by Andrew Kane
“And if it’s ‘insider’ information, it’s illegal?”
“Precisely.”
“So, was it?” Martin asked the question matter-of-factly, as if he were asking if it was raining outside.
“I received the information from one of my brokers.”
“Then it wasn’t?”
“I cannot be held responsible for where others get their information.”
Martin noted the defensiveness in Benoît’s tone. “Even when they pass that information on to you?” he asked.
Benoît appeared unnerved. “We all have our ethical shortcomings, doctor. I am sure that you are no exception to this.”
“You’re probably right. But to the extent that I can, I try to leave my ethical shortcomings out of this room. That was why I couldn’t accept your offer.”
“I understand perfectly well.”
“I hope you do, because it wasn’t personal. Nor do I judge you for your choices, including the choice to share your information with me.”
“Ah, but now you are making an ethical compromise!”
Martin looked curious. “In what way?”
“By not being completely honest with me.”
“How so?”
“In claiming that you don’t judge me, you are certainly being less than truthful. Of course you judge me, doctor. Men always judge one another, regardless of what room they are in.”
“I suppose you have a point, but you see, I make every effort not to be judgmental, and if at times I fail, I’m probably unaware of it.”
“Not very different from what I do with my investing. As I said, I am unaware of the exact sources of the information I get. And perhaps, like you, I want to believe that everything is proper.”
Martin saw no purpose in continuing this. The more he would enumerate the differences between Benoît’s rationalizations and his own, the more Benoît would point out the similarities. It could go on endlessly.
“You see, my dear doctor,” Benoît continued, “the world is filled with moral ambiguity.”
Martin nodded. “I can’t argue with that.”
“So,” Benoît said a bit awkwardly, “where do we go from here?”
“Where would you like to go?”
Benoît hesitated, then said, “Why don’t we continue from where we left off last time?”
“That’s always a good idea.”
“I believe I was talking about my first wife, the war, all those very unpleasant things.”
“Did it upset you to discuss them?”
“Upset me? That’s an interesting question. It was so long ago, it is hard to tell how I feel about it.”
“I would imagine that it’s hard for you to tell how you feel about a lot of things.”
“Very good, doctor.”
“You know, Jacques, I’m sitting here wondering why it is that you seem to enjoy this so much.”
“You mean our repartee?”
“I suppose you could call it that.”
Benoît smiled. “It is simply that I find you to be a formidable adversary.”
“Why do you find me to be an adversary at all?”
“Because you are. Here again, we have an ambiguity: your job is to help me, but in doing so, you must dismantle my defenses, invade my psyche and uncover my secrets. I, however, have always lived by these defenses, and – as you can see – in some ways they have served me quite well. To my mind, that sounds adversarial.”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” Martin said.
“Which means that you don’t agree.”
“No, I don’t. I never see myself as the adversary of a patient. On the contrary, I see each man as his own adversary, myself included. As a psychologist, I facilitate you in becoming aware of your own destructive tendencies, and then, hopefully, you gain more mastery over them. Admittedly, that is often painful, but – to use an analogy – I would hardly characterize a doctor who injects an antigen into a patient’s body as an adversary.”
“I agree that he is not, from his point of view. But to me, because I am the recipient of the pain, the perpetrator’s intentions do not matter. He is still an adversary.”
Paranoid, self-absorbed, Martin thought. “It seems to me that you have arrived at your conclusion without considering all the facts.”
“Perhaps so. But then again, don’t we all give more weight to some aspects of a situation than to others.”
“Yes, but when doing so creates psychological distress, it is healthy to entertain alternatives.”
“Psychological distress, doctor, isn’t always the worst thing.”
Martin looked at Benoît curiously.
“What I mean is that sometimes psychological distress aids in our survival.”
“That’s a very astute comment, Jacques,” Martin admitted while wondering where Benoît was going with this.
“I have read about the ‘fight-or-flight response,’ that it is a feeling of distress when a person feels threatened.”
Martin smiled. The fight-or-flight response was a popular explanation of why people experience anxiety. The senses perceive a threat, and the heart beats rapidly to pump more blood to the skeletal muscles to prepare the body to either flee or fight. This reaction, however, occurs because the mind believes there is danger, even though there may be none in actuality. In a case in which there is no real peril, the individual remains still. And since the body has prepared for action but doesn’t act, the physiological changes bring about hyperventilation, dizziness, nausea and other common symptoms of anxiety. If this happens often, it can be detrimental to one’s physical well-being.
“That’s correct,” Martin responded, “but there are clearly times when that reaction is neither healthy nor useful.”
“Ah, but how am I to know if this is, or is not, one of those times?”
“By asking yourself some questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Like, in what way could I possibly pose a threat to you?”
“You have never heard of doctors injuring patients?”
“I have. But you speak as if I intend to hurt you.”
“Maybe you do, maybe you do not. Or maybe you simply don’t care and are just out for your own gain.”
“And what would that gain be?”
“Perhaps you derive satisfaction from uncovering things, like a voyeur? You will do whatever it takes to satisfy your own needs, regardless of how it impacts your patients.”
“Do you see me that way?”
Benoît hesitated. “Not really, but one can never know for certain.”
“I suppose one can’t, and that’s where trust comes in. It must be hard to trust in your world.”
“Yes, that is quite accurate.”
Martin glanced at his watch. It was always important to keep track of the remaining time in the session.
“Worried about the time?” Benoit snapped.
“It’s an unfortunate pitfall of the process that our time is limited,” Martin explained.
“And also beneficial, so I am told.” Benoît said.
Notwithstanding the derision, Martin appreciated Benoît’s understanding of how the time limitation can make the patient and therapist use the session more wisely. “You’re well informed,” he said.
“I try to be.”
chapter 23
Ashok Reddy sat across from Martin in the hospital cafeteria. The two had been there for a while, and Martin, practically wordless, had barely touched his lunch.
“Is something wrong, Marty?” Reddy asked.
“Why would you think that?”
“You are awfully quiet. And frankly, I have never seen you so disinterested in food.”
“I just have a lot on my mind.”
“Woman
problems?”
“Perhaps.”
“Same girl?”
Martin lifted his eyes and looked at his friend.
Reddy looked at his watch. “If my memory is correct, Marty, you requested this luncheon.”
Martin nodded.
“I even recall you saying you had something you needed to discuss.”
Another nod.
“Well, in case you were wondering, I do have a department to run, patients to see, a stock broker to call, just a few minor chores for the afternoon.”
“I’m sorry, Ashok.”
“Save your contrition for church, my friend. Or synagogue, or wherever it is you go these days. Just tell me what is on your mind.”
“That’s just it. I’m not quite sure.”
“Aha, so it’s one of those vague premonition-type things. You have a sense that something is not quite right, but you just cannot pin it down.”
“Exactly!”
“That isn’t so unusual, it happens to me all the time.”
“Me too, with patients. But not in my private life.”
“You forget, Marty, you have not had a private life for quite some time.”
Martin shrugged. “True.”
Reddy seemed to be contemplating. “Do you have a clue?”
“I know it’s something about her. At least I think it is. Don’t get me wrong, she really grabs me, but when I was looking around her place last night, something just didn’t feel right.”
“You were at her place? That seems rather fast.”
Martin smirked. “She cooked me dinner.”
“I can just imagine.”
“Ashok…”
“Yes. Sorry, Marty. Sometimes I just like to live vicariously.”
“You don’t need to. You have a perfect life.”
“Nothing’s perfect, my friend, but I will take it.”
The two men smiled at each other.
“Getting back to you,” Reddy continued. “Maybe you are just frightened about getting close to someone new. It is quite normal to feel that way in your circumstances.”
“I’ve thought about that. It’s true, I am scared, but I think I’m dealing with it. This is something else.”
“Well, Marty, everyone has secrets. I am sure she has a few. In time you will learn what you need to know.”
“You’re probably right. But I just had a sense that there was something else.” Martin thought for a moment. “I had a disturbing dream while I was there.”
“How did you manage to dream during dinner?”
Martin’s eyes told his friend to cut the sarcasm.
“Okay,” Reddy said. “Do you recall the details?”
“That’s just it. I can’t remember anything about the dream.”
“Then how do you know it was disturbing?”
“Because I woke up feeling troubled, even agitated.”
Reddy’s beeper sounded. He removed it from his waist, looked at it and said, “Shit! I am late for a meeting with the administration. I forgot all about it.” He looked at Martin apologetically.
“It’s fine. Go!”
“I’m really sorry, Marty. It is about budget nonsense, but I have to be there.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll catch each other later.”
They stood up, took their trays, and started toward the conveyer belt.
“You know, Marty, there are two things we could try.”
Martin looked at him curiously. “What’re you thinking?”
“Well, the first, and simplest, is for you to bring her by for dinner. Savitri’s quite eager to meet her, and I will have her sized up in no time.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll spare her the scrutiny for now.”
“Who said anything about scrutiny? She would just be meeting friends.”
“Yeah, sure. What’s your other idea?”
“Hypnosis.”
Martin stopped in his tracks and stared at Reddy. “Are you serious?”
“Sure. Why not? If I can get you in a good trance, there is no telling what we will uncover. I won’t even charge you.”
Martin looked like he was actually considering the idea.
“Why don’t you think on it,” Reddy said.
“I’ll do just that.”
chapter 24
Dan Gifford’s mind was in overdrive. He gulped his coffee, not realizing how hot it was until it was too late. It would be days before he would be able to taste his food again. “Are you sure?” he asked Bobby Marcus.
“I have this friend at the bureau, owes me a few favors,” Marcus explained. “That’s what he says.”
The information on Richard Schwartz was puzzling, but it definitely fit; Israeli agents in cahoots with one of the FBI’s foremost experts on Nazi war criminals. Only, what were they doing outside Martin Rosen’s office?
Gifford entertained the possibility that they could be after someone in a neighboring building or in one of the other apartments in Rosen’s building. Maybe a resident, guest, or even one of the professional tenants. The possibilities were plentiful.
Either way, Gifford realized that Schwartz was right; it really wasn’t his problem. He already had enough on his plate with the upcoming drug trial. Yet, having to keep all this from Rosen irked him. What if Rosen was somehow unwittingly involved, whether through another patient or in some other way?
Gifford was knee-deep in this thing. He couldn’t continue his therapy, business-as-usual, while keeping this a secret; he couldn’t divulge the secret either, until he knew it was safe to do so; and he couldn’t imagine quitting therapy, one of the few things in his life that was working. “You seem to have a lot of people owing you,” he said to Marcus.
They were sitting at their usual corner table in Starbucks. They spoke quietly beneath the noise of the crowd, assuring their privacy. “Don’t fret, Danny boy. You’ll join the club soon enough.”
“I’m already there. You’ve done a lot for me, Bobby. I don’t forget things like this.”
Marcus ignored the comment. He was uncomfortable with accolades from friends. “So, what do you want me to do next?”
Gifford weighed the question. It wouldn’t cause any harm to dig a little deeper, especially with Marcus doing the digging. Gifford trusted his instincts about Marcus, as he did about most things. Marcus was good, always covered his tracks well. It was highly unlikely the FBI would get wind of anything. “Do you think you could find out exactly what Schwartz is working on?”
“That’s a tall order, boss.”
“I know.”
The two friends looked at each other.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
chapter 25
Galit Stein sat nervously, wondering if the place she had chosen for her meeting with Richard Schwartz would make a difference. She wanted a frank discussion with her FBI compatriot, something that was generally impossible between people in their respective positions. Notwithstanding what they had in common, she and Schwartz worked for different governments with different agendas. They shared only what they needed to, and would easily turn on the other if circumstances necessitated. Her intention now was to try to get past that, to engage him, Jew-to-Jew.
She, Arik, and Kovi had spent the morning at the Israeli consulate, meeting with a member of the Israeli delegation to the UN, who was really the local Mossad commander, to update the mission’s status. She wondered if the commander had noticed some tension among the three agents, particularly between her and Arik. The commander had already known about the incident with Gifford from his own sources, leaving her to guess that the FBI and the consulate were somehow in contact. She was hoping that the meeting with Schwartz might short-circuit that line of communication.
The sanctuary of Congregation Emanu-El on Fift
h Avenue and 65th Street in New York City was open every day for tourists and those seeking a place to meditate. It was the world’s largest synagogue, erected in 1929 on the former site of the John Jacob Astor mansion. The Gothic sanctuary was massive, softly lit, and quiet. Galit was neither a religious nor particularly observant Jew, but she chose the synagogue because it was a place where Jews gathered in worship, a place with an ark containing sacred Torah scrolls, and perhaps in some intangible way, a place where God dwelt. It was a place she figured neither she nor Schwartz would be likely to lie, and a place where they might feel somewhat akin to each other. And it was far enough from the consulate, from the FBI’s New York headquarters, and from Long Island’s North Shore, for them to be on equal footing.
She sat at the end of a wooden pew toward the back of the sanctuary and looked at her watch. Schwartz was already twelve minutes late. She knew he would keep the appointment, because he had said he would. He must simply be caught in traffic or held up for some other reason, she told herself.
She looked at her surroundings and tried to remember the last time she’d been in a synagogue. It was probably when she was 15 or 16, before she had entered the army, she decided. The kibbutz was not a religious place, but it had a small synagogue for High Holidays and special occasions, such as bat mitzvahs, weddings and funerals. It was a funny thing, she thought, even the most secular Israelis celebrated the High Holidays, and the same was generally true of American Jews as well. She wondered if Martin Rosen cared about such things.
Her eyes scanned the sanctuary. There were only a few other visitors, all far enough away to permit complete privacy for her rendezvous with Schwartz. Sunshine crept in through the stained glass windows, casting multicolored rays of light across the room, and shadows of mysterious shapes on a far wall. She wondered if God was actually in this place, and thought back to the stories of the concentration camps that she had heard growing up. They had been as integral to her rearing as butter to bread. And they had shaped the essence of her being as nothing else. They had caused her to wonder if God could actually have been in those camps. Or anywhere.
A familiar voice broke her meditation. “Hello, Galit,” Schwartz said quietly as he took a seat next to her. “Strange place to request a meeting.” He looked around.
