The Twisted Wire

by Richard Falkirk

  Bartlett hunched forward, elbows on knees. His stomach hurt and he felt sick. He lit a cigarette and coughed violently. ‘The shelling has almost stopped,’ he said. ‘I think we can go.’

  They waited another five minutes. Bartlett stood up wearily. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’

  The American told the manacled Arab to get up. He stuck the pistol in his back and marched him out of the changing rooms. Bartlett and Raquel walked behind. Bartlett thought that Ralston looked like a policeman. So much like a policeman that he couldn’t possibly be one. Or could he? Bartlett didn’t know any more.

  Raquel drove with her foot pushed hard down on the accelerator. Ralston’s fawn Cortina began to drop back.

  Halfway up the bill they came to the half-track. It had been blown off the road by a shell. Already they were taking the wounded away by ambulance. But the faces of two of the soldiers on the stretchers were covered with blankets.

  Raquel stopped the car and spoke to one of the soldiers sitting on the verge. He was smoking a cigarette and his face was dazed and dirty.

  Bartlett asked the ambulance men if there was anything they could do. But there wasn’t.

  The road was littered with metal and equipment and jagged daggers of shell-casing. Raquel came back. ‘The lieutenant,’ she said. ‘He’s dead.’

  She let out the clutch and they moved off past the ambulance.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bartlett said. And was aware once more of his inadequacy in such matters. ‘Would you like me to drive?’

  She shook her head and brushed the tears from her eyes with her hand. ‘No, I would rather drive.’

  As the Jeep sped towards Galilee, Bartlett remembered the insignificant statistics he used to see in the British newspapers. ‘Two dead, three injured.’ Tomorrow, he thought, he would see the face of the young lieutenant staring out from the front page of the morning newspaper.

  THIRTEEN

  The situation, Ralston decided, was not without its ironies. Instead of persuading Bartlett to part with information he had rescued him and was now about to dine with him. And his Israeli girlfriend and the girlfriend’s formidable mother.

  From the balcony of the Rabinovitz fifth-floor apartment Ralston stared over the Sabbath-silent city of Tel Aviv to which they had returned for dinner. No shops open, few taxis, few people; no booze. But with the first star life would start up again with frenetic desire to recoup for a lost day – or so it seemed to a Gentile. The boulevard cafés would be packed, each with its own kind – artists or authors, old or young, Jews of German or Russian or American descent. Cinemas and theatres were already booked up for the evening. The streets would be thronged with a babel of nationalities; at a thousand parties they would be wooing and warring and forming another political party or two.

  Ralston gazed across the cubes of apartment blocks and the green-lined boulevards past the Shalom Mayer Tower towards the sea. The action that morning seemed very remote in the studied peace of the Sabbath. He wished he was collaborating with these people instead of serving political prestige.

  He picked up an Israeli magazine lying on a wickerwork chair. There was a lot about the Zionist organisations in the States in it. A long article about the United Jewish Appeal. An advertisement inserted by the United Israel Appeal inviting members to a special session of the Zionist General Council. An announcement about the appointment of officials at the Israel-America Society’s Haifa branch. An invitation from the Jewish National Fund to plant trees in the Hills of Judea.

  Ralston’s appreciation of the bonds uniting America and Israel strengthened. And, as dusk approached, he opened up the file once more on Misgivings about the Assignment. Ten minutes later he had almost persuaded himself again that if his efforts contributed to peace then subsidiary considerations didn’t matter. And it would certainly be a blow against Communism if the West in the shape of the United States managed to produce the formula that would ensure that peace. Would it be so bad if the United States did gain a little prestige to counter her critics? Ralston decided it wouldn’t. But he was glad that he wasn’t an American Jew in Israel because then he wouldn’t be sure where his loyalties lay.

  A winking aircraft flew across the sky which was losing the lustre of the day. Beneath the balcony a couple of cars pulled out from the kerb. He dropped his glowing cigar butt and watched it spin down to the lawn.

  Then he considered his quarry. Was Bartlett a mug? Ralston didn’t think so. He was sufficiently acquainted with British agents to know that they were accomplished actors – particularly when portraying amiable eccentrics. But that didn’t mean he was convinced that Bartlett was an agent. It was possible that he might be; but if he was he was decidedly overplaying the amiable eccentric. And he seemed to have no positive affiliation to Arab or Israeli, to the Western or Communist powers.

  Ralston lit another cigar and looked for the first star in the green sky. Nothing.

  But if Bartlett was the complete innocent why had he gone to such extremes to hide the contents of his briefcase? This aspect of the operation grieved Ralston; he drew deeply on his cigar and exhaled a long, aggressive jet of smoke. First the porter at the Dan had treated his forged note of authority with contempt – the contempt it deserved, Ralston admitted. Then Bartlett had wandered into the walled city with a briefcase full of nothing. Now – as far as could be ascertained – he had hidden the contents somewhere in Jerusalem. There could be only one answer: Bartlett had understood the conversation between the President and the Ambassador in London.

  So what could be done about it?

  Bartlett said: ‘Shabbat, shalom.’

  Ralston turned round. ‘Shalom,’ he said.

  Bartlett gave his slow, friendly smile. ‘I understand that on the Sabbath you say Shabbat, shalom.’

  Ralston grinned despite his problems. ‘Hi,’ he said.

  The dinner was very good. After Martinis there was pâté; then steaks and mixed salad and French fries, a lot of local red wine and some sharp salty cheese. Ralston noticed no concessions to Kosher.

  Raquel’s mother, who was inclined to plumpness, with curly auburn hair that could have been dyed, said; ‘We are good Jews in this household. But we do not follow the dietary rules as strictly as we should. Not so many Israelis do these days.’

  Ralston sipped his wine and tried to assess the relationship between Bartlett and the girl. Meeting a Jewish girl’s mother was not a step to be undertaken lightly. But perhaps Bartlett’s intentions were platonic; anything was possible with such a man. If Ralston had been touring Israel and the occupied territories with Raquel the spirit of Plato would not have been in evidence. But Ralston sympathised with Bartlett whatever his intentions were – because he had met Bartlett’s wife.

  Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘I think you are looking very thoughtful, Mr Ralston.’

  ‘It’s enough to make one thoughtful,’ Ralston said. ‘This hospitality and this food and this company.’

  ‘I’m glad that you like it,’ she said. Her accent was Brooklyn, Russian, Jewish – any accent you liked to put on the label. Her tone was gentle but assertive and would always call to order her daughter’s occasional indiscretions.

  By the time they had reached the meat course politics and religion had been disposed of and the conversation had inevitably reached the Arab crisis.

  Ralston sliced into his tender steak and said: ‘I have a theory about how the Israelis could conquer all the Arab countries.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Raquel said. ‘Then I am sure Moshe Dayan would be very pleased to hear it.’ She glanced at the photograph of the Defence Minister on the wall.

  Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘Tell us about your theory, Mr Ralston.’

  ‘It’s like this,’ Ralston said. ‘Since coming to your country I have attempted to get across the road on a pedestrian crossing. I have also tried to get served at a post office. I reckon both are pretty frightening experiences. Now if you could paint pedestrian crossings right round your country�
��s borders it would ensure that all Israeli motorists would drive straight across them without bothering to see if anyone was on them.’

  Mrs Rabinovitz chuckled. ‘And what about the post office – how does that figure in this ingenious theory of yours, Mr Ralston?’

  ‘Not the post office itself, Mrs Rabinovitz. The customers. It is my theory that Israelis trying to fight their way to the counter are the best shock troops in the world. Put them into the attack after the motorists and you could take Cairo tomorrow.’

  The two women laughed; Bartlett smiled remotely. Raquel put her hand on his arm. ‘Thomas,’ she said, ‘you do not seem very happy this evening.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘Perhaps Shabbat has been too much for Mr Bartlett.’

  Raquel said defensively: ‘You seem to forget that he was nearly captured by the Arabs and that one of them stuck a machine-gun butt in his stomach.’

  ‘It’s not that so much,’ Bartlett said. ‘It’s just all that unnecessary death and suffering.’

  Raquel withdrew her hand. ‘You mean the deaths of the Israeli soldiers?’

  Bartlett nodded. ‘And the Arab.’

  Raquel said: ‘If Mr Ralston had not shot him he would have killed us. I ask you, how can you sympathise with El Fatah?’

  ‘They were brave men,’ Bartlett said.

  No one spoke. The only sound was the scrape of knife and fork on plate. The light from the candles on the long table made their faces holy.

  Finally Raquel said: ‘They were terrorists.’

  Ralston wondered again about Bartlett’s affinities.

  Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘Terrorists they might have been. But Mr Bartlett is right – they were brave. Both sides have brave men. It is sad that so much bravery should go to waste.’

  Raquel said: ‘I do not remember so much bravery from the Arabs during the war.’

  ‘Then you are a very silly girl,’ Mrs Rabinovitz said. ‘There was much bravery on both sides.’

  Bartlett sipped absent-mindedly at his wine. ‘It is the young people of Israel who frighten me. They are so aggressive, so reluctant to accept any point of view other than their own.’

  Ralston said: ‘Isn’t that true of young people anywhere in the world?’

  ‘They aren’t fighting a war,’ Bartlett said.

  Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘I do not think that you should worry yourself too much, Mr Bartlett. Israel is not governed by its youth. In Mrs Meir we have a wonderful leader. But as we are discussing youth then it is the youth of the Arab countries who should alarm you. El Fatah, the National Front for the Liberation of Palestine. It is they who are the fanatics already. And they are beyond the control of their countries’ leaders.’

  Raquel said sulkily: ‘But they are all very brave, are they not, Mr Bartlett?’

  Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘Do not be stupid, Raquel.’

  Ralston consulted his watch. ‘The news in English,’ he said. ‘Let’s have the radio on.’

  They listened to the impersonal woman’s voice describe the incident at El Hamma. An artillery duel. Two Israeli soldiers killed, three wounded. There was no mention of Ralston or Bartlett or Raquel.

  Ralston said: ‘I guess they don’t want to suggest that there was any American intervention.’ He grinned to show that he was joking because the atmosphere was not sympathetic to humour.

  Raquel said: ‘We’ll have coffee on the verandah.’

  Ralston sat in the wicker chair opposite Raquel and Bartlett while Mrs Rabinovitz made coffee in the kitchen. Tel Aviv was alive again. In a nearby apartment he heard laughter and singing. The sidewalks were moving with people, the streets weaving with cars.

  Raquel sat close to Bartlett and said: ‘I’m sorry.’

  Bartlett patted her hand paternally and said: ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘I realise that the Arabs were brave.’

  ‘If everyone could make concessions like that there might be some hope for peace.’

  Raquel nodded and put her head on his shoulder.

  Watching her face in the candlelight from the dining room Ralston decided that she was either in love with Bartlett or she was a superb actress. It was at this point that he also decided she was an Israeli agent.

  FOURTEEN

  Raquel Rabinovitz parked her Fiat near the press office in Tel Aviv and walked briskly up Kaplan Street past the Ministry of Defence. Outside the Ministry the street was busy with uniforms. She saw an Air Force officer walking with a girl soldier and exalted in the classlessness of Israeli society. She remembered how, during her Army service in the Sinai, she had heard noncommissioned men talking to generals as if they were equals. Nowhere else in the world could such relationships exist; but nowhere else in the world was the motive for military service so unified: private and general were both fighting for survival.

  The morning was heating up. A few tourists were out hoping to see Moshe Dayan arriving at his ministry; traffic was building up and making pedestrians jump on the crossings. Raquel turned right down Bet Street and headed for the office which had nothing to do with soil irrigation.

  Her thoughts turned, as they turned most days, to the man she had been going to marry. Medium height, shortish hair, green eyes, inclined to be histrionically tough, but really very gentle. He had once risked disciplinary action for refusing to demolish one of five Arab homes that were to be destroyed in Gaza as retaliation for terrorism because the family inside was sick; when his commander had seen the family he had agreed. Tough and gentle and dead for more than a year. Killed by a grenade thrown by a terrorist.

  She felt the wallet in her pocket that still contained his photograph. Since the day he had been killed patriotism and a desire for revenge had fused into one emotion. Now her feelings were confused by the presence of Bartlett. She wished in a way that she had not been available to carry out the instructions to get to know him.

  Since the death of her fiancé she had not slept with another man. Not until the other night with Bartlett. She was still surprised how natural it had been to make love to him. Because outwardly he did not possess any of the qualities which she had always looked for in a man. In particular he lacked the aggressiveness which Israeli women tended to expect.

  She saw him with his arm crooked round the El Fatah gunman’s neck; she saw the machine-gun butt jabbing into his stomach. She felt his pain and inwardly cried out for him. And she knew she loved him for his courage which was not packaged in muscled belligerence, for his kindness and even his vagueness.

  She turned into an alley where thin cats, some with two eyes and some with one, scavenged and fought and copulated with the intensity of the doomed. She walked up an iron staircase and opened a door marked F. FRISHMAN – FUNERALS ARRANGED AND EXECUTED. It was, she thought, most apt.

  Julius Peytan spoke Hebrew with a South African accent. Occasionally he lapsed into English or Yiddish or his native Afrikaans. His linguistics could have been confusing, but he spoke with such deliberation and controlled power that his message was communicated whatever the language.

  He was a large broad man with pillows of muscles just beginning to go slack. He wore dark trousers and an open-neck white shirt riding loose around his navel. He smoked a lot with the same deliberation that he talked – tasting the smoke, inhaling deeply, crushing out the butts with finality. His face was heavy featured, a little jowly, and his eyes were the colour of the smoke that trickled from his cigarettes. But whereas the smoke had warmth there was none in the eyes of Julius Peytan.

  He had come to Palestine from Johannesburg in the ‘30s and had rapidly ascended the hierarchy of the Haganah. He had been imprisoned by the British and still harboured a certain admiration for those who had caught him because he had been deceived by their apparent naïveté. He had studied British methods and incorporated them into his own textbook of skills. After independence he had concerned himself with the pursuit of Nazis who had fled from their atrocities. As a result he knew South
America as well as his native South Africa. Another result was promotion to the hierarchy of the Israeli secret service, the Shin Beit.

  He leaned back now in his creaking swivel chair that seemed inadequate for his size and listened to Raquel Rabinovitz. The room was hardly furnished at all – chair and desk, a bookshelf nailed to the wall, a lot of maps, photographs of Israeli political leaders. On the table was a blotter, a pack of cigarettes, a box of matches and a Smith & Wesson.

  Raquel’s words dwindled and died. They usually did when she was confronted by his impassive concentration.

  Peytan said: ‘What are you trying to tell me, Miss Rabinovitz?’

  ‘Have I not made myself clear already?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Please go through it again.’

  He ground out a cigarette as if he were squashing an insect.

  ‘Look, I do not like this assignment,’ Raquel said. ‘I have no heart for it. I know this should have no bearing on it. But really it is for the sake of Israel that I have come to see you because I cannot do my job properly.’

  Peytan lit another cigarette and inhaled hugely. ‘You surprise me, Miss Rabinowitz. You have always struck me as possessing greater strengths than the average woman. That is precisely why you were chosen for this assignment. You do not need me to remind you of the importance of this assignment to Israel.’

  There was a hint of menace in his voice.

  ‘I know of its importance,’ she said. ‘That is why I am thinking that you should assign someone else to the job.’

  Peytan considered and analysed the statement. Then he said: ‘There is no one else, Miss Rabinovitz.’

  ‘But you have other women agents.’

  ‘It is too late. Far too late. You have made contact with Bartlett. You must finish the assignment.’ He paused. ‘In fact, I am surprised that you have not completed it already. After all, you have slept with him, have you not?’