The Jerusalem Diamond (8 page)

He had been noticing a fine tremor occasionally shake Netscher's head; and when his hands were not clasped, the left one trembled. When Harry was a boy, they had been neighbors on East Ninety-sixth Street and most afternoons he and his father had met Saul in the YMHA on Lexington and Ninety-second. In the steam room the two men would blissfully swallow hot fog and argue about everything from Schopenhauer to chiropody, while Harry learned to survive in a child's hell of difficult breathing and shrill contention and giant hairy groins. In those days Netscher was an undersized Charles Atlas, a weight-lifter of such prowess the other men called him
Shtarkeh-Moyze
, the closest they could come to Mighty Mouse. Once he had shampooed Harry's head in the shower and the boy thought his scalp had been lifted, believing ever after that Saul Netscher's fingers could bend iron. Eventually he had become old enough to fill his afternoons in his own way, and when his father had married Essie, the daily meetings of the two men in the YMHA had slackened and finally ceased. But over the years Harry had continued to think of Netscher as
Shtarkeh-Moyze
. Now he saw that between his last glance and this one, Mighty Mouse had grown old.

“Go there and make a deal,” Netscher said. “If the stone looks suspicious to you—if anything at all gets in the way of the purchase—come right home. They won't give us trouble if they're really only people with something to sell.”

Akiva's steak looked as tough as Harry had expected, but he was
attacking it with apparent enjoyment, the only one at the table who was eating his lunch.

“How will I get in touch with them?”

“They will get in touch with you,” Akiva said. “I shall let them know you will be coming. The man who will contact you is named Mehdi. Yosef Mehdi.” Akiva spelled it several times, slowly, until Harry nodded. “He'll take you to the merchandise.”

“Suppose he wants to take me across the border?”

“It is highly likely that he will take you over a border,” Akiva said levelly. “You see why it is vital that the person handling things in New York is someone you trust absolutely?”

Harry did see. “You'll deposit the money you get from your donors in the Chase Manhattan Bank in Saul's name. When I contact him and tell him I'm buying, and the price, he'll transfer funds wherever the sellers instruct us.”

“That sounds good,” Akiva said.

Netscher beamed, and poured slivovitz.

Akiva finished harrying a strip of fat for nonexistent shreds of beef. “Settled then?”

“Not quite,” Harry said. “I have two stipulations. First, I'll run no side errands for you. I don't like your business.”

Akiva nodded.

“And I want an opportunity to work on the Copper Scroll with David Leslau.”

“No.”

“Or I won't go.”

“Then I'm afraid you will not. David Leslau's a temperamental and jealous academic. He won't share his work.”

They looked at one another.

“This is the only reason that you called me, is it not?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

Akiva sighed. “Who told you that you are God's gift to everything, Mr. Hopeman?”

Saul Netscher smiled. “As a matter of fact, I did,” he said as the waiter served their glasses of tea. He bit off a piece of sugar cube, sucked hot tea through it, nodded approvingly. “The credit is mine. This man still had down on his cheeks when he came to me as a friend. Troubled.
I was honored. He was quitting the yeshiva, he was confused. In love with the diamond business, yearning to be a scholar. You know what I told him?”

“I have a feeling I shall find out.”

“You told me about Maimonides,” Harry said.

“Yes, I told him about Maimonides. Have you ever wondered, Mr. Akiva, why the diamond business is so Jewish? It is because in the Middle Ages we could not be farmers like everyone else, since we were not
allowed
to own land. We were allowed to be tradesmen. But only in things no one else dealt, like diamonds. And we established a strong enough tradition so that today, when anyone completes a diamond deal, no matter what his religion, he will say ‘
Mazel!
' and the other party to the deal will answer ‘
Mazel un Brocha!
' Yiddish words meaning ‘Luck and a blessing.' Luck and a blessing. Not a bad thing to wish one another at the end of a business transaction, do you think?”

“Maimonides,” Akiva reminded him wearily.

“Ah, Maimonides. The great philosopher, writer, lawyer, physician—and allowed to become all these things because he had a brother named David who bought and sold diamonds. They set a pattern followed ever since by dozens of Jewish brothers in every age. One for the marketplace, a diamond merchant, like me. One for God, a scholar or a rabbi, like my brother Itzikel. Tell me, Mr. Akiva, do you know what happened to the towering intellectual when his merchant brother, David ben Maimon, was drowned while on a diamond-buying trip?”

Akiva shook his head.

“When Maimonides no longer had his brother to support him, he took on still another occupation. He became a diamond merchant himself so he could earn the bread which permitted him to be a scholar. I told the young man who asked my advice, ‘You don't have a brother. But within you, you have the power of two brothers.' And, Mr. Akiva, I was correct. He is Harry Hopeman, the diamond merchant. But he is also a scholar whose name has the respect of scholars. If I were you, I would not hesitate to approach David Leslau for him.”

“Tell Leslau that I have solved some of the text of the scroll,” Harry said. “I can identify at least one of the hiding places.”

Akiva sighed. “That is better than any argument I could invent.” He pushed his chair back from the table.

“Wait,” Harry said. “You told me that when I committed myself, you would explain why Leslau thinks the diamond came from the Temple.”

“Since you are forcing yourself on him, I can leave that for David Leslau,” Akiva said. “I shall get back to you within hours.” He abandoned them to stare at one another over the ruins of the meal.

Netscher's eyes were gleaming. He was rolling bread crumbs on the tablecloth until they were gray worms.

“So, Saul.”

“So, Harry?”

“In over our heads.”

Netscher shrugged.

“We don't even know he's what he says he is.”

“He is.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I asked for proof. He said I should go to Second Avenue, to the Israeli Consulate. I went yesterday morning. The Consul-General and I have met at perhaps a dozen fund-raisers. We shook hands, he thanked me for my support. He gave me a cigar and said he knew nothing about the project but Akiva was a fine officer, worthy of any cooperation.”

“That's a relief.”

“Is it?” The old man puffed smoke. “Terrible cigar,” he said. “Akiva's a cold-eyed
momser
, a bastard. I'm more afraid of him than the ones you're going to meet.”

“I'm not. Suppose while they're holding me, you … well, people become ill, accidents occur …”

“Say what you mean. I'm an old man with a heart that's bad. I could die while you're gone or even here at this table. You're right. I'll leave a letter with my lawyers. If anything happens to me, they'll carry out the money transfer for you.” Netscher smiled at him, not senile, sweetly sane. “Harry, no Jewish guilt. By allowing me to help, you're doing me a favor, not a wrong.”

Harry grimaced. In Netscher's mind they were on the battlements waving the Mogen David, the Star of David. There were no cloak-and-dagger lengths to which his imagination could not now go. “Stop doing that to the damn crumbs.”

“Do you know what I've been doing for twenty years? Israel Bonds. Selling pieces of paper, hounding my friends. I've raised a lot of money, more than this deal represents. But what happens to Israel Bond money? Industrial development. Maybe over the years I helped start an Israel cement plant, a paper-box factory.” His cigar had gone out and he lit it with short, fierce puffs. “This is
doing
, not just money. This is taking part, at my age.” He picked up his brandy glass. “Harry, you've done a kind thing, you've let me jump into the fountain of youth.”

“My father's friend, can you swim?”

Netscher roared with laughter. “
L'chaim!
” he said, lifting his glass.

Heads turned their way. Harry discovered he didn't care. He took his own drink and wondered whether he would feel more secure if he were still able to believe the liver-spotted hand could bend iron bars. “
L'chaim
. To life, Saul,” he said, meaning it.

7

THE VALE OF ACHOR

“What shall I do about the bar mitzvah?” Della asked.

“I'll go along with any decisions you make.”

She was silent.

“If I could, Della, I'd plan it with you. But I absolutely must go. This can't be postponed.”

“Neither can the bar mitzvah. At least call your son to say goodbye,” she said bitterly.

“Would you see if Jeff Hopeman is in his room, please?” he asked the young voice.

“Hopeman? … Hey, shitlegs, it's for you.”

Harry heard, and grinned. He had the same profusion of birthmarks.

“Hello?”

“Jeff, it's Dad.”

“Hey.”

“How're you doing?”

“I'm okay. Were you out here last week?”

“Oh. As a matter of fact, I was.”

“Wilson thought it was you.”

“Who?”

“Wilson. The guy in the room next to mine. How come you didn't stay?”

“ … You were busy with baseball.”

“A lousy practice? I could have left.”

“I didn't want to disturb you, and I couldn't wait. Listen, I've got to go away. Business.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“It's open-ended. As long as it takes.”

“Will you be back in two weeks?”

“I don't know. Why?”

“That's when school ends.” Jeff hesitated. “I don't want to go to camp. Mom said maybe you could put me to work.”

“That's a terrific idea,” Harry said carefully. “But if we get bogged down in negotiations, the trip could use a good hunk of my summer.”

“Where are you going, anyway?”

“Israel.”

“Could I come over there when school lets out?”

“No,” Harry said firmly.

“You treat me like a baby.” His son's voice cracked with rage. “I can't hunt, I have to go to summer camp. That camp sucks.”

“This will be your last year there. I promise you.”

Jeff said nothing.

“I'll visit you when I get back. We can talk some more about a job. Okay?”

“ … Yeah.”

“Goodbye, Jeff.”

“Bye.”

He called him right back.

“Look. When school lets out, suppose you work for Saul Netscher? You'll learn something at his place. When I get back, you'll work with me. Deal?”

“All right!”

“I'll fix it with Saul. He'll be glad to get you but he'll work your ass off. Errands, sweeping, oiling machinery. Anything.”

“That's really great, Dad! Can I learn to be a cutter?”

“That takes years, you know that. And it's very hard.”

“If you did it, so can I.”

He laughed. “Okay, then. Take care. I love you, kid.”

“I love you, too,” his son said dutifully.

Harry sighed.

Three days before he left, a plain white envelope came to him in the morning mail. There was no clue as to the sender, though he could guess. It was a dossier on the man he was going to Israel to meet.

Hamid Bardissi, also known as Yosef Mehdi. Born Nov. 27, 1919, in Sigiul, Egypt, to Salye (Mehdi) and Abou Yosef Bardissi Pasha. His father was Egyptian ambassador to Great Britain for three years (1932–1935) and military governor of Assoiut Province for four years (1924–1928). From young manhood, Abou Yosef Bardissi Pasha was friend and advisor to Ahmed Fuad Pasha, who in 1922 became the first king of Egypt when Great Britain withdrew its protectorate
.

Hamid Bardissi was born ten months earlier than Farouk, the son of King Fuad. Almost from the first, he was the prince's assigned and constant playmate. They were tutored together. At the age of 16 he accompanied Farouk to the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, England. After only one term there, they were recalled to Egypt by Fuad's death
.

When Bardissi Pasha died in 1939, Hamid Bardissi came into 7,500 feddans of cotton land (equivalent to 3,150 hectares, or 7,780 acres). He married twice, as allowed by Moslem law, but stopped living with his first wife in 1941. His second wife, whom he married in 1942, died the following year while delivering a stillborn child
.

Although he never held an official job, Bardissi was widely hated and feared as Farouk's man. He destroyed political opponents without hesitation and was credited with corrupting the Wafd Party, which was transformed from a virulent antiroyalist movement to become Farouk's political front. Reportedly, both the king and he were slated for assassination by the Moslem Brotherhood. If so, this probably was prevented by the coup d'etat which drove Farouk from his throne in 1952
.