Читать книгу The Spoils of War - Gordon Kent, Gordon Kent - Страница 22

The Craiks were taking Miriam Gurion to lunch. They had wanted to take the Peretzes, too, but Bea had said that she couldn’t make it, and Abe had called back to apologize and say that Bea “was busy advising Likud on how to be Jewish,” and he had explained a bit lamely that in fact she was busy all the time with things he didn’t understand. “Maybe she’s found a younger guy, who knows?” The upshot of his call was that Rose was embarrassed and asked him to come to lunch, anyway.

Now they were sitting at a table in a crowded room in what Miriam said was the best Yemeni-Ethiopian restaurant in Tel Aviv. “Noisy, but the food’s worth it,” she had said. And she was right. It was definitely noisy, and the food was definitely great.

Alan felt awkward, bellowing the details of his detention over the bellows that surrounded them, trying to keep his rage from bursting out, but the other three kept shooting questions at him as they all forked down spicy lentils, ground lamb with fennel, cold mashed tomatoes with cumin and hot peppers. He told them of the capture, the hours in a room, the sudden release.

“So what about the dead guy?” Abe shouted.

“Not here,” Miriam said.

Alan shrugged. “Later,” he said to Abe.

When they were stuffed and groaning and happy, Miriam led them down the street to a shabby café and took them to a table at the back. “Cop place,” she said. “You know, when cops take a break?”

“I think we call it ‘cooping,’” Abe said. He had to explain to her what a coop was.

She said, “Well, this is a coop. A cop coop.” She laughed, a big laugh that surprised Alan, who had seen only her serious side. “Okay,” she said to him when black coffee and a plate of tiny cakes had appeared, “talk about the dead man Qatib. But talk quietly.”

After Alan, with interpolations by Miriam, had explained who Qatib had been and why Mike Dukas had asked him to do the supposedly routine closeout, Abe said, “I don’t get it.”

“Neither do we, darling. None of it hangs together.”

“Mossad doesn’t do such things.” Abe seemed embarrassed. “As a rule. I mean—no offense, Mrs Gurion, but you know how these things work.” Miriam was making noises like a revving engine. “Well, you know what I mean—they’d need a big reason to do something like this.”

“Not to mention snatching my husband off the street,” Rose said.

“That is because he is so handsome, darling,” Miriam said, patting Rose’s hand.

“They never said I was handsome,” Alan muttered.

“What did they say?”

“Everything they said was so stupid, I couldn’t believe it was happening. I really had a hard time believing they were Mossad.” He rubbed his chin, felt the beginning of stubble. “But they were.”

“Of course they were!” Miriam’s eyes widened and narrowed quickly. “Because now they are on me. Yesterday morning, I was on the case, good; yesterday four p.m., I am off the case; this morning, I am on the case again. Why? First, Mossad calls TLV police, get that woman off the case. Then Mossad calls TLV, oh we’re so sorry, we were wrong, do put that nice lady on the case. Why? Because you scared them.” She gestured toward Alan with a coffee spoon, then looked at Abe. “You say you need a big reason for all this. No. I say there is no big reason. I say they were stupid people doing a stupid thing.” She gave a sudden, rather girlish grin. “That is what I tell the very pleasant man who calls me from your friends in Naples.”

“Dukas?”

“No. Mister Triffler. You know Mister Triffler?”

They smiled. Abe examined his fingers, gave her a sly look. “Okay, they were stupid. But why did they kill Qatib?”

“Because that is most stupid of all! We have to live with the Palestinians, whatever happens—interrogations must not kill.” She put her chin up, said almost defiantly, “The Supreme Court of Israel ruled in 1999 that torture is illegal.”

“Al said the dead man had been beaten.”

“Yes, badly, badly. But beating, I don’t know—if he died of beating, do you think Mossad beat him to death? Are they that stupid?”

“Either way, the question remains, why do any of it? Who was he?”

She gave an elaborate shrug. “He was a Palestinian.” She put down the spoon. “I have work to do at Dizengoff Street.” She began shaking hands all around.

When she had gone and Peretz and Alan and Rose were walking back toward their hotel, Peretz said, “Interesting woman. Think she’d be open to a contact?”

“What, recruit her? No, I don’t.”

“No, no. But—I liaise with cops; she’s a cop. What I’m thinking—this thing isn’t going to go away. State told the Israelis we’ll pursue the investigation and expect them to do the same. I just got word Dukas is sending somebody to follow through. I’m going to wind up in the middle of that, no matter what happens.” Peretz stepped around a woman who was staring into a store window. “And you’re leaving.”

“You bet your ass I’m leaving.” He said that he thought that the investigation was really Dukas’s and NCIS’s, not Peretz’s, but it would be impossible to do from Naples.

When they were parting, Peretz said, “Mossad has a long arm, Alan. And a long memory.” He looked like a wise professor repeating an important point to a slow pupil.

Alan looked at his watch and nodded. “I’ll remember.” He was on his way to the meeting that was his real reason for being in Tel Aviv; he couldn’t wait for it to be over so he could get out. He left Peretz nodding to himself, conscious that the man had more to say, and too focused to listen to it.