Together, we can mount an initial repulse consisting of 30,000 men and women. And if the battle lasts longer than a month, we'll call up more than 100,000 of our best and brightest. Remember, comrade, that the Arabs are fighting to push the Jews into the sea. When they get tired, or wounded, they'll just turn around and go back to their homes. But we Jews are fighting for our lives, because we have nowhere else to go.'

Molotov remained silent, and sipped his tea.

Golda continued. ‘But you already know this. Your people in Jerusalem have informed you of everything I've told you. Tomorrow I travel from here to the United States to raise money to buy arms, ammunition, tanks and planes. I have speaking engagements in dozens of cities throughout America. I'm told that I might be lucky to raise a couple of million dollars because everybody is tired of wars and just wants peace. But I will return with fifty million dollars, or I will not return.'

Molotov considered her words. ‘You are aware, of course, that Russia's official stance is to oppose Zionism.'

‘And let us also never forget, my friend,' said Golda, ‘that since Catherine the Great, Russia has been the most pragmatic diplomatist in the world. You may be officially anti-Zionist, but your reality is that you need influence in the Middle East, and not just to accelerate the decline of British influence, but also to ensure that America doesn't become strong in our arena. You need us, Comrade Foreign Minister. You need Israel as a friend. Because you know who's going to win this war and you know
which nation will become the key player on your southern border.'

There was nothing in what she had said that Molotov did not know nor which had long been the basis of manoeuvres by Beria, Stalin and himself. But Molotov found himself intrigued that Golda Meir's thinking was so closely aligned with his. Molotov was nothing if not a pragmatist; flexible adaptation was always the key to survival, whether it be in evolution, politics or war. Might Golda Meir make some of his work with his agents on the ground, with people such as Judit and Anastasia, redundant?

‘You and I are frank people, madam. You asked for this meeting. It has been my pleasure to entertain you. But what is the real purpose of your being here?'

‘Two reasons. The first is to ask for a gift of $50 million dollars' worth of gold so that we can buy more munitions and planes on the open market . . .'

Molotov, as a practised diplomat, remained silent.

‘And the second is to ask for the names of the death squad you currently have in Palestine murdering our best and brightest Zionists.'

His face was a mask of indifference, but Golda detected surprise in his eyes. She drove the point home, by saying, ‘I do hope, comrade, that we can come to some agreement before I leave here and begin my talks with the Americans. And it would really assist our future friendship if your assassins could stop killing my people.'

The following morning, as Golda Meir was packing her bags to prepare for her trip to the United States, there was a knock on
her door at the Metropol Hotel. She opened it and found a tall, gaunt young man standing there. Nobody other than a handful of people here in Moscow and in Jerusalem knew that Golda was in the Soviet Union and so she was immediately suspicious.

The young man, dressed in a charcoal grey suit, nodded at her in greeting. ‘You left a document on the desk when you finished your meeting yesterday. The gentleman with whom you met has asked me to return it.' He handed over a brown manila envelope, nodded and walked back to the stairs. Golda closed the door and ripped open the envelope. In it, she found a list of names. Many were Russian, such as Anastasia Bistrzhitska, and were listed along with their known aliases. Some were clearly Jewish and the name of Judit Etzion stood out. She'd heard of the girl's bravery, but while Golda felt some distress the boil had to be cauterised.

Asking for the list of Soviet agents in Palestine had been risky, but it was a carefully calculated risk. Intelligence in Jerusalem had put together a disturbing pattern of the unexplained murders and deaths of leading Jewish intellectuals, journalists and opinion makers, all of them outspoken Zionists, and each of them linked by being unsolved crimes. At first it was assumed that they were being killed by the British MI6, but further work by the Irgun intercepting radio cables from Russian-owned houses to Moscow immediately before or after the deaths indicated a strong link with the Soviet Union.