"It was my understanding that she was with you,” I said.
"Wrong.” He grimaced again, annoyed. “We are just friends. The experience between us is purely intellectual. Maybe also conceptual.”
Conceptual? I thought to myself on the way out, but what did I care? Maybe I had really made the deal of my life?
I looked for Laure, but she wasn’t at the reception area or in the penthouse. She had disappeared into the night.
34.
“This Hinenzon,” Noni repeated. “Hinenzon, that’s another name that’s a mouthful. Only because of his good connections and his maifoso status does he get to leave Israel without changing his name to Ben-Hanan or something like that. Hinenzon is quite a name to walk around with.”
Since he had declined our offer to pick him up from the airport, we didn’t know exactly when he’d be showing up. That meant that all the consulate’s business was backed up. Almog didn’t get it.
“So it’s a real inspection?” he asked Noni.
“It’s an administrative inspection. He’ll examine our finances and assets. Then he’ll get to the main event: the diplomatic mail procedures.”
Noni’s nervousness was infectious, and Almog had caught it.
“I always came in first at inspection,” he announced. “First in the brigade, first in the division. Even in human resources, even in ordnance. At Command, they always knew that Almog is number one in inspections!”
Great, he was talking about himself in the third person. As for me, I watched it all as if it were a play, a boring one at that. In six months, I would be done with my studies and would move on to some American company to earn a six-figure salary. The Markovsky family would explode, although I would not be the one to update them. Still, I had my own problems — Laure, for example. After that night at the penthouse she had stopped coming for treatments at St. Luke’s; she hadn’t come in for her monthly stipend at the consulate either. But she would return, I was convinced. After all, we’d settled the financial matter amicably.
I also had not heard from Giora, and this bothered me more. I felt he was the only person I could count on, a comrade-in-arms. However, I had no reason and no special desire to go to war. In any case, as far as Giora was concerned, I had done precisely what he’d requested, in terms of the bodel and in terms of Ginsberg, leaving me with a tidy nest egg. Ginsberg, who managed my assets, could, for my part, stay in touch with Giora. I had fulfilled my obligations.
There were also the lunatics around Logan, but I dismissed them as his problem. Like Jeremiah, who had indeed gone missing as Logan had promised. It left me with Laure only, in those hours of quiet as I went back to building my B-24. I felt I had to experience again those glances, those silences, those conversations, those touches. There was nothing between us, but maybe there was everything between us. Between me and my B-24 model, I allowed myself to spill my guts.
Hinenzon arrived, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, at two in the afternoon. He came with just a light bag, which indicated that he’d already checked in at his hotel. This added to Noni’s restlessness. Hinenzon wore the crocheted skullcap characteristic of the Modern Orthodox, quietly humming to himself a Hasidic song. The skullcap covered most of a huge bald spot, while sweat dripped past the remnants of his hair. He had a thin nose, narrow and pursed lips; in contrast to them, his tiny eyes sparkle at us.
"Hello, everyone; it’s so good to see you,” he eagerly greeted Noni, who was trying to say something. “Lead me to the books right away, it’s a shame to waste time. Where’s your accountant?” Hinenzon proceeded vigorously, while Noni trailed behind miserably.
"You do not want to check the diplomatic mail?”
"Yes, we must get to that in time. What a tragedy! Such a dear man, Ephraim Mevorach. He left a wife, four children, two grandchildren, God have mercy.”
“He should have never been sent as a courier at such an age,” said Noni — and immediately regretted it.
"At such an age?” Hinenzon repeated. “At such an age? What age is such an age exactly? Fifty-two is no longer good enough for you?”
"He was robbed and had a heart attack,” Noni argued in a low, resentful voice.
"Let’s talk about things you do know something about,” Hinenzon dismissed him, and the humorous smile returned to his thin lips. “So who is still working here?” he asked. “Is Nurit still here? And the sick girl?”
"Yes, yes,” Noni replied with relief. “Sick, definitely sick. Nurit is with us half-time.”
"Well, if you still have Nurit on staff, then I presume that everything’s fine.” Hinenzon set the trap.
"Everything is fine, everything is fine,” mumbled Noni. “The consul general wants to see you when you’re done.”
Noni was upset that Hinenzon had arrived alone and without luggage. It did not suit him. Hinenzon usually liked to be picked up at the airport and given the respect he deserved. He also left the diplomatic mail to the end.
Hinenzon was soon elbow-deep in records. Nurit, who in Israel had been a CPA, sat across from him. They divided between them the brown pages for receipts, the blue for payments, and the green for cash balance.
"How was your cash balance in March?”
Noni, startled, immediately declared, “Perfect, perfect!”
"Really? So why does Nurit tell me you’re left with a two-hundred-dollar deficit?”
Noni looked at the two of them in disbelief. Between Nurit, the part-time accountant, and Hinenzon, the regional administrative officer, there was a kind of silence among professionals; in his eyes, the two seemed to be mocking him. The proverbial cat seemed to have gotten Noni’s tongue, but Hinenzon was not waiting for an answer. He began to sing to himself, “Lordy, Lordy, what can we eat? Lordy, Lordy, what can we eat?”
“Lordy?” Noni repeated in wonderment.
“We ate the roots of the vetch,” Hinenzon continued his strange tune, as he threw a question to Nurit, “What about the petty cash?”
She took out the proper binder and opened it in front of him.
“Lordy, Lordy, what can we eat? Lordy, Lordy, what can we eat? We ate the petty cash.” Hinenzon adjusted the skullcap on his head again, humorously considering the paperwork in front of him. “Instant coffee? Since when do we buy instant coffee with petty cash?” he mused as if to himself, then turned his astonished gaze on Noni.
“That’s in accordance with regulations!” Noni protested. “They taught us that in the administrative officer’s course.”
"Oh, really? Is that what they taught you?” Hinenzon went back and forth. “And where is this instant coffee?”
Noni looked in the direction of the consular department. Shoshi hurried to close the open door. “It just ran out.”
“We just ran out of instant coffee? This instant? Not good,” Hinenzon lamented. “That’s not good, for instance. Someone took our instant coffee!”
The atmosphere in the room was thick with tension, as the inspection went on and on, Hinenzon continuously chanting under his breath, “We ate the roots of the vetch. Lordy, Lordy, that’s why we kvetch...”
The afternoon stretched on, and it was finally time close the consulate. Noni queried anxiously, “Will you return tomorrow?”
"I will return, naturally I will return! We have not finished anything yet.”
"No! Really?” Noni shuddered.
"Why, where are you running to?” Hinenzon insisted on making life difficult for Noni. “And the consul general still wants to see me, have you forgotten?”
"We have other jobs to do here!”
“So, what of it?” Hinenzon peered at him through the lenses of his glasses. “You know what Rabbi Tarphon says, right? ‘The day is short, the work is much, the workers are lazy, the reward is great, and the Master is pressing.’ Pay special attention to that penultimate line: ‘the workers are lazy.’” He shrugged
. “So I must stay another day.”
"Here at the consulate?”
"Wherever I am needed.” Hinenzon was starting to lose his patience. “I want to see the M&L reports.”
He was handed the binder that dealt with reimbursement for meals and lodging when travelling on official business. He flipped through, and without stopping at a particular page, he demanded of Noni, “So tell me, sir, what brought you to Albuquerque?”
"Three Israelis had been arrested. That’s under the jurisdiction of the consulate.”
"And that obliges you to stay there overnight too?”
"Absolutely,” Noni replied. “It was a complicated case.”
"And now everything’s fine?”
"It’s all right now,” Noni reassured him.
The atmosphere suddenly became much lighter and more comfortable. Hinenzon clapped a hand on Noni’s shoulder and explained to him the secrets of career advancement in the Diplomatic Corps. “What do you think gets you a promotion? Press, information, is that what they look at? Those are just the tales they tell you. What determines everything is the balance only. Either your accounts are balanced, or they are not. And if they are not, then you are in serious trouble. Once you’re in trouble, what can be done? You get a letter of reprimand from the deputy director general to the administrator, you get a suspension in the ranking committee, your promotion is slow-walked. And your next assignment? Bupkis, it all goes sideways. What, do you think a consulate like Houston can be handed to just anyone?”
35.
Almog finally hung up at the end of a long phone call with Paul, Amparo’s five-year-old son. Paul had gotten home from daycare and felt compelled to share his anxieties about the fate of the Ninja Turtles.
Our fearless leader had been dating Klein’s secretary on a regular basis, without raising much fuss. Two months into his tenure, he was already softening.
Almog approached the administrative section, smiling to himself. He leaned his body forward, as a result of years of training in PCM, pre-combat movement.
Hinenzon swirled his skullcap on his gleaming scalp, muttering to himself, “Oh Lordy, what now, what now?”
"Sir, welcome to the Consulate!” Almog shouted, startling Hinenzon from his good-humored perusal of the account books.
"Oh-ho-ho, the Honorable Consul General Dan Almog!” Hinenzon leaped to his feet, but it was not immediately clear if his greeting was sincere or sardonic.
The RAD extended his hand; Almog, who was not convinced that Hinenzon was an ally, shook it with a crushing grip. “We are honored by your visit, as regional administrative officer. We have the greatest respect for your office."
"Absolutely, absolutely,” said Hinenzon, anxiously examining his aching fingers. “There must be order, right?”
"No doubt, but why not coordinate with us?” Almog complained loudly.
"Coordinate? Of course we coordinated. We administrative officers are second to none in following procedures.”
"Twenty-four hours’ notice? That’s not coordination in my book.”
"Dear me, dear me.” Hinenzon had a tendency to repeat words, perhaps to stall for time. “I know you were a decorated general in the IDF. Anyone like you ought to know that the best inspection is one carried out with zero notice!”
“I have no problem with surprise inspections.” lmog snorted. “On the contrary, you are welcome to come a week from now, a month from now. However, when you arrive at my consulate” — he stressed the possessive pronoun — “you ought to immediately present yourself to me, say hello like a human being, shake my hand.”
“But surely you know…” Hinenzon sighed dramatically. “That the vice consul has the full authority to represent the mission. Full authority!”
“The vice consul,” Almog quickly replied. “Is one of the best men the Foreign Ministry has, I assure you. If you attempt to make trouble for him, you will have to deal with me.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Hinenzon restrained Almog, “you are picking the wrong man to quarrel with, and that’s quite a shame. I am not a man you want to fight with; even if you win, no one benefits from it. So why go to the trouble? We are engaging in constructive criticism here, don’t you think?"
Almog frowned. "I understand you came here on your own. You do not trust the consulate?”"
"Of course I trust the consulate. Noni is one of our best, as you explained so well.” Hinenzon chuckled.
"And what hotel are you in?”
Hinenzon shifted uncomfortably. “DoubleTree.”
“DoubleTree?” Almog repeated in amazement.
“Right here, Post Oak. Above the mall, the Galleria.”
"Do we work with them at all?” Almog turned to Noni.
"No, their rate is beyond our authorized limit."
"So that’s it,” said Almog, drawing out each word with pleasure. “The regional administration officer is enjoying accommodations beyond the Diplomatic Corps standards. I find that very interesting.”
Hinenzon carefully surveyed the windows of the office. Slowly, with a low whistle, he let the air out of his chest and said, “Okay, very well, if you must know: the rates of the DoubleTree are definitely within the bounds of the regional administrative officer’s allowance for lodging — which, in case you do not know, is the standard of a full ambassador, namely two hundred thirty dollars per night. The DoubleTree charges one hundred ninety dollars. Above the limit for the consulate, but not for someone bearing the rank of ambassador. However, that’s not the point. We have no quarrel, Honorable Consul General. I think it would be good if we sat together to discuss everything.” He could not help allowing himself a small grin. He picked up his mug of coffee. “Shall we retire to your office?”
Almog scowled and turned toward his office.
"Should I join you?” Noni asked, with apprehension and anticipation.
“You keep working,” Almog told him, as Hinenzon cheerfully followed him.
Almog sat in his executive armchair, putting his feet up on his heavy desk.
“Those boots are magnificent,” noted Hinenzon. “Hardly standard IDF issue.”
Almog glanced at his snakeskin cowboy boots. “If you were interested in the local culture and not just the balance sheets, you would know that this is the finest in Texas fashion. Buffalo boots. That’s how they judge you here, to see if you blend in with the environment.”
“You blend in? In those boots?” Hinenzon asked, feigning naïveté, cheerily adjusting his skullcap.
"Don’t try to annoy me. You’ve already gotten on my nerves enough.”
"Ah, nerves,” mused Hinenzon. “Back home in the village, the chickens are dying of nervousness. They are starting to peck each other, and the neighbors too.”
"Chickens are hysterical and idiotic birds,” says Almog. “Maybe the consulate in New York can learn to cluck too. Now, you better tell me what you’re here for.”
"Fine. Mevorach did not die of a heart attack. He was murdered,” said Hinenzon. “The top secret courier bag he had with him was stolen.”
"I know that. But that fact stands apart from the investigation and its findings.”
"Really? Large sums of money that went through your diplomatic mail have already found their way to local financial markets. The remaining classified envelopes were found stuffed in the suggestion box at JFK. Unopened.” Hinenzon gave Almog a few moments to digest this, while he hummed under his breath in Yiddish. “Danileh mein Sohn…”
“What do you mean by ‘local financial markets’?”
“It’s Money Laundering 101, basic stuff.” Hinenzon sipped his coffee. “We have no way of tracing it.”
“Then how do you know about it?”
“Sources, informants, that sort of thing.”
Almog paused, deep in thought. “So where does that leave us?”
�
�We’ve made little progress,” Hinenzon replied. “We haven’t solved anything yet, and your diplomatic mail is still problematic and vulnerable. We want to relocate the Latin American mail, to move the collection center to Miami. At least temporarily.” Hinenzon finished surveying Almog’s military commendations. His humming of Danileh Mein Sohn went up an octave.
“No way!” Almog’s boots came off his desk as he sat up and pounded it with his fist. “Houston is the center, and it will remain the center!”
Hinenzon shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
“As long as I serve here, the center will remain in Houston,” Almog insisted. “There’s no two ways about it.”
“Do you have a better option?”
“Yes,” Almog replied after a moment in thought. “Clearly, we have sprung a leak somewhere along the courier route. I am prepared to travel the entire route myself, so I can personally verify every station and every turn along the way, and make sure everything is kosher. If there is a leak, I can plug it. Just think of it as Advanced Plumbing.”
"We shall see.” Hinenzon did not want to commit. “We shall see. And by the way, Honorable Consul General...” he continued casually, mumbling into his chin. “Is it true that you are socializing with a local woman? A black woman?”
Almog froze for a moment. “Socializing?” he whispered, as if to himself. “With a black woman?”
Hinenzon considered him with curious eyes.
"Who’s asking?” Almog hissed venomously.
"Who’s asking? I’m asking. Between friends.”
“Between friends, it’s not your business. It’s not your mother’s business. It’s nobody’s business!” Almog’s voice rose to a roar.
“You’re here representing the State of Israel. It could hurt you.” Hinenzon addressed this to the ashtray on the desk, without being alarmed by Almog’s anger.
The Consulate Conspiracy Page 19
