‘Not an indictment, Mr Bartlett, a catalogue. We do not want that catalogue to get any longer.’
‘You,’ Bartlett said irritably, ‘are not the only one.’
‘Then would it not be easier for everyone concerned if you left as soon as possible?’
‘It might well be easier,’ Bartlett said. ‘But I am the most interested party and I have no intention of leaving.’
‘It would not be difficult for me to make sure that you leave,’ the detective said. He paused. ‘In fact, Mr Bartlett, we could probably put you on an aircraft today.’
‘Deportation? On what grounds?’ Bartlett’s anger was mounting. ‘Look Mr …’
‘Levinsky.’
‘Look, Mr Levinsky. I have endured a lot since I came to your country. None of it the fault of the Israelis – as far as I know. In fact I am most impressed with your countrymen. But I do not intend to be expelled merely because another attempt on my life could be an embarrassment to you.’
Levinsky rumpled his thick greying hair. ‘I did not expect quite such spirit,’ he said. ‘You know, of course, that we do not have to give any reason for a deportation order.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Bartlett said. ‘I would give plenty of reasons when I landed at London Airport.’
Levinsky smiled. ‘You are as aggressive as an Israeli fighting man.’
‘No,’ Bartlett said. ‘Just obstinate. Your job is to protect me, not to give me my marching orders.’
Levinsky sighed. ‘You are absolutely right, of course, Mr Bartlett, but I’m afraid …’
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. A porter said: ‘Excuse me, sir, there is a telephone call downstairs for Mr Levinsky.’
Bartlett said: ‘Can’t he take it here?’
The porter said: ‘The caller particularly asked that Mr Levinsky take the call downstairs.’
While Levinsky was gone Bartlett sat on the edge of the bed and contemplated developments. In fact he was by no means convinced that there was no Israeli complicity in the violent events of the past few days. He suspected that if he was forced to leave the country someone would be watching him when he picked up the hidden documents.
But why were the contents so important? The answer did not come to Bartlett with startling impact. He realised that he had slowly been approaching the answer for some time with a geologist’s caution and suspicion of facile explanation. But even so it was only half the answer.
Levinsky looked puzzled when he returned.
‘Well?’ Bartlett said.
‘It was just a routine call.’
‘Couldn’t you have taken it up here?’
‘You have a very suspicious nature, Mr Bartlett.’
‘All geologists are the same.’
‘I suppose so. I didn’t realise it before.’
‘Well, are you going to deport me?’
‘That’s a very strong word, Mr Bartlett.’
‘I’m not concerned with any euphemism that you choose to use. Are you going to deport me?’
Levinsky stared at himself in the mirror. ‘I think perhaps it will not be necessary. I did not realise that you were quite so determined to stay. I was merely suggesting that you leave for your own good.’
The new awareness that had joined Bartlett’s sensibilities since his arrival in Israel reasserted itself. ‘You were not suggesting,’ he said. ‘Could your change in attitude have anything to do with that phone call you just received?’
Levinsky turned away from the mirror. ‘Mr Bartlett,’ he said, ‘you are probably an excellent geologist. You would also have made an excellent detective.’
He walked to the door and hesitated there. He still looked puzzled and unsure of himself. It was not, Bartlett knew, a characteristic attitude. He started to speak, then shook his head and walked out into the corridor.
They lay beneath a sheet, tranquil and satisfied after the act of love. Bartlett smoked a cigarette with one hand and held her hand with the other. The room was drowsy with dusk; outside the first stars were establishing themselves in the advancing darkness.
‘What are you thinking?’ she said.
Helen always wanted to know what he was thinking, but with exasperation rather than unbridled curiosity. He had, in fact, been marvelling at his appetite for love. Helen had always derided his waning interest – and made it wane even more.
‘I was just thinking about the sort of visit I envisaged before I set out from London,’ he said. ‘A dullish conference enlivened by a few tourist attractions.’
‘And now you’ve got me,’ she said. ‘I’m your tourist attraction.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I would forego Masada for you.’
The last luminosity of day was fading. Bartlett stubbed out his cigarette and ran his hand over the sheet, lingering at the small hillocks of her breasts. He was moved with a sense of sharing – their dusk, their stars emerging. And surprised to find himself lying naked beside a beautiful Jewish girl overlooking the foundation stones of religion.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he said.
‘I do not mind.’
He made a robe out of a towel and poured the remains of the whisky he had bought in the aircraft into two tumblers. He lingered at the window and looked at Jerusalem. At the divided. city tenuously unified. Lights burned in the Bible blackness and the outlines of domes, spires and minarets were precise against the last green gleam of day. Never had politics and the contrived enmities of mankind seemed quite so futile.
She said: ‘Could I have my drink, please?’ He handed it to her. ‘You look very noble in profile,’ she said. ‘What were you thinking about then?’
‘I wish I could devise some way by which my thoughts were transferred to you without the effort of speaking.’
‘Again you are evasive. What were you thinking about? Was it about your wife?’
‘No. Just a few hackneyed observations about Jerusalem.’ He drew the curtains and put on the bed lamp. He slipped under the sheet, removed the towel and moved close to her.
‘Thomas.’
‘Yes?’
‘When are you going back to England?’
‘After the conference, I suppose.’ He had been purposely diverting all conversation from the subject.
‘Will we ever see each other again after that?’
‘Of course we will.’ As always he found her directness disconcerting.
‘You do not sound very convincing. What would you do if I came to London?’
‘See you, of course.’ He thought of Helen and of the deceit that would be involved. But was deceit necessary? After all, she had been betraying him for a long time.
‘And would you show me England just as I’ve shown you Israel?’
‘Of course I would.’
She stroked his chest. ‘Dear Thomas – I do not believe you. Why do you not stay here? A little longer anyway. Then perhaps you would like our country so much that you would want to stay and help my people. You could do a lot for us Israelis with your geology.’
He put his hand on her arm. ‘If people would stop trying to kill me and steal my property I might be a little more enthusiastic.’
‘You take it all so calmly,’ she said.
‘It’s easier now,’ he said.
‘Easier? You say it is easier? I ask you – how can it be easier?’
Bartlett raised himself on one elbow so that he could see her face. ‘Because I think I understand a little what it’s all about.’
He watched the expression on her face very carefully. She frowned and put one hand to her lips. ‘You understand what it’s all about?’
‘A little, I think.’
She put down her tumbler of whisky on the bedside table. ‘Well, tell me, Thomas. What is it all about?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ he said. ‘When I’m sure.’
‘You don’t trust me.’
‘I do. I just want to be sure.’ He bent and kissed her and thought how warm and dry her lip
s were. At first there was no response; then her lips parted slightly. And Bartlett found to his astonishment that he was ready to make love to her again.
SIXTEEN
As he tried to shave his red and shiny jowls in his hotel bedroom, Matthew Yosevitz decided to kill Ralston.
The killing, he thought, might appease his thwarted professional instincts and settle the general confusion of his thoughts.
So far the whole mission had gone disastrously wrong. He ascribed the failures to several factors – the inefficiency of his Arab collaborators, his confused loyalties, the extraordinary capability for survival exhibited by the Englishman, and American interference. At least he could terminate the latter by dispatching Ralston in the wake of Everett.
It would have to be shooting. Yosevitz had been trained to assassinate by many methods. But none gave him the same professional satisfaction as execution with a gun. One bullet, neat, clean and permanent.
He washed the shaving soap from his burning cheeks and daubed them with calamine. But the effect was clownish. He washed the calamine off the first-degree burns and cursed Bartlett.
He picked up his pistol from beneath the towel lying across the chair beside the bed. With the silencer fitted it looked completely professional.
Then he began to dress, cringing his burning face through his vest and cheap nylon shirt. As he laced up his bruised shoes he acknowledged another important reason for his decision to kill Ralston: it would not be a directly anti-Jewish act that would further disturb his conscience.
In the past couple of days the rift between his loyalties had widened. All around him he sensed the urgency and determination of the Jews to survive in their new land. His land. No, he was a Communist dedicated to the extermination of capitalism; dedicated to the establishment of equality throughout the world. But there was a lot of equality in Israel …
A couple of Mirage jets whistled over the hotel. Probably returning from a rocket attack on Jordanian positions across the river. A torch of pride four thousand years old briefly flared in Yosevitz’s soul. It was immediately extinguished by reality: his wife and two children were in Warsaw and it was them and the millions like them for whom he was working.
So, as he combed his thin hair away from his burned forehead, he tried to plan the killing of Ralston with something of his old single-mindedness. Ralston was an American agent and therefore his death could only be advantageous to the Communist cause; Ralston was not apparently working with the Israelis, therefore Judaism would not suffer directly. It was very satisfactory.
Yosevitz picked up the phone and ordered some coffee and hard-boiled eggs.
According to his local contacts Bartlett was staying in the hotel until 11 a.m. and Ralston was going into the Old City – possibly to meet someone from the United States Embassy. The shooting would have to be in the Old City. At close range among the crowds thronging the alleys. Hardly a sound from the good professional gun, the body propped up momentarily by the crowds, the assassin lost in the throng.
This time he would not seek the co-operation of any Arab. Not after Hamid’s efforts at snatching an empty briefcase and the fiasco at El Hamma.
Yosevitz wondered where Bartlett had hidden the contents of the briefcase. Probably, with obscure British humour, at some religious monument. At the Citadel perhaps, or even the El Aqsa Mosque. In any case he would have to be captured and probably killed because he knew what had been in the case.
Yosevitz strapped on his holster. Unfortunately that meant keeping his jacket on. He was aware that the combination of a jacket and flaming face would make him doubly incongruous. But at least he would not be following Bartlett, of whose face and figure he was heartily sick.
He let himself out of his room and walked down the corridor. Even when there was no cause his sharp-toed shoes moved delicately and stealthily.
Ralston entered the Old City by St Stephen’s Gate. He walked past the St Anne Monastery towards the Via Dolorosa. Yosevitz followed at a distance of about a hundred yards hoping that the snap-brimmed plastic hat and the steel-rimmed French sunglasses were sufficient disguise.
Ralston walked quickly despite the gathering heat. His sense of purpose convinced Yosevitz that he was on his way to meet a contact. It was, he thought, a welcome change to be stalking a fellow professional – at least he wouldn’t suddenly go sunbathing. Yosevitz’s hand strayed to his glowing cheeks; sweat trickled down his back and chest under his nylon shirt.
Ralston stopped near the Ecce Homo Arch and went inside a dark coffee shop. Yosevitz stopped, leaned against a wall and read his guide book. The Ecce Homo Arch recalls the words of Pilate’s address to Jesus, ‘Behold the Man’. Yosevitz glanced down the street: there was no sign of Ralston. The Ecce Homo was part of the triple triumphal arch erected by Roman Emperor Hadrian in the second century … Yosevitz decided to see what was happening in the coffee shop. He walked quickly past, glancing to one side behind his green plastic lenses. Ralston was sitting by himself at a table covered with oilcloth. He was drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette while an Arab boy brushed his shoes.
Yosevitz walked on fifty yards and consulted his map. In the Old City there was a Moslem quarter, a Christian quarter, an Armenian quarter and a Jewish quarter. So much belief. Yosevitz remembered the beautiful old churches of Russia and the candles burning steadfastly in their eternal dusk while Soviet youth jeered outside.
He slipped his hand inside his jacket. He was going to kill an American agent. A representative of a power that threatened the peace of the world. It was no time to brood on faith.
A small boy in a black suit with a white shirt buttoned at the collar but no tie prodded a friend in the ribs and pointed at Yosevitz. They both had short hair with ringlets trained down their cheeks. Ahead of them lay a lifetime of faith. Yosevitz thought of his own son, eight years old and already knowledgeable about Communism. Just as he had been.
One of the boys spoke in Hebrew. He said: ‘Hasn’t that man got a red face?’
His friend nodded and giggled.
Yosevitz stared at them menacingly through his big green spectacles and they ran away down the Via Dolorosa. Ralston came out of the café and stood outside absorbing the sunshine. Yosevitz shrank back into a shop selling camel saddles and brass coffee pots.
An Arab approached him and said eagerly: ‘What would you like to buy, sir? Make me happy and buy one of these saddles for your fine horse.’
Yosevitz said: ‘Shut up and go away.’
He spoke with such distilled vehemence that the Arab backed away across the shop, pain and astonishment on his bargain-price face.
Ralston walked past, still tasting the sunshine. Yosevitz gave him half a minute and then fell into place behind him. Ralston turned left and headed down the Suq Khan Ez-zeit in the direction of the Jewish quarter.
For the killing the circumstances had to be exactly right. A dense, noisy crowd and an escape route.
Ralston turned left along Bab El-Silsileh Road and crossed it as if he were heading for the ruined synagogues. Instead he continued along the road towards the Western Wall. Twice he paused and looked behind him. Yosevitz shrank into doorways like a sea anemone that has been touched.
The crowds were packed thickly in front of the wall. Yosevitz fingered his gun; it was warm and damp. He waited patiently while Ralston stood gazing at the great blocks of sand-coloured stone. Pilgrims looked curiously at Yosevitz’s bright face. He opened his guide book and read about the wall: Often called the Wailing Wall, it is the last remnant of western wall bounding outer court of Herod’s magnificent Temple. Lowest tiers date from Solomon’s First Temple. Age-old place of Jewish lamentation and prayer for its restoration.
As he waited to kill Ralston the idea began to form in Yosevitz’s mind that he, too, should offer a prayer at the wall. At first it presented itself whimsically. But Yosevitz was not one for whimsy: the notion hardened. Why not? It could do no harm. Despite his upbringing and environment he was, after all
, a Jew. And the Jews had fought bravely to regain the wall. Yosevitz decided that a prayer from a pilgrim from Moscow could not harm the cause of Communism.
But then his training asserted itself. What if someone was keeping observation on him? In his youth there had always been someone watching or listening. It was part of the system. Was it not conceivable that the system was operating now? He looked round him. But you could never tell – he knew that.
He watched an Orthodox Jew in a wide-brimmed black hat push through the crowd to the wall; he placed his hands on a ledge and bowed his head. Again the call came to Yosevitz, knifing through twenty years of ideological teaching.
In front of him Ralston spoke to a tall, balding man in light grey trousers and short-sleeved tropical-weight shirt. The embassy contact, perhaps. The newcomer was undoubtedly American – freckled and muscular and dependable. He carried the inevitable camera and a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket of his shirt.
Ralston and his contact lit cigarettes. Yosevitz noted that it was Ralston who leaned forward to accept a light and narrowed his eyes to see if a message was being passed; but he saw nothing except their cupped hands. They nodded, smiled, spoke briefly and parted.
Ralston dropped his cigarette and squashed it with his heel. Yosevitz tensed himself. He was no longer aware of the sun toasting his red cheeks. Ralston walked towards the wall. The Orthodox Jew whom Yosevitz had been watching was still praying; the sound of lamentation filled the air.
Ralston stopped at the stall beside the enclosure directly in front of the wall. He glanced round and Yosevitz stared at his guide book through his green plastic lenses. Ralston took a cardboard hat from the stall and edged through the crowd to the wall.
Yosevitz, who had intended to follow, stopped. The gun felt hard against his ribs. He knew now he couldn’t use it. It was the hat that had done it. The stupid, idiotic cardboard hat on Ralston’s head. He didn’t quite know why. But you did not shoot a man in a cardboard hat.
Ralston stayed at the wall for a minute. Then returned to the stall and handed back his hat.
After Ralston had disappeared Yosevitz walked up to the stall, then realised that he was already wearing a hat, a plastic hat. He approached the wall, cheeks burning, loyalties reeling. If only Ralston hadn’t put on the cardboard hat.
The Twisted Wire Page 12
