Читать книгу In the Name of God - Stephen J. Gordon - Страница 6

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For a very long moment the waiter didn’t move. He just lay there on his back, the unfired automatic beside him. The shock of being thrown to the floor momentarily stunned him. His eyes had gone wide when I swept out his feet, but now they came back to life. I knew he was in pain, but I also knew he must’ve been pretty pumped up, either on drugs, pure adrenalin, or both.

In another second he began to get up, but in that second the Shin Bet agents were on him. The tall, thin agent who had been standing beside General Lev on the way out, kicked the waiter’s left knee from behind, forcing him to collapse. His partner, the agent who had been near the dais, simultaneously shoved him over backward onto the floor, and pinned a knee into his gut. Before the waiter could let out a gasp, the agent pressed the barrel of his own automatic into the boy’s forehead. The young waiter grimaced in pain.

“Don’t move,” the Israeli said with a slight accent.

I looked up to see what else was happening. When the first two Shin Bet agents knocked the waiter to the floor, three other agents surrounded the guest of honor and hustled him unceremoniously out of the room. He disappeared, enveloped by his guards, out the front double doors. I had no doubt there was a bulletproof car waiting for him.

In seconds, Baltimore police and Israeli security sealed the exits. They needed to find out what was going on and no one in the hall would leave until they had a handle on what had just happened.

Who was the waiter? Was he working alone? Was he a religious fanatic? Did someone put him up to this? He was so young. Was he a paid assassin?

Some questions, of course, would wait for a private interrogation, but the critical one for now — was he acting alone — had to be answered before the crowd dispersed. Neither the Americans nor the Israelis wanted to let the waiter’s partner — if there was one — walk out with everyone else.

I looked around the room to see how the crowd was reacting. For the most part, there was silence as dapper men and elegant women just watched. A camera crew from Channel 13 — a cameraman and a well turned-out woman reporter — were recording the action. They were frantically hustling to get shots...some of the crowd and some of the police and security agents doing their work. Were they filming when I broke the waiter’s wrist? Maybe they were framed on the general as he was leaving and I could be seen with the waiter in the background. That’s not what I needed...to be immortalized on video... my visage played and replayed all over the world.

Maybe the Israelis and the Baltimore police wouldn’t check the camera. Maybe there was nothing to worry about.

Yeah, right.

The news crew weaved their way through the guests toward the Israelis pinning the waiter to the ground. They were, at most, six feet from me and getting ready to set up a camera shot. The reporter, probably about thirty with big blonde hair set off against a black evening dress, stood facing the camera with the suspect on the floor in the background behind her. The cameraman raised his camera and looked through the eyepiece.

“Not now, Miss Turner.” A silver-haired plain-clothed police officer came over, his badge hanging from the breast pocket of his sport coat. He began escorting her away from the trio on the floor and handed her over to a uniformed officer.

“Wait.” The senior Israeli agent, the older man with stylish wire rimmed glasses, stepped in. He turned to the reporter. “Were you filming when the general was leaving?”

The cameraman, a tall, skinny man with sandy-colored straight hair, answered: “Not the whole thing. I got his speech and then a few seconds of him coming through the crowd.”

“Play it back for him, Bobby,” the woman reporter said.

The senior Israeli interrupted, “Do you have a monitor we could use?”

“I’ve got an 11 inch in the van,” Bobby put in. “Be better than trying to see through the viewfinder.”

The plain-clothed cop flicked a thumb toward the door. “Get it. And find a quiet place to look at it.” He turned to a black officer standing beside him. “James, go with this guy.”

The officer and the cameraman moved toward the doors.

I watched them exit. Well, they were going to check the tape, and I’d find out soon enough if I were on that video. If the police or the Shin Bet noticed me, I wouldn’t be hard to find in this closed room.

When I turned back to the scene in front of me, the Israelis were pulling the waiter upright. Another officer stepped in, handcuffs open. The crowd around them watched in silence. While the first Israeli kept his automatic pressed into the waiter’s forehead, the cop spoke to the boy, “Put your right hand behind your back.” He did as he was told. The officer locked the handcuff into place around his right wrist. “Now your other hand.” The boy complied.

As the officer began to wrap the other handcuff around the waiter’s hand, the waiter screamed in pain. I smiled to myself in satisfaction. His wrist was broken for sure. They snapped on the handcuff despite his howls and escorted him away, not being particularly mindful of his injury. I hope they questioned him before some sensitive doctor gave him a pain killer. He’d be less likely to be forthcoming if he were feeling just fine.

In the minutes that followed, the audience began to relax. Some people sat conversing at tables, while others milled about the hall. The volume had definitely come up in the room.

I located a virgin piece of chocolate cake and headed back to my seat with Alli.

“Okay,” Alli said as I sat in my seat, “what did you do?”

“I took another piece of cake.”

“Not that. You know what I mean.”

“What?” I asked, shoving a fork-full into my mouth.

“You’re the one who shouted ‘Gun!’ What did you do?” she pointed to where I had taken down the waiter. “You were walking over there and the next thing he was on the ground before we knew what was going on.”

I reached for a glass of water and smiled slightly. “Don’t you think Baltimore has the best water in the country?”

“Gidon!”

Somewhere above us a helicopter was hovering over the building. If I could hear it in here, it must’ve been deafening outside.

“Are you going to tell them, the police?”

“If they ask.”

“Why won’t you say anything to them?”

I cut another small piece off my chocolate wedge. I looked at Alli. How old was she? Maybe eight years younger than I. I was beginning to feel the gap. But it wasn’t only that. It’s what happened to me between when I was her age and where I am now. On the other hand, that’s why I continued to go out with her...because she still seemed innocent.

“Okay,” I began, “you know I like to keep to myself some-

times. Low profile...” I trailed off.

“Gidon, in this community, when you do what you do, there’s no such thing.”

“It’s sort of a conflict, I know.” I let a moment go by as I played with the cake in front of me. “I need the publicity for work, yet...” I didn’t finish the thought.

I looked at Alli. I loved her lips. They were great lips.

I had to tell her something. “With these guys — the Israelis — they’ll file away everything you say. I don’t want another file open on me.”

“Another file?”

“You know what I mean.” I knew she didn’t and I wasn’t going to let her ask.

She looked at me for a long moment.

The door to the room opened and in walked the older Israeli agent and the plain-clothed cop. Had they reviewed the newscaster’s video tape? What did they see? My guess — or was it my prayer — was that they didn’t see very much of the entire episode, my actions included.

I watched them from a distance as the silver-haired plain-clothed cop and the Israeli huddled. The more I thought about it, the more I began to get annoyed. The Shin Bet should’ve been more careful with their charge. You can’t anticipate everything, but still, if I hadn’t been there, Eitan Lev, front-runner for Prime Minister of Israel, would be lying in a pool of blood. The Israelis are still good, but times have changed even for them.

I let another moment go by as I watched the Baltimore detective and the chief Israeli security man. Chances were someone would be able to identify me as the one who shouted “gun.” The question was, could I extricate myself without making the Israelis more curious about me. I wasn’t worried about the Baltimore cops.

“I guess you’re right,” I turned to Alli. “I really should talk to the police.”

She nodded. “I’ll save your cake.”

“No nibbling.”

Alli smiled and I headed over to the edge of the room where the cop and the older Israeli were talking. As I approached, one of the younger Shin Bet agents immediately appeared in front of me. He wouldn’t let me pass. He was my height with short black hair. The man couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. He was not in good humor. “Yes? Can I help you?” he said this quickly, almost challengingly. But that could simply have been because English wasn’t his native language.

The cop and the older Israeli looked over at me.

I locked eyes for a split second with the Shin Bet man in front of me, then looked past him to his boss. “I’m the one who shouted ‘Gun!’”

The older Israeli waved off the younger security man who took a step to the side. The Israeli in charge gestured, “Come.” He held out a chair for me at a nearby round dinner table. The younger Israeli remained close.

I took the seat the boss offered, and he took one just a few feet away. I looked at the table. It was covered in a navy blue tablecloth and had a half-emptied cup of coffee near me. The rest of the table looked equally abandoned — partially finished water glasses, discarded cloth napkins, centerpiece candles burned almost all the way down, silverware scattered.

I turned to my new Israeli host. He was watching me. The Baltimore cop stood to his right. He was watching me too.

The Baltimore cop spoke up, “You are...”

“Gidon Aronson.”

“Gidon?” the Israeli repeated, somewhat surprised. He must have been expecting a more Anglicized name. “Atta m’daber Ivrit?” He was asking if I spoke Hebrew.

I didn’t say anything. I shrugged as if I didn’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You don’t speak Hebrew?”

I wasn’t sure whether that was a question or not. “No. But I get that a lot from Israelis. My parents named me after the Biblical character.”

“I know that Gidon,” the man said. “He used spies and psychology against his enemies.” He held out his hand, “My name is David Amit. I am in charge of security. You saved Mr. Lev’s life. Thank you.” He paused. “So, what did you see? What happened?”

I took a breath. It seemed the thing to do...you know, like I had to think about this. “I saw the waiter stop what he was doing and watch Mr. Lev work his way toward the exit.”

“And?” the Baltimore cop asked.

“The waiter put down his tray and moved very deliberately toward Mr. Lev. And he was sweating...a lot.”

“Why didn’t you say something then?” This again from the cop.

“Didn’t think of it. Besides, nothing had happened yet. And then there wasn’t enough time.” I turned to the Israeli. “Your men were looking the wrong way.”

The Israeli looked at me, ignoring what could have been an accusation. “So what did you do?”

I knew they would ask this, and I kept it simple. “I saw him pull out a gun, so I sort of tripped him...knocked him down.”

“A very brave thing to do,” the Israeli observed.

“No choice.”

“Did you notice anyone else, anyone with him?”

“Not that I could see. He was focused on Mr. Lev.”

“You’re pretty observant,” the Baltimore cop said.

I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Aronson?” This, again, from the cop.

“I teach.” Before anyone could ask something else, I said, “How do you think the waiter got the gun past your guys?”

The younger Israeli agent, the one who had blocked my path earlier, leaned over to Mr. Amit and whispered in his ear. The senior Israel nodded, then leaned back, looking at me.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of my adult self-defense students watching us from a nearby table. He was a medium-tall, slightly chubby balding man who was always asking me questions. Don’t come over here...don’t speak to me, was all I could think.

I looked at him, but then turned back to the men in front of me.

“So you don’t think there was anyone else with the waiter?” Amit asked again.

“No, I didn’t see him interacting with anyone other than to wait tables.”

“Unless there was someone in the kitchen you couldn’t see,” this from the younger Israeli standing beside his boss.

“Maybe, but during Mr. Lev’s speech, the waiter spent the entire time out here in the hall.”

The cop seemed surprised. “You noticed that also?”

I smiled what I hoped was a good smile. “I was bored, so, I looked around.”

The young Israeli agent leaned over to his boss and whispered again. The senior agent looked up at his man and said, “Kain, ani yodey-ah.” Yes, I know.

I looked at them looking at me.

One of us needed to say something, so I did: “Why don’t you check the TV crew’s camera. Maybe they got something on tape.” Of course I already knew they did that, so I tried to make it sound like an innocent, helpful suggestion. I’m not sure it came out that way.

“Yes, thank you for that idea,” the cop said. His comment sounded equally lame.

Amit turned to me. “Gidon, you are an interesting man. I would love to speak with you some more.” He smiled pleasantly.

“Where can we reach you if we need to get in touch?” the cop asked.

I gave him my home number and stood up. Amit held out his hand and I shook it. “Thank you for your help. As I said before, you saved Mr. Lev’s life.”

I shrugged again, trying to look embarrassed. I seemed to be shrugging a lot lately. “I’m glad I could. Good luck.” I headed back to my table, not waiting to be dismissed.

I heard them start to talk behind me, but my hearing wasn’t good enough to make out what they were saying. I wondered how long it would be before they paid me a visit at home.

“So, how’d it go?” Alli asked, as I approached her.

“Not as good as I would have liked. I always say too much.”

“Too much? I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” I smiled. I really had no idea why I wasn’t more forthcoming. Was there a reason not to be? Old habit, I guess. I let out a silent breath. Man, I was too tired for all this. I looked at Alli, “So, did you save my cake?”

“I did.”

I looked down at it, but it wasn’t calling me anymore.

There was movement to my right, from the head table. The plain-clothed cop who interviewed me, had walked over to the head table and had picked up the microphone from the dais. He flicked the switch on the mic and the loud speaker popped to life.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Lieutenant Kuper. Thank you for your patience. Everything is under control. Mr. Lev is safe. We have the man who we think is responsible in custody. If anyone has information that can help us, please see me. Otherwise, you are all free to go. Thank you, again, for your patience.”

There was a murmur about the room. I watched for a moment as people began to file out past the police. I nodded to Alli and we joined the slow-moving exodus. We stepped out in the hallway, which was lined on either side with display cases of menorahs, shofars, and other Judaica, and then we eventually found ourselves outside the building.

The May Sunday night air was cool, and compared to the close confines in the social hall, it was liberating. We stood with the synagogue behind us, looking out onto Seven Mile Lane, a main suburban street, but of modest size. As invigorating as the air was, though, when we emerged from the synagogue, it felt as if we were stepping into a crime scene. Police cars with their blue lights flashing were parked almost bumper-to-bumper along the curb in front of us. A uniformed officer wearing an orange reflective vest was standing in the middle of the intersection, directing traffic. I was half expecting to hear the distinctive squawk of police radio, but the cops had lapel walkie-talkies.

Out on the sidewalk there was already quite a crowd. Not only had all the dinner guests emptied into the public area in front of the synagogue, but there were several groups of local residents there as well. Even the opposite street corners were filled. Ahead of us on each corner was a mixture of old and young gawkers, neighbors probably, brought out by the light and sound show that accompanied the police. There were elderly couples in bathrobes, men and women in warm-up suits, and kids on bicycles. I looked up into the night sky. The helicopter was nowhere to be seen; no reason to hang around once the dignitary and his would-be assassin were gone.

Alli tugged on my arm, wanting to head to my car. She began to lead the way to the right, through the crush of people. I found myself looking across the street to the bystanders. On the far corner, behind a young couple holding up an infant, was a group of kids...teenagers, I’d guess. They were standing close together, alternately looking at the crowd — us — and shifting their feet. A few had cigarettes dangling from their lips. One boy was on crutches. The crutches caught my attention; they were the aluminum type and glinted in the artificial white light of the synagogue flood lights.

As we continued to move to the parking lot, someone was approaching us from the right. It was the slightly chubby adult student I spotted earlier while I was talking to the Shin Bet agent. I had prayed that he wouldn’t come over to me in front of the Israeli and he hadn’t.

“Yo, Sensei!” the student called. God, he was loud.

“Hi, Lenny.” Alli and I stopped walking.

“So, what d’you think? Exciting, huh. What were you doing?...Helping out the Israelis, right?”

I looked at Alli and shared a smile with her. “That’s it, Lenny, you know me.”

“Good. They need help these days. They should go to you.” He paused. “Well, that’s all I wanted to say. Gotta go. See you Wednesday night.”

“So long.”

As I watched him move toward the adjacent parking lot on the right, another figure caught my attention. David Amit was standing at the edge of the crowd, near the curb in front of us, surrounded by his men. They were still scanning the group. All were looking about; all but Amit. He wasn’t interested in the mass of people. He was looking at me.

A black sedan pulled to the curb. The Israelis, without exchanging any words, got in, and quickly pulled away. After the car turned a corner, I let my gaze drift back to the kids across the street. While some of the bystanders were beginning to head off, they hadn’t moved. They were still huddled on the opposite street corner, taking in all the action.

Alli tugged on my sleeve once again and we made our way to my dark red Jeep. Thanks to the fact I had previously backed into my space, we were able to pull right out. I cut off a middle-aged tuxedoed man in a black Lexus and then headed out. We drove toward downtown.

Alli lived down in Federal Hill, a historic area of town just beyond the Inner Harbor. To get there we headed south on I-83.

The drive went quickly — at this time late Sunday night there wasn’t much traffic on the highway — and for a long stretch, we rode in silence. Then as the lights of downtown bloomed ahead of us, Alli spoke up. “So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“Well, while you’re mending bodies and manipulating joints and muscles, I’ll be battling a class of middle schoolers.”

She looked at me, confused.

“I’m subbing. 7th Grade American History.”

“And you enjoy that?” she asked smiling, slightly sarcastic.

“Don’t you know I’m bent.”

“Uh huh, that’s what I like about you.”

“Not the average, young professional medical-type that you’re used to.”

“Definitely not.” She reached over and put her left hand on my thigh.

I looked at her for a moment. What was I doing? Did she have any idea that what I did to the waiter tonight was because I had to and partly because I enjoyed causing him pain?

Maybe I needed some therapy. Well, she was a physical therapist.

Alli lived on Montgomery Street, a sleepy, tree-lined cobblestoned road one block from Federal Hill Park. Years ago the city had bought many of the Federal-style row houses because they had fallen into disrepair, and then provided incentives for new owners to fix them. The results were impressive. The buildings had been renovated, keeping within the original styles of the masonry, moldings, shutters, and more. The houses had regained their aura of an earlier — much earlier — time.

I found a parking-for-residents-only spot across from her house and pulled in. I hung a guest parking pass from my rear-view mirror and then stepped out. Alli met me at the curb. She took my hand and we walked over to her doorstep.

“So, you’re a hero.” She turned and suddenly seemed very close.

I looked into her sky blue eyes. They were clear and vibrant. Mine were probably bloodshot from fatigue.

A young couple walked past us, arm-in-arm. I could hear them talking about the Afghani restaurant they must’ve just visited.

Alli was still looking at me.

I smiled, thinking about what happened tonight. “We all do what we can.”

“It was very brave of you.” She was getting even closer.

“You’re pretty brave yourself, going out with me.”

“Mmm.”

I kissed her. Softly at first, slowly...enjoying her lips on mine.

Okay, I wasn’t that tired. Still, how smart was this? Two months ago, there’d have been no qualms. I probably would have pinned her to the door.

I needed to go home. That was the smart thing to do.

But her lips were great. I moved over to the side of her neck.

She smelled amazing. Alli wore just a hint of perfume, but her own scent wouldn’t let me go.

Her arms went around me and I placed mine around her. My right arm — and I didn’t ask it to — slowly glided down to the small of her back.

Another moment went by. She was too young for me. I knew that. Energetic, exciting, but too young. She was in school —graduate school — but still school, and I was on the other side of life.

“Come inside,” she breathed into my ear.

“I would love to, but...I can’t.”

I pulled away from the embrace, ever-so-slightly. I kissed her again, very softly.

She looked at me.

“I really would love to,” I repeated, “but I’m old and I have things to do for tomorrow.”

She laughed at my mention of being old. “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure I’m old?”

“No, I know you’re old,” she smiled again. “Are you sure you have to go back?” She kissed me once more.

“No, I’m not sure.”

She kissed me again.

“I’m really not sure.”

If I stayed and we ended up where I knew we would, it might give her the wrong impression. Was that a problem?

I pulled away a little more, probably an entire millimeter. My right hand stayed on the curve of her lower back. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.” It must’ve been after midnight.

“Even better. I’ll call you later. Dinner?”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

I kissed her again and then waited for her to retrieve her keys from her small handbag. She unlocked her front door, then stepped inside. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” I smiled. She closed the door softly.

I turned and scanned the street. All was quiet. I let out a breath and went over to my Jeep. I was excited to be with Alli, no doubt about it, but the relationship left me exhausted if I dwelled on it too much. Alli was fun and eager, and I was just...I don’t know what. I got into my Jeep and headed back uptown.

My modest house was tucked away behind Charles Street, just north of the Johns Hopkins Homewood campus. I made it in ten minutes due to nearly empty streets. The Homewood area was almost park-like and, thanks to the University, had an energy unique to college life: vibrant foot traffic, student activities, eateries, sporting events, and more. As it was after midnight, that energy was dormant for now, but would awaken with the day in six hours.

Once inside my house, I headed to the first floor office, pulling off my tie and opening my collar. I went over to my desk and flicked on the desk light. It cast the room in a shadowed aura that partially hid its periphery. The desk was a mess as usual with papers scattered all over. After digging out the phone and its base from a mound of magazines and catalogs, I flicked on the message system. As it cycled, I looked around the partially darkened study. An M.C. Escher print hung on one wall, a bookcase against another, an oversized chair — a chair and a half the saleswoman had called it — against a third. My scan came to rest on a long, scroll-length parchment hanging on the wall next to my desk. On the parchment was a hand-drawn Chinese poem that had been given to me more than a few years ago. In the flowing brush style of classical Chinese calligraphy with its thick and thin black characters, the poem told of dragons’ wings and the creation of heaven and earth.

The answering system clicked to the first message: “Sifu, this is Jon. The ten gis you ordered came today. Mr. Kenshi brought them himself. He sends his regards. He said the broadswords are on back-order, but he’ll make some calls.”

I smiled, envisioning the middle-aged Japanese importer who ran a small martial arts supply business out of his clothing store not far away. He didn’t need to come by, but he often did. I was honored he felt that way. Mr. Kenshi loved to sit in my office, share a story or two or three, and laugh his deep abdominal laugh.

“Oh,” Jon went on, “I think we may have a new student. She’s tall, has long blonde hair and an amazing smile...a junior at Hopkins. And let’s just say that if you need help teaching her, I’ll be there for you. No problem. She saw our demonstration at the student union. About teaching her, really, I can give the intermediate students to someone else, and I can help her get started. She’ll probably be by tomorrow.” There was a pause, then, “That’s it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Did you get her phone number?” I asked the machine.

“Oh,” Jon’s voice came back on, “her name is Evy, and I got her number. Bye.”

Click.

The second and final message was from the 7th grade teacher whose class I was covering. She just wanted to remind me about class and where she was leaving her lesson plans.

I turned off the machine, then gathered my material for tomorrow’s class. I had some notes, a copy of the 7th Grade text — a two-inch thick hardcover volume called The American Nation — and a game of Monopoly. I knew the teacher; she wouldn’t mind if I digressed from her plans, as long as I covered her material. I was glad she was flexible that way.

Finally, after I procrastinated enough, I took a final look around the room, turned off the light, and headed upstairs.