"Must have been my imagination, then, the Six-Day War."
That got a grudging grin out of him.
"Look, Leon—I shot the gun out of the hand of a man who was identified as an illegal Jordanian immigrant. Before he fell down the subway stairs and killed himself, he was trying to, let's say, smite the pair who brought the bone back to the United States."
"I had imagined you killed the assailant."
"I just shot the gun out of his hand. I guess Jehovah took it from there."
He laughed quietly, briefly. But he laughed.
"So, Leon, we have an age-old hunk of human anatomy that can turn the world upside down, if we let it." I paused, then added, "You do know that, don't you?"
For several long seconds, he stared at me. Each of us was looking at another old soldier who had been there and had come back. He said, "I'm a diplomat, Mike. More or less undercover."
"And I'm just a private investigator, not at all undercover, if a little in over my head. Not that I haven't been there plenty of times before."
"You seem to have a good relationship with the NYPD."
"Yeah, but the Federal government and I don't always see eye to eye. Anyway, your Mossad outfit must have more information on these Philistine groups than we have."
"Philistine?" He chuckled. "Interesting way to put it."
"I call them that," I said with a shrug. "Too many teams to keep track of in this league."
"Well, it's an apt name," he admitted. "Worldwide events have brought these rogue states back into having a feeling of power, though for seven hundred years they've known nothing but defeat. They do have wealthy benefactors, a multitude of weapons, and a very astute system of communication ... and cooperation."
"A lot of these countries don't espouse the radical-Islamic-terrorist party line. And plenty of Muslims are as horrified by this zealotry as we are."
"Yes, Mike, but it's to the benefit of some politicians in those rogue states to look the other way and even actively underwrite these terrorists. And never dismiss the abilities of these warriors—never underestimate their passion and courage."
"If I'm ever tempted to, I'll just check out the skyline. Leon, could you pass a message to the Mossad for me?"
The bluntness of that surprised him. Then he shook his head. "They will go only through proper channels."
"Yeah, well, tough—if they're interested in the Goliath bone, I'm proper channels."
"Perhaps they have no interest."
" Then they can tell me so, through you. I don't want them pulling their secret-agent jazz on me. Somebody might get killed. And I don't mean me."
Leon's voice was mild, his expression bland, when he asked straightforwardly, "Do you have the Goliath bone?"
"I know where it is, and I represent its owners."
"Its owners? How can anyone 'own' a piece of antiquity, Mike?"
"Really? No one can own a piece of antiquity, Leon? Then it's okay if I go borrow the Mona Lisa, or one of those wild paintings by that character who cut his ear off?"
He smiled. " You really want me to think you're that rough around the edges, don't you, Mike? It's an interesting posture."
"People who think I'm posturing sometimes find themselves in a posture of death. Hey, I'm not threatening you, Leon—you're a nice guy. Far as I'm concerned, Israel would make a swell home for the Goliath bone. Maybe you guys would like to buy it from my clients. You can pass that along, too."
After a few seconds, he nodded and told me, "I'll make inquiries, Mike. My conversation will be very circumspect, and I may get a favorable reply. In that case, I'll call your office."
"And if you're rejected?"
He shrugged. "Then the so-called Goliath bone will have been deemed of no importance at all to Israel."
"No offense, Leon, but that is a load of crap."
"Certainly it is," Leon said pleasantly. "I told you I was a diplomat."
"Why do I sense that you wish you'd never heard of the Goliath bone, and me, for that matter?"
For a few seconds, he studied me. Then he said, "The situation in Israel is very unstable right now, even for Israel. Suicide-bomb incidents have diminished of late, but there is still unbearable tension and political infighting—just like your country, Mike, the right and left squabbling eternally and the fate of a nation twisting in the middle. A lot of the Jewish population has had to give up their homes in the Gaza Strip and other places just to try to keep the peace, but everything is on edge. One spark and the area will explode once more."
"A spark off an ancient bone," I said.
He nodded gravely. "I wish your clients had never found the cursed thing. But I should warn you—it's not the Mossad you have to fear, nor Israel proper."
"Why, is there an Israel improper?"
"We have our extremists, too, Mike."
"Israeli terrorists, Leon?"
"Does that surprise you, Mike, considering the terror that has been visited upon us?"
"Whatever happened to the Holy Land concept?"
"Why, do you think there are no Christian terrorists? Were the Crusades benign?"
"That was a long time ago."
"How about the bombing of abortion clinics? What about Opus Dei? Organized religion has done enormous good in the world, Mike. But in its name, enormous harm has also often been done."
"Are you talking about individuals, Leon? Extremist Israelis or sympathizers with personal agendas?"
He drew in a deep breath. He let it out. Then he said, "There's a group called Kakh, Mike. It's been condemned by our nation as a racist movement at odds with the democratic nature of Israel. Their symbol is a fist against a star. Some say this group ... it doesn't exist."
"But you say they do. How dangerous?"
His smile was gentle. "Let's just say, Mike, that if they decide to take the Goliath bone, they will not be making a financial offer."
I met Velda at her apartment, where she sat on the sofa with her shoes off and her nyloned legs and feet up on the coffee table. She looked bushed but beautiful, and I might have tried to make something of it if her attention hadn't been on the television with the news going. I only caught the last of the commentator's spiel, but it was enough to send a chill up my spine.
Seemed that the reputed skeletal remains of the historical Philistine giant, Goliath, had been unearthed in Israel in the Valley of Elah, site of the ancient battleground where he had been slain. In transport to the United States, a terrorist of Jordanian origin had tried to intercept the delivery of the relic to researchers, and had been shot by a private detective on the scene on the steps of a subway station.
I sat heavily next to her. "They'll never get that straight. I didn't shoot the bastard, I shot his gun."
Velda said, "Mike—there's all kinds of info getting out that you did not give to Richie and that other reporter."
"Was my name mentioned on that broadcast?"
"No, but it will be somewhere. I'm recording the other networks, and we'll hit the cable outlets, too. Every TV news organization will have their people out investigating."
"I didn't hear any police verification—"
"There wasn't any. Pat called just before the airing to make sure I saw it. The network wanted verification, but Pat refused because it was an 'ongoing investigation.' Mike, there wasn't even a hint of the source of the story."
"You talk to the Hurley kids?"
"Called them right after Pat called me. So they've seen this, too. And they hadn't talked to any media; neither have their parents."
"You know who that leaves, don't you?"
"Sure. Your Middle Eastern friends. They're trying to draw us out."
I laughed once, harshly. "Somebody's got a lot of clout to reach the TV networks this fast."
Velda shook her head, making the glossy tresses of her pageboy swirl about her face. "No, Mike—this is news, odd, almost fantastic news, but news. Everybody is sick to death of politics and burnt out on war coverage, but then thi
s slice of history seems to come out of nowhere, and by tomorrow it will be on everybody's lips."
"And you know what that means," I said sourly.
"Certainly. Uncle Sam'll send those Homeland Security boys around to see you again ... or maybe somebody new."
But the government didn't send anybody immediately. At the office, the next morning, we had calls on the machine from every major network and cable outfit, and not just the news organizations: the entertainment divisions, too.
"What's that about, Mike?" Velda said, behind her desk, at her computer where she was checking the online coverage of the Goliath bone. "Why entertainment?"
"Just some mice nibbling at the cheese I set out," I said.
"All these years," she said, smirking, "and I still can't figure you out half the time."
The phone made its buzz on Velda's desk and, since I was standing right there, I picked it up; the caller ID was blocked and I was curious. Before I could identify myself, a smooth baritone asked, "Is this Michael Hammer Investigations?"
"This is Mike Hammer. Who is this?"
"Mr. Hammer, a pleasure. You're a celebrity in your own right." A pause followed that I could somehow tell I wasn't supposed to fill, but I used it to hit the speaker phone so Velda could listen in.
She did, with wide eyes, as he said, "My name is Harold Cooke. Cooke with an 'e.' Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Hammer?"
That was like asking if you'd ever heard of Hollywood. Cooke was a twenty-first—century P. T. Barnum gene-spliced with Mike Todd; the man who'd first brought British musicals to Broadway, the pioneer producer who all but invented reality TV, the entrepreneur who had made Las Vegas family friendly, the Donald Trump of show business.
In short, he was pretty much everything I hated.
I said, "You're what we used to call a showman, Mr. Cooke."
This time his voice had a smile in it—the kind that said he was going to take away my candy. "That's right, Mr. Hammer. I have two films shooting, three Broadway shows running, and four major circus productions going right now—one in Europe, the others about to go on tour in the United States."
"I knew a guy who used to get shot out of a cannon," I said.
"Really? Well, my point is that I have an unassailable track record in the entertainment industry as well as a great deal of capital available to put into the right new venture ... and if I can come up with the perfect dramatic presentation, the kind that would attract massive crowds and Pay-Per-Vue and all the home-video aftermarkets, well, millions of dollars might be involved.... Are you there, Mr. Hammer?"
"I'm listening."
"Do you have an inkling of what I might be referring to?"
"Does it have anything to do with the news last night?"
I counted about five empty seconds before Mr. Cooke had rearranged his presentation. Then he asked, "Is this phone secure?"
Actually, Velda was recording the conversation.
"In my business, I take all sorts of precautions," I told him. "Why? Who's chasing you? Need a bodyguard?"
"I'm assuming, Mr. Hammer, that I am not alone in ascertaining the great financial potential in your recovery of a certain artifact."
"My name hasn't been mentioned on any of these news broadcasts."
"You haven't seen the newspapers this morning, then."
I hadn't. I'd bought them all and they were waiting on my desk for me to plow through all the Goliath-bone coverage.
"Mr. Cooke, I'm not the owner of the item you're referring to."
"But you can influence its disposition, I assume."
"I represent the owners, yes. Why don't we cut the small talk? I don't do business over the phone. If you're in your Manhattan office, you're fairly close by, and I have some time available right now. So get up here."
And I hung up.
Velda's grin grew a little bigger. "Want me to stick around?"
"Damn straight."
She turned off the recorder, popped out the tape of the last conversation and slipped it away in a concealed compartment in her bottom right-hand desk drawer.
I asked her, "Think we should wait till we talk to the networks before making a deal with Mr. Cooke?"
Her eyes got wide again. "Why, are you thinking of making a deal?"
I didn't answer her.
It took the biggest entertainment mogul in America just twenty-two minutes to make it over to my office. He came himself and he came alone, and that much I could respect him for. He wore no topcoat—he'd gone from the phone call from me straight to his limo and here.
In his early sixties, he looked like what the guy in the old Arrow Shirt ads might have aged into, movie-star handsome with steel gray hair but black eyebrows over green eyes that could eat you alive and the kind of quietly regal demeanor high officials assume when they wear the robes of office.
His clothes were proper yet sharp—Velda probably knew whether those threads were Hugo Boss or maybe Armani; I just saw money in the beautifully cut gray suit and black-and-white-striped silk tie.
I was in the outer office when he arrived, and introduced him to Velda, and I watched his canny combination of courtly nod and direct eye contact, knowing most women would be charmed already.
Velda wasn't that easy.
Maybe he sensed it because he said to her, "You're almost as famous as your boss. You've been in the papers, too."
"You know how it is," she said with a girlish shrug. "You shoot somebody and there's a fuss."
He didn't quite know what to make of that, and turned his attention back to me. His smile was easy, his handshake firm.
We went into my office while Velda got us some coffee and before he even sat down, Harold Cooke got right to the point. "What I'm hearing and reading about the Goliath bone, Mr. Hammer, it's exciting. Compelling."
"Call me, Mike, okay?" I was behind my desk now. "Sit down. Please."
"And I'm Harold." He sat. "You're caught up in something that is going to seize the public's imagination. Actually, it already has."
"No argument."
Velda came in with our coffee orders and sat down in a chair just behind Cooke, who glanced back at her warily.
"Velda won't be taking any notes," I said. She wouldn't have to: We were recording the conversation. "But I like her to sit in."
I could see him process that, deciding not to object. "As I say, Mike, the public's already caught up in this—starting with your subway rescue of the Hurley boy and his sister. They aren't actually related, are they? Matthew's father is married to Jenna's mother, correct?"
"Correct. In fact, the two kids are planning to get married themselves."
He beamed. "Well, now, that's just wonderful!"
"Fan of the institution of marriage, are you?"
"A fan of public interest. This story would be on fire even without Mike Hammer in it, and now we have a brother-and-sister love story to stoke the flames."
"But you didn't stop around for my autograph."
"No. You see, Mike, when I learned who Matthew and Jenna's parents were, I made it a point to get as much information on them—and this situation—as possible. You may not consider that someone in show business might have the means to gather information comparable to law enforcement or a news organization or government institution. But in a short time my people have learned a great deal about the Goliath bone."
"And here we are."
"Here we are." He shifted in the seat, cocked his head, smiled tentatively. "You're a major player in this game, aren't you, Mike?"
"The major player."
"More so than your clients?"
"My clients are young and naïve. They, and their parents, have entrusted their welfare to me. I'm not young and naïve."
Half a smile now. "You have an interesting reputation, Mike. You score high on loyalty and honesty. But you're considered dangerous, even now, in your..."
"Golden years?"
He chuckled. "I'm not young, either, Mike. Or naïve. But as pa
rt of my research, I've looked into your financial status. You don't seem to own much in the way of property. You've set up virtually no retirement for you and Ms. Sterling—you two are planning to get married soon, I understand. Congratulations."
I looked past him at Velda, who was frowning.
Cooke said, "Shall we talk business?"
I let him read my eyes a while. Then very quietly I said, "Tell me, Harold, just what would you do with this artifact? You understand there is no way to verify it as Goliath's femur; it's strictly a matter of faith and circumstantial evidence."
"True."
"So, what does the world's greatest showman see in a museum curiosity, a scholarly object?"
Cooke's smile was a knowing one with forced gentility. "What I see is history come alive again. And I'm not the only one, am I? This object has incredible resonance for so many, the Arab states, Israel, among them."
"They're willing to kill for it."
"I'm willing to buy it."
I shrugged. "Then let's hear your proposal."
He had a sip of the coffee Velda had provided, complimented her on it, then said cheerfully, "You know something about me, Mike? On the phone it sounded like you did. If so, you know that my first great success, over twenty-five years ago, was to import a West End show called David and Goliath: The Musical to Broadway. It was a smash, ran for fifteen years, made a superstar out of its composer and set a new standard for elaborate theatrical productions."
"I saw it," I admitted. Velda had dragged me to the thing. It was the kind of show that left you humming the costumes.
"The climax of act one, of course, with David and his slingshot playing to an unseen, offstage giant, led to the crash onto the stage of an enormous figure of the 'dead' Goliath. The size of it, the impact, literal and figurative, of that huge prop, well—after that came the imitators, the crashing chandelier of Phantom of the Opera, the helicopter of Ms. Saigon. Frankly, today our then-innovative staging of David and Goliath would seem fairly tame."
"Just pushing over a big prop out of the wings wouldn't cut it anymore."
"No." Another sip. Another smile. "Do you believe in fate, Mike?"
"I always liked the term 'kismet' better."
[Mike Hammer 14] - The Goliath Bone Page 14
