The Consulate Conspiracy

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The Consulate Conspiracy Page 12

by Oren Sanderson


  The man pushed him again. “Watch where you’re going!” he barked at Almog.

  “You deliberately bumped into me!” Almog responded instinctively.

  “Forget it, you’re a diplomat,” I was trying to pull Almog away from the scene. We were like two soldiers in no man’s land, and I had to get him to a trench.

  Suddenly, someone new interposed himself between Almog and the bully. “Buzz off,” he said to the attacker. His was in his mid-fifties, with gray hair but impressive muscles under his Lacoste polo shirt. He looked like a sportswear model. The bully looked upset, but he decided to give up.

  “Danny!” said the sporty stranger, greeting Almog and holding out his hands, flashing a smile from an incredibly tanned face. It was a wall-to-wall smile, Robert Redford-style, revealing a perfect set of teeth.

  “Hi,” said Almog in a low voice. “I should introduce you to Mickey, the information officer at the consulate.”

  The man with the million-dollar smile turned to me, and the tanned muscles of his outstretched hand threatened to break the bones of mine. “Shuki Bareket,” the newcomer introduced himself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  21.

  I declined Almog’s repeated requests to join him for another round at the Asado, the bar of the Four Seasons, before calling it a night. I’d had enough. I had to be alone. I was exhausted and troubled. On automatic pilot, I found myself back at my usual haunt, the Cadillac.

  I called Giora in New York to tell him about Bareket, whom Angela mentioned as being mixed up with some criminal gang. I did not tell him that Almog was trying to keep the story to himself. Giora quickly understood and asked only a few questions.

  With the onus off of me, I found a table in the furthest and darkest corner and sat down. I thought about tomorrow’s exam in Research Methods II. I had no idea how I was going to pass it. I was a little behind in my studies, and it was only my first semester. Since Almog’s arrival, things had been progressing too quickly, in unwanted directions. It was as if some evil spirit had arrived alongside this well-intentioned man. There was something wrong with this picture, but I could not put my finger on it.

  Sure, Almog was a bit childish; but in moments of stress, he was on top of things. People in his position could afford to behave the way they wanted. As consul general, he had prestige to burn, so he could get away with a lot of nonsense; but when matters became serious, he shed his innocent façade. There was a major problem, but not with Almog.

  Since I preferred cocktails based on fruits, not on cream, I ordered my regular Brazilian chilled caipirinha, based on cachaça and lime. the Cadillac, on the other hand, was named after the Golden Cadillac, a cocktail that gets its golden color from Galliano liqueur. It was a nice place, the Cadillac, which excelled at being unremarkable. Dark wood furniture and chairs in all shades of burgundy. An elevated bar and thick marble counter. The jazz in the background did not require too many decibels, while two huge television screens showed sports around the clock. It was an ideal place to kill time doing nothing.

  Surprisingly, I found myself quite hungry. I ordered a bucket of Buffalo wings, spicy enough to bring me to tears. There’s at least thirty pieces in the bucket, so I slowly made progress on a huge mug of beer at the same time.

  I was watching the Boston Celtics play the Detroit Pistons. The Celtics were beginning to deteriorate, a shell of their former selves after Larry Bird’s retirement. I nibbled comfortably, a chicken wing followed by a celery stick dipped in blue cheese dressing, occasionally a swig of beer too. Life was beautiful after all.

  “So we made it through another day,” Saar surprised me. Another refugee from the long night landing at the Cadillac.

  “Are you alone?” I was going to make room for him.

  “No.” He pointed to a distant table. “I’ve got two in the hand.” Elvira, his main squeeze, sat there, a beautiful Cuban girl with brown skin, restless hands, and an uncommon ability to spend an entire evening without saying a word. The other woman was tall and dark, with high cheekbones, big sad brown eyes and the broad shoulders of someone born for love.

  “She’s taken,” Saar said, following my thirsty gaze.

  “I want to get to know her,” I said, planning on spending a dreamy night with her and forgetting her altogether the next morning. I could see that her backstory was a bad one, heavier than I could tolerate.

  “Take it easy, Mickey, she’s taken,” he repeated. “Dating that Israeli rocket scientist we met at the Summit.”

  “What?!”

  “What I said. Forget her, c’mon.”

  “Yeah, but just for tonight…”

  My inner compass is still pointing toward true north, and I’m helpless before it. “Your problem.” He shrugged, signaling the two to join us. My tall goddess strode across the room, half-flying.

  “This is Laure, who’s here courtesy of the Rehabilitation Department of our glorious Ministry of Defense,” he introduced her, as if it were self-evident. The MOD mission in New York had an IDF representative, taking care of a few hundred vets who were being treated in the U.S. Some of them were really challenging cases that could not be dealt with anywhere else. Others had just moved to the U.S. seeking a new life. Most of them were in the Boston area, New York was second, and we were number three in Houston, known to be very good at long-term treatment of systemic injuries.

  Saar smiled, introducing me. “Mickey, originally from Tel Aviv, is getting his MBA at Rice. He was a deputy battalion commander in the Golani Brigade.”

  “Golani.” She tried to smile too. “They don’t produce too many business students.”

  I didn’t know her yet, and she was already annoying me. I still tried to be polite.

  “The Rehab Department?” I lamented. “Must be a nightmare.”

  “Well, if you say so. I’m sure you know what you’re talking about.” Her smile was sad. “You sure you’re here only as long as you’re in school?”

  “Definitely. Houston has tremendous potential, but it’s not for me.”

  “What is for you, Mickey?” She picked up a spicy wing from the bucket in front of me.

  Apparently, she liked to talk, so I tried to be funny. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  “Not really. Aren’t you going to ask about my name?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard all those pickup lines. I’m not going to ask if you’re single. Or if you’re going to sleep with me.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with you,” she declared, beaming a smile that could make you walk straight through a glass door. “Not tonight, not ever.”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “And I’m not single either.”

  We were interrupted by George, the bartender, who gestured to me to come over. I was ready to kill him. When I approached the bar, he handed me the phone. On the line was Mary Louise, the bartender at the Asado, whom I had already gotten to know. Most of my education in cocktails was thanks to her.

  “It’s your friend,” she complained. “He’s picking fights with my customers.”

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  “He says it’s Joe, but he’s lying.” Mary Louise had a good eye. “He’s heavy, solid, like a boxer. Balding, thinks highly of himself, looks a bit like Robert Duvall.”

  “Try to be nice to him. I’m coming over right away.”

  Laure refused to accompany me, and I started to hate Almog. Why on earth should I leave Laure and go to rescue that liability?

  Almog was sure that he knew how to drink, and he tried to explain it to me, “After that Maccabi Haifa match against Maccabi Tel Aviv, we went to Bat Galim and knocked back seventeen beers without getting drunk.” It wasn’t much of a surprise that Almog, native Haifan, rooted for the home team; but no one cared about Israeli football in Houston — they didn’t even call it football.

  He could
hardly stand on his feet, as I tried to help him out of the Asado. Mary Louise told me that he had been rude, made a fool of himself and offered ugly suggestions to most of the bar’s occupants. As if to confirm it, he pointed to a brunette patron staring at us and grinning.

  “This one is dying to sleep with me,” he muttered. Her boyfriend, a young man wearing a cowboy hat and boots, did not like it.

  “I thought you were in love with Amparo,” I replied, as I maneuvered him toward the exit.

  He tried to focus his eyes. “That’s true, but what does it have to do with anything? We are going to the beach this weekend.”

  “You and Amparo?”

  “Oh yes, me, her, her son Paul. A charming kid.”

  “So it’s becoming serious?”

  “Could be. Who knows? Well it’s certainly not just sex with Logan’s secretary. No way, man.”

  “Well, the Jewish community will not be too crazy about it.”

  “Why? Because she’s black? Black is beautiful, man. That’s in the Bible. Don’t the Jews here read it? Now look at this beauty in the corner…”

  “You have to go back to your hotel room,” I pleaded. “We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

  “The truth is,” he admitted. “It’s a bit hard for me to get moving. Maybe we should just rest here in the bar... There’s something about that Mexican girl over there...” He was trying to steady himself. “Maybe you’re right. Work comes first!”

  That was the first time I set foot in his suite. The Four Seasons rented the presidential suite to the consulate on an annual basis, and it certainly earned its title.. Classic Chippendale furniture, cushy sofa beds in shades of light green. Two huge bedrooms with antique, soft rugs in pink. A wall of glass at the rear overlooking the city, offering spectacular views. There was also a door leading to the balcony, where you could sit on rattan furniture.

  Almog took a cushion from the chair to the rug. He lay down supine, saying, “It’s good for the back.” A moment later, he began to snore.

  I left silently, but just before I closed the door, I heard him muttering in an indignant tone, “At least a kiss...?”

  I suddenly thought of Laure.

  22.

  The FBI field office in Houston was housed in the Wells Fargo Bank building, which rented four floors to the federal government. Special Agent in Charge O’Brien had a corner office with a view of the northeastern side of the city, which was undergoing urban renewal. The area, considered run down, was getting a much-needed facelift. From his window, O’Brien could see the bulldozers on the new construction lots, clearing the last traces of crack houses and dilapidated hotels that had until recently been dens of criminal activity.

  This was the neighborhood he’d grown up in, son of an Irish truck driver and a Native woman. He had studied hard in high school, then managed to secure a scholarship from an eccentric Louisiana millionaire to Tulane University in New Orleans. He received his bachelor’s degree in political science, graduating magna cum laude, and went to study law at George Washington University in DC, close to the State Department and not far from the J. Edgar Hoover Building, headquarters of the FBI — which offered him fascinating work and a fast track for promotion. At the age of forty, he returned to Houston to head up the field office. It was an almost unprecedented promotion. He had returned to his neighborhood, but with a completely different standing. Now he could bring law and order to his hometown — not as a corrupt patrolman, but as a representative of the federal government.

  Now he needed to figure out what was going on in the Israeli consulate.

  What was the name of this vice consul? He tried to remember. “Noni” was what they all called him, but the file said his name was Arnon Pshedezki. According to his curriculum vitae, as reported by the consulate itself, he was a graduate of Kiryat Haim High School and the University of Haifa, with a BA in political science. Gerald, the agent reviewing the data, dismissively noted that it was a “second-rate public university.”

  Gerald had been on the case for the last two months, since long before the murder of Jay Delanconia. Now he passed O’Brien the file. The vice consul had served in the IDF and been discharged with the rank of master sergeant. Here Gerald had written a question mark, later filling in the explanation: Pshedezki had wanted to serve as a network intelligence officer in the Intelligence Corps, but he had failed the officers’ training course twice and had to settle for being a noncom. He’d re-upped for another three years — during which he’d completed his undergraduate studies, contrary to IDF rules. He was assessed as diligent and scholarly, with a subversive character.

  The murder of Jay Delanconia was about to become a top priority for the office. O’Brien had no doubt about that.

  They were regularly tracking what was going on at Johnson Space Center, and a number of warning flares had gone up when the international cooperation program was launched. At first with the French — known scroungers. Then with the Japanese — a lot of money and budgets, but also quite a headache.

  After them came the Russians. “This is a national security interest,” the director had told them at a meeting of field office heads. The cooperation in space research ensured that the lead would be American, while the Russians would be neutralized in stages. Their troubles at home were so great that if the Americans helped them a little now, in five years, they would lose all their funding, as well as their edge in space exploration. They would have to cut budgets, first and foremost research. All the talented researchers would move to the private sector. Then they could be bought.

  However, the Israelis — they were different. Masters of playing both sides, and sometimes all three. Talented and cunning, they had won all their wars, against all odds. It was no coincidence that the entire U.S. Congress, on both sides of the aisle, was expected to help them in everything. And this was not Divine Providence, O’Brien was certain, as some of his friends believed.

  The Houston field office had begun to follow Jay’s movements shortly after the Israelis contacted him. He was an excellent cop and a resourceful officer, but a little too chatty, God have mercy on his soul. On at least two occasions, he had shared too much at the Cadillac about how highly the Israelis valued their friends. “For them, it’s an existential question,” he explained to those interested. “They’ve got a knife pressed to their neck, and one wrong move, even a quarter-inch, could prove fatal. That’s why I’m willing to do a lot for them. And they’re willing to pay me a lot.”

  Still his murder remained unsolved. There were no real suspects, no real leads; but O’Brien had no doubt that if he didn’t nab the killer soon, more bodies would soon turn up in Houston. The story behind this murder was a ticking time-bomb, ready to damage the most important assets of the United States — its strategic defense plans, for example.

  The FBI director in Washington had already called twice to tell them to make sure several Israeli players weren’t planning to suddenly vanish. They followed Israeli diplomatic vehicles and listened to phone calls, but all they had observed was increased tension at the consulate — which could mean anything.

  McFlaherty served as an expedient front. His dubious past with the John Birch Society made him a convenient and docile partner. The forensic investigation was going nowhere, and O’Brien put little hope in it. The matter had been thoroughly politicized. He used McFlaherty to tell the Israelis that they were being tapped in order to let them sweat, get upset. They could go to the State Department and file an official complaint. In the meantime, unfortunately, they had not panicked, but O’Brien felt it was just a matter of time. As with any operation lasting more than a few days, eventually they would begin to make dumb mistakes. There was no doubt that something massive and noxious was brewing over there. “Diplomatic immunity” was a convenient cover for all kinds of dark things, but the time was coming when O’Brien and his team would poke and provoke them, until they stood bl
inking under the glaring lights of truth, justice, and the American way.

  It was time to find out more about the players. This vice consul, who had served as a liaison for law enforcement, had been pushed aside, and now the job had been handed to local personnel, to the information officer at the consulate, Markovsky. It was all very strange. It could be that this Pshedezki had been doing a bad job, and he might now be frustrated; alternatively, a special agent had been sent from Israel, undercover, to take charge. Perhaps an opportune combination of the two? They called him “Noni” in all their internal phone calls. Much could be learned from him, and it could wait no longer. It was time to contact this Noni directly.

  Noni refused to meet O’Brien at Wells Fargo on the grounds that he needed permission from the Foreign Ministry legal advisor for such a meeting, but his curiosity was piqued. He did not ask once if the consul general was aware of the request and did not mention Markovsky, who was officially in charge of liaising with local law enforcement now. Moreover, when O’Brien explained to him that he wanted to understand more about the life of the Jewish community in Houston and its connections to Israel, Noni began to boast that nobody was a greater expert than he

  They met in the back of the Pelican, a restaurant that specialized in Cajun and Caribbean cuisine, which O’Brien liked; it turned out that Noni was really crazy about such food. “The food is on me,” O’Brien insisted, dismissing Noni’s feeble protest, which could hardly cover the real joy that had come into his eyes. The guy in general had hungry eyes. Maybe a closeted homosexual? O’Brien was disgusted. Noni’s pink shirt and yellow tie bothered him. Noni ordered an appetizer which was heavy on shrimp, explaining to O’Brien that he only had to keep kosher when he was invited to dinner with other Jews.

  ‘You’ve been living high on the hog thanks to the Jewish community here,” O’Brien observed. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”

 

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