Emma poked him in the ribs. “Haven’t you learned anything from this ordeal? You can’t work all the time!”
Habash’s face grew serious. “Emma, I don’t think Shimshon would like this very much.”
Her puzzlement showed on her face. “What? Why not?”
Habash began to explain. “I was concerned about the differences between us, our religious differences, but I am not the only one in this country who feels that way. Shimshon does not like it when Jews date Arabs. I can tell.”
At that moment the front door swung open. Habash immediately withdrew his arms from around Emma, and Shimshon stepped between them. Placing a protective arm around her shoulders, Shimshon guided Emma into the apartment.
Emma sputtered in surprise. “Habash! I’ll see you tomorrow,” she called out as Shimshon shut the door—politely but firmly—in Habash’s face.
XXXVIII
Dennis Savage
SAVAGE AGREED TO TALK with Rendi about football protocol on the condition that they meet for drinks. Rendi was happy to oblige him; they hadn’t had a chance to spend time together as two old comrades since her arrival in Israel. But with Faisal’s acquittal and Emma’s return, Rendi felt as if an iron yoke had been removed from her shoulders. And she enjoyed this sort of work. Investigations always stimulated her; she felt important and alive and invincible.
It was midafternoon when she made her way to the coffee bar, which was a cross between a fancy English tearoom and an Arab café. It was nearly empty, as Rendi hoped it would be. She spotted Savage sitting alone at a corner table, sipping Turkish coffee. He was impossible to miss, with his blond hair and broad build. He looked like a former college football player somewhat beyond his playing years.
Rendi smiled as she saw him, approached his table, and kissed her good friend’s cheek before sitting.
“You look beautiful today,” Savage greeted her, with a teasing grin on his face.
“Cut the crap,” Rendi scolded mockingly as she sat in the chair Dennis held out for her. “They teach you at spy school to flatter your contacts. I’m not a contact. I’m an old friend—and a peer.”
Dennis’s smile widened. His teeth were perfectly straight and gleaming white. “I know that, but you do look great. Especially considering everything you’ve been through.” He squeezed her hand affectionately. “How is Emma doing? She must have gone through hell. I’ll be honest with you. That morning at Pal-Watch, when I realized what happened, I wrote her off as a goner.” A troubled look passed over his face.
“We didn’t,” Rendi said breezily. “I knew she was more valuable alive than dead.”
Dennis shrugged and stretched his long legs in front of him. His pose was one of casual strength. “By any rational calculation, sure. But these bastards don’t think rationally. They kill for fun.”
“As distinguished from us good guys, who kill only for truth and justice. Speaking of the good guys, what’s been the reaction to Faisal’s acquittal?”
Intensity sparkled in Dennis’s eyes. “Pandemonium. I think the American agencies were hoping Faisal would be found guilty so that this whole episode would go away. But now they’re being forced to investigate and are worried about what they’re going to find.”
“You mean, worried that if a foreign government is behind the attack, there’ll be serious, global consequences?”
“Exactly. They’re worried about war. You know how certain elements in the CIA are. They’re already agitated that this case has gone unsolved for so long, and now that there’s no solid suspect… well, public sentiment can be poked and prodded until the Americans are ready to duke it out with anyone. The Israelis wanted the fall guy to be found guilty because of his group’s connection to Iran. Everybody has a favorite ‘he done it.’ ”
Rendi remained thoughtful for a moment. “It sounds ridiculous to say, but I hope we discover that it was the work of a small fringe group.”
Dennis nodded and retained his casual posture. “So what would you like to know now?” he teased.
Rendi opened a menu, though she didn’t look at it for even a moment. “Now that the trial is over, Abe and Emma and I are asking the same question everyone else is: Whodunit?”
Dennis feigned shock. “Ah. You don’t expect me to share all of my intel with you, do you?” he asked.
Rendi folded the menu and laid it over her place setting. “I just need some general information that isn’t part of the current investigation, but rather from your past role as part of the presidential detail.” Her tone was lighthearted. Truth be told, she was enjoying the banter with Dennis. She didn’t always miss her spy days—there were many dangerous situations that she’d been lucky to live through, and at least one escape, thanks to Dennis. Going head-to-head with him always stimulated her intellect. He was one of her few contacts who would share information, though you might have to engage in a little gamesmanship to get it. After some back-and-forth, he’d tell her what she wanted to know; they had such a history together that Dennis trusted her to keep secrets, even from those closest to her.
Another truth Rendi couldn’t deny was that she was beginning to find the entire investigation, in a word, fun. Especially since Emma’s life was no longer at stake. She felt a twinge of guilt over enjoying the investigation of so tragic an event that had taken so many lives.
“I was the head of the detail,” Savage proudly reminded Rendi. “I can only give you generalities. Nothing specific to this investigation.”
“Right.” Rendi batted her eyelashes at him, and he laughed. Rendi had always easily flirted with men like Dennis, men who were as cunning and lethal as they were smart and patriotic. “Who has access to the football?”
Dennis took her question in stride. He answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world for someone to inquire about the location of the American nuclear codes. “The president, of course.”
Rendi nodded. “Who else? Are there technicians? Cryptographers? Anyone else?”
Dennis sat back up in his chair, crossing his long legs and quickly surveying the room while he drank. He was making sure nobody was listening to them. “Why are you interested in the football?” he asked casually. “It wasn’t a nuclear explosion. The football wasn’t involved.”
“I can’t tell you, but I need to know who had access to it.”
“Silence begets silence,” Savage said, smiling as he made the gesture for zipping his lips.
“All right, you win. If I tell you why we’re interested in the football, will you stretch the definition of ‘generalities’ a bit?”
“Deal. Your turn.”
Rendi leaned in. “We think the bomb may have been planted there.”
There had been intensity in Dennis’s expression, but as soon as Rendi spoke, it disappeared. He smiled broadly. “No way.” When Rendi didn’t laugh along with him, he regained his serious mien. “Rendi, it’s not big enough to hold such a powerful bomb.” As he said this, he folded his hands together and placed them in his lap.
“Would you like some more classified info?” she asked playfully, though seriously.
“Yes, please.” He leaned forward, anxious to hear what she had to tell him.
“The explosion was caused by a special type of plastique that gets more bang for the buck than anything previously used. And surely you would know that President Moore’s football was somewhat bigger than previous ones.”
Dennis was deep in thought for a moment. “Do you know where the plastique came from? Was it American?”
Rendi shrugged. “We don’t know. Anybody could have developed it: the Iranians, the Russians, the Chinese, the Pakistanis—any of them. It’s not rocket science. Well, actually it is. It uses material developed in rocket and space engineering. The Israelis think it may have come from Iran.”
“The Israelis would think that—or at least want us to think that. But we need more than thinking. We need proof.”
“Do you have any?”
“Not yet, b
ut you think the bomb was in the football because the football was big enough to hold it?”
“That’s not all. There’s the forensics,” Rendi answered vaguely.
“We’ve seen the forensics, too,” Savage said thoughtfully. “No one I work with thinks it was in the football.”
“Maybe we’re just better than you,” she teased.
“Maybe.” He made a gesture implying he was tipping his cap to her.
“Okay, I showed you mine. Now show me yours.”
“Okay.” Dennis shook his head slightly, as if to clear his thoughts from the placement of the bomb. “The cryptographers never get near the football. Everything they do is remote.”
“What about the guy who carries it around?”
“Poor Glenn.” Dennis’s voice became laced with sadness as he spoke about his fallen comrade. “Glenn Young. Mormon guy. Carried it for years before being blown to bits along with everyone else. Straight and loyal as they come. A real patriot.”
Rendi hadn’t expected to hear anything less. As she’d told Abe, the Secret Service’s screening process was intense. It was unlikely that whoever held the football would have tampered with it. “Who else in addition to Young had access?”
“Roger Blakely is the name of Glenn’s shadow. The guy who did the other shift. The ‘quarterback’—that’s what we call the guy who holds the football—works in two shifts, not the usual three,” Dennis explained. “Twelve hours each.”
“Where was this Roger Blakely when the bomb went off?”
“At the movies.” Dennis shook his head, placing his clasped hands in his lap. “He’s back in the States, with posttraumatic stress. He’s not your man either. He’s a born-again evangelical Christian and used to pray with the president. He’s devastated.”
Rendi leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. “You’re not helping.”
Dennis chuckled. “Yes I am. It’s the truth that isn’t helping. A bomb in the football is a long shot. Too long for me. Keep investigating. You’re not there yet.”
XXXIX
The “Talk” and the “Story”
EMMA FOLLOWED SHIMSHON into the Regels’ handsomely furnished living room. Mars and Zara played video games while Hanna cheered them on.
“What was that out there?” Emma demanded.
Shimshon sat next to Hanna and feigned innocence. “It’s late. I thought you should come inside.”
Emma turned to Shimshon and said bluntly, “You were rude to Habash.”
Shimshon exhaled wearily. “Zara, Mars, go upstairs.”
After two minutes of protests, the children left the room with Hanna. Shimshon sat forward and folded his hands. “Emma, I am looking out for you. Habash is a fine person, but he is different from you—different background, different culture.”
“You mean he’s an Arab,” Emma said pointedly. In her mind she noted that Shimshon had not mentioned religion as a difference.
“Yes,” Shimshon insisted, “because he’s Arab and this is Israel, where Arabs and Jews are in constant conflict.”
Emma had sensed that Shimshon seemed uncomfortable with Habash, and she surmised the reason, but she was shocked at his directness. She couldn’t believe that she was hearing such open prejudice from a man like Shimshon—educated, kindly, and loving. “Shimshon!”
“Just listen. I know you think it isn’t a problem, but it is. It is not easy for people of different backgrounds to marry.”
Emma’s frustration got the best of her. “Why does everyone mention marriage? We’re just dating.”
Shimshon’s face went white. “That is not a good idea. Especially in the Middle East.”
Emma stood angrily. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m an adult and I can date whomever I choose.”
“Yes, you can, and no one could stop you. But there’s a reason that interfaith marriage and dating are so much more common in your country than in mine. It’s not about religion alone. We’re not particularly religious people on the whole. We are at war, and there are issues of loyalty and trust.”
Emma thought for a moment, and then she blurted out, “You think Habash set me up, because both he and Adam—Mohammed—are Arab.”
“I must admit the thought crossed my mind when I first heard what happened, but I became convinced I was wrong when I saw how Habash reacted to your kidnapping. It’s clear that he really cares about you.”
“Then why are you so opposed to us dating?”
“Just sit,” he said gently. “Just sit and hear me out.”
What she wanted to do was to storm out of the house, but she wasn’t prone to such theatrics. Emma reminded herself that Shimshon was a good person who cared deeply about her, if maybe a little out of touch with the times. “Okay. I’ll listen.”
Shimshon smiled appreciatively. “Let me tell you what happened to our ancestor Avi when he fell in love with a woman from a different culture—a Sephardic woman named Rachel Mizrachi.”
“I’m not in love with anyone. We’re just dating,” Emma reminded Shimshon.
“That’s how it started with Avi, too—he was just taking Hebrew lessons from Rachel.”
“Then what happened?”
“As it turned out, Rachel was beautiful, smart, and very much engaged to another Sephardic Jew named Baruch.”
“Habash isn’t engaged to anyone,” Emma insisted.
“That was only part of the problem, as you’ll see.”
“Okay, so what happened?”
Shimshon returned to storytelling mode as he recounted the romantic history of his ancestor Avi Regel. He told Emma how Avi had fallen (again on one leg) for his Hebrew teacher Rachel and how Akiba had warned his friend about the dangers of falling for a Sephardic woman, especially one who was spoken for.
“These are a different kind of people than you’re used to. They’ll sooner cut your balls off you than argue with you if they think you’re messing with their traditions. And one of their traditions is arranged marriages to other Sephardim. You’re out of bounds—a goy as far as they’re concerned.”
But Avi didn’t listen to Akiba. Each week he made the trek to Jaffa for his lessons, and each week he fell more deeply in love with Rachel. To his mind the only obstacle was her fiancé, though Akiba cautioned that her family would never accept Avi. Avi didn’t understand or believe this.
It soon became clear to both Avi and Akiba that Rachel was keenly interested in her new pupil, more than just as a teacher. One day Avi suggested that they go to a restaurant for their next lesson. “You can teach me how to order in Hebrew,” he said with a wink.
“An engaged girl does not have lunch alone with a male student.”
But Avi won the argument by promising to bring Akiba. Rachel knew what a wicked girl she was being by letting him win the argument. She wanted to go to lunch with him.
The following day Avi, accompanied by his chaperone, met Rachel at a Jewish-owned fish restaurant on the Jaffa waterfront, appropriately named Jonah’s.
As soon as the waiter put down the plates, Avi started in. “This is a very nice restaurant. Does your fiancé bring you here?”
Rachel behaved as she always did. She pretended to be annoyed by his questions. “He doesn’t like restaurants and especially fish restaurants. He’s a couscous kind of guy. He loves his mother’s cooking. I prefer lighter food. But she hates when I leave anything over, so I have to hide it,” Rachel said, laughing.
“Where do you hide it?”
“In my purse—my very smelly purse.” She grinned.
Avi met her gaze, and her face grew warm. “What does your fiancé think of that?” he asked.
“I hide it from him, too.”
“Not a very good basis for a relationship,” Akiba interjected.
“Secrets are the basis of every good relationship,” Rachel mused, repeating something her mother and aunt said to each other often over tea.
“No, no, I don’t agree,” Avi insisted. “Secrets are poison. They creat
e distrust. No more secrets. When I have a relationship, there won’t be any secrets.”
“Big talker, you,” Rachel said, laughing. “Have you ever had a relationship?” She had been eager to learn the answer to this question.
“Not that kind,” Avi said quickly. “But I had a wonderful relationship with Naftuli, my younger brother. We had no secrets. I miss him so much.”
“That’s different. Brothers are different from fiancés. And so are friends,” she said, looking at Akiba. “If you had a girlfriend, you’d understand.”
“But I want my wife to be my best friend, my sister, my confidant—and my lover,” Avi said.
And then something in Rachel’s heart made her ask a very inappropriate question. “Do you have any secrets from me?”
Akiba’s fork clattered to the table. “Time to use the bathroom,” he said, abruptly getting up and bolting away from them.
Avi’s eyes grew serious. He moved forward in his chair. “Why would I? You’re just my teacher. No, I don’t.”
“I don’t believe you,” Rachel said, looking into his eyes.
Avi looked away.
“See, you do. I knew it. You’re a hypocrite, Avi.”
“ ‘Hypocrisy is the homage vice pays to virtue.’ ”
Something in Rachel snapped. Suddenly she had to hear him say what she suspected was true. That when he spoke of marrying a girl who would share his life, he was thinking of her. “You’re admitting it. What’s your secret? Are you afraid to tell me?”
“Yes, I am,” he admitted. “If I told you, then you would stop being my teacher.”
“You’re a coward on top of being a hypocrite. Not a great combination,” Rachel said with a smile. “But here’s what I propose. I promise that if you tell me your secret, I won’t stop being your teacher. But if you don’t, or if I think you’re lying, I won’t be your teacher.”
Avi sat glumly. Rachel felt as if she had just run a great distance. She could barely breathe. Avi looked over her shoulder, clearly hoping that Akiba was on his way back to the table. She could see him struggling with a decision. It was over, he thought. Nothing would ever be the same again, whatever answer he gave. If he revealed his secret, Rachel would be dishonored. If he lied, she would see through him. If he refused to answer, she would stop being his teacher. It was a trap. There was no escape. Avi wanted more than anything else to preserve what he had with Rachel. Her presence, her closeness, the banter, the flirtatiousness. He didn’t want less. He couldn’t bear having nothing. He couldn’t have more. He knew that. She knew that.
The Trials of Zion Page 19
