The Last Man

by P. T. Deutermann

  “As I mentioned when we first met on this, I think she is declining,” he said at last. “Spiritually, emotionally, I mean. She has never been an extrovert, but now she is almost a recluse. I actually think she is capable of suicide, except—”

  “Yes? Except?” Gulder was focusing very carefully. Be careful, Ellerstein told himself.

  “Except for a reservoir of anger,” he said. “She never did find out exactly what happened to her husband, you know. No one did, actually, according to her.”

  “With whom is she angry?” Gulder asked, toying with a lone pistachio nut.

  “‘Them,’” Ellerstein said. “The ‘government.’”

  Gulder nodded, sipped some mineral water, and pried the nut’s shell apart. Ellerstein waited, then gave up and concentrated on finishing his salad. After a while, Gulder spoke again. “I am a little surprised. This is the same government who has taken care of her since her husband died? That was partly your doing, was it not?”

  “Partly, yes. I had met them both. Dov Ressner was an idealist, who perhaps didn’t pick his political friends too carefully. By the time this happened I had moved to the university, so, yes, I spoke up for her. Although others must have helped as well.”

  “You perhaps had some high hopes, Yossi?”

  Ellerstein actually thought he saw a twinkle in Gulder’s eyes. A confirmed bachelor all his life, he waved the thought away. “She was a widow, for God’s sake. Vulnerable. Confused. Grieving. And, of course, beautiful. Every man who saw her wanted her—but not then, not under those circumstances.”

  “Well,” Gulder grunted, “others did help. Even she must have known that the government she’s so angry with had a hand in getting her that appointment to the university. Not that she wasn’t qualified, but there were other equally qualified candidates. And her widow’s pension—that of a soldier, not a civil servant—that was a government decision as well.”

  “She apparently has some money of her own,” Ellerstein said. “She lives in Rehavia, has her own car. One can’t manage that on an academic’s pay.”

  Gulder nodded. “Dov Ressner was a small pain in the government’s comfortably large ass, but he had done valuable work. The government did the right thing, despite his association with the antinuclear left. If she has strong feelings about escorting the American, someone should perhaps remind her of these things.”

  Ellerstein was somewhat surprised that Gulder knew so much about the Ressners. He tried a probe. “He died in some sort of accident at Dimona, as I understand it. He was a scientist, so I always assumed radiation. Something like that. Did you perhaps know him?”

  Gulder looked away for a moment before replying. “No, only through briefings,” he said, deflecting Ellerstein’s question. “There were not that many homegrown physicists in Israel back then. He was educated at the Weizmann Institute and in France. He got mixed up with some of that antiweapon, left-wing fringe crowd. You know, the LaBaG faction. People he’d probably met at university. Got into some kind of trouble, but then it was smoothed over. You know how that all works. The Dimona scientists all have protectsia.”

  “I guess I’m still a little bit confused about all this,” Ellerstein said. “There’s obviously something going on here…?”

  Gulder gave him a patronizing smile. “Yossi, let me tell you a little something. These are dangerous times for our country. More dangerous than perhaps many people right here in Israel are aware. The prime minister has been—alerted, yes, that’s the best word, I think. Alerted to something going on, something that frightens him.”

  “An attack?” Ellerstein asked. “The goddamned Arabs—”

  “No, not exactly, although that’s always possible. Hezbollah grows stronger every hour, thanks to the madman in Tehran, and Hamas is the legally elected government of the Palestinians. But look: I can’t say any more. Right now, I will ask you to just keep your nose in. Monitor this American’s little project. Keep an eye on Judith Ressner. Keep me informed. When the time comes, I will, if necessary, fold you into the situation. Hopefully, we are all wrong, and this other thing will just go away, and you can go back to your regular duties. Okay?”

  “As you wish, Gulder,” Ellerstein said immediately. His own bosses had warned him in no uncertain terms: Never cross Gulder. “But I’m not young anymore. I feel that I can do a better job when I know the parameters, yes?”

  Gulder nodded. “Certainly, but trust me here, knowing those parameters could put you in some genuine danger.” He stopped for a moment and pressed the button on his watch that turned the light on. Before Ellerstein could figure out why Gulder needed the light, four large and very fit men appeared from nowhere. The restaurant owner quickly hung up the phone and scuttled out of the dining room. Ellerstein recognized them as guards from the prime minister’s personal security detail.

  “See, Yossi?” Gulder said, getting up with some difficulty from the tight quarters of the booth. “Dangerous times. Even I need minders these days, yes? I will be in touch. And thank you, again.” He patted Ellerstein on the shoulder and left the restaurant, the guards closing in on him as he went out the door.

  Ellerstein could only stare, his supper forgotten. What the hell was this, he wondered. Was it about the American? Ressner? Or something bigger? He signaled the waiter for a second glass of wine, something he rarely did.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Judith Ressner, dressed in jeans and an oversized army sweater, saw a large black Mercedes with tinted windows nose to the curbside in front of her small apartment building. Rehavia was a quiet, if densely packed, upscale residential neighborhood, fifteen to twenty rush hour minutes away from the Hebrew University. The area consisted mostly of two- and three-story garden apartment buildings. The streets were very narrow, with hardly enough room for even small cars, so the Mercedes was effectively blocking the street. The trees were beginning to lose their leaves as fall approached. The breeze coming down from the university precincts was cooler than usual, reminding her that Jerusalem was built on high ground. As she watched the car, she could hear the sounds of neighborhood domestic life subsiding into the darkness: dogs barking somewhere down the block, a few radios playing through open windows, and the muted sounds of traffic from the Road One.

  A tall man, dressed all in black, even to his strange hat, got out of the car, carefully, as if in some pain. She fussed with her hair for a moment before heading for her front door. He had called her from the car twenty minutes ago. A Colonel Skuratov. That name was vaguely familiar. When he said he was an officer in the Shin Bet and the head of security at the Dimona laboratories, she had agreed to see him. Now she watched from behind a curtain as he walked up the steps to the building’s entrance and rang the bell for her apartment. She buzzed him through the front door as the big car backed quietly up the street to double-park near the corner, its yellow emergency lights flashing silently. She drew the curtains and waited, listening to him climbing the stairs slowly, an old man’s tread. Perhaps he had a heart condition. She had not been able to see his face, but that name—Skuratov. Definitely familiar. Stooped back, white hair, that hat. A homburg, that’s what it was. And Dimona. She experienced a slight feeling of dread, but the exact memory continued to elude her.

  She opened the door before he had time to knock, and then struggled to keep her expression composed when she saw his ruined face. That face. That night. He had been one of the men who had, who had—

  “Good evening,” he was saying, in a wheezing voice. “I am Colonel Malyuta Lukyanovitch Skuratov, Mrs. Ressner. We have met before. Under unfortunate circumstances.” He took small breaths between sentences, but there was nothing frail about those bright gray eyes gleaming from the scarred face.

  “Oh,” was all she could manage, standing in the doorway like a dummy. Staring, while not wanting to.

  “May I come in, please? It is late, but this will not take long. It concerns the American who wants to go to Metsadá.”

  “It doe
s?” she asked blankly, showing her confusion. Then she recovered her manners. “I’m so sorry, yes, come in.”

  God, yes, she remembered him. That worst of nights. There has been an accident. We regret to inform you. She stood aside, trying to drown out the memories. Her legs were actually trembling. The colonel walked by her, putting the homburg down on a small table by the door. If he noticed her discomfiture, he gave no sign. His clothes gave off a faintly medicinal scent.

  Recovering her composure somewhat, she asked if she could get him anything, tea, or coffee. She stood in the middle of the tiny living room, feeling totally lost. The old man found a chair that faced the sofa and sat down.

  “Thank you, no, Mrs. Ressner. Thank you also for seeing me at such short notice. Would you care to sit down, please?”

  She sat down on the edge of the sofa, knees and hands pressed together like a schoolgirl summoned to the principal’s office. Through the doorway to her right she could see her bedroom, an opened suitcase on the bed. She was suddenly embarrassed by the state of the living room, with the academic paperwork mess overflowing off her desk and onto the floor. She saw him glance at the computer on her desk.

  “They do not make a desk big enough for both my paperwork and the computer,” she offered apologetically. We regret to inform you. There has been a serious accident.

  “Nor for mine, Dr. Ressner. Our small country is beginning to drown in paperwork, I’m afraid. The ultimate sign of modernity.”

  She did not reply, choosing to look down at the floor instead, her mind still reeling with the memories. She waited for him to tell her why he was here. There was certainly no worse news he could bring her.

  “I wanted to speak to you briefly about this American you will be escorting to Metsadá this week.”

  “Really,” she said. “But why? What possible interest—?”

  He raised a hand to interrupt her. “As I told you, I am associated with internal state security, yes?”

  “I thought you were with security at Dimona.”

  He smiled sheepishly, as if caught out in a small lie. The smile deformed the scales of skin on his face. Part of it smiled, part of it did not. The effect did nothing to make his expression more reassuring.

  “Quite right. Yes. I said that because I thought you might remember our meeting. At that sad time, when you and I last met, I was a military security officer at the Negev laboratories. Now, I am the director.”

  “I see,” she replied, still baffled. Regret to inform you.

  “This American has come to Israel with a rather unusual request. Did you know that it was the Ministry of Foreign Affairs who prevailed upon the Interior and Education ministries to accommodate him?”

  She shook her head. Yossi had mentioned the ministry, but not which one. Foreign Affairs? There were so many ministries. “Why?” she asked.

  “I have no idea, Doctor Ressner,” Skuratov said. “Now that he has arrived, I wondered if you did?”

  She shook her head again. “My assignment as his minder came from my department chairman. Ministries are his province, not mine.”

  “Just so,” Skuratov said. “Well.” He paused again, as if to assemble enough air in his lungs to speak. “My interest is more direct, and has to do with Metsadá itself. You are an acknowledged expert on certain aspects of that site, but I wanted to remind you that it is a place of great reverence for the Israel Defense Forces. For the nation, as well.”

  “Yes, so I understand, Colonel,” she said.

  “I wish to make very sure that this—foreigner—does not have some hidden agenda, as the Americans say. Especially with all the stories of buried treasure out there in the caves along the Dead Sea.”

  She smiled for the first time and thought she saw him relax minutely.

  “Professional archaeologists the world over fear treasure hunters, Colonel; they often do incalculable damage to the ancient sites. I don’t think this man is a treasure hunter. More of a misguided amateur, with some very sophomoric ideas about the history of Metsadá.”

  “He is no scholar, then?”

  “Hardly. He says he is pursuing this visit to honor his girlfriend’s long-term dream to explore certain historical theories about the site.”

  “Go on, please.”

  She described what David had told the committee.

  “This woman—the girlfriend—she disappeared?”

  “So he says. I have the feeling he’s being a bit dramatic. She probably dumped him after he lost his job.”

  “What was her name, please?”

  She told him Adrian’s name and why Hall had lost his job.

  “He is a nuclear engineer?”

  She nodded.

  “Did these indiscretions have something to do with nuclear matters?”

  “I assume so,” she said. “The press reports were a bit vague.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I would say he is harmless, based on a very short acquaintance.”

  Skuratov nodded gravely. “I am glad to hear that,” he said. “Still, I want to emphasize that you are the single person who will be in a position to make sure he does not go astray, Doctor. The Defense Ministry is especially interested in seeing to it that he does nothing to dishonor that place.”

  “I appreciate the significance of Metsadá, Colonel, to the IDF and to all of Israel. I don’t understand why you of all people are talking to me about this trip. If IDF internal security is concerned, why don’t you put some of your own people on the matter?”

  He sat back and paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “The matter has been briefed. I mentioned to my superiors that I had met you, the designated minder, some time ago. I was asked to speak to you.” He stopped for a moment and wet his lips. “As with all government offices in these times of budget austerity, we do not have unlimited resources. It has been a long time since the last war, you see.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she remained quiet. He nodded a couple of times to himself, and then heaved himself painfully out of his chair, fishing a card out of his suit pocket.

  “I know this might seem a bit paranoid, but paranoia is our business, Professor Ressner. If you should become suspicious that he is not what he seems, or has intentions other than what he has told you and the university, would you be so kind as to please call me, right away, at the number on that card? My people can always find me, yes?”

  She stood up and took the card without looking at it. This wasn’t making much sense. Dimona and Masada? As he turned for the door, she remembered something. She stopped him.

  “Colonel Skuratov. I thought you were a scientist of some kind. That day. When you … when you came with Solomon Scheinfeldt to tell me about … Dov.”

  He picked up his homburg and unconsciously began to turn it around in his hands. She realized he was wearing gloves.

  “At that time, I suppose you could say I was a bit of both. I am a nuclear physicist by training, and now a policeman of sorts. The kinds of work done at Dimona, well, this was a useful combination. As you probably can understand.”

  She moved around him, toward the door, so that she could see his face better. He seemed to shrink into himself, as if not wanting to be stared at. “Are you aware, now,” she asked, “that I was never told what happened to Dov?” She surprised herself, bringing this up, but she was suddenly desperate to hear his answer. He had been one of “them,” the people in authority at Dimona.

  The colonel appeared to be momentarily embarrassed. He looked down at the floor for a few seconds before replying. “The authorities at Dimona assumed Dr. Dov Ressner’s full discretion, Professor. Necessarily we also assume that the spouse of everyone working there knows what Dimona is all about. Certain aspects of Israel’s nuclear energy program are Israel’s worst-kept secret, yes? I need not elaborate. What happened to your husband was an accident. An operational laboratory accident, with severe radiation consequences. There were two others who also died. Security was of cour
se involved, to determine if this had been an accident or deliberate sabotage. There are two more widows like you.”

  “Who are they?” she asked quickly, but he shook his head.

  “No, it is best that you don’t know that. The incident and the program in which it occurred were then and are now highly secret matters. Everyone involved was and remains sworn to absolute silence. It was an accident, nothing more.”

  “I was never sworn to silence.”

  “Your husband was, and took his oath willingly, Mrs. Ressner,” he replied quickly, and this time the smile was gone. His eyes projected the cold gleam of official power. She realized that she had made an implied threat when she said she was never sworn to secrecy. “Your husband died, Mrs. Ressner,” he continued. “It was most unfortunate, but you cannot bring him back, no matter what you might do. Or say. Please keep in mind that the government did not put you out beyond the city walls after the accident, did they?”

  She made as if to reply but then closed her mouth, understanding right away what he was talking about. An implied threat to counter hers.

  He reached for the doorknob, slipping the homburg on his head. “I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Ressner. Believe it or not, behind these official masks, even one as frightening as mine, we are also human. Nevertheless, some of us serve a higher responsibility than family, a responsibility that in the final analysis guarantees the very existence of our tiny nation.”

  “Your precious freedom is worth a few deaths, is that it, Colonel? The occasional operational accident?”

  “Your precious freedom is indeed worth a few deaths, Mrs. Ressner. I would have to assume that Dov Ressner agreed with that proposition.”

  “Dov would not have worked on weapons, Colonel,” she said. “That’s what got him into trouble with LaBaG. Dov had principles.”