Monday the Rabbi Took Off

by Harry Kemelman

  “I didn’t say they were his close friends.”

  “No, but you said he was friendly with them because he hadn’t been able to make friends with the Israeli or American students. So I could amend that and suggest that whether they were close or not, they were his only friends. Does that make it any better? All right. So it’s perfectly possible that one of his good friends, or one of his only friends, asks him to do a little favor for him. ‘Leave this box on the windowsill of my friend in One Mazel Tov Street, will you, Roy?’—That’s his name? Roy? Or maybe: ‘I’ve got to drop off something at the home of a friend of mine, Roy. How about walking down with me?’ And then when they get there, ‘Would you mind waiting on the street for a minute, Roy, and cough or whistle or something if someone comes along?’”

  “My son wouldn’t—”

  “Yeah, I know, your son wouldn’t do that kind of thing. Let me tell you, anybody’s son could, especially these days. I’m just suggesting possibilities, you understand. Well, if it were something like that, I’m not sure that much could be done. That is, if he’s guilty or has any connection with this, I don’t know if anything could be done except wait while they built a case and it came up in court. Then about all you could do would be to hire the best lawyer you could get. But if he is completely innocent, and they really have nothing on him except the coincidence of his having been there, maybe we can do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, we could pass the word along until it reaches the right party. Favors have been asked and favors have been done and you slip this one in as a favor in exchange.”

  “I see,” said Stedman. “And what do I do in the meantime?”

  “Not a damn thing. You just wait. Were you going back to Jerusalem tonight?”

  “Why, yes, I was planning to take the sherut and—”

  “Why not stick around for a day or two? Maybe I’ll have some news for you.”

  Stedman nodded.

  “Oh, and, Dan, a suggestion: If and when we get this cleared up, it might not be a bad idea if your son went back to the States as soon as he gets his passport.”

  Stedman looked over in surprise. “But why?”

  “You can’t always tell about these things,” Donahue said. “Sometimes there’s more than one person involved, and not everybody gets the message at the same time. Besides, your son’s evidently got off on the wrong foot. He came here to find something and so far obviously hasn’t succeeded. There’s no reason to believe that if he stays on for the rest of the year, he’ll do any better.”

  “I hate to take him out of school, right in the middle of the year,” Dan said. He thought a moment. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “And, Dan—”

  “Yes?”

  “Look out for yourself. Be careful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Donahue hesitated. “Well, all Intelligence services are suspicious, not to say downright paranoid. They might get to thinking that a youngster like your kid might be acting on instructions from his dad.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  A doumi would never actually send for Ish-Kosher; instead, from his dusty little office on the third floor he would phone the inspector.

  “Chaim? Avner. Are you busy?”

  And even though he was doing nothing more important than reading the newspaper, Ish-Kosher would say, “Well, right now, Avner, I’m kind of tied up. But in five or ten minutes….”

  “I’d like to see you for a few minutes. Shall I come down?”

  “Perhaps I’d better come up to your place. We’re less likely to be disturbed. I’ll be along as soon as I can.” Then he would twiddle his thumbs until he had judged sufficient time had elapsed, and only then, gathering up his briefcase, would he march down the corridor, not hurrying because that would not be in keeping with his status as inspector, but walking purposefully, then up a flight of stairs to a crossover to the next building, and again a long corridor and another flight of stairs. Then he would stop to draw several deep breaths to compose himself after his exertion, after which he would casually saunter down the short corridor to Adoumi’s office.

  He sat down, his briefcase on the floor between his legs. “Mrs. Adoumi is better, I trust.”

  Adoumi rotated a palm. “Like this, like that. Dr. Ben Ami wants her to go into Hadassah again for observation and some more tests. He’s going away for a month or more and wants to get her in before he leaves.”

  “For a month? A vacation? These doctors do very well for themselves.”

  “He’s supposed to be going to a medical convention in Geneva. Then on to another in Valparaiso. You know how these things work: They sign in, and so that means they’ve officially attended. And they can deduct it from their income tax. He’ll be going around the world because from Valparaiso it’s just as easy to go west as it is to go east. You and I are lucky if we can take a week off to go to Eilat. But Ben Ami is a good fellow and I don’t begrudge him.” He swept aside a folder to clear the top of the desk as if to invite Ish-Kosher to produce any papers he had. “Well, do you have anything?”

  Ish-Kosher drew a folder from his briefcase. “Just some routine stuff on the boy’s father. He was a foreign correspondent for one of the American TV networks up until recently. In fact, you may remember, he was their Middle East correspondent and stationed here before and during the Six-Day War. His Hebrew is pretty good. Right now, he’s living at the King David and doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything. The story is that he’s writing a book on opinion in Israel. He gets into a conversation with someone and makes a tape recording. He uses a concealed recorder and a lapel mike. According to the chambermaid, he’s got a number of tapes in his room, all neatly labeled.”

  “She’s one of yours?”

  “M-hm.”

  “Then arrange to have copies made of the tapes.”

  “All right. Oh, here’s something interesting: one of the tapes is labeled ‘Memavet.’”

  Adoumi shrugged his shoulders. “If the son’s story about buying a car is right, and I guess it is because the rabbi fellow confirmed it, then it’s probably just a recording of the meeting.” He looked off into space and murmured, “He goes around recording conversations, eh? When you think about it a bit, it’s a good cover. He can talk to anyone and claim he’s recording it for possible use in his book.”

  “You think he’s an agent? CIA?”

  “All those American correspondents are,” Adoumi said matter-of-factly. “If they’re not actually paid by the CIA, at least they swap information with them. Anything else on him?”

  Ish-Kosher shook his head. “Except that he’s gone to Tel Aviv for a couple of days. He called the hotel from there to ask if he’d got any calls and said he’d be at the Sheraton for a couple of days.”

  “At the Sheraton? That’s interesting.”

  “What’s interesting about it?”

  “Just that that’s where he went when he came to Israel. Instead of going direct to Jerusalem, he drove into Tel Aviv and registered at the Sheraton.”

  “You were having him watched?”

  Adoumi’s jaw dropped to make a slow, sly smile. “It was not him we were watching. There is a Rumanian dancer, the première danseuse of the Rumanian ballet troupe that played in Tel Aviv, Olga Ripescu. She is a Russian agent. It was she we were watching. Almost immediately after Stedman registered, she spotted him, and they were together for a while. What do you think of that?”

  “They could have known each other for some time. After all, these foreign correspondents get around.”

  “True, but it’s interesting. Now did you get anything on this rabbi fellow?”

  “Just what I told you after I questioned him,” Ish-Kosher said. “He seems harmless enough. He doesn’t do much of anything, just walks around the city, sometimes with Stedman, goes to the synagogue some mornings—”

  “And just happens to live at number Five Victory Street, which was the house to
which someone asked the civilian guard to direct him, the night a bomb went off in the next street,” Adoumi said dryly.

  “That could be just coincidence. It proves nothing.”

  “Ah, Chaim, you are a policeman. You think always in terms of proof, of what can be presented by the government lawyers in a court of law, a chain of evidence leading to a definite conclusion. But in Intelligence, where we are concerned with the safety of the state, we can’t afford the luxury of absolute proof. We look for a pattern, or some oddity, or better still, a pattern of oddities.” He tapped a stubby forefinger on the desktop.

  “What do you call an oddity in this case?”

  “Chaim, Chaim, it’s full of oddities. Take any one of the people we are concerned with. Every one of them shows anything but normal behavior. Start with Stedman. He arrives in Israel, and instead of going directly to Jerusalem, where his son is, he goes to Tel Aviv for a couple of days first.”

  “But he has friends there—”

  “It can be explained, of course, but it’s still a little odd where he hasn’t seen his son for some time. He could always run down to Tel Aviv afterward. It’s even odd that he was not met at the plane by his son. But on top of that, one of the first persons he meets in Tel Aviv is Ripescu, a known agent. Now that’s odd. But it doesn’t end there. He comes to Jerusalem, and he is engaged in an odd occupation, which could serve as a cover. It enables him to talk to anyone in seeming innocence. No meeting in special places, no whispered remarks in passing, but all open and aboveboard. If we confronted him and asked him why he was talking to someone we happened to be watching, he merely points out it’s his normal method of gathering material.”

  “But look here, if some intelligence were passed to him, it would be right there on tape as proof against him.”

  “Come, Chaim, I wouldn’t expect him to be that simple. If it were dangerous information, he would simply wipe the tape. Conceivably, if he were confronted on the street by one of our men, he could wipe the tape right then and there with one hand in his pocket while our man was holding him by the arm. Believe me, it has excellent possibilities—this writing a book based on street conversations. Has it occurred to you, Chaim, that he might have been the one who approached the civilian guard to ask for number Five Victory Street, in which case we would have still another oddity.”

  “It’s possible. That we might be able to check out. We could get hold of the civilian guard and bring him down to the King David.” Ish-Kosher seemed pleased at the prospect of a definite assignment.

  “It might be worth trying,” said Adoumi. “But let’s go on. We next run across him in connection with Memavet. And the very evening of the day he goes to see him, Memavet’s apartment is bombed. Now, that’s damn odd.”

  “It’s certainly an interesting coincidence, especially if he was the one who spoke to the civilian guard, because that would connect him with both bombings.”

  Adoumi went right on. “And now, the most interesting oddity: He is the father of Roy Stedman, who was not only present at the right time for the Memavet bombing, but who is friends with Abdul El Khaldi, who is someone in whom we have been interested for a long time.”

  “Have you ever brought him in for questioning?”

  Adoumi shook his head. “No, he’s an intellectual. We treat these Arab intellectuals with kid gloves, especially if they are students at the university. That’s government policy, and insofar as it’s feasible, we respect it. Now let’s go on. I’ve already mentioned that it is odd that Roy didn’t go to meet his father’s plane. And it’s odd that a Jewish boy should be so friendly with the Arabs. But take the two together, father and son, and there you come up with another oddity. We pull the boy’s passport, and instead of doing the normal thing, making representations to the consulate, they do nothing—just sit and wait for it to come in by mail. Let’s assume that the boy doesn’t know any better, but his father certainly does. And then you have the rabbi—”

  “You are suspicious of him, too?” asked the inspector.

  “He lives one street away from where the first bombing occurred, and it occurred the very night he arrived in the city. Coincidence? All right. But someone who could have placed that bomb inquired about the location of the house where our rabbi lives. Coincidence? Perhaps. Finally, he becomes friends with the Stedmans and goes with them to buy a car from a man who is subsequently killed in a bomb explosion, that very night. And this on the Sabbath; a rabbi to go to a business conference on the Sabbath? Coincidence? Well maybe, but to me, it looks like a pattern.”

  “Still—”

  “It’s a chain, Chaim. Don’t you see it?” He held up a large hand and ticked off the links on stubby fingers. “Ripescu, a known agent, the older Stedman, the younger Stedman, Abdul, an Arab we suspect. And Rabbi Small somewhere in the middle as one of the connecting links.”

  “It’s interesting,” Ish-Kosher admitted, “and odd, and there seems to be a pattern of sorts, but there’s nothing there that I can take action on.” He seemed disappointed.

  Again Adoumi displayed his slow, sly smile. “You couldn’t, but I could.”

  “You mean you’d go ahead and—”

  Adoumi shook his head regretfully. “Not yet. I don’t really have enough. But if Stedman were the man who was wandering around looking for Victory Street, that would help a little. There’s also the note that young Stedman left in Memavet’s mailbox.”

  “What about it?”

  “You remember how it read: ‘I came back as I promised.’ That could mean just what he said it meant. But there’s a chance that it might mean something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” said Adoumi, “suppose he’d had dealings with Memavet before, and there had been some trouble and he had said, ‘Look, I’m not forgetting this. I’ll be back!’”

  “But before you were sure that Memavet was killed by accident, by the terrorists and that they probably had nothing against him personally.”

  “True, but in the light of what we know now, it could be that Memavet was killed because someone wanted him killed. It might be worthwhile checking through his business records a little more carefully, going back as far as you can, questioning the people at the shop, perhaps.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Ish-Kosher purposefully.

  “That would give us a motive, you see.”

  “I understand. And that would do it for you?”

  “That plus a lot of checking among my own people,” said Adoumi. “In this crazy business you never can tell what you’re liable to run up against. These people could all be agents and yet in some crazy way working for us. I’d have to check it out.”

  “I see.” Ish-Kosher nodded sympathetically.

  The two sat in silence for a while, and Ish-Kosher wondered if their meeting was at an end. Then he remembered that Adoumi had said he wanted to see him about something. “Did you just want to talk it out, Avner?” he asked. “Or did you have something special to tell me?”

  “There was something. I have received word that the Americans would consider it a favor if we did not interfere with the Stedmans, father and son, leaving the country. That’s what Stedman went to Tel Aviv for, to arrange to have this favor asked.”

  Ish-Kosher was surprised. “You mean he went to protest to the embassy?”

  “Oh, not protest. That’s too strong a word. He spoke to someone who passed the word to one of our people—”

  “Let me understand this, Avner,” the inspector said carefully. “You mean if we come up with proof that Roy Stedman murdered Memavet, the Americans would want us to drop the case against him?”

  “Oh, no. If we had proof that he had broken one of our laws, they would not think of trying to beg him off. It’s just that if all we have is a pattern that might lead to proof eventually, but right now is nothing but a pattern—you understand.”

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Ish-Kosher.

  “Your people might come u
p with something, but it would probably take some time. And we can’t just go on keeping these people on ice. Right now, the situation is essentially static. Maybe if they started acting up….”

  “And if they don’t? Do I just send Stedman’s passport back with a note saying I’m sorry if I caused him any inconvenience?”

  “I was thinking maybe we could nudge them a little.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” said Adoumi, “suppose we put a little pressure on one end of the chain. It might cause reactions all along its length. We can’t at the Ripescu end because she’s gone. But how about the Abdul end. One of their group is a girl named Leila M’zsoumi. Now suppose a couple of your men were to pick her up….”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-NINE

  As Rabbi Hugo Deutch, still in pajamas and bathrobe, went to the stove to pour himself a second cup of coffee, his wife, still in nightgown and housecoat, said anxiously, “Hadn’t you better get dressed, dear? You don’t want to be late for the board meeting.”

  “I’m not going. It was suggested that I stay away today. I gather that they’re going to discuss the question of my staying on here. So I decided to take a holiday and pass up the minyan as well.”

  “Then why don’t we take our coffee out on the porch? It looks lovely and warm out. Smell that air!” She opened the porch door and stood on the threshold, coffee cup in hand.

  “It’s an offshore breeze. We’re getting the smell of the ocean.”

  “Spring in New England, Hugo—I never enjoyed it so much before.”

  “Well, Darlington is a factory town and spring breezes there were apt to be frill of smoke and that sulfur smell—remember?”

  “Mm. Oh, I’m glad, Hugo, that we’re going to stay. I was afraid you were going to be stuffy about it.”