“Believe it, believe it.” I chuckled to myself. “And don’t mess with this poor family now.”
To be honest, I wasn’t really comfortable with this situation. I don’t like to fight, nor do I like to show off. My plans for the future were bigger than the consulate. Shoshi, too, in her own distorted way, was responsible and devoted to the diplomatic service; but there was something about her that regularly brought out the worst in me.
“You are not following procedure,” she said, very nervous and shaken.
“Procedure can kiss my ass,” I responded pleasantly. “These are decent people, so why not help them?”
“You just can’t issue a voucher for an exploratory trip without all the required documents. You’ll be punished for that!” She was red, trembling with anger.
“Relax.” I didn’t really want to fight with such a self-righteous person. “Obviously I can do that, because I just did. You saw it with your own eyes. What do they still need? An interview with the Ministry of Immigration? We can arrange that. I’ll file it, and everyone leaves happy.” I laughed.
“You’re betraying the trust of the Ministry of Immigration.”
“Are you kidding? They’re my biggest fan! Houston has sent more people on exploratory trips than any other consulate in North America. I brought those stats up by sixty percent… Next year, they’re going to double the budget for returning citizens. So everybody is happy, especially the Degani family.”
“Degani?”
“Yes, that nice couple and their baby. The students that you tried to reject. You don’t even know their names, do you?
“Listen, punk,” Shoshi adopted her schoolmarmish tone. “This is a breach of my authority!”
“I didn’t breach your authority, I solved your problem. The Ministry of Immigration thinks you’re doing a terrific job. Maybe you’ll get a raise.”
“Yeah, sure,” Shoshi replied, in a choked voice. She looked like she wanted to cry. She’s ready to kill me, I was sure.
“Try to work with the people who come here, not against them. You’re here to serve the interests of our citizens abroad. Do you know how much the Israelis who come here resent you?”
“Israelis have nothing but hutzpah,” she managed to say. “As for you, this is the Diplomatic Corps, and you know nothing about being diplomatic. Learn some manners!” She resolutely took her hat and matching bag to leave for her daily exercise at the Olympia Fitness Center, quite popular among Israelis in Houston.
“You’ll pay for this,” she hissed at me as she left.
Toward the end of the day, I decided to apologize. Shoshi, who’d returned from Olympia Fitness a little more relaxed, had shut herself in her office. I entered the consular department and closed the door behind me.
I found her haranguing an elderly Mexican woman, who was begging at the window to get notarized documentation of her son’s studies in Jerusalem. With a triumphant look, Shoshi pulled down the shutter of the reception window and turned to me suspiciously. She appeared like a rat, ready to fight.
“What did she do to you?” I asked.
She looked around worriedly, then responded defensively, “She arrived late. I don’t respond to any request after the end of the business day.”
“No, she arrived ten minutes before the end of business,” I said as I approached her and stood next to her.
She shuddered. “What do you want?”
“Why are you so bitter? It affects everyone in the office. Dana, who was here before you, was a people person.”
“Please go.” She tried to raise her voice, but sounded like she was about to cry. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine. Please let me work.” I stood close to her, smelling the sour sweat almost masked by sweet deodorant. Her face turned red, her eyes misted up, and suddenly she looked attractive. Her hands went back to the desk, searching for something.
Why was I torturing such a mousy creature? Was it just her antipathy that I was trying to overcome? I was surprised she wasn’t trying to push me away.
“Please go,” she repeated, but this time she hissed.
I left the consular section, but on my way I saw her, somewhat hysterically, gripping the consular scissors, used to cut the ribbons around notarized documents.
16.
Arnie Logan was the perfect salesman, but I couldn’t have told you anything about his personal life. I would not have been surprised to discover that he was a fifty-year-old virgin; or alternatively, that he was a secret sex maniac. He could sell anything and do any job. The kind of man I would never be; but even if I would never be like him, but there was a lot I could still learn from him.
I accompanied Almog to the meeting with Logan on the twenty-second floor of First Interstate Bank Plaza, the newest skyscraper in Houston.
Almog explained, “I prefer to meet people I deal with specifically in their offices. I am not so lazy or so pompous as to think the world ought to come to me. On the contrary, you learn a great deal about a person you’re doing business with by visiting his office.”
In the case of Arnie Logan, this was an important lesson. Certainly for Almog. It began in the lobby. The First Interstate Bank Plaza emblem was engraved in black and red gold in the center of the white marble floor. If we had come here two weeks ago, Almog would have whistled with admiration. In the meantime, at least he had learned to keep it to himself. He was making progress, albeit slowly.
On the twenty-second floor, we got out. We found ourselves facing a long, gleaming reception desk, marble and steel. Behind it sat two beautiful creatures who made Almog shake his head in amazement right away. On a mahogany wall hung the heavy bronze logo of Klein Aerospace.
Old Man Klein had been demanding that the new consul general come to the company’s offices since his arrival, but he himself had to travel to New York that day, so Logan, vice president of sales, was our host, and he poured the charm on for us. For me, it was an opportunity to build my relationship with Logan.
Still, I had to watch my step. Dorothy had warned me about Logan. “He does not have one decent bone in his body. He would sell his own mother for two pesos.”
“Why two?”
“Well, she is still his mother. He’d sell his friends for less, much less.”
“Consul General Almog,” said one of the receptionists. Black and beautiful with almond eyes and her hair in a short bob, she added, “Shalom.”
Almog swallowed hard, blushed and then immediately recovered, smiling at her and saying, “My dear, I am at your disposal.”
I doubt she had met many Israelis, certainly not anyone like Almog, but she didn’t lose her composure for even a moment. She explained, “Mr. Logan is waiting for you in his room. Please follow me.”
“I’d follow you to the end of the world, with blind faith.”
She came out from behind the reception desk with a slight smile. “Gentlemen, follow me please.” She is adorable.
“The boss sure knows how to live,” Almog gushed with appreciation. I tell him what everyone else in Houston already knew: Klein had no interest in women. Logan was rumored to be his partner in far more than just business, not that it had ever been acknowledged publicly.
Logan’s office looks like a theater lobby. The lighting is bright, so you can see the mahogany walls. Models of airplanes and missiles are tastefully distributed among the bookcases, lit by soft spotlights. The books themselves, perhaps bought by the pound, were mostly encyclopedias, aviation indexes, and military encyclopedias. Huge windows overlooked the desert and the Gulf of Mexico. The sky was blue with no clouds, just before the afternoon haze rose from Galveston Bay and wrapped the heavens in a depressing gray blanket.
Logan’s hair was impeccably coiffed, his brown eyes focused, his face round, pleasant, and expressionless, soaked with Aramis aftershave. He was dressed in a five thousand dollar Gucci suit that spell
ed success, that you could trust, that was difficult to resist. His warm smile was switched on and off as needed. He spoke eloquently, without pausing or becoming tongue-tied, whether the subject was high- or low-brow, intellectual or trivial. It was all laid out, everything in its place.
Logan jumped to his feet, and I could see that his shoes cost at least a thousand dollars. He shook Almog’s hand with two palms, recoiling for a second when Almog tried to slap his shoulder. Logan continued to me, shaking my hand with exactly the right intensity. He flashed me a smile, and I saw that he was giving me a quick once-over. How did I rank? I think I got a score somewhere below average in terms of importance. He was surprised that I’d been asked to join. Still, he took me off guard by saying, “I’ve heard good things about you.” He then immediately returned to Almog with an astonishing affability. “My dear consul general!”
“Hi, Barney,” Almog, replied but neither I nor Logan corrected him. “Of course, you know Mickey Markovsky, our information officer. He is a veteran deputy battalion commander in the legendary Golani Brigade.” My score rose as he spoke.
“Of course we know each other,” Logan confirmed. Did he really remember me from the last Independence Day reception, or was he just being polite? There was no way to tell.
We moved to the well-appointed conference room, for pastries and fresh lemonade in high crystal glasses — a bit sweet, not too much. At the table were two smartly-dressed young salesmen who leafed through the papers in front of them.
“Consul General Almog, I would like to welcome you to our offices and to our fair city,” Logan opened.
“Thanks. Let’s cut to the chase.”
“Sure.” Logan didn’t even blink. “Let’s talk about ballistic missile defense.”
“I don’t think there is anyone who knows more about that than we do! We were hit hard during the Gulf War. Seventy-two Scud missiles fell on us, so I don’t need to hear about it. You are lucky to be able to do research, run experiments, and field tests. You can play war games. Your Patriot missiles were very effective, mainly as an important morale booster; but just between us, not a single Patriot missile intercepted a single Scud missile. It was all a show. Look, I’m sure you’re dealing with these issues on a daily basis; you know much better than me what I’m talking about. But we are here to hear you out; we did not come to talk, but rather to listen. So you said something about ballistic missiles…”
Logan gave me a worried look for a moment; but I didn’t respond, didn’t even bat an eye.
“Ballistic missiles were a centerpiece of American strategy, when America wanted to make itself great again. There was a time when we sought to fight for human rights around the globe. Above all else, we believed in defeating the evil empire.”
“Yes, Reagan, we remember him, Star Wars and all that,” Almog prompted him. “So what is new?”
“The age of the Strategic Defense Initiative, SDI — yes, colloquially called ‘Star Wars’ — is no more. Those times are gone. It’s time to look after America. Us and our best allies. Well, sir, as you may know, now we have the Ballistic Missile Defense Organization. BMD is switching into high gear now… missies, antimissile systems, all the collaterals.” Logan rested his chin on his fist. If he were to lose patience, he would show no sign of it.
“What does that have to do with us?”
“BMD is a subject in which we are all interested, but I’m convinced that no one knows how to do the job better. I want to say, just like you, Consul General — or should I say Major General? — I firmly believe that Israel has experience like no one else. We feel exactly as you do: Israel should have a free hand to do what it wants. Let Israel decide.”
Logan pointed his finger at one of the salespeople, who adroitly turned down the lights in the room turns on a video projector. The film began, set to a pulsing soundtrack. “Our hacking solution addresses the problem in a more creative way,” Logan boasted, and Almog’s mouth opened for a moment. “We can intercept the enemy missile just when it leaves the launcher, when it’s still slow, cumbersome, less maneuverable, with a trail of fire and smoke — in short, the ideal stage for us.”
Almog, after initially being astonished, recovered his composure to appreciate Logan’s promotional film.
“Here’s where we knock that bastard out of the sky!” Logan’s voice was smiling and seductive. The video moved from pastoral landscapes to cranes, launchers, missiles, and drones hovering between the ground station and the incoming missiles; as if by magic, the rocket launchers systematically destroyed all the missiles struggling to climb into the sky. The film was fun and amusing, ending with triumphant music that was a combination of Wagner’s The Ring of the Nibelung and Peer Gynt. I knew these tricks from the Rice University School of Business. Logan switched the lights back on.
“Very impressive.” Almog stretched out in his chair with obvious pleasure. “I have to say, very impressive. But what’s our part in the game? What do you need me for? To buy the system? To participate in development? To do PR in Washington?” He would’ve failed my Introduction to Business Negotiations course. You let the other side state their expectations. You never know what they may want.
As if to confirm that, Logan said with a patient smile, “Let’s say the purpose of this meeting is to get to know each other better. In the meantime, that’s enough. Not every long-term partnership must be based on business interests from the start.” Logan smiled, but Almog got upset because he didn’t get it.
“Do you know of a project called ‘Warhead’?” I asked.
“A warhead can be anything.” Logan probably did not understand the question. “You mean something specific? An anti-tank warhead, a chemical warhead? It’s all a question of deciding what you want to achieve. You know the missile is only a means of transportation.”
“Good,” Almog concluded. “We have been duly impressed. If you want anything else from us, you know where to reach me.”
“Absolutely,” Logan agreed. “That’s also the boss’s directive. Build the initial, necessary bridges. I trust you, General, that together with you, we’ll be able to fill the gaps in possible cooperation between us and the State of Israel.”
“Together, my ass,” Almog whispered in Hebrew. “I have no clue what he wants from us.” His bald spot between two tufts of hair was somewhat pink. His eyes were bright with joy as he waited for my feedback. I nodded.
The secretary came into the room then and whispered something into Logan’s ear, and his face became serious. “You will have to forgive me. It’s the boss, you see.”
“Of course we understand. There are priorities in life,” replied Almog, causing Logan to stop.
“It’s a deal worth two hundred million,” Logan whispered apologetically.
“What’s her name?” asked Almog.
“Whose name?”
“The secretary.”
“Amparo,” replied Logan, almost losing his professional patience.
“Amparo, not bad at all. I do not know about you, but I would certainly love to do her.”
Is it his awkward English or his bad manners, straight from the officers’ mess? The conversation seemed not to effect Logan; he neither melted nor blew up at us. He just smiled politely and declined to answer.
We got up and shook hands, when suddenly I saw something that took me to a completely different world. On a low shelf, hidden almost behind the television, stood the rare nickel model of the B-24 bomber, granted only to a select few.
“The J-model,” I observed with studied indifference.
“The Liberator, you know it?” Logan acknowledged; for the first time, I heard honest interest in his voice.
“Sixty of this type were shot down on one day during the bombing of Berlin,” I said, recognizing the gleam in his eyes. I already knew that I had found a man after my own heart.
“A rare bird,” he said, s
incerely.
“The biggest air battle of the century,” I went on. “Do you have other models?”
“I most certainly do,” he said, and he told us about the local Liberator Club, which I would’ve killed to be admitted to. For the first time, I had a lead.
“We just finished rebuilding one of three pieces we bought, making it operational,” he declared with pride. “The test flights will start only next summer, after we get all the necessary permits, but in a couple of weeks, at the Galveston Airshow, we will hold a private party for the roll-out.”
I tried hard to hide my enthusiasm as he added that it would be a privilege to have me as a guest, and certainly the consul general as well.
“You’ve really got a handle on that stuff,” said Almog on our way out.
“I have five models of the B-24,” I told him, and he nodded admiringly.
“You’ve got him by the short and curlies,” he added. And I was laughing to myself.
17.
I could have taken over a reasonably-sized room at the consulate, but I was more comfortable in my little cramped cubicle. I had a multi-line telephone, which at the push of a button went beyond the rest of the consulate’s branches without being noticed. I answered the telephone as part of my job to help Dorothy, who is supposed to be the switchboard operator; and Sharon, as press officer, who is supposed to respond to public inquiries.
“Consulate of Israel, good morning, how may I help you?” I tried to be very polite. It was good PR for the country.
“Mickey?” I didn’t recognize the voice. Feminine, warm, and whispering,
“Who is this?”
“It’s Angela Weinfeld, don’t you recognize me?” Embarrassing. I had no idea who Angela Weinfeld was. I didn’t recognize the voice, even though it sounded very personal and intimate.
“Angela?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Could you give me a hint?” I was running out of patience.
The Consulate Conspiracy Page 9
