However, our man was a kindhearted, smiling man. His name was Ephraim Mevorach, according to the telegram. He received the briefing in New York because he started his tour there, and he arrived in Houston only toward the end. Here, he thanked God for not having to work anymore. He did not have to sit down with the head of the mission for a tough conversation and political discussion. He would not have to report to the Ministry after that, then send an evaluation back to the mission. In short, he hoped to take it easy and rest.
The Foreign Ministry granted Mevorach only twenty-four hours, and I could have arranged a flight for him the next day, first thing in the morning, so as not to waste time; but as a special consideration, I got him a ticket for a late-afternoon flight back to New York, so he could spend time shopping — and hopefully feel a debt toward us. It could help Almog with his connections to the Ministry back in Jerusalem. If Mevorach behaved nicely, we might even take him to a nice local joint.
He extended a sweaty hand.
“You should have been the first to get off the plane,” I told him.
“Yes, I tried, but they pushed ahead of me,” he apologized, rolling his Rs distinctively. He was at least half a head shorter than me, and I felt like patting him on the head.
“Were there any problems with the crew during the flight?”
“No, thank God.” His eyes glided sideways, as if he was afraid of something. He was gratified by my interest. Once he started talking, it seemed like he would never stop. By the time we’d made our way through passport control and customs, I knew that his daughter had gotten married a year ago in Quito, where he had been ambassador for five years; her husband had, Heaven help us, a low sperm count, so they’d be visiting a fertility clinic in Houston next month — maybe I could help? He himself was in excellent health, so he said, and he even played tennis back at home at the King David Hotel in Jerusalem twice a week; and in Quito in the good old days, when he was the ambassador, he had been the Diplomatic Corps champion in tennis. He found air travel very unpleasant.
“So your trip has been hard?” I asked sympathetically.
“Hard is not the right word. Hard doesn’t even begin to cover it. Our Latin American ambassadors are not exactly the cream of the crop. They’re the bottom of the barrel, in fact. Try to engage them in a political discussion, they don’t know the first thing about anything. Want to see how they run the embassy? They’ll take you all over the city, just to make sure that you never see the office itself. All day long mingling with journalists, colleagues from other embassies, local army generals. So many generals. Don’t they have an army to manage, those generals, or some wars to plan? And by the end of the day, they also want to send these friends to Israel for an official visit. God forbid! Who cares about them in Israel? I have to explain to them why no one back home has the time or the interest or the patience for the Colombian president or the commander of the Panamanian Public Forces. I am not sure what these ambassadors of ours are really doing in their free time. In all honesty, you diplomatic mail guys cause us a lot of trouble and a lot of shit,” he finished breathlessly, upsetting me.
“Mr. Mevorach, with all due respect, we’ve had no problems whatsoever here in Houston. I assume you’re talking about us. “
“I’m not talking about you, I’m not talking about anyone.” He was not very impressed with my objection. “It’s not my field, nor my responsibility either; but listen, there’s no security officer in Bogotá. There’s a security guard that they sent from New York as a temporary substitute.”
“Well, okay, that’s very common; the security officer has to go on vacation sometimes.”
“Are you shitting me? That’s no vacation.” He snorted, seeming to enjoy his very undiplomatic language. “They’ve got him by the short and curlies now.”
I was eager to hear another take on this difficult Bogotá affair. We walked along the corridor of the terminal, and now I was carrying his top secret bag. “How so?” I prompted.
“C’mon!” He was getting excited. “They’re all corrupt there, you know: buying a new car tax-free, then selling it in two years at three times what they paid, you think I don’t know? They try to fool me with their elaborate reports every day, telling me they’re creating trade relations. Bullshit! They embezzle, all of them. This is the fourth Foreign Ministry security officer to be detained.”
“What happened to him?” I had to know. Golani Brigade veterans were my brothers-in-arms. Danny Koren had been an excellent commander; he had always looked after his soldiers and never issued orders just for shits and giggles.
“He returned to Israel a week ago, accompanied by two men who made sure he got where he needed to. We are lucky to have him back in Israel. Sometimes they escape, you know.”
He continued to speak, rolling his Rs, buying and selling the whole world and feeling relieved that his journey was almost over. The last leg of his trip was from Houston to New York, to hand back the diplomatic bags, with two more days of shopping. Then he would head back home. Flying in the United States, you feel much more comfortable than in Latin America, with its unstable regimes, bribes to airport officials, very dubious security.
Saar approached with our truck, already loaded from the plane’s belly. We sat alongside him in the cab and drove to the consulate. We parked close to the building, by the elevator that would take us straight to the office. I had the key to bypass all other floors, as well as the secret switch to stop and disable the elevator while moving. The elevator was stuffy, and we could hardly breathe. Saar helped carry the bags to the storeroom in the consulate, while I sat in the back of the room making sure with Mevorach that all the mail classified “top secret” came in. The bag looked innocent from the outside, without any identifying signs, but the red wax stamp with the State emblem was attached to the shipping bill on the zipper.
“Honduras,” said Mevorach, who continued muttering. “What a joke of an embassy. We should have closed it long ago. The ambassador lives it up all day, every day. He bangs local girls and drinks at night, saying that he feels lonely. I haven’t seen anything from him, there’s nothing that interests him. I do not know why they keep the mission open.”
“Fine,” I said to Mevorach after I made sure that all the packages we were expecting had indeed arrived. “Tomorrow morning we will re-pack, and I also booked you a late-afternoon flight so you don’t have to get up early, and you’ll be able to take a short tour of the city.” I saw the gratitude in his eyes. He did not want to spend the evening with me, and I would not offer either. I didn’t want to scout out the fertility clinic for his son-in-law. “Let’s take you to meet the consul general.” I was almost sure he would resist.
“No, no need. It’s a new guy, isn’t it?” He was on the defensive. “A major general in the army is not my cup of tea. Just take me to Noni; he will tell me what’s going on and maybe take me to the hotel.” I accompanied him to Noni’s room, who pretended to be surprised — and even more than that, happy — to see Mevorach.
“Mr. Director!” Noni greeted him cheerfully, shaking his hand for too long, with both his hands. “So how are things with our brave emissaries in Latin America?”
I went back into the mail room. Most of the material would continue to travel with Mevorach to New York, and from there to Israel and to other missions. Some was destined to stay here in Houston, for the consulate or for the United Israel Appeal. This time, there was no UIA material. I didn’t have a problem with that; either they hadn’t sent it at all or had sent it to another mission. I checked the internal bill of lading; the UIA material was missing there. That was the first time I had seen such a situation since arriving in Houston, but why should I care? I began preparing a new bill of lading for Mevorach, and then I saw in the list of contents that the UIA material would be sent directly to New York in the carry-on luggage, not the checked luggage. A new arrangement, but not my problem.
The
next afternoon, Mevorach sat in his favorite window seat and watched as the plane taxied on the runway for takeoff. Airplanes were parked in line: National Guard transport planes, a weathered, old DC3, and three Gulfstream executives jets. Houston was on the rebound, he thought. Then, suddenly, the plane took off diagonally and the ground began to disappear. It banked to the right, over the open fields next to the airport. The houses looked small now, like children’s toys.
Mevorach was filled with joy. Next to him sat a fat little man. Ageless, curly-haired, round-faced, somehow strange. He was not very friendly, but for Mevorach, who was an indefatigable talker, it did not matter.
“Going back home to New York?” he asked the man.
The man did not answer; his face was twisted into a grimace of haughty displeasure. An annoyed, unhappy man. Maybe he was suffering from something? The “fasten seatbelts” light went off, and Mevorach immediately thought of the toilets at the back of the plane. Then he remembered his top secret mailbag and was filled with grief. That was a problem. The person next to him was unreliable, but perhaps he could try him again?
“Houston is an amazing city,” Mevorach opened.
The man next to him did not answer; instead, his face was tense and annoyed. The man was reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket and carefully pulled out a small aerosol container, like a breath freshener.
“Halitosis?” Mevorach asked with genuine surprise. That might explain his neighbor’s silence.
The man turned to him for the first time and Mevorach was about to explain to him the risk of carrying aerosol containers on flights. Once a canister of shaving cream he’d carried on a flight started spraying in his handbag, making a mess of his spare shirt and some personal papers. However, now he saw that the container was more like an asthma inhaler. That really explained a lot of things.
“Asthma…” he began to ask as the man studied him with great interest. Not the usual curiosity of a normal man. For a moment, he looked like an entomologist, looking through a magnifying glass. Then he sprayed the container right into Mevorach’s ear.
My God, thought Mevorach, knowing that his world was about to collapse. Suddenly he recalled his middle daughter, who lived in Jerusalem and was especially dear to his heart. She had asked him for a bottle of Rigoletto perfume when he returned. He had to get the perfume, but already knew it would never happen. What was she doing right now? She was an outstanding student. She’s about to become an orphan, but she didn’t know it yet. The tears filled his eyes as he futilely tried to stave off the catastrophe.
“Asthma…” He tried again to finish the question, feeling another vast and last heartbeat.
26.
I was manning the control booth, looking at the screens showing every corner of the consulate. Shoshi had just returned, delighted with the two-day spa treatment Olympia Fitness Center had arranged for her. Saar had gone out with Almog to White Sands for a demonstration of Klein Aerospace’s new warhead. As for me, whenever the word “warhead” was mentioned, it jolted me into thinking of Jay’s dying in my arms. But other than Giora and Dorothy, I did not tell anyone about it. Giora had his hands full with internal struggles and inspections, but he promised he would handle it. With Mevorach’s heart attack on the plane and the disappearance of his carry-on luggage, he had been left with no choice.
I sighed. Soon Sharon, who did this annoying job with much more patience than I could muster, would replace me. The camera at the entrance showed me a surprising but familiar image: Giora. I quickly focused the camera on the boyish figure who walked up the stairs and enlarged the face to the maximum. Yes, it was him all right. A child’s face, curly hair, round glasses. He climbed up the stairs, to the tenth floor, on foot. It was good for physical fitness, as well as examining the stairwell. In the case of an attack on the consulate, any detail might be not only important but critical. The concrete steps and gray oil-colored walls offered no surprises, no obstacles. The camera at our door showed him three minutes later. A new world record. He pressed the buzzer.
“Yes, how may I help you?” The microphone was distorting my voice. He did not recognize it.
“It’s Giora Porat, the RSD,” he replied. “After you identify me, don’t say a word to anyone inside. It’s an unannounced inspection. Clear?”
“Absolutely clear. Show me your ID first, then we can proceed.”
Giora smiled, feeling a sense of satisfaction that I was serious, taking care of the procedures and not rushing to open the door. “You’ll get everything you want, as long as you do not tell anyone inside that it’s me.”
I let him in and he hid his surprise as he recognized me. “Very nice, following procedures. But you could have said it was you, you little shit. Where is Almog?”
“I don’t know. I think he’s in White Sands with Saar.”
“Ah, the new warhead?”
“That’s what they said. I don’t know what it really is.”
“This time it’s a laser-guided artillery shell that is supposed to hit tanks. You’re probably thinking of Jay?”
“I don’t know. All I’m thinking about these days is corporate law. And also about how you got mixed up in all this. I hope you at least understand what’s going on here.”
“I hope so. I’m not sure.” Giora was done with this avenue of conversation. “What are you doing in the control booth anyway?”
“The usual, defending my country.”
“I wanted to have a word with you about that.” I feared he was going to start with the stories of the bodel and all the dark connotations it held; but he seemed to be more focused this time. “Angela has disappeared.”
“But I saw her just a few days ago,” I began, then stopped abruptly. “What happened to her?”
“I have no idea.”
“But…”
“You see, we’re in big trouble. You have to help us.” I kept silent, and he went on quickly and quietly. “The big money around here will continue to bring down people. I know that they are trying to link you to it from all directions.” I tried to object, but he held up his palm. “Listen without interrupting. If this money ends up in your hands, remember this name: Art Ginsberg. He’s a lawyer. 30 Canal Street, Texas City. You better remember that. He is the only one who knows what to do. You have to trust me, by trusting him.”
Silence spread in the control room. I don’t believe it, I thought to myself. Now I was not only a delivery person, but a troubleshooter too.
“And you don’t want to explain anything to me? Like where the money comes from? And why Texas City?” I demanded, feeling very tired. I was pretty sure that Giora knew only small parts of the total picture, so I wasn’t even angry with him.
“No explanations. It’s not healthy for me or for you. Don’t think I don’t understand you. There is simply no choice. Ginsberg will help you, and you’ll muddle through. Things will deteriorate even further. I will probably have to leave.”
I was trying to think things over. Yes, I’d manage. For sure I could.
“Ginsberg is a… company man?”
“Do not ask.” I didn’t. “Enough. C’mon, don’t get depressed now,” Giora tried to cheer me up. “Let’s drill Noni a little. You say you’re here in the control room guarding the homeland?”
“That’s what I thought we’re doing here. “
“And what would you do if you had a violent attack on the consulate right now?”
“Just forget it. I’m not interested. You do drills with your guys. What is it to me?”
“And what if there was a real attack on you now?”
“I’d immediately inform the acting consul and the RSD in New York.” Damn, I was going to miss my class on corporate law. It was the last class before the test. In any case, Giora was dropping some heavy stuff on me.
“Okay, I’m the RSD.” Grinned Giora. “Let the acting consul in char
ge know you have a violent attack.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Go ahead. You are paid by the consulate. Like I said, you’re under attack.”
“I can’t, this isn’t for real. I have class in an hour.”
“I don’t know you and certainly couldn’t care less.” Giora smiled dryly. “I’m telling you that they’re shooting at you right now. Action!”
I didn’t have any room for maneuver left, so I called Noni, who was acting consul with Almog away. “Shots fired in the control room, request permission to return fire!”
I put Noni on speaker so Giora would hear. “Stop saying nonsense! Are you crazy?” Noni’s voice was high and impatient. “If you were shot at, I’d hear! What’s going on with you?”
Giora began to wave his hands, nodding his head and encouraging me to continue. “I repeat, shots fired. Permission to return fire!”
Noni said, “Stop fucking with me.” He hung up.
“Call him again, say they made it past the first door,” Giora prompted me.
Noni was impassive. “Keep this up, and you’ll have no future at this consulate.”
“C’mon, I’m requesting permission to open fire,” I pleaded. I was fed up with this game. “If you don’t believe me, why don’t you come over here?”
It was almost four minutes later when he showed his thin, nervous, suspicious face. He caught sight of Giora and ground to a halt, his eyes growing wide with astonishment. Bitterly, his eyes stinging, he said, “Ah, it’s a drill…”
“It’s not just a drill. It’s a total failure,” declared Giora. “How could you disregard a report of live fire?”
“But it was clear that it was only a drill.” He shrugged.
The Consulate Conspiracy Page 14
