The Fury of Rachel Monette (29 page)

His wife lay on the floor beside him, her face in the deep pile of the beige rug. It hadn't been so tidy with her. Her right hand still clutched a bronze table lamp. The frame of the shade was twisted and the flimsy cloth rent. Blood had soaked into the carpet around her head and chest. Her floral sun dress was drawn up high on her big legs. Rachel pulled it down. Then she remembered to feel the woman's wrist. The skin was neither hot nor cold. It could have been a modern fabric. Nothing moved underneath.

Rachel looked at her watch. Five forty-two. She gave herself five minutes to find the file. She began in the obvious places: the desk, the bookshelves, the bedside tables. After that she tried the clothes closets, the kitchen drawers. In the oven she found a duck roasting in peach sauce. It needed basting but was almost done. She closed the door and left the oven on. She searched under the mattress on the bed and under the pillows of the furniture. To look under the pillows of the brown couch she had to lift Kopple's legs. Her watch said five forty-eight. But before she left she recalled that some people liked to hide things in the toilet cistern, and she went into the bathroom.

A young woman wearing a black dress and a white apron lay in the bathtub. She faced the wrong way; her head was wedged between the taps at an awkward angle. But comfort no longer mattered: she had a red hole in her forehead too.

Rachel lifted the cover off the cistern, knocking a gold lipstick into the toilet bowl. There was nothing in the cistern but rusty water and a floating brass ball. She turned to leave and saw a ragged piece of blue silk in the maid's hand. She pried back the cold fingers one by one. It appeared to have been ripped from the back of a shirt or a blouse. There was no label, but she could see the stitching where it had been. Under the bottom row of stitches someone had sewn a black name tag with a name printed in gold thread. Rachel Monette, it said.

Rachel put the piece of silk in her pocket. Then she picked the lipstick out of the toilet, dried it on a hand towel and set it on the cover of the cistern, handling it with the towel. She dampened the towel under one of the taps in the sink and retraced her steps through the apartment, wiping anything she thought she had touched. When she finished she folded the towel and hung it on the rack. On her way out the door, she dropped
Die Welt
into the brass mailbox.

Rachel went down the stairs to the ground floor. She was about to open the front door when she heard heavy footsteps approaching outside. She ran to the rear of the hall and started down the stairs that led to the basement. The stairs were unlit and she had to feel her way. Halfway down she paused, her eyes at the level of the hall floor. She could see the front door through the balusters. It opened. Two policemen entered, revolvers in their hands. They went quietly up the stairs.

Rachel continued down to the basement. The only light in the large damp room filtered through a small dirty window set high on the street-side wall. Planted outside the window were two highly polished black shoes, which grew into blue trouser legs with navy stripes along the seams. On the opposite wall was a narrow steel door. Rachel put her ear against it. She heard a faint rustling. She turned and looked through the window. The black shoes hadn't moved. Above her the floor creaked. Again she put her ear to the cold metal, and again heard a rustling sound. She opened the door very slightly.

On the other side was a quiet alley where people left their cars and their garbage. A few inches from the door a big brown rat was gnawing through a plastic garbage bag. Seeing Rachel it stopped gnawing, but it didn't leave. It kept its snout in the garbage and one little red eye on her. Rachel walked along the alley until she came to a busy cross street. She turned into it and tried to look like everybody else.

She went into the lobby of the hotel. The desk clerk didn't look at her in any special way as he handed her the room key. Her room seemed the same as she had left it. Her white cotton slacks lay in a heap on the floor and her underpants were drying on the bathroom doorknob. She threw everything in her suitcase and returned to the lobby to check out.

“I'm sorry, madame,” the clerk said. “I have to charge you for the full day.”

Rachel didn't make a fuss. She paid him and drove the rented Deux Chevaux to the airport. She parked near the terminal and got out, leaving the keys in the ignition.

“You there,” a voice called behind her in French. A policeman leaned against a pillar near the entrance to the terminal. He was tapping his nightstick lightly against his palm. “Can't you read?”

“I beg your pardon?” Rachel said in English. She thought her voice sounded high, and very thin.

He raised the nightstick and pointed at a blue metal disc with a red diagonal line through it. “No parking,” he said in English. He had an accent like Maurice Chevalier's.

Rachel held up her index finger. “One minute. I'll only be one minute.” The policeman raised his eyes to heaven like a Guido Reni martyr. It is a look policemen everywhere enjoy using on silly women. Rachel lugged her suitcase into the terminal and caught a flight to Tel Aviv.

25

“We've got to get up,” Simon Calvi said. “You'll miss the flight.”

Gisela clung to him. “I don't care.”

“I do.”

“Five more minutes,” Gisela said, holding him tighter. He worked his arm free from under her shoulder and looked at his watch. Eight thirty-two, it told him, Wednesday the thirty-first of March.

“We haven't got five minutes. It takes almost an hour to get to Lod and you're not even packed yet.” In answer she moved her hip against him. He pushed her away and got out of bed. Gisela turned her face to the pillow. She didn't move or make a sound but he knew she was crying. “Gisela, for God's sake. You're behaving like a schoolgirl. It's only for a few days. What is the matter with you?”

She lay on the bed, prone and silent. He watched her while he dressed. Perhaps something had frightened her: urgency in his tone or trouble in his eyes. Or could she sense that he was following a schedule known only to himself? Did it make her jealous in some way, jealous enough to be disruptive?

“Listen, Gisela, if it will make you feel better I'll cancel the taxi and drive you myself.”

Gisela rolled over quickly. “Oh no, that's not necessary.” She had stopped crying: her eyes were dry. Had she been crying at all?

“I know it's not necessary, but I would prefer it. I should have offered in the first place.”

“Please don't, Simon, I promise to hurry.” She threw off the sheets and got out of bed as energetically as her heavy body would allow.

“It's no trouble.” Calvi went downstairs to make coffee. He chose a decaffeinated blend. Enough anxiety was percolating inside both of them already. There was no need to add an oral dose.

Calvi opened the front door and stepped outside. For the first time in months there was a biting strength in the sun's heat. In the lime green Fiat parked under the carob tree sat Sergeant Levy with his sleeves rolled up. Calvi walked across the street. The car seemed to shrink and Sergeant Levy grow bigger as he approached.

“It must be hot, cooped up in the car like that,” Calvi said through the open window. Being angry with him was pointless.

“That's the price of eternal vigilance,” Sergeant Levy replied amiably.

Calvi went into his garage and started his own car, a compact American model. He backed it into the driveway and waited. After a few minutes Gisela came out of the house carrying two suitcases. She was dressed for a northern climate: tweed skirt, a sweater, a raincoat over her shoulders. The bulky material hid the definition of her full figure, making her appear thick and shapeless and unfamiliar. Her face wore the forlorn expression of a one- or two-night lover who had hoped for more.

Calvi got out of the car and took the suitcases. After he loaded them in the trunk he put his arms around her and kissed her mouth. She responded passively. “I wish you would be more cheerful. Is this the way to start a holiday?” Her pale blue eyes gazed up at his face: he saw a profound resignation.

“You'll never come.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Calvi said lightly. “I've got a charter fare ticket and there are no refunds.” Gisela looked blankly at him. He felt Sergeant Levy's eyes on his back. “Let's go.”

Calvi drove to Jaffa Road and began the descent to the west. Overhead the sun followed, rising slowly in the sky. The green Fiat followed more closely. Calvi could see Sergeant Levy's face in the rearview mirror. His lips were moving as though he were talking to himself, but his huge fingers tapping on the steering wheel made Calvi think he was singing. He sang all the way to the airport. Calvi and Gisela rode in silence.

He walked her to the security gate. “Don't forget to call for the package,” he said.

“You've told me a thousand times, Simon.”

“It's important. Remember to rent a van.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And where will you open it?”

“Please, Simon: not again.”

“Where?”

Gisela sighed. “On a back road outside the city.”

“Good,” he said. “I know I'm being difficult, but I don't want to spoil the surprise.”

The airport loudspeakers broadcast the final announcement of the flight to Munich. Simon and Gisela embraced. She buried her face in his chest. He watched Sergeant Levy standing by a newsstand on the far side of the concourse. “I wish you'd tell me more about this surprise,” Gisela said.

“And ruin all the fun? Never.”

“But I'm worried, Simon. I'm worried that you're sending some kind of present to make up for not coming yourself.”

“No, Gisela.” He kissed her forehead. “It's something to make our holiday more worthwhile, yours and mine.”

She lifted her face for a longer, deeper kiss. “I hope so, Simon.” Gisela turned and walked through the surveillance tunnel. The security guard ran a metal detector over her body before allowing her to go on.

“See you in a few days,” Calvi called after her, but she was gone. The little convoy returned to Jerusalem.

On the way Calvi found himself thinking of the night he and Gisela had eaten dinner on the Mount of Olives. He recalled her anger when he sent her home alone in the taxi. Perhaps she really did feel so strongly about even short separations. Did she love him after all? Then he began remembering other incidents that had happened the same night. The man in the broad-brimmed hat who had made no attempt to follow him when he left the villa with Gisela. Why not?

Calvi switched on the radio. A man and a woman were talking about him. They were trying to explain to the audience why he had become more radical during the last few years. The man thought it had something to do with the possibility of increased immigration from Russia. The woman tied it to the growth of ethnic consciousness outside Israel. The announcer cut in to tell them thirty seconds remained. In that time could they make a quick prediction about his speech on Friday? The man couldn't say but he thought there would be a big crowd; the woman said everyone would have to wait and see. The announcer thanked them very much. Calvi turned off the radio and glanced in the rearview mirror. Sergeant Levy's head was thrown back and his mouth opened wide: he was reaching for a high note.

Calvi drove directly to the office and parked in his reserved space. Sergeant Levy parked behind him.

“It won't matter that I'm blocking you,” he said to Calvi as he squeezed his enormous body out of the front seat. “We'll be leaving together anyway.” He laughed at his joke and clapped Calvi on the back with bone-crushing force.

“You're a funny fellow,” Calvi said, “especially for one of Grunberg's men.”

“It's an asset in any line of work.” Sergeant Levy accompanied him to the office and sat on the couch in the reception room.

“This is Sergeant Levy,” Calvi announced to Sarah, who was typing a letter. “Major Grunberg has assigned him to protect me from myself until the rally.”

Sarah nodded at the sergeant and held out a sheaf of messages. As Calvi took them she said: “Moses is in his office. He wants to talk to you.” Something in her tone made him look at her closely. She wouldn't meet his eye.

Calvi went through the door which led to the two inner offices. The smaller one was Cohn's. He was standing with his back to the door, looking out the window.

“You wanted to see me?”

Cohn turned slowly to face him. His wiry red hair was uncombed. It stuck out in spikes from his skull. The effect should have been comical, but there was a fierce glare in his eyes which made the hair seem right.

“What's wrong with you, Moses?”

“What's wrong with me?” Cohn's voice rose to a shout.

“Quiet,” Calvi hissed. “I've got one of Grunberg's thugs in the outer office.”

“So you should,” Cohn said almost as loudly as before.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“A lot of things.”

“Like what? And keep your God-damned voice down.”

Cohn took a step toward Calvi. He was so tense his skin could barely contain him: the cords on his neck stood out and the veins in his temple rose in trembling ridges. “We're through, Simon,” he said through gritted teeth. “Finished. There's no more trust between us.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“That's what I'm doing. You've been lying to me and hiding things from me and I'm not going to accept it anymore. It's as simple as that.”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” Calvi said in a tone that was more puzzled than cold.

“Don't you? I'll give an example to help you understand. Sunday night.”

“Sunday night?”

“Yes. Why don't you tell me what you did on Sunday night.”

“That's no secret,” Calvi said. “I took Gisela to dinner. We tried Rubin's, the tourist trap on the Mount of Olives.” Calvi reached into his pocket for a cigar and sat on the edge of Cohn's desk. “The food was not bad,” he went on, lighting the cigar, “but the service was lousy.”