Damascus Gate

by Robert Stone

"In the old days, the Soviets might have fixed her up. Not now." She smiled, largely, it seemed, for the benefit of anyone who might have been observing them. "She expects to see you over in Tel Aviv tonight. I would say maybe don't go."

  "What about Sonia Barnes?"

  Sylvia dabbed a sprig of mint from her upper lip.

  "It doesn't help anything that Nuala Rice and her boyfriend are CP. Or what's left of it. It doesn't help either that Sonia has this Party background and spent all those years in Cuba."

  "Maybe you can straighten it out," Lucas said to Sylvia. "If you think they were used."

  "Maybe," she said. "But you know, Chris, sometimes things get so twisted they're beyond straightening out. It's like nobody ponders information anymore. There's more information available than there is stuff to know about, if you know what I mean."

  "Of course," Lucas said. It seemed to him he knew that as well as anyone.

  "Machines are dumb," Sylvia said, "but they never forget. Like elephants. Who put the jalapenños in their trunk. Who was a Communist when. Who lived in Cuba."

  "So they're going to throw Sonia to the wolves?"

  "Let me tell you this," said Sylvia, "and you can pass it on. Nuala and the Palestinian doctor are fucked. I don't mean to be cold-hearted, but they're really not my job. We go to bat for them, people will think they worked for us."

  "Any good news?" Lucas asked.

  "Maybe. Sonia might get off through Raziel, because his old man wants him home in one piece and we're supposed to make that happen."

  "How?"

  "Well, it'll be tough, because the DEA guys made him for a junkie at a hundred feet. But we try to keep tabs. The old man is paying a private security service called Ayin to watch him. Just happens to be the same one the New York bail bondsmen used to skip-trace the Marshalls, père et fils."

  "Small worlds," Lucas said. He thought of the tile room where he had been interrogated, and the structure of his newfound universe seemed a series of such rooms, expanding endlessly, aeons presided over by their demiurges.

  "Ayin likes to tell us it's well connected," Sylvia went on. "They mean they're close to Shabak and have some political savvy. That's what they sell. Now, I don't know what Raziel's up to or what the Israelis have against him, but I very much doubt they would do anything too bad to him, considering his old man. Sonia's best bet is to stay close to Raziel. Maybe yours too. Be a working American reporter. A not very well-informed reporter."

  "I hear you," Lucas said. "But what started this, what first got me and Sonia in trouble, as far as I know, was some settlers beating up on kids in the Strip. A story I didn't even follow up on. Is someone really so bent out of shape over bad publicity," he asked her, "that some settler, some soldier, bashes a kid or even kills one and the world finds out? Is that such a big deal to anyone of importance?"

  Sylvia made a little half-shrug, raising her eyebrows, lifting her fingers from the tabletop. "I wouldn't have thought so. But Sonia's close to this dope connection. Also, we're getting a buzz that there's another plot to blow the Temple Mount. If Raziel or Sonia is anywhere near that, I don't know if anybody can help them. Because you know what could happen?"

  "That's ridiculous," Lucas said. "They're like Sufis. They believe all religions are one. They're nonviolent."

  "Good," Sylvia said. "I hope you're right. But don't come running to the U.S. consulate if the Temple Mount blows, because there won't be one standing."

  "So where do I find you?"

  "It's not funny. I lost an old roomie—my sorority sister—in the explosion in Riyadh. She went back to Iowa in sections. When I hear the sacred boom, I'm one step ahead of the mob of martyrs. My English will desert me. I know the exact distance to the nearest kosher Chinese restaurant and how long it takes to cover it in heels, and that's where you'll find me. Selling noodles."

  "They wouldn't be involved in anything like a bomb plot," Lucas said. "That's not their thing at all. They follow this old guru."

  She looked at him in a way that might fairly be called inscrutable and said, "OK, Christopher. If you say so."

  He drove at once back out to Ein Kerem. There was no one in the bungalow except Sonia, who was packing a bag.

  "Going somewhere?" he asked.

  "I called Stanley about doing a few gigs. I need some money of my own."

  "Do you still believe the world's about to be set free? Maybe nobody will need money. Maybe the cash nexus will be obviated."

  "Don't laugh at me," she told him. "If I've been kidding myself the whole time, well—I've been wrong the whole time. I've been wrong before. But what if I'm right?" She took a deep breath, out of fatigue or stress or to keep from crying, Lucas could not tell. "Every day is different. Some mornings I wake up and I'm as sure about things as I am about my right hand. Others, I think I must be out of my mind. You know how it is, don't you, Chris?"

  "I guess I do," he said. "But if you can possibly help it, I don't think you should go over to T.V. In fact, maybe you should leave the country altogether."

  "No," she said. "I won't be doing that. I promised Stanley I'd perform tomorrow. Nuala will be there. She's waiting for some documents and she wants to get together. Then the Rev wants to go into meditation up to Galilee. Somewhere in the mountains."

  "I suppose we're due for the last mystery. The one that's going to change everything."

  She only nodded wearily.

  "And you're going too?"

  "I've come this far," she said. "I guess I'll go the distance. You should come with us. For the purposes of your book."

  "Is that a personal invitation?"

  "Yes," she said. "I'd like you to come. I'd like you with me. But no one's here, so I don't know when this will happen."

  "I'm going over to Tel Aviv tomorrow to see what I can find out from Ernest. I'll stop by Stanley's."

  "All right," she said.

  She walked him into the garden.

  "Tell me something," Lucas said. "Has anyone in your group—Raziel or even one of your passing-through people—ever said anything to you about destroying the mosques on the Temple Mount? Maybe to rebuild the Temple? Something like that?"

  "Never. Where did you get that idea?"

  "Sylvia Chin at the U.S. consulate asked me about it. There's a buzz around. Some people might connect it with your group."

  "Us? Raziel? Raziel couldn't set off a firecracker. He's never done a violent thing in his life. Look," she said, "we've had a lot of crazies crashing here, but I've never heard of anything like that."

  "I thought so," Lucas said. "That's what I told her."

  46

  THE NEXT DAY, Lucas threw some gear into his Ford Taurus and prepared to drive through the hills to Tel Aviv. Before setting out, he tried calling Dr. Obermann, to ask him if he thought Raziel could be involved in a bombing plot. He planned to say little over the telephone, just arrange a sit-down meeting.

  To his disappointment, he was informed by recorded message that the doctor would be away for the week, had in fact gone to Turkey, where he could be reached in direst emergencies only at a number in Bodrum, between 1200 and 1300 and after 1900 each afternoon. The recording went on to give the name and phone number of the psychiatrist who was covering for him.

  Lucas, in some anxiety, was determined to try the man himself. So he called Bodrum.

  "What are you doing in Turkey?"

  "Ah," said Obermann, "filling in for an anthropologist colleague. Conducting a tour of Germans through the ruins of Ephesus." The doctor waxed lyrical. "Ephesus, home of Diana. Not the wholesome huntress of the Attic Greeks but the Oriental abomination—"

  "Listen," Lucas said, cutting him short. "I need to ask you a few things about some of our friends." He was trying to compose relevant questions that would not give away too much. In practice, Lucas had found, genuine discretion over the telephone was damnably difficult for one not raised to it. Conversations dissolved into childish, transparent evasion.

  "Indeed?"
/>   "Your former friend, the Frau Pastorin—she wouldn't be of the messianic persuasion, would she? Explosively so?"

  "If you mean Linda," Obermann said, "she does have an apocalyptic side. Her tendency, though, is more toward implosion."

  "I see," said Lucas. "How about Raziel?"

  "Raziel," Obermann said, "is capable of anything."

  "Shit," said Lucas.

  "Spot of bother down there?" Obermann asked.

  "You might say that."

  "Here, one gets perspective. The Temples of She, the ageless arch-paganess sister of Cybele, whose devotees mutilated themselves."

  "I feel a little abandoned," Lucas said. "Could it be you know something I don't? Are you making yourself scarce for a reason?"

  "Hold fast to your role of observer," Obermann said. "Forget romance."

  "Thanks," said Lucas.

  "No need to be sarcastic," Obermann told him. "Do as I say and you'll be fine. Think about it and you'll see what I mean. Ever been to Ephesus?"

  "Never."

  "Saint Paul preached to the Jews here," Obermann said. "He told them it was better to marry than to burn. There's a synagogue—he may have been to it."

  "I'm afraid for Raziel," Lucas said. "He may be having an important religious crisis."

  "Don't carry packages. Don't forward messages. Don't go alone to lonely places. Limit your responsibilities until you feel better."

  Lucas liked the sound of the last part. But before he was out of his apartment and on the road, his downstairs buzzer rang and Linda Ericksen, the Frau Pastorin, was at his door. To his annoyance, she arrived in the apartment with the same American couple who had burst in on him and Sonia at Berger's place in the Old City. The woman had her bright, unfriendly smile and the man had his automatic rifle.

  "Chris," Linda said, "I want you to listen to what Gerri and Tom have to tell you. Do you remember them?"

  "Sort of. I was in bed."

  "Mr. Lucas?" the man asked pleasantly. "How would you like an exclusive?" He turned smiling to the woman who might have been his wife. "Are they still called 'exclusives'?" he asked her.

  "I think so," she said. "I'm out of touch."

  "You'll get a call to meet a man you know who'll explain a few developments. Afterward a fax will go out. But only you will have certain confirming details."

  "Isn't that exciting?" the smiling woman said.

  "Yes," Lucas said. "Really." He wondered who "the man you know" would turn out to be.

  "If you want to stay out of trouble," the American said, "cooperate and confirm. Don't change any of the wording of any document you're given."

  "You know," Lucas said, "I'm working on a book. Not doing spot reporting. Who am I supposed to peddle these details to?"

  "Believe me," the man said, "you won't have any trouble moving the release when the time comes. The world will come to you."

  Lucas thought he saw the woman flash her companion a cautioning look.

  "You know," Lucas ventured, "if I had some insight into the background here, I might be able to help the world out a little more. Isn't there something I ought to know about what this concerns?"

  "Frankly," the happy hard case of a lady told him, "no. Because you happen to be severely compromised. I won't bother to point out why."

  "In other words," her friend said, "do as you're told and you can keep out of trouble. And stay away from the wrong people."

  "You never know who's who," Lucas said.

  "Check with us," the man said. "We'll keep you informed."

  "Really," the woman said. "Who do you think you are?"

  Fortunately, there seemed no imperative for Lucas to frame an answer. Linda gave him a look of triumphant virtue and the three of them left.

  47

  IT WAS A HOT, hazy day on the coast. The beaches were unusually crowded for a weekday and the traffic was more or less out of control. Lucas sat with Ernest Gross in an imitation English pub near the British embassy. Except for its ferocious air conditioning, the pub's ambiance was fairly convincing, and the beery smells and lukewarm bitter contrasted strangely with the room's temperature, which was that of a meat locker. On most workdays, English-speaking Israeli youths came to flirt with female Sloane Rangers from the embassy, but that afternoon there were mainly tourist couples in flight from the weather.

  "Well," Ernest was saying, "someone's going to cop it for Hal Morris."

  "Hal Morris? I thought his name was Lenny something."

  "No. Hal Morris. 'Lenny' was apparently a nom de guerre."

  Lucas decided to tell Ernest about the events in Gaza and about his conversation with Sylvia Chin and with Linda's friends Gerri and Tom. It was necessary to trust someone. At least for Lucas it was.

  "The fact is," Lucas said, "he walked into it. Literally. And God knows what he was up to."

  "What do you think was supposed to happen?"

  "I have no idea. Nuala claims her friends had some arrangement with Shabak. They were playing one Palestinian faction against another. I don't think anyone was supposed to get killed."

  "There's got to be retaliation," Ernest explained. "Normally they'll pick a Palestinian from the town where the incident took place. Someone with PLO connections."

  "There's no way to tell who in that mob killed Lenny—or Hal."

  "They don't worry too much if they get the wrong man," Ernest said. "They reckon whoever they get is probably guilty of something. Or would have been eventually. And if he didn't do anything, he probably wanted to."

  "That's a terrible policy," Lucas said.

  "It's short-sighted. That's what we're always telling them."

  Lucas drank his beer and listened to Elton John compete with the air conditioning.

  "I don't want to take the fall for Hal," Lucas said. "And I don't want Sonia to. We weren't responsible."

  "You think I can fix it for you?" Ernest asked.

  "I think you have a few connections. I was hoping you might plead our case where it counts."

  Ernest said nothing.

  "Nuala wasn't responsible either," Lucas said. "She did what she could for the kid."

  "I can't go to them about Nuala," Ernest said. "If her people had a deal with Shabak, whoever got her into it will have to get her out."

  "Something's up, you know," Lucas said.

  "Yes," Ernest said. "Something soon. Rival demonstrations maybe. A provocation. Something."

  "Do you think it involves Sonia's people?"

  "Have you asked her?"

  "Yes."

  "Of course," Ernest said, "she may not be aware of anything."

  "And Pinchas Obermann's leaving town on me."

  "He was your guide, was he? Through the mysteries?"

  "We're doing a book," Lucas said.

  After a few minutes, Ernest looked around at the frigid pub with distaste.

  "Come on, mate. Let me take you somewhere more authentic."

  They went out and got Lucas's rental car and drove along the beachfront toward Jaffa.

  "Stop here," Ernest told him.

  The place was called the Café Vercors, on Trumpeldor. Although it was just sunset, its main room was crowded and the tables commanding a glimpse of the Mediterranean were all full. They took a seat in the back.

  "My favorite place in Tel Aviv," Ernest said. "Come here all the time."

  Looking around, Lucas saw that he and Ernest appeared to be the youngest people in the place by a considerable margin.

  "I like this town myself," Ernest said. "It may not be one of the Mediterranean's beauty spots, but it's the real thing. It's actual Israel."

  "I don't know it well," Lucas said.

  "No, you're an aesthete. Religious fanatics and aesthetes live up in J-town."

  "You live there too," Lucas reminded him. "What's your excuse?"

  "Closer to the action."

  "We better enjoy it while we can," Lucas said. "Before they pave it over around us."

  On the floor people were da
ncing to a polka. They were wonderfully spry. The women tended to wear large jewelry and low-cut blouses and gypsy skirts, a bohemian look. Almost all the men wore plain white shirts. None of them wore kippot, though there were a few Greek fishermen's caps. The dancing was in the Central European manner, with dips and arches, the men bending stiffly at times to one knee. Everyone seemed to enjoy himself immensely. The place reeked of Gitanes, Gauloises.

  When the polka was over, a sexy woman in her late sixties stepped out onto the floor and began to sing: " Non, je ne regrette rien ..."

  "So," Lucas asked, "who are these people?"

  "You've never been here? Sonia never brought you?"

  Lucas shook his head.

  "Ever hear of the Red Orchestra?"

  "I guess so. The Russian resistance's spy network during World War Two?"

  "That's right. Well, a lot of what's left of it is here," Ernest said. "People the Gestapo didn't get, that Stalin didn't shoot after the war—they come here most nights. The men who fought in the Byelorussian forests. The ones who put the limpet mines on British patrol boats in '46. They're here."

  Lucas laughed. "Non, je ne regrette rien," he repeated after the singer. "But I suppose they have a few. Regrets, I mean."

  "This is the way I always pictured Israel before I came," Ernest told him. "This and the kibbutzim. After a day in the orange groves I thought everyone would gather and sing the 'Internationale' or 'Bandiere Rosse' or 'The Song of the Hammer.' I was down there in South A. getting slapped around by Afrikaner goons, going from jail to house arrest. What did I know?"

  "Well," Lucas said, "here it was. Waiting for you."

  "I thought the whole country would be like the Vercors, with the same sort of people. Sometimes I think there was a time when it was."

  "It can't be an easy thing," Lucas said, "to make a country. It's tough enough to make a café. Or to make one be the way you imagined it. Unless you only let certain people in and keep the rest out."

  "Right," Ernest said. "And what's the use of a café like that?" He looked around, content. "They say James Angleton came by when he was visiting. Heard about the place and wanted to see it."

  Surveying the room, Lucas saw Janusz Zimmer in a windowed corner, watching the sea. On his table was a half bottle of Israeli vodka and a plate with bread and lemon slices beside it. "Look," he told Ernest. "Zimmer. Shall we buy him a drink?"