THRILLER: The Galilee Plot: (International Biological Terror, The Mossad, and... A Self-contended Couple)

by Shlomo Kalo

  “If Jews have different D.N.A., it should be possible to cultivate a micro-organism that will adapt and become dependent on the D.N.A. of Jews only. And if this micro-organism is malignant, it will attack and kill Jews. Only Jews. If the Germans had been a bit smarter, they wouldn’t have needed all those cumbersome camps of theirs…”

  “That really is a diabolical idea!” I couldn’t resist responding.

  He was silent.

  “And you’re going to try this?”

  “Perhaps this is my mission on the earth!” he declared.

  “A diabolical mission!” I exclaimed.

  “That’s a kind of mission too,” he replied, sticking to his guns and making no attempt at compromise. And without hesitation he began setting out his plan before me.

  It was based on the adaptation of Rickettsia rickettsii, the micro-organism that causes Rocky Mountain spotted fever, which has the same rate of lethality, i.e. 90%, as P. Pestis itself, the bacterium which apparently caused serious plagues in the Middle Ages and succeeding years and exterminated a third of the world’s population at that time, except that the micro-organism in those days did not adapt and did not acquire a dependence on particular D.N.A.

  “This time it will be different,” Amin assured me as if donning the cloak of a comforter.

  “It’s going to cost you a fortune, doing that.”

  “My benefactors are prepared to invest however much is needed.”

  “Some benefactors!” I tried to inject a note of sarcasm into my reply, but I doubt I even managed mild scorn.

  It occurred to me that if I were to go into the kitchen, choose a sharp and long-bladed knife and plunge it into Amin’s heart, I might perhaps prevent disaster befalling the people among whom, by the will of fate, I was numbered. A patriot? I didn’t see myself as a patriot. And however strange it may sound – I felt concerned for this idiot, Amin Abu Halil, who would be remembered as an eternal disgrace both among his own people and his “benefactors”.

  “You’re taking on yourself something that will bring grief to you, to the whole of humanity and most important of all, bring grief to your own people, that you’re so proud of,” I said everything that was in my heart and felt relief as the idea of the long and sharp-bladed knife from the kitchen passed out of my consciousness.

  And perhaps, I’m not flesh and blood and spirit and heart, animated by honour and a sense of responsibility, but just a little coward.

  Amin Abu Halil rose from his seat, held out his bony hand to me, something he didn’t do often, if at all. I shook the outstretched hand and he surprised me yet again, saying in pure Hebrew: “Shalom!”

  I echoed him: “Shalom!”

  He added in English: “I’m leaving now. It’s been nice knowing you.”

  “For me too,” I answered him.

  And that was how we parted.

  The report in the paper was as follows:

  The new, integrated village of Hasda caused a worldwide sensation in its time, and perhaps also encouraged dreams of peace and an end to violence and hatred between Jews and Arabs. It was established, unlike anything that had gone before, on an Arab initiative, with Saudi support, both overt and covert, as an experiment in shared living between Jews and Arabs. Ten young families, most of them offspring of the Peace Now movement, on the extreme Left of Israeli politics, came to live there. Each family was given a house and a large patch of land, which they were obliged to cultivate and cherish, among the similar houses and gardens of the Arabs. At first nothing special was heard about the practical development of the place, and there was a general feeling that “no news is good news”.

  A few years before the foundation of the village of Hasda, a settlement known as Neve Shalom or “Groves of Peace” had been set up by Father Bruno, a Catholic monk, with financial support from American and other Jews, on land owned by the Trappist monastery of Latrun. The monk wanted to unite the three monotheistic religions. He worked day and night, travelled to countries all over the world, preached sermons, delivered impassioned speeches, clarified specific points, showed maps and plans for the construction of a multi-faith university, which would unite once and for all, from a religious and spiritual perspective, believers in the three monotheistic religions.

  On a bare hillside buildings were erected and allocated to Jews, Arabs and Maronite Christians. The whole enterprise soon collapsed, and services in the mosque, the synagogue and the church no longer took place, and were not attended by visitors from all over the world, as Father Bruno had hoped and believed.

  “Groves of Peace” died the kiss of death. No one mourned it. The zealous Father Bruno, a convert from Judaism of French origin, died along with the great project to which he had dedicated the rest of his life. If I’m not mistaken, he is buried on the crest of the hill. His rotting bones are all that remain of the brave dream.

  Chapter Four

  At eight in the morning, Swiss time, there was a call from reception. My wife took the call, heard whatever she heard, turned to me and announced: “Someone called Shmulik Landau from Israel wants to talk to you. The subject, he says, is urgent and pressing, from any angle.”

  I picked up the receiver.

  “Who is this?”

  “Shmulik. Shmulik Landau. The sergeant-major on the manoeuvres in Ze’elim, about ten years ago. You still don’t remember?”

  “I remember!” I answered him.

  “We need you, urgently. I’m sure you’ve read the paper.”

  “I’ve read it,” I confirmed.

  “When are we going to see you here?”

  “In about a month. To be more precise, twenty-eight days.”

  “I don’t think you’ve understood what I’m saying,” he responded, adding, “We need you urgently!”

  “Who’s this ‘we’?”

  “Your homeland… Incidentally, that song you composed, King’s Bride, is something unique, it isn’t so much a song as a hymn.”

  “A hymn to the brotherhood of the new Israel!” I filled it in for him.

  “As for the singer, your wife has excelled herself with the new song: she’s proved that it’s still possible to reach astonishing heights. If you’re sincere in your creations and steadfast in what you’re conveying to your readers and listeners, you must leave Switzerland at once and stand alongside us…”

  “Who exactly is this ‘us’?” I pressed him further.

  “Don’t play the innocent,” he replied, “you know what I’m involved with.”

  “I know,” I answered him. I sensed my voice dropping, and he noticed this. I had no desire to make him plead.

  “So what’s stopping you coming and playing your part, however modest it may be, in solving the big problem that has been created… I’m sure you remember what you told us back then… during the manoeuvres…”

  I remembered, but I saw no reason to bring up the subject again and think it through…

  “I have obligations,” I retorted.

  “To whom?” my interlocutor wasn’t giving up that easily. A metallic voice, of someone used to giving commands and not getting evasive answers.

  “My wife,” I replied, firmly.

  “Your wife will be left by herself for just two days. You’ll come here and go back. At the expense of the homeland and for its sake. Explain it to her. I haven’t a shadow of a doubt she’ll understand, and realise straightaway that you’re trying to evade your responsibilities and in fact you’re turning into a defeatist, a typical Diaspora Jew…” He tried insults as a way of undermining my stance but it wasn’t working. I was too experienced to fall for that.

  “It’s out of the question,” I declared, knowing how much this would annoy him.

  “Is that your last word?” In the question there was a warning, a threat, pressure, and a demonstration of total lack of consideration, which was perfectly understandable and, no more and no less – justified. This made me angry.

  “That is my last word.”

  “If t
hat’s the case,” Shmulik declared, “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

  “You don’t know where I am.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m not revealing my whereabouts, on principle,” I replied.

  “A fine principle,” he told me approvingly. “You stick to it. But I’ll find you. Don’t be ridiculous. How do you think I got to you, and I’m speaking to you now? Sleep well tonight and I’ll be seeing you.” End of conversation.

  My wife was burning with a curiosity that was not to be doused until she heard all she wanted to hear, demanded to hear in fact, a silent, stern demand that could not be resisted, willingly or unwillingly, consciously or otherwise.

  About ten years ago, I began telling the story, I took part in manoeuvres, as director of a laboratory in a field hospital. We set up the hospital in the desert of Ze’elim. And when I say ‘we set it up’ you have to understand it literally. The whole team was involved, everyone from the hospital director, a world-famous expert in brain surgery, through all the medical staff, doctors, nurses, orderlies, the duty chemist and your husband too, down to the last of the stretcher carriers. We erected huge tents, crammed in beds, which were nothing more than stretchers on trestles. I had to set up the laboratory tent myself, with minimal assistance. I took delivery of a heavy chest, made of wood and containing all the equipment and materials needed for the lab. Then we were told that the sergeant-major in charge of the hospital was intent on doing everything to ensure the success of the exercise, meaning, he would allow no officer, medical or otherwise, to sleep on the stretchers; they were expected to sleep on the solid ground of the desert, with no mattresses or anything resembling mattresses. It was clearly explained that the hospital sergeant-major was a young man, of very rigid personality and with experience of imposing order and discipline, who had proved himself in difficult situations, baulked at nothing and without a shadow of doubt, was liable to pounce on the most minor of infractions. Rumour had it, it wasn’t worth tangling with this sergeant-major from any point of view.

  This was not to my liking at all. Night came down. The signal was given. And all the personnel of the field hospital were required to bed down on the rocky ground of the Ze’elim desert. I sat in the lab tent, for which I was responsible. I lay down on the box of equipment and materials, and waited for the sergeant-major to arrive. Time crawled at the speed of a snail crossing dry ground. I stood up and went wandering around among the other tents, peered into the biggest tent where the doctors, in spite of the stern warnings, were lying down in the places reserved for theoretical patients. And then I saw a tall, erect young man, with an athletic build and an air of unassailable self-confidence, coming in by the other entrance to the tent. He approached the doctor closest to that entrance, leaned over him, asked his name and with the utmost civility, commanded him to get down immediately and lie on the ground… The doctor tried to say something, the charismatic young man simply repeated the word “immediately!” with dryness sharp as a scalpel and the doctor obeyed. So he went from doctor to doctor and soon had them all down on the ground.

  I left the tent and the degrading treatment of those officer-doctors, humiliated before my eyes by that impertinent, ignorant young man, who had no sense of decorum whatsoever.

  He came to the lab tent and found the acting director lying prone on the box of equipment and materials, which was locked and bolted.

  “Get down from that box at once!” – his metallic voice cut through the stuffy air in that small tent.

  “Who are you, Sir?” I asked him innocently.

  “Sergeant-Major Shmuel Landau.”

  “Pleased to meet you!” I responded, told him my name and added, “Director of the laboratory.”

  “Please doctor,” the energetic young man promoted me in the interests of achieving his objective, “tomorrow you can hand over the equipment, and the day after you can go home,” – encouraging, logical statements, saying clearly, don’t start getting awkward with me in the last few days of your reserve service, you’re a sensible man! Please be so kind as to get down off the box and lie on the ground like all your colleagues!

  “With pleasure, esteemed Sergeant-Major, Shmuel Landau, on one explicit condition – you sign the transfer chit for me here and now, and take full responsibility for the contents of this box, which include precious and delicate items such as microscopes, as well as substances which junkies would be only too glad to get their hands on and consume. I’m sure you’re aware that among the stretcher bearers there are at least five known drug addicts, currently in rehab. Are you prepared to sign for all this?”

  A broad, bright, surprising smile spread over the intense, intelligent face and loosened the habitually tight lips, and Sergeant-Major Shmuel left the lab tent. So I slept on the box that night and the nights that followed. My back was not scratched by the sharp stones of the desert. In the morning, Shmuel visited me again, and went on visiting. From the 96% proof alcohol that was freely available, and fresh lemon juice, I mixed a superior cocktail; the hospital personnel, especially the doctors and some of the admin officers, used to come and plead for a glass. So we began gathering, without any prior intention, in the tent assigned to me. And everyone would talk of his experiences to those seated around, while sipping the potent, natural liquor, which guaranteed, after the third glass, the absolute separation from his surroundings that everyone longed for. On one such occasion I mentioned my friendship with Amin Abu Halil and his ingenious idea, a way of putting an end to the Jewish race by means of pure microbiology, an elegant and economical process. The listeners, Shmulik among them, were stunned, and two litres of booze disappeared among them without anyone noticing. It seemed Sergeant-Major Shmulik remembered that strange story he heard from me some years before, when he read, as I did, the newspaper story, and tied up the loose ends.

  Incidentally, a persistent rumour held that Shmulik had been transferred to counter-intelligence services, and everyone who heard this and knew anything of him, had not the slightest doubt that in view of his determination, acute intellect and other similar qualities – this was the right place for him.

  The next day, early in the morning, there was a call from hotel reception: a man called Shmulik Landau was demanding to see me urgently, and I knew how justified this demand was. He was waiting for me in the hotel lobby and wasn’t going to budge from there until I had been kind enough to go down and see him.

  My reply was positive. I dressed, washed my face and hurried down to reception, where a surprise awaited me. In one of the armchairs, with its friendly beige upholstery, sat a man who could definitely be described as handsome, in a grey tailored suit. He rose to meet me, looking every inch the English gentleman.

  “Your weekend leave has been cancelled!” he declared in his limpid, typically sharp voice, and saw fit to explain: “You haven’t shaved!”

  “Sergeant-Major Landau!” I responded in the same tone. “You said you wanted to see me urgently.”

  “There’s always time to shave. Consider yourself confined to barracks, as of this moment.”

  I invited him into the hotel restaurant. He asked for coffee. I ordered decaffeinated for myself.

  “High blood pressure?” asked Shmulik.

  “Just the way I prefer it,” I answered him.

  “You’ve read the papers?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sure you can shed some light on the case. And you can tell us about the guy who came up with the idea, Amin Abu Halil – your friend from way back.”

  I nodded again.

  “First things first, and last things last,” I began and detected a hint of tension in the muscles of the long face, a face radiating knowledge and confidence and so it seemed, under strict control, and this reassured me. “As for the disease itself, I can tell you exactly what’s involved.”

  From some hidden pocket he drew out a thick notebook with a tiny ballpoint pen attached to the side. He opened the notebook, and sat pen in hand, ready to rec
ord: “It’s a disease popularly known in English as Rocky Mountain spotted fever.” He made a careful note of this and I added frankly: “I’m sorry to say, there is no cure for it. The mortality rate is very high – 90%,” I told him, and he wrote this down too. “It’s important to keep up the strength of patients affected by it – vitamins, fluids, strict personal hygiene. The cause: Rickettsia rickettsii, a bacterium transmitted by the ticks that infest animals. Doctors will no doubt be rushing to consult their textbooks, and with a bit of luck, it may be some antidote has been developed, since the time when the disease was revealed and correctly diagnosed.”

  He wrote it all down.

  “As for Amin Abu Halil, we were friends, close friends, you could say. He has an obsessive idea, he wants to finish off the job that Hitler started and if he’s been successful – as the reports in the media suggest – there’s hardly anything that can be done to stop him.”

  “We want you to talk to him, probe, find out how far things have gone. We’ve tracked him down, and he’s living in Berlin, Humboldt Strasse, number 19. He’s married to a German woman, Hilda, granddaughter of a Nazi general, who committed suicide along with Hitler when the Reich collapsed. We’re sending you there at our expense, flying business class, five star hotel…”

  “I’ll do it with pleasure,” I answered him, “as soon as my holiday is over, in about three weeks from now… as I told you. I shall shoulder my responsibilities.”

  “Is your wife upstairs?” – he arched a thick eyebrow towards the ceiling.

  I nodded.

  “Let me talk to her for a quarter of an hour.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “She’ll feel pressurised. Three weeks from now – I’ll be all yours.”

  He sipped his coffee and I sipped mine, which had gone cold.