The Twisted Wire

by Richard Falkirk

  Raquel blushed and was angry with herself because the blush betrayed feminine frailty. ‘Have you been keeping me under observation?’

  ‘No. I am merely presuming that you have slept with him because you are a capable operator. You have the advantage there over Yosevitz.’

  Raquel looked at the Smith & Wesson and imagined its barrel stabbing into the spine of a fugitive Nazi. ‘This man Yosevitz,’ she said. ‘Why have you not done anything about him?’

  Peytan stared at his cigarette: it looked like a matchstick in his large freckled hand. ‘He is, after all, a Jew,’ he said.

  ‘And an enemy of Israel.’

  ‘Yosevitz is an interesting case. I have known many men sent in by the Russians under the guise of immigrants for the purpose of subversion. Usually they have failed because the men themselves soon realise their true destiny.’

  ‘What if none of this applies to Yosevitz? What if he succeeds in this mission?’

  Peytan lifted his bulk from the chair and patrolled the room. For a man of his size he was surprisingly light-footed.

  Raquel looked at him warily. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what would happen?’

  Peytan stopped in front of a wall map showing the 1967 cease-fire boundaries. ‘He would be killed, of course,’ he said.

  ‘But what if he managed to communicate the information to the Arabs?’

  ‘The answer to that is very simple,’ Peytan said. ‘He wouldn’t communicate it to the Arabs. The Russians want it for themselves. They want to negotiate the Middle East peace themselves. You see, at the moment they are just gun-runners to the Arabs. They want more power, more prestige. Just as our friends the Americans want to be the peacemakers. But the Russians have even more at stake: they want to keep the Chinese out.’ He lit another cigarette with deliberation. ‘These days we are finding that more and more Chinese weapons are being used by the Arabs.’

  Raquel said: ‘It sounds very complicated.’

  Peytan shrugged. ‘This is the Middle East. The Levant. Immediately anyone becomes involved with us then their lives become complicated.’

  ‘What about Ralston?’ Raquel said.

  ‘Ah yes, Ralston.’ Peytan sat down again in the creaking chair. ‘We are not absolutely sure about Mr Ralston. But the weight of evidence would indicate that he is working for American intelligence. We must presume that he is the successor to Everett.’

  ‘There is no doubt,’ Raquel said. ‘Look, was it just coincidence that he turned up at El Hamma?’

  ‘I agree.’ A tiny smile thawed on his face. ‘But you, Miss Rabinovitz, have a distinct advantage over Mr Ralston.’

  ‘I have told you – I do not think I can operate as well as I should.’

  ‘Are you in love with Bartlett?’

  Raquel glanced into her handbag lying open on her lap and saw the picture of her dead fiancé looking up at her from her wallet. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘I think you are. It astonishes me because I cannot see the attraction of a man like Bartlett to a girl like you. But then it would not be the first time that the qualities of the British have surprised me. However, Miss Rabinovitz, that is beside the point. Your country comes before everything. I think you would agree with that?’

  Raquel nodded. ‘And after all there is not much future for you with such a man. He is not, after all, a Jew. And he is also married.’

  ‘I know. But you cannot control these things.’

  ‘Poor man. That he should have such a wife.’

  Raquel looked at him with fresh interest. ‘You know Bartlett’s wife?’

  ‘I know of her.’

  ‘What is she like?’

  Peytan shook the last cigarette out of the pack. ‘She has a big mouth,’ he said.

  ‘Is that all you know?’

  ‘She has provided us with quite a lot of information in the past. At cocktail parties and so on. But evidently the Americans also appreciated her worth because these days most of the information is false.’

  ‘Except this information?’

  Peytan nodded. ‘But she didn’t get this from the Americans. She got it from her husband – the poor dumb bastard.’

  Raquel said tautly: ‘He is not dumb.’

  Peytan held up his hands but the gesture did not make him appear defenceless. ‘Okay. He’s a highly intelligent man already – he must be if he’s a geologist. But he is, perhaps, a little naïve.’

  ‘He is not naïve. It is just that he knows nothing about your sort of business.’

  ‘Or yours,’ Peytan said.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Or mine.’

  Peytan’s voice hardened. ‘Now I think we understand each other, Miss Rabinovitz. You know your assignment and I expect you to carry it out regardless of any sentimental attachments you may have formed. I expect you to do this for the sake of your country and your people. Is that understood?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s understood.’

  ‘Then please return to your duties. Time is running short.’

  ‘You know he’s hidden the contents of the briefcase?’

  ‘It should not be difficult for a girl of your accomplishment to find the hiding place.’

  She stood up and snapped her handbag shut. ‘That was an unpleasant remark to make.’ She was surprised at her spirit.

  He said: ‘In this business we do not take too much heed of the pleasantries, Miss Rabinovitz.’ He screwed up the empty cigarette pack and threw it on the floor. The interview was over.

  She walked slowly back to her car. She felt the sun’s warmth on her shoulders; the streets were crowded with soldiers and the civilians they were defending; there was vibrancy in the air and vitality in the people. Men looked at her with admiration, women with envy. But Raquel Rabinovitz revelled in none of it.

  She climbed into her baby car and drove to the seafront restaurant where Bartlett was waiting for her. It was one of the cafés frequented by prostitutes who specialised in hauling surprised tourists off the sidewalk. When they were not soliciting with characteristic Israeli determination they sat knitting.

  One of them was sitting at Bartlett’s table.

  Raquel said: ‘What is that woman doing here?’

  Bartlett smiled at her uncertainly. ‘I couldn’t get rid of her,’ he said.

  Raquel turned on the prostitute and spoke vehemently in Hebrew. The woman who looked as if she might be knitting with a not-too-distant future in mind stood up quivering with affronted dignity. Raquel snapped at her once more and the woman moved to another table pulling a ball of wool behind her.

  Raquel sat down and ordered a Gold Star beer.

  FIFTEEN

  Raquel said: ‘Why don’t you leave Israel, Thomas?’

  Bartlett said: ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? You ask me why? Because someone is trying to kill you – that’s why.’

  They were walking up Allenby Street. It was nearly 1 p.m. and the exuberance in the streets was beginning to wane. At this time of day, Bartlett thought, you became more aware of the beggars and the vendors of cheap sunglasses and toy hammers that squeaked when you struck anyone with them. He liked to stop at the bookshops with their windows brazenly filled with books about Israel. The books were glossy and exotic and expensive.

  Bartlett said: ‘When do you think I should leave?’

  ‘Today,’ Raquel said.

  ‘You seem very anxious to get rid of me.’

  ‘I don’t want to see you hurt.’

  ‘I seem to have managed to take care of myself so far’

  ‘You have managed?’ She appealed to the lunchtime crowds. ‘He says he has managed. I ask you, what have you done?’ Her voice softened a little. ‘Except of course to hold that terrorist.’ Her voice softened a little more. ‘You were very brave then, Thomas.’

  Because he didn’t know what to reply Bartlett stopped outside a furnishing shop. He caught sight of his face in a mirror. His face was quite tanned, the effect marred by the skin beginning to peel
off his nose.

  Raquel said: ‘But really you have just been very lucky. It would be much better if you left.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Bartlett said.

  ‘You are a very foolish man.’

  ‘Perhaps. But you must be a very foolish girl consorting with me. Who knows – a gunman might have his sights on us right now.’

  Instinctively Raquel looked around. On one side of the road was the Great Synagogue, on the other Barclays Bank. She said: ‘I do not think they are trying to kill me.’

  ‘No,’ Bartlett said. ‘But they could be very bad shots, Perhaps that bullet in the Dead Sea was meant for me.’

  They went into a snack bar and ordered pizzas. Bartlett said: ‘It’s difficult to believe that it’s Sunday. I suppose that the answer is to be a Moslem working in the United States or British Embassies in Israel. That way you might get Friday, Saturday and Sunday off.’

  ‘You are trying to evade the point,’ Raquel said.

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Why don’t you leave here today?’

  ‘Because I came here to attend a geological conference. Because I intend to be present at that conference. Because I do not like cowardly people trying to intimidate me.’

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Get yourself killed.’

  He chewed on his cheese and pastry and anchovies. ‘You seem very anxious to get rid of me. I rather thought you liked having me around.’

  ‘I do.’ She touched his arm. ‘You know I do. But do I want you dead?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘No one’s going to kill me.’

  ‘They’ve been having a damn good try. Are you sure it isn’t your wife?’

  He stopped chewing. ‘Why should it be?’

  She smiled. ‘No reason. Just an Israeli joke.’

  ‘She’s not particularly devoted to me. But I don’t think she would go to that extreme.’

  ‘You don’t talk about her much, do you? Most married men talk about their wives.’

  Bartlett’s appetite froze. ‘Have you a lot of experience with married men?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Just you.’

  ‘Then how do you know that most married men talk about their wives?’ He was appalled at his own jealousy.

  ‘I have known married men. What girl has not known married men? They have told me about their wives. But that doesn’t mean to say that I have had anything more to do with them.’

  ‘I suppose not. In any case I haven’t any right to ask. I’m sorry.’ He ordered a large draught beer. ‘But, to answer your question, I don’t talk about my wife because it doesn’t seem right somehow. If things have gone wrong it’s both our faults.’

  ‘Have you ever slept with another woman?’

  Bartlett smiled into the big thick glass with the moisture already misting the outside. ‘That’s more like the girl I met on the plane.’

  ‘I told you Israeli girls are nosey.’

  ‘You gave me fair warning.’

  ‘But still you have not answered my question. You have a very good knack of evading questions you don’t want to answer, Mr Bartlett. Have you slept with another woman since you got married to this wife of yours?’

  ‘Very nosey and very personal. Honestly, the Arabs don’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Have you, Thomas?’

  ‘No,’ he said. He vaguely felt that the admission was a criticism of his character.

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘Was it so obvious, then?’ He remembered some of Helen’s remarks.

  ‘No it was not.’ She leaned across the table. ‘You are a beautiful lover.’

  He looked around the snack bar and said:’ I wish you’d keep your voice down a bit.’

  ‘And I wish you’d stop acting the part of a stage Englishman.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Can we make love again tonight, Thomas?’

  ‘Not if I leave the country,’ he said.

  ‘I would rather that you stay alive and that we do not make love tonight.’ She sipped her Coke. ‘I could always come to London and see you there. Or perhaps we could meet somewhere else. Cyprus, perhaps? A lot of people fly to Cyprus from here for holidays.’ Her enthusiasm gained momentum. ‘Why not Cyprus, Thomas? Why don’t you catch a plane to Cyprus and I will join you there? Kyrenia is a beautiful place. We could swim and sunbathe there and make love at night.’

  ‘What about the daytime?’

  ‘In the daytime, too. You would like it there. And there is a lot that would interest you as a geologist, I promise you.’

  ‘I know,’ Bartlett said. ‘I’ve been there.’

  ‘Then will you go?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Raquel. It would seem like cowardice. I don’t know what on earth this is all about but I intend to find out.’

  ‘Please,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Then you cannot love me.’

  ‘Don’t be childish.’ He paid the bill. ‘You know I’ve got to stay here. You wouldn’t really respect me if I left you now. Would an Israeli leave in these circumstances?’

  She sighed. ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘Would your fiancé have left?’

  ‘How did you know about my fiancé?’

  ‘I guessed. No girl as beautiful as you can live in a virile country like this without having a fiancé.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Raquel said.

  ‘I guessed as much.’

  ‘It was over a year ago. The terrorists threw a grenade in Gaza and a splinter struck him.’ She stood up to leave. ‘You don’t despise me now because I have made love so soon after his death?’

  Bartlett wished again that she would keep her voice down. ‘A year is a long time,’ he said. ‘Especially in this part of the world. No, I do not despise you.’ He wanted to add that he loved her; but he wasn’t sure that he did.

  ‘It just happened,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Let’s move on – everyone seems rather interested in our conversation here.’

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘In any case we must be getting back to Jerusalem.’

  ‘There’s something I’d like to do first.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘I’d like to go on the beach,’ Bartlett said.

  ‘You want to go on the beach?’ She peered at his face. ‘I tell you it would not be wise. Already your nose is peeling.’

  ‘It will be all right. First we must buy a pair of trunks and perhaps go back to your apartment. You have some tanning lotion?’

  She nodded. ‘But I do not see why you should want to go on the beach. I do not think it would be good for you.’

  ‘I might be a bit pale,’ Bartlett said. ‘But I think I can stand a bit of sunshine.’

  At the apartment Bartlett liberally applied cream to his face. On the beach he kept his shirt on and put more cream on his arms and legs. Around him the bodies were very brown – the men lithe, the girls bouncy.

  Raquel was wearing a white one-piece which unwove itself into net around her waist, Her belly was flat and her small breasts firm. Bartlett anticipated their return to the hotel in Jerusalem with pleasure.

  ‘There don’t appear to be many people swimming,’ he said. ‘They’re all patting those damn balls around instead.’

  ‘Israel is not a nation of swimmers,’ Raquel said. ‘Too many of its people came from places where there were no opportunities to swim.’

  They were at the end of a strip of sand that stretched out to sea from the base of one of the new American hotels to a breakwater where drenched anglers stood among plumes of spray. In front of them an old woman with wrinkled brown skin was doing her exercises; two pale men with wobbling stomachs walking briskly up and down the water’s edge.

  ‘Tourists,’ Raquel said.

  ‘Is everyone white and out-of-condition a tourist?’

  ‘Usually,’ she said. She looked at his pale legs. ‘I cannot make out what we are doing here. It does not seem right somehow.
’

  Bartlett grinned at her. ‘A spot of mild sadism, British style.’

  ‘What are you talking about. Thomas?’

  ‘I noticed Yosevitz following us earlier. If ever there was a man who will fry up in the sun it’s him.’

  When they got back to Bartlett’s room in the hotel at Jerusalem the detective whom Bartlett had consulted was waiting there.

  ‘Shalom,’ he said. ‘Is this the young lady you were telling me about?’

  Bartlett said: ‘This is Miss Rabinovitz.’

  ‘I should like to have a few private words with you, Mr Bartlett.’

  Raquel said: ‘I’ll come back in half an hour.’ She spoke emphatically, implying that she saw no reason why she should not be in Bartlett’s room.

  Alter she had gone the detective, who looked like a middle-aged Ben-Gurion, said: ‘I see what you mean, Mr Bartlett.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘About Miss Rabinovitz. A man could become jealous over her.’

  ‘Someone is pretty annoyed about something.’

  ‘I know, Mr Bartlett. I must apologise about my previous attitude. In fact we are getting quite worried about you. How much longer are you staying in this country?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Longer than I expected. I have just heard that the conference will not now open until Wednesday.’

  ‘I really think it would be very wise of you to leave before then. Is this conference so important to you?’

  ‘Yes it is,’ Bartlett said. ‘That’s funny – you’re the second person who has suggested that I should leave as soon as possible.’

  ‘Really. May I ask who the first was?’

  ‘I don’t think it would help you,’ Bartlett said. ‘Anyway, why do you want me to leave so suddenly? The other day you weren’t very concerned about my welfare. Is it perhaps the security of Israel that concerns you more than my future on this earth?’

  The detective sat on a chair in front of the dressing-table mirror so that Bartlett found he was looking at both his face and the back of his head. The detective said: ‘During your short stay in Israel there has been one attempt on your life, one incident in which an American was shot dead and an unsuccessful bid by El Fatah terrorists to kidnap you.’

  ‘You make it sound like an indictment,’ Bartlett said.