“You’re the last one to see Jay alive”
“So…?”
“We have no way to verify your story.”
“You don’t mean I’m a suspect?” I smiled.
“Yeah, you are.” McFlaherty shrugged.
Again there was that irritating silence and I felt my heart pounding. A clusterfuck of a day. I knew it all along. So what did he have to say?
“You’re going to arrest me, or what?”
“No.” McFlaherty got up and went back to the window to check the traffic on the street. “See, you’re a foreign citizen, working in a diplomatic mission, even though you do not have immunity. We have an ongoing investigation. That’s all. But you better know that you’re a suspect. It’s not my idea only; there’s a whole theory that you guys had to shut Jay up.”
“Shut Jay up?” I was shocked.
He shrugged again, then asked, “Tell me about your acquaintance.”
“That’s just from working at the airport. We talked a lot about the military, about our service. I visited his mother twice, and we used to sit together in the Cadillac a lot.”
“Did he know your friends too?”
“I don’t have many friends here. What does it mean that I’m a suspect?”
“That’s just for you to know. It’s important for us to do a ballistics analysis of all the guns you have at the consulate, preferably without us having to go to DC, the State Department and all that.”
“Of course you’re better off that way!” I felt like I was getting hot under the collar, about to say something I’d regret. “You’ll never get it, because I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
He chuckled, feeling how close I was to making a fatal error.
“We do not have guns here,” I added, for the record. The State of Texas does not allow foreigners to carry arms, including diplomats. He knew that I knew that he knew we had weapons, but we could not talk about it.
“Definitely, of course,” he said dryly, hiding any sign of sarcasm. “But your vice consul reported yesterday to your New York office that checking and disassembling four of your Beretta pistols indicated that none of them had been used since your last shooting drill two months ago. I told you the FBI is involved now…” he added, seeing the surprise on my face.
“Are you ready to openly admit that you’re eavesdropping on us?” I was trying to recover. Obviously it had not just been a slip of the tongue for McFlaherty.
“Look, this is just a friendly, unofficial chat between friends.” A brief, nervous smile crossed his face for the first time. “O’Brien thinks that the vice consul is lying.”
“Why should he lie? What for?” I was drawn into McFlaherty’s game, unwillingly.
“He knows we’re listening and wants to calm us down.”
“It’s unlike him,” I objected. “He’s not in the loop, and we had no problems with Jay.”
“You had to shut Jay up,” he repeated. “And It’s not just my idea.”
“Then you’ve all lost your minds,” I replied quietly; but I suddenly realized he might just be right.
12.
Unlike me, Almog had been in high spirits ever since setting foot in the consulate. His anger subsided once he had taught the protestors a thing or two, in his mind at least. Now, his cufflinks and the gold buttons of his navy-blue blazer were shining again.
He escorted McFlaherty, whom he called “Chief,” to the door after trying to share with him the bullet-points of his experience with hijackings and rescuing hostages. Then he called for Noni, who was wearing a khaki suit, pink shirt, and floral tie. Noni tried to plant a pleasant smile on his face.
The door closed behind them and Almog barked at him in short, rhythmic sentences. Noni apologized and defended himself with choked moans. Half-an-hour later, he emerged, almost running to the end of the corridor. His face was red, and it accentuated his usual shaving nicks even more. The collar of his favorite pink shirt collar was stained with tiny bloodspots, the result of that same miserable razor. He shot like a cannonball toward the consular section.
His wife, Shoshi, was the director of the consular section. There was some sort of an arrangement by which the Foreign Ministry had waived the ban on the employment of wives in a diplomatic capacity on the premises of the mission. That way Noni could take care of his wife; and she, for her part, keep watch over him from a very close range, making sure to protect the love of her life. The two did not even bother closing the door, and I suspected that they did that on purpose.
“Like an arrow, straight to the bullseye,” mused Dorothy, offering us a pearl of Native wisdom as she went through the mail, a scowl on her face as she listened to everything that happened in the office. “Crumbling like sand, blowing away like dust.”
“Noni?” I wondered.
“An infinite sea of tears, the end of all dreams. Of course I’m talking about Noni, dummy. He’s crying on the shoulder of Miss Piggy now, who must be dissolving under those salty waterworks.”
Dorothy’s hair was covered with a checked scarf as part of her regular presentation as a proud daughter of Texas, blending Mexican- and Native American traditions, despite her Caucasian features. (For what it’s worth, she supposedly traces her ancestry back to the first president of Texas, Sam Houston, after whom the city is named.) The wind and the sand are favorite elements of the show she is happy to put on whenever the mood strikes.
We could all hear Noni, broken, as he collapsed onto his wife’s shoulders. “He’s lost all focus!” he whined. “He’s complaining about the protestors, that I haven’t gotten rid of them, that security isn’t keeping them away. ‘We have rights,’ he says. ‘Building management has to get them out of here,’ he says. He’s mad at me for not staying out there on the street to argue with them. He thinks my job is to talk to the locals, and I ought to be doing that out on the sidewalk. Now I’m stuck with a brand-new genius who knows how to solve everything? He’s a heartless, senseless general; I’ve been trying to get him in line for a week, and he just doesn’t get it! He tells me that it’s my job to be his chief of staff, to be his special ops, and his admin officer. He thinks the entire consulate is his stage, and I’m just the stage manager!”
“Bastard,” Shoshi agreed, already plotting her revenge.
The office phone on Dorothy’s desk beeped, the buzz of the internal line. She picked up, listened for a moment and announced solemnly, “The war is about to begin! Boys and girls, at two thirty this afternoon, we have a meeting for the entire staff.” She adjusted the scarf on her hair, as if preparing for a special event, and slammed an open palm on her desk. “The tribe has been summoned.”
“This is not going well,” she whispered to me. Her display was intended for the rest of the team. Dorothy was loyal and would fight like a lioness to protect any consul general she served. Almog did not know it yet, but his decision to keep her on as his secretary, even though she had already passed the age of retirement, was a fateful one.
Dorothy began her work at the consulate with the first consul general, Nachman Solel, who had been a senior commander in the Israeli Air Force in the 1950s. She was then the director of the tourism center in Houston, dealing passionately mainly with the legacy of her legendary ancestor Sam Houston. Before he had led Texas to declare its independence, Houston had married the daughter of a Cherokee chief, from whom Dorothy claimed descent.
The fact that Solel had left a wife and two children in Israel didn’t bother either one of them. Dorothy had already experienced a failed marriage to a no-good jerk of a Texan who left her without much notice — or regret on her part. The affair with Solel ended two years later, when he had to leave. His mission was over, and the promises of a business partnership dangled in front of him by a wealthy local Jew had proven to be just a mirage. She was heartbroken, but even when Solel offered to bring her back to Israel with hi
m, she decided that her connection to her people was more important. Many years after that, when she told me the story, she said that Solel was not the kind of man who could deal with long-term commitment. Besides, it was much better to end an affair in heartbreak rather than boredom.
Everybody was squeezed into the conference room. For Almog, attendance was paramount. Noni was already mopping the sweat from his brow; Shoshi’s face was grim; Sharon, the press officer, complained of her usual migraine. There were also, along with me, Nurit the accountant, Saar the security guard, and Dorothy. The minutes ticked by, and the anticipation grew. Dorothy put a Native bullwhip on the table, which she toyed with on special occasions and persuaded Noni, in very polite English, “I think the big guy is waiting for a personal invitation.”
Noni grimaced, looked at Shoshi, and reluctantly shuffled his feet to the door that connected the conference room to the consul general’s room. “We’re waiting for you.” He tried to sound decisive, but stayed on the threshold.
“Terrific. Excellent. You can close the door now!” ordered the voice from inside.
A chastened Noni came back and sat down. A few moments later, Almog appeared, bright and beaming, as his blue blazer added an aura of solemnity. He sat down and announced in English, “Friends, a week ago we met for the first time. You welcomed me and promised me your full cooperation. I thanked you and told you I would take my time so as not to start dictating things to you before I knew the terrain. Today, I can tell you that I’ve gotten the full picture. Now I know the area, and the mission is clear to me, as are the problems which lie before us.”
He examined the shocked faces around the table, quickly taking in their reactions, like a seasoned detective. “Our mission is to reach out to the Jews,” he declared. “And to get to the Texans and sell. We’re here, ladies and gentlemen, in the business of sales. We will sell Israeli products, we will sell the reputation of Israel, we will sell the character of Israel, as a beautiful country. You know, we have a beautiful, outstanding, one-of-a-kind country; and our amazing achievements only prove that. Does anybody doubt it?!”
His voice rose as he surveyed the embarrassed occupants of the room in amazement: Noni stared at the floor; Nurit studied the titles of the books on the shelves along the walls, as if seeing them for the first time; and Sharon checked her notes.
“Of course, that was a rhetorical question,” he went on reassuringly. “No one here is like that. Anyone who dares to doubt Israel will cause irreparable damage — especially anyone from this office. There are no two ways about it. It’s all about being in sync with our mission, and there can be no argument about that! That’s the first thing.”
Again he examined the people in the room with penetrating eyes. “The second thing is our list of problems. The first and most difficult of those is alertness.” Almog spoke as if reading off a paper, using very basic English; if he was at a loss for a word like “alertness,” he would simply use the Hebrew word eranut without hesitation. He clenched his fists and pounded on the table at regular intervals. In short, I thought, he had great potential as a consul general.
Dorothy looked at me, thinking exactly the same thing. Noni examined his knees under the table; occasionally his mouth twitched, somewhat unwillingly. Shoshi, on the other hand, was staring at Almog with hypnotized, enchanted eyes. Beads of sweat on her upper lip showed her excitement, her fury of a few minutes ago having dissipated into a mist of admiration.
“I get it, ladies and gentlemen,” Almog continued. “Our issue is how to keep our finger on the pulse: to see what is happening, understand what’s going on and react immediately.
“This morning I arrived here to find protestors waiting for me outside. I was not anxious or alarmed, but we must never let that happen again. If we can do it nicely, through persuasion, that’s great; if that doesn’t work, we’ll have to be firm. After all, we know how to be tough. And if there is no choice, then we’ll follow procedures. Noni, you’re responsible for security, administration, and consular affairs, right, as well as public relations, true or not?”
Noni knew already that the private show he’d seen would now be put on for everyone’s benefit, bigger and louder. He pursed his lips, about to burst into tears, looked at the ashtray on the table and did not reply. His floral tie seemed to wilt. Almog would not give up. “Noni, I’m talking to you.”
“Yes, I’m the vice consul,” he admitted, writhing in his chair. “But everyone knows that, right?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Almog happily attacked him. “Everyone knows it, but no one feels it. Did you know there was a protest downstairs?”
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t — what difference does it make?”
“What difference?” Almog roared. “All the difference in the world. That’s exactly my point!” Almog regained his composure. “It’s very important to communicate with the public. Since you’re in charge of public relations, why can’t you explain our position to those people there? You’re in charge of security, so why can’t you deal with the cops and have them move the protestors three blocks away for security considerations?”
“But we’ve discussed this already, just the two of us, haven’t we?” Noni tried, helplessly.
“Excuse me, this is a staff meeting now. Whatever needs to be addressed with the whole team is going to be addressed with the whole team. Do I make myself clear?”
Dorothy, who knew no fear, interjected, “Consul General, we know these things. We live them every day. The eternal prairies are our turf, and we live and breathe the fog that rolls in from the Gulf. I can assure you, sir, that everyone here has been giving it their all, and they’ll continue to do so in the near future to meet our common goals.”
Almog looked ecstatic. “Thank you, Dorothy. That’s exactly what I mean. No whats and no whys. I don’t know what the eternal prairies are or the fog from the Gulf, but that’s the spirit. That’s exactly the kind of response I expect. And if we all share it, then I’m certainly satisfied.
“Let’s continue. We do not have to hold meetings every day or every week, but I want to let you know how things are going, and I want to hear from you. When all is said and done, I’m satisfied with how things have gone my first week here. The community has been exceptionally engaged. People have reached out and made contact. I received a lot of phone calls and invitations. There is even going to be a massive gala to open our annual campaign in the community. It’s a good opportunity to address the community. What do you think? How do you feel?”
No one dared to say a word.
“Good.” Almog sounded pleased. “Then I’ll ask you more specifically about the demonstrations in front of the consulate. How long have they been going on here. Sharon?”
Sharon abruptly stopped scratching away with her pencil, with which she had already completed several doodles of diamonds. “It’s been happening, on and off, since the Intifada began.”
“What do you mean by ‘on and off’? I don’t understand. Explain it to me.”
“The Intifada began when? Let’s say, in 1978?”
Almog retorted, “You’re asking me? You’re the press officer here.”
“1978 was Operation Litani.” I had to put things right. It’s my field after all.
“I must have blacked out,” Sharon explained casually to those who were interested. “Seasonal anemia.” Sharon had serious complaints about her health, out of force of habit more than anything else.
“’72, wasn’t it?”
“No way,” said Almog. “You mean 1982!”
“No, no, ’82 was the Lebanon War. December ‘87 — right, that’s it. That’s when the Intifada began, so it’s been going on for about five years now.” She leaned back with relief in her chair, and the color returned to her cheeks.
Almog wouldn’t let go so easily. “You still haven’t explained what’s ‘on and off’ about it.”
“Honestly,” she said. “Since you arrived, it’s become a daily occurrence. Before that it was one day a week, when people had time to protest.”
“I get it. You don’t need to go any further than that. Here is my point: the Israelis who are here in Houston are actually our reservists. Who’s in charge of the connection with the Israeli community here?” Almog demanded harshly.
“The overall responsibility is that of the consul general,” Noni explained, eager to shrug off any blame. “On a day-to-day basis, I do the coordination.”
“What have you done about it in the last few months?”
“I sent a letter two months ago.”
“What about?”
“A one-man play. It was scheduled for a month ago, but it was canceled anyway.”
“That’s not good enough. It’s not serious, it’s not systematic, it’s not practical. I want Israelis here, counterdemonstrations against the protestors out there right now. I want to see them, because every Israeli abroad, whether he is here long-term or short-term, whether he is thirty years old or fifty, is still a reserve soldier and must respond when his country calls. I’m telling you this because I know it’s a fact. I know how to deal with soldiers, right?” He chuckled to himself.
“Next, there’s the demonstration itself. People who want to hurt us are organizing here. A core group seeking to undermine everything that this consulate stands for. It challenges the most basic and legitimate ideals we represent, trying to delegitimize the moral basis of our state. I see them standing down there every day, for a whole week now, in all types of weather. What on earth are they trying to tell us? Is it the Palestinian question that is on their mind? Certainly not. They want to undermine the basis of our existence.
“So when it comes to this as well, just as with the Israelis, we must engage with them. I, myself, tried just once to address these people. All I said was three sentences, and that was enough to throw them off balance. That’s what we have to do here. That’s why I want to create a task force here now. Noni, you are the director of the task force; Sharon, secretary; Markovsky — you’re definitely a person who knows all these demonstrators, I want you as well.”
The Consulate Conspiracy Page 6
