Everything was the same as it had been every other year until the family sang one of the traditional Passover songs called “Dayenu,” which means, “We would have been satisfied.” The song is a happy, upbeat piece sung in Hebrew, which names some of the things God did for the people of Israel. After each verse is the chorus, which consists entirely of repeating the one word, dayenu. In English the words to the song would be:
If He had merely rescued us from Egypt, but had not
punished the Egyptians,
Dayenu (we would have been satisfied)
If He had merely punished the Egyptians, but had not
destroyed their gods,
Dayenu
If He had merely destroyed their gods, but had not
slain their first born,
Dayenu
And so the song continues, each time stating that if God had only done what was mentioned in the previous verse and not done the next additional things, the singers—representing all of Israel—would have been satisfied.
As they sang the last verse, which speaks of the Temple, Scott’s grandfather suddenly stopped singing and shouted, “No!” Scott looked at him confused. “It’s not true,” his grandfather said. “Dayenu is a lie! We only fool ourselves.”
“We only fool ourselves!” agreed Scott’s parents.
This was not in the Haggadah. Something was wrong. And then without a sound, immediately there was another presence at the table. A man reached across the table in front of Scott and took the Afikomen, which had not yet been hidden, from beside Scott’s father’s plate. The man was sitting at the place set for Elijah. Scott recognized him at once as Rabbi Saul Cohen. But this made no sense at all. Scott didn’t know anyone named Saul Cohen, except … except perhaps in that strange dream. How could he be here in Scott’s home, sitting in the place of Elijah and drinking from Elijah’s cup—the special cup that Scott’s parents kept only for the Seder and from which no one was allowed to drink?
“Let us fool ourselves no longer,” Cohen said.
It was nearly midnight when Scott found himself once again an adult and in his home in a suburb outside of Jerusalem. His soup was now hours cold and the only light was from a digital clock and a streetlight outside. He was exhausted. For a few moments he just sat there. If he had any thoughts that the events of the past few hours in his childhood home had all been a dream, they were quickly dispelled. Near him at the table, in the position that had been Elijah’s place in his dream or vision, where he had seen Cohen, was a three-quarters-empty glass of wine. It was Elijah’s cup, the one that had irreparably shattered into a hundred pieces when he took it from the cupboard when he was fifteen. Even in the subdued light he recognized it. Scott sat back into his chair and noticed the plate beneath his bowl sitting askew on the table before him. There was something under it. He raised the plate and found underneath it the Afikomen, hidden for him to find and redeem.
New York, New York
French Ambassador Albert Faure’s secretary showed Christopher Goodman into the office where Faure and his chief of staff awaited his arrival. “Good morning, Mr. Ambassador,” Faure said, addressing Christopher. “Please come in.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” Christopher responded. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. I know how busy you must be.”
“Well, you said it was urgent.”
“It is.”
“You know my chief of staff, Mr. Poupardin?”
“Yes, we’ve met,” answered Christopher as he extended his hand.
“Now, to business. Your message said this has to do with the World Peace Organization.”
“Yes, sir. As you know the situation in Pakistan has become critical. Voluntary relief supplies simply aren’t sufficient. And much of what is sent is not reaching those who need it the most. Hundreds are dying of starvation every day and thousands of others become candidates for starvation. Cholera is claiming thousands more. Unless the United Nations responds quickly with sufficient quantities of food and medicine and the personnel to administer their distribution, this could result in the death of millions.”
As Christopher spoke, Faure and Poupardin exchanged a puzzled look. The look remained on Faure’s face as he began to speak. “Let me assure you, Mr. Ambassador, that I am as concerned as you with the problems in that region. In fact, I met with the new ambassador from Pakistan on that matter just two weeks ago, along with Ambassador Gandhi. It is my sincere hope that more will be done, and soon. But,” Faure continued as he wrinkled his brow still further in puzzlement, “isn’t this an issue for ECOSOC and the Food and Agriculture Organization? I thought you wanted to see me about the WPO.”
“The matter of supplying food to the region is, indeed, a matter for the FAO,” Christopher responded, “but the unrest that results from the food shortages is an issue that concerns the WPO.” Faure let Christopher continue without responding. “As the previous chairman of the WPO, you are no doubt aware of the problems that have plagued WPO’s supply lines over the last two years: $36 million worth of weapons and equipment lost in warehouse thefts; $14 million lost and two people killed in hijacked shipments; and another $141 million worth of equipment simply listed as unaccounted for.”
Faure and Poupardin looked at each other in surprise. Faure had no idea losses had been that high. He didn’t want to let on just how little he had kept track of such matters when he was chairman of WPO, but he had to ask. “Just a question of clarification,” he began. “What percentages of those losses occurred during the time I was chairman; and how much has been reported in the last three and a half weeks, since you’ve been in charge?”
“Those figures reflect the losses as of six weeks before I took over as chairman of WPO.”
“Oh,” Faure responded. “I had no idea they were so high.” Better to openly admit ignorance than acknowledge negligence, he concluded. Christopher’s expression showed neither surprise nor anger at Faure’s admission.
“So, how does the situation in Pakistan fit into this?” Faure asked, wanting to move from the issue of his negligence as quickly as possible.
“In the last twenty-four hours I have been presented with what I believe to be incontrovertible evidence that the director of the WPO, General Brooks, is personally responsible for at least 95 percent of the weapons and equipment missing from WPO.”
Faure and his chief of staff looked at each other again. It was beginning to appear as if they had some nonverbal means of communication and that neither would speak without first checking with his counterpart. “But why would General Brooks be stealing his own weapons?” Faure’s chief of staff asked.
Christopher ignored the naiveté of the question. “Apparently he has been selling the weapons to insurgent groups, sometimes for cash and other times in exchange for drugs that are in turn sold for cash.”
“That’s a very serious charge,” said Poupardin, this time without stopping to check with Faure. “I assume you have evidence to back it up.”
“I would not make such a charge unless I was sure I could prove it.”
Faure and Poupardin mulled this over for a moment, still without words. “Well,” said Faure finally, “I suppose you’ll be initiating an investigation.”
“Yes. Time is of the essence, but I don’t believe it’s possible to carry out a full and complete investigation so long as General Brooks remains in command. That’s why I came to you. I intend to ask the Security Council for approval to immediately place General Brooks on suspension, putting Lieutenant General McCoid in temporary command and granting me full authority over the agency until the matter is resolved. Before I do so, I thought that, as I have so recently taken over from you as chairman of WPO, professional courtesy required that I first inform you of my intentions and that I make you aware of the reasons for my actions.”
Faure thought fast. The look on his face said that something about Christopher’s plans did not go well at all with his own.
“Well, I appre
ciate that,” Faure said. “Actually, it’s a very good thing you talked to me first.” Suddenly Faure had become very friendly. “I’m afraid this might be the worst possible time for you to broach this subject with the Security Council.”
“I don’t believe putting it off is an option,” answered Christopher. “The situation on the Indian-Pakistani border requires immediate action.”
“I understand your concern, but … Well, let me bring you up to date on a few things.” Faure got up and walked around his desk, still sounding as though he had nothing but everyone’s best interest at heart. “As you know, the selection process for a new secretary-general has been going on for several weeks now. And I’m sure it’s no surprise to you that right now the choice seems to be between myself and Ambassador Clark of the United States. At the last vote six regions voted for me, three voted for Ambassador Clark, and India abstained. The next vote is scheduled for Monday, four days from now. Nobody else knows it yet, but I’ve gotten a firm commitment from Ambassador Fahd to support me on the next vote and we’re very close to reaching an agreement with India. That will leave Ambassador Clark with only two votes: North and South America. With that kind of majority Clark will be forced to concede.
“Now, you’re a reasonable man,” Faure continued. “You obviously realize that if you’re right about what General Brooks has been doing with WPO resources, I had nothing to do with it. But some people might not see it that way.” Faure’s was at least a sin of omission; he had almost entirely ignored his responsibilities when he was chairman of the WPO and had handpicked Brooks when the previous commanding general retired. Brooks and Faure were old allies.
“They might try to blame me for Brooks’ actions,” Faure said. “If this comes out right now, the American is sure to try to use it to ruin my candidacy for secretary-general.” Christopher was about to interrupt, but Faure held up his hand to stop him. “Now, I understand,” Faure continued, “the urgency of getting to the bottom of this, but there must be some other way for you to conduct your investigation without bringing the matter to the Security Council just yet.”
“Mr. Ambassador,” Christopher responded, “anything less than a direct route will cost time that I do not think we have to spare. Even if the Security Council grants my request immediately, it will take six to eight weeks to make the needed changes in personnel and to ensure that adequate equipment and supplies reach our troops on the Indian-Pakistani Border.”
“Now the last thing I want to do is to prevent you from doing something you feel that you have to,” Faure answered. “That’s not the way I operate. And, besides, if I should be chosen as the nominee for secretary-general, and if I am approved by the General Assembly, well, then, of course no one can be sure, but you could very possibly replace me as primary on the Security Council.” Faure wanted to point that out, just in case the possibility had escaped Christopher’s attention. “The last thing I want is to cast a shadow on our future relationship. However,” Faure paused, “with so much riding on this, for both of us and for the whole world, I suggest you explore every possible option before you do anything imprudent.”
Christopher’s response was terse, but his voice showed no anger. “I have explored every possible option.”
“And you feel this is your only course?”
“Yes.”
Faure’s frustration was growing harder for him to conceal. “Can you wait at least four days?” he urged.
“No, I don’t believe I can.”
Faure looked at his chief of staff and shook his head. “I think he’s in league with the American ambassador,” Poupardin interjected. “He may be an Italian citizen now, but he was born in America.” Then Poupardin addressed Christopher directly. “Why else would you be so inflexible?”
“Gerard!” Faure said sternly, calling his chief of staff to heel.
“Please, forgive me, Mr. Ambassador,” Poupardin sputtered with a well-trained show of remorse.
“I, too, ask your forgiveness for Gerard’s injudicious response,” Faure said. “But you must realize that many in Europe may see this the same way.” Faure was getting desperate. Poupardin had intentionally made the charge the way he did so Faure could call him down and then make essentially the same charge while seeming entirely proper about it because the subject had already been broached. It was an effective ploy, and it was not the first time they had used it.
“Consider this,” Faure said. “Within a week I could be secretary-general and you could be the new primary member representing Europe. While General Brooks’ actions are reprehensible—if indeed he is guilty as you charge—his removal will have little immediate impact on the problem. You said yourself, it will take six to eight weeks to make all the changes you want to make. And, in truth, even if you make all of these changes, it will have only limited impact on the delivery of food to the starving, and that, after all, is what all of us really want. Now, if you will delay your action until after the vote, you have my word that I will apply the full influence and power of the position of secretary-general both to speed the changes you feel are necessary for WPO and to ensure that adequate distribution of food reaches those who need it.”
Christopher considered Faure’s argument. It had merit. Finally he yielded.
“Excellent!” Faure said.
“But,” Christopher added, “in exchange, I want your assurance that whatever the outcome of the vote on Monday, you will help get my request approved by the Security Council.”
“Of course,” Faure promised.
Poupardin apologized again for his comment and Christopher was soon on his way.
“That man could be dangerous,” Poupardin said as soon as Christopher was gone. “What would you have done if he had refused to wait?”
“Gerard, it is my destiny to be secretary-general. I would have done whatever was necessary.” Poupardin smiled to himself and walked around behind Faure’s chair, and began to massage his shoulders.
“It seems the price of Robert Milner’s support for my election to the Security Council may be higher than we first anticipated,” Faure said. “We will have to keep a very close eye on that young man.”
“Shall I call General Brooks?” Poupardin asked.
Faure took a deep breath and held it as he thought. “Yes, I suppose we should,” he said as he exhaled. “Tell him he had better get his house in order, and quickly, if he wants to keep his job. But don’t take too long with Brooks; we’ve got other things to worry about. We have to get a commitment from Ambassador Gandhi and try to soften up South America’s support for Ambassador Clark. I think we have to assume that our friend Mr. Goodman will not wait, should another vote be required.”
Conditions on the Indian-Pakistani border did not improve over the next four days; relief shipments were too few and too slow and the number of refugees attempting to cross the border continued to swell. To stem the tide, the Indian government increased their border guard sixfold. Reports spread of abusive treatment, torture, and summary execution of refugees who crossed into India. The government of Pakistan, in response to the Indian buildup, had significantly increased the number of its own troops along the border.
In New York it was the day the Security Council would again try to choose a new secretary-general. It was also the end of the period Christopher had promised to wait before requesting emergency authority over the World Peace Organization. In a corner of the anteroom outside the Security Council chamber, prior to the meeting, Christopher Goodman stood talking with Ambassador Gandhi about the situation in Pakistan. He had met with the Pakistani ambassador the previous evening, along with Saudi Ambassador Fahd, who was the primary from the Middle East on the Security Council.
Inside the chamber, Albert Faure and Gerard Poupardin went over a few last-minute preparations. At the outset, four days had seemed like plenty of time to get India’s vote in line. As it turned out, Ambassador Gandhi had held on for a number of specific guarantees before he agreed to support Faure.
/> “I just wish I felt better about Gandhi’s vote,” commented Poupardin. “I’m not sure we can trust him.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about the Indian,” Faure responded confidently. “He knows he’ll never get anyone else to agree to the kinds of guarantees I’ve made.”
“I just saw him talking to Ambassador Goodman outside the chamber on my way in.”
“Did you hear what they were talking about?”
“No, I didn’t want to be too obvious.”
“Well, it was probably nothing.”
“Probably, but Goodman was also seen last night with Ambassador Fahd.”
A disquieted look flashed across Faure’s face. “Why was I not told of this before?” he asked.
“I only just heard of it myself.”
Faure’s mood became more pensive than concerned. “Why don’t you go out there and see if you can hear what they’re talking about. If you have to, just go up and join in. If they seem uncomfortable with you being there or if they change the subject, get back in here and let me know right away.”
Poupardin got up to leave, but it was too late—the Indian ambassador and Christopher were just entering the room to take their places for the meeting. Ambassador Lee Yun-Mai of China called the meeting to order and soon the issue of the selection of the new secretary-general was brought to the floor. As expected, the nominees were Ambassador Jackson Clark of the United States and Ambassador Albert Faure of France. The vote was taken in the customary manner by a show of hands. Ambassador Lee called first for those supporting the nomination of Ambassador Clark. Immediately the Canadian Ambassador, representing the North American region, and the Ecuadorian Ambassador, representing the South American region raised their hands. It was just as Faure had planned; he could almost taste the victory he longed for. Then, slowly, without allowing his eyes to meet the stunned gape of Faure, the Saudi slipped his hand upward. From the corner of his eye, Faure’s attention was drawn by his chief of staff, Gerard Poupardin. Even across the room the single word on his lips was as clear as a shout: “Goodman,” he said, under his breath.
In His Image Page 39
