The Glory

by Herman Wouk

  “By all means,” said Barak, his nerves quickening. What now?

  When he closed the door of the suite she threw her arms around his neck, and kissed his mouth with gentle affection. “No happy hour, kiddo, if you’re wondering. I do want to talk, then I’m tooling off with Plutarch. Don’t make a pass at me now, there’s a good lad, just sit down quietly.”

  “Why, it never crossed my mind,” said Barak, dropping in an armchair.

  “Ho!”

  “Ho is right, Queenie. It’s been a while.”

  Her eyes flashed at him. She threw open her coat and sat on the bed. “Well, curb the old beast, hon, it mustn’t be on, you know that. Not that you don’t look powerfully sweet to these longing eyes —”

  “All right, all right. Curbed. Talk away.”

  “Fine. Good Conduct Medal for the Gray Wolf. Now listen. You just said I’m in love with Bud. Not so. He’s a fine guy and we’ll be all right, but falling in love has happened to me just once, and it won’t again.” Their eyes met, and after a silence she said in a roughened voice, “No, it won’t, and it’s hopeless.”

  “Emily —”

  “Zev, it always was, but once I realized that Nakhama knew, it became intolerable. The more so, when she as much as said she didn’t mind.”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t present when you two had it out, but it must have been something.”

  “It sure was, old scout. She was smart, decent, and mighty adroit. Lethal, one might say. In some ways that wife of yours can run rings around you.”

  “That’s no news. Nakhama’s never mentioned any of this to me, not once ever brought it up, so I have to take your word for it. Anyway, you’re committed now, that part’s over, and the rest is letters, right? As long as we live, if you like. Agreed.”

  “Not so fast. I want you to understand me, dearest. I was halfway around the world,” she said, her voice faltering, “wrestling with this thing all the way, when I decided once for all in New Delhi that I’d done the right thing. That there was no solution but Bud. Out of the frying pan, into the freeze compartment.”

  “Oh, come off it, Quccnic —”

  “It’s God’s truth. That’s when I wrote you from New Delhi. And that’s when I wrote to Bud that I’d marry him if he really wanted me, once we met again.”

  “And he did.”

  “And how. And I truly like him. He’s a gent, and patient, and bright as they come. Moreover, if you’re into military types — which present company excepted, I sure ain’t — he’s a catch. A careerist who’s going places.”

  The words obscurely jarred Barak. This tantalizing, disturbing presence of Queenie in his suite, on his bed, was not something to prolong. He picked a book off a side table. “Well, here’s Plutarch.”

  “Throwing me out, are you? Not that I blame you.” She accepted the book with a tart smile, still sitting there.

  “Hey, stay till morning, by all means.”

  “No thanks, but there’s just one more thing I must tell you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “It’ll sound vain, maybe, but I swear I’ve become more seductive, or something. Result of having discovered what love is? On my travels, so help me, I was beating them off — guys on ships, guys on trains, guys on planes. How come?”

  “What was the competition, Queenie?”

  She burst out laughing, and jumped up. “Oh, go to hell.”

  He seized her, and their kiss was long and passionate. Then she murmured, “This sweater smells familiar. In fact you do.”

  “Shut up, Queenie.”

  “Okay. Just hold me.”

  And so this familiar slight body was pressed to his once more, no doubt as it never would be again. The Good Conduct Medal fell off, unregarded.

  “Enough, enough. Too much, much too much,” she gasped, pulling free. “We’re out of the Growlery, Wolf, there’s no going back.”

  Stumbling on his words he said, “See here, Queenie, we were being — what? — unfair to Nakhama from the start. And if you truly found out she didn’t mind, as you claim, then why —”

  Emily put warm fingers across his lips. “Easy. I think you’re being very dense, but all right. I was a bitch who stole a bone. Ran off with it, got away with it, loved gnawing on it. But once she said she knew and didn’t mind, I was a bitch under the table being thrown a bone. Get the difference? Good enough?” Emily picked Plutarch off the bed. “Fare-thee-well, for I must leave thee. I’ll read the Mark Antony chapter, I can use a good cry. Over Cleopatra, of course, the original bitch who stole bones.” They went together to the door, where she said, “Come no further, Wolf. I won’t be mugged on the academy lawn.” And she slipped out.

  From the shelf of old scruffy best-sellers Barak took to bed Arrowsmith, in the familiar orange-and-blue binding. He had read it in his high school class in Vienna, but the first few pages seemed all different. They shut out Emily thoughts, which was all he was asking of Sinclair Lewis …

  R-r-r-ing! R-r-r-ing! “Sorry to disturb you, sir. Base duty officer here. The switchboard has a call for you from New York, urgent official business, a Mr. Rafael —”

  “Put him on.”

  Various clicks and buzzes. “Zev? How was Benny’s lecture?”

  “Gideon, isn’t it three in the morning there? Benny did fine. What’s up?”

  “Have you talked again to your CIA man?”

  “Yes. He phoned, told me he studied the papers and he totally agrees with your memo.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “That ‘all the territories’ is catastrophic, loses the war we won.”

  “Sharp gentleman.”

  “But, Gideon, he can do nothing about it.”

  “Can’t he at least find out where the White House now stands? We think that unless the President intervenes, the State Department will sell us out on both words today.”

  “I can try calling him.”

  “You must do better than that. We know that Kosygin has sent Johnson a very tough letter, and Johnson’s called an emergency meeting for this morning. When will you get back to Washington?”

  “About six tonight.”

  “No good.”

  “Benny has a seminar in the morning, and —”

  “Benny can take care of himself. You must get back by noon the latest. Hitch a ride on a military plane. Be there!” Rafael was not quite himself, a bit frantic or frazzled.

  “For what purpose?”

  “Do I know? So that you’re not out in Colorado Springs if for any reason you’re needed. Zev, it’s possible that you’ll do more for Israel in one hour today than in all your years in the field.”

  “You exaggerate. That’s nonsense. But I’m coming.”

  At the Central Intelligence Agency building in Virginia, in a crowded room lined with clattering teleprinters, Christian Cunningham was reading a long printout when a boyish black runner came to him with a message slip from security. “Yes, I’m expecting General Barak. Escort him to my office.”

  Zev Barak fell into a doze in an armchair as soon as he sat down, suitcase at his feet, civilian clothes all wrinkled. He had driven a rented car through the mountains, to make a hairbreadth connection from Denver to Washington via Dallas. “I think you can use some coffee,” he heard Cunningham say. He opened his eyes and saw the CIA man in shirtsleeves and suspenders, pressing a desk button.

  “Definitely, thanks.” Barak sat up, digging a knuckle in his eye.

  “How did the cadets like your colonel?”

  “Big hit. Chris, what’s happened in the Security Council today, do you know?”

  Cunningham frigidly grinned. “I know your people are fighting a classic rearguard action, right down to the wire. Also, that something’s going on now at the White House.”

  “Something good? Something bad?”

  “Well, not good, I’m afraid. But who can read LBJ’s mind, till he speaks it? I’m waiting to hear, from an insider I trust.” A young woman in a smock b
rought a coffee service, and put it on the desk. Cunningham said as he poured, “Incidentally, did Emily tell you she’s getting married in the academy chapel?”

  “She did.”

  “I’ll have to drag my old bones out there, I guess. In the air force they say Bud Halliday’s a comer.” He extended a cup and saucer to Barak. “He may make general on the next selection.”

  “I respect him. A friend of Israel he’s not.”

  The CIA man pursed his lips over his coffee cup. “Bud knows only the national interest. And his own career, to be sure. He has a lot to learn about the Middle East.”

  “Well, you’re the man to educate him.”

  Cunningham hesitated, then blurted awkwardly, avoiding his eyes, “Zev, let me say this. I long ago despaired of having a grandson, you know. Emily’s a strange one, we all realize that. Now prospects open up. I’m happy and thankful. And I’m glad your navy lad’s okay. The road ahead for Israel is long. You’ll need your sons.”

  The telephone rang. Cunningham picked it up, and after a moment nodded emphatically at Barak. “Yes, yes, right, go on. … Really? Amazing. How definite is this? … Okay, many thanks. … Well, I appreciate that. I’ll reciprocate one day.” He hung up, and fixed Barak with an indecipherable expression.

  “News, Chris?”

  “I believe so. Call your Mr. Rafael and tell him that both words are out.”

  “Out?” Barak stared. “ALL and THE? Both?”

  “Out. Both. Usually it’s the Arabs who make a boo-boo and get you off the hook, but this time it was the Russians. More coffee?”

  “Chris, for God’s sake, what’s happened?”

  “Well, that was a hasty report, but it seems Kosygin may have overreached himself. His letter questioned Johnson’s good faith, the clumsy Slav! To the effect, ‘If you’re sincerely interested in peace, Mr. President, you won’t quibble over two little words like all and the.’ It infuriated Johnson. He shot back a letter referring Kosygin to his speech about ‘Five Principles of Middle East Peace,’ telling the Russian to take them or go to hell. I paraphrase, but that’s what I’m informed, by a pretty good source.”

  Barak darted a hand at the desk telephone. “Can I talk freely over this line, Chris?”

  “Why not? It’s a free country.”

  Rafael was rapturous at the report. “Gott in Himmel! If that’s so, Zev, we’ve made the breakthrough we missed in 1956, no withdrawal without peace —”

  “I’m getting this at third or fourth hand, Gideon, remember.”

  “I realize that. All the same I’m calling Eban right now.”

  Cunningham took his coffee to a leather armchair, and sat down. “Is your Mr. Rafael pleased?”

  “God, yes.”

  “Pure Hopalong Cassidy all this, what?” The CIA man sipped coffee. “Assuming that report’s accurate, the question is, Zev, did LBJ really blow his top at Kosygin’s language? Or had he already figured he needed the Jewish vote in ’68, and just jumped on the letter as his excuse?”

  “Either way, Chris, Israel’s out of a corner.”

  “Right, and Nasser’s painted himself into one. My analysis is on file here, Zev. I estimated that he sank the Eilat to prod the superpowers into a joint resolution on withdrawal. He got it, all right.” The CIA man’s sunken eyes gleamed at Barak. “But he ended up without the two little words.”

  5

  Golda

  “The Prime Minister is dead, Sam.” Shaky tearful voice of Eshkol’s chief secretary on the telephone. “He died at eight-fifteen this morning.”

  “No!”

  “Another heart attack. And he was so well and busy yesterday! The family is asking for you, so please come to the residence.”

  “I’m on my way.” Having just arrived at his office, Pasternak still wore his old army overcoat, for the weather blowing into Tel Aviv from the sea was gusty and rainy. His desk calendar, he saw, read

  FEBRUARY 26, 1969

  9 A.M. Coffee with Yael at Hilton.

  He buzzed his duty officer. “Call Mrs. Nitzan, tell her I can’t meet her. It’s an emergency, and I’ll phone her soon.”

  “Yes, General.”

  He glanced through a few urgent papers and was walking out the door when the intercom buzzed. “General, Mrs. Nitzan’s phone doesn’t answer. Shall I call the Hilton, sir, and have her paged?”

  “L’Azazel, I’ll drive by there. It’s simpler.”

  The morning traffic was thickest near the Hilton, and his driver had trouble getting through. Pasternak sat beside him, his mind running through the implications of Eshkol’s death. Black, black day for Israel, another giant of the old days fallen. Ben Gurion, scrawling his memoirs in retirement, had outlived his successor, after all. The obscure Levi Eshkol, never a media figure, had been Pasternak’s hero since their underground days. More than anyone, he had patiently built the infrastructure of the State and the army, always in B.G.’s shadow. Gone! The struggle for the succession would start at once, and it would be a dangerously divisive business.

  Yael had trouble getting herself up out of the lobby settee, when she spied Pasternak and waved. That she was pregnant, let alone so far along, was news to him. But the dark gray leather suit was reasonably becoming, considering that she looked about ready to calve. He lent a hand to pull her to her feet.

  “Thanks, dear, I’m monstrous, I realize. It’s kind of you to come.”

  “Yael, Eshkol just died this morning.”

  “Oh God, how awful.”

  “So I’m in a rush to get to Jerusalem.”

  “Of course, of course, go ahead.”

  “After the funeral I’ll call you. Probably late tomorrow.”

  “I won’t be here. I’m flying to Los Angeles tonight.”

  “What? In your shape?” He looked her up and down. “A wild animal, that’s what you are. Always have been.”

  “Sweet of you to be concerned.” She caressed his cheek. “Just a short trip, and I’ll phone when I get back.”

  “What’s this all about, Yael?”

  “Oh, Sheva Leavis business.”

  She had to say no more. Sheva Leavis was an Israeli from Iraq, now living abroad, who dealt mainly in Oriental imports, and covertly in munitions. He had once set Yael up in a Beverly Hills shop where she had made a pile, and now she looked after some of his interests in Israel. As to how far the connection went, Pasternak could only guess.

  “Pardon, motek,” he said with a gesture at her swollen girth, “but I thought you and Kishote were more or less separated.”

  “More or less, is right.” A satiric smile, a pat on her stomach. “We still share the apartment, so …” With a look half-reproachful, half-amused, she said, “It happened to you and Ruth, didn’t it? Twice, or so you claimed.”

  Even her pregnancy was an occasion to needle him, he thought, and disfigured as she was, she knew she could bewitch him if she chose. It was there in her eyes. This relationship was never over, only dormant. “Well, take care of yourself, for God’s sake. Can my driver deliver you somewhere?”

  “Thanks, I’m driving my own car.”

  “You are? And where do you put the steering wheel?”

  “Between my teeth, where else?”

  He reluctantly laughed. They walked out together, and she parted from him with a kiss on his rainy cheek. “I’m truly sorry about Eshkol, Sam. You were close, I know.”

  “We were. It really hurts, Yael. Have a safe trip.”

  The Prime Minister lay in the bed in which he had died, with tall candles burning at the head and foot. His distraught wife brought Pasternak in and left him alone with the body. There was a smell of medicine in the room, and a faint odor of death. From below in the crowded living room came the murmur of contending voices. Eshkol’s broad face was greenish and still worried and weary, though the eyelids were shut in the last sleep.

  “Goodbye, Layish [Lion].” Pasternak spoke the underground code name softly, after contemplating the blanketed body
in silence. “You were a quiet man and a real fighter. You led us to win the war, but others got all the credit. Now you’re in Olam Ha’emet, the world of truth, and there you’ll be welcomed by the other great Jewish fighters, by Judah, by Joshua, by Gideon. Go to peace. I loved you.”

  In the subdued milling downstairs of cabinet ministers, generals, chief rabbis, bureau heads, family, and close friends, Pasternak found that all was confusion over funeral arrangements, beginning with where Eshkol was to be buried. As to who would succeed him, not a word was being spoken, though it had to be on nearly everyone’s mind. The two foremost contenders were there, Moshe Dayan and Yigal Allon, great army generals turned politicians. Allon was Deputy Prime Minister, but Dayan wielded the lion’s share of the national budget as Minister of Defense. The groups clustering around the two were about the same size, Pasternak noted. Subtle currents of Israeli politics were swirling here. Allon had been a staunch Labor man always, whereas Dayan had once defected to Rafi, Ben Gurion’s failed splinter party.

  The former head of the Labor Party came in unnoticed at first, but as she plodded heavily into the room, holding her big purse and looking around, heads and eyes began to turn and the talking to subside. “Is there a problem?” Golda Meir inquired.

  A pause of sudden quiet, then several people began to speak at once. She raised a hand to cut them off. “Who is handling the funeral?”

  Wiping her reddened eyes, the widow said, “Golda, I’ve asked Sam Pasternak to take charge.”

  Golda kissed her, then glanced at Pasternak. He explained in a few words the burial dispute. Some said that Eshkol had wished to be interred beside his previous wife, the mother of his two daughters, at Deganya Bet, the kibbutz he had helped to found, and that the request might even be in his will. But others thought that his proper resting place as the head of state was on Mount Herzl in Jerusalem, in the space reserved for Prime Ministers, especially since crowds of mourners in the Jordan valley kibbutz might be exposed to terrorist assault with mortars and Katyushas.

  “I see. Well, we will bury him in Jerusalem, of course,” said Golda. “It is the right place, and we certainly don’t want to risk any attack on the mourners, since there will be a multitude.” The words were calm, not in the least argumentative. All around her people looked at each other and heads nodded. “But first of all, I must pay my respects to him. Where is he, upstairs?”