Cafe Nevo (33 page)

“I believe he will follow my recommendations, whatever they may be,” Brenner said. They regarded one another thoughtfully.

He's a clever man, Uri said, the night they talked till dawn. He's also a proud man. He will be angry. Let him have his anger. Let it wash over you. Don't fight him. And don't discuss politics. When his anger subsides, explain the advantages. He'll listen then.

Arik did not know if that time had come. Behind his calm exterior the Minister still looked furious, as if any moment now his hand would dart out to the buzzer on his desk, and men would swarm into the room, drag Arik out, and shoot him in the courtyard. If he had the power, Arik thought, he'd do it.

“I think, Mr. Eshel,” said the Minister after some thought, “that you leave me no choice but to send you to the devil. Publish and be damned.” But this was said in a probing voice, and Arik heard it and was heartened.

He said, “Regardless of what happens to me, Minister, I hope you'll consider establishing the commission we discussed. Since questions have arisen, and will no doubt continue to
arise,
about the provenance of many of these land transactions, would it not be to your Ministry's benefit to have some impartial body overseeing these transactions? Wouldn't that take the heat off, as it were?”

Brenner is a world expert in cover-your-ass, Uri had told him in their all-night session. Talk to him in those terms, and he will respond. Arik saw it happening before his eyes. The Minister's face changed. His thoughts turned inward. He had the look of a man who has accepted a disaster and is now contemplating damage control.

“Is your appointment as head of this ‘impartial body' an integral part of this
proposal
?” he asked brusquely.

“It would be to your advantage,” Arik said carefully.

“There are a thousand men more qualified than you.”

“By appointing someone known to have no sympathy for speculators, you would demonstrate your impartiality and further distance yourself from any hint of... irregularities.”

“My integrity has never been questioned,” the Minister put in angrily.

Arik smiled.

The Minister picked up a pencil and examined it in detail, turning it this way and that. “What you seem to be asking for,” he said, “is carte blanche authority to allow or disallow all land purchases in Judea and Samaria.”

“Only land purchases by Israelis.”

“That is a position of tremendous power, which is properly invested in elected, not appointed, officials.”

“This overseeing committee would not usurp your power, Minister. It would draw from it.”

“But to what end?” Brenner said quickly. He pointed the pencil at Arik's face. “To what end, Eshel?”

“To the end that no more Palestinians will be forced or tricked into selling their land; that no more developments will be built on stolen land; that no more facts will be created on the ground. I would ensure,” he added deliberately, “that there are no further conflicts of interest, no land speculation by people with inside information.”

The Minister glared.

“That can't continue,” Arik said softly. “It's finished.”

“For the Arabs you're doing this?” Brenner burst out. “For the goddamn
Arabushim?
Have you forgotten that your precious Ein Hashofet was built on what was previously Arab land?”

“Not for the Arabs. For my country,” Arik said with obvious embarrassment, “and myself.”

“Mostly for yourself,” the Minister sneered. “You're more like Uri than I thought. Fighting for the underdog was his shtick. Made a damn good living at it, too.”

“I've heard a lot of assessments of my father's career,” said Arik. “That was by far the most offensive.”

“I know him better than most,” the old man said drily. “Like father, like son. But tell me, young Eshel, what would you do with your power, should it please me to grant it?”

“I would review the applications that came in.”

“And?”

“I would interview the buyers and the sellers. I would visit the sites. I would institute title searches.”

“These things take time.'' the Minister said. It was a phrase he used so often, it slid off his tongue like oil.

“Precisely.”

“It's a dangerous position, for a man of your moral caliber. Temptations abound.”

Arik smiled through his teeth. “I put up with your talk of blackmail and robbery, but I draw the line at bribery.”

Brenner gave him a sharp look. “So it's power, not money. You dream of glory. You want to make yourself into a one-man stumbling block on the road to Jewish settlement. That's like putting a stop sign in the path of a herd of stampeding elephants.” He laughed.

“I like a challenge,” Arik said blandly.

“But seriously, boy, what do you hope to gain? What do you hope to accomplish? At most you'd be delaying the inevitable.”

With immense enjoyment, Arik stuck his hands in his pockets and drawled, “Mr. Minister, suh, I am just holding the pass, waiting for reinforcements.”

Brenner scowled. “I hear your father talking.”

“We have pockets of agreement,” Arik said.

“So it seems, and yet I wonder.” Brenner emerged from behind his desk, motioning Arik to remain seated. He sat beside Arik and leaned forward with an avuncular smile. “You cut short a promising army career on a matter of principle. You then took a social working job far below the level of opportunity open to you. These are the acts of a man of quite fanatic conscience. And yet you come into my office, blustering and threatening—”

“I'm not—”

“You attempt blackmail, you commit a robbery—and I understand that Mrs. Gordon was deeply upset by her treatment at the hands of the thieves.” Arik shifted involuntarily; the Minister registered the movement and continued sorrowfully: “These things are out of character; what is more, among men of honor and good will, they are unnecessary.” He took a cigar from his jacket pocket and offered one to Arik, who shook his head without speaking. The Minister lit his and puffed, with a sigh of gratification.

“Had you come to me as the son of an old, respected colleague, then regardless of party affiliation I would have gone out of my way to make room for you. You will forgive the immodesty if I point out that with my support, you could have gone far.” He waited. Arik said nothing.

“You still can. It's not too late. We would attribute this unpalatable incident to distress over your mother's illness and start with a clean slate. But I cannot allow myself to be moved by threats. I'm sure you understand that,” said the Minister.

“Restore what you have taken to its rightful owner, and then come to me. Then it will be possible to discuss a position... of power.”

Against his father's advice, which had been emphatic on the subject of relinquishing the documents, Arik said, “Will you return what
you
have taken, to its rightful owner?”

Brenner's face flooded with color. His eyes fixed on Arik. It was not a look of love.

“If you are referring to these” —the Minister waved disdainfully at the papers—” they have nothing to do with me. They are forgeries. But even if I were in a position to do so,” he said, “I would never lend a hand to those who would return liberated Judean land to Arab ownership.”

Arik reached out for the stack. Brenner caught his wrist in an iron grip and lifted it away. “In the interest of harmony,” he purred, “I am willing to take the first step. Call it a demonstration of good will.” Smiling unctuously, he lifted the receiver of the desk phone.

“Bianco? I want the Jaffa Youth Center reopened. Take care of it, will you? Right away.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

“It's as easy as that,” the Minister said, with the smile of a man too long in politics. An inch of ash detached itself from his cigar and fell onto the Persian carpet. He ground it underfoot.

“One phone call. And my orders will be carried out, I assure you.

“That's power, my boy. Oh, you've got a fine poker face, but I can see that you covet it. And you can have it, too, but not this way. Not by trying your strength against mine. I am a powerful man, and in the exercise of my power I can destroy, as well as create. With all due respect to your expert coach, you are out of your league. A man in your position needs friends, not enemies.

“I have proven my good faith,” the Minister said reasonably. “Will you now prove yours?”

Arik shook his head in wonderment. “Minister Brenner, that was very impressive and most persuasive. Your generosity is staggering. I hope you won't think I'm being ungrateful by refusing to profit by your advice, sir, but I think I'll sleep better at night knowing the documents are in my possession.”

“You go to hell,” said the Minister, in a voice as cold as ice.

“Is that your answer?”

“It is my prayer. I haven't given you my answer.”

“I have to hand in my article by Wednesday, the day after tomorrow.”

“Whatever the outcome may seem to be,” the Minister said, “you will live to regret what you've done today.”

“Wednesday morning,” said Arik. “You've got my number.”

 

What Caspi hated most about Khalil Mussara, besides his having screwed Vered, was his BMW. It was not envy that prompted his hatred, but indignation on behalf of the suffering Palestinian masses. The fact that he himself drove a six-year-old Fiat had nothing to do with it.

Thus it was with a warm sense of political righteousness that Caspi placed the explosives in Khalil's car. He'd considered placing it under the house, which stood on pillars, but was deterred by the thought of the children. Not, he told himself, because Khalil deserved clemency—had he not tried to destroy Caspi's family?—but because the children were innocent. Vered was wrong: he was not a racist.

Acquiring the material, once he decided what he needed, had not been a problem; if one knew the right people and had the right currency, it was easily arranged. Khalil lived in a house on the outskirts of Nablus. It was not a large house, hardly bigger than the detached garage that stood beside it. Caspi thought with deep satisfaction that whatever money Khalil had must have gone into the luxury car, which was not even large enough to hold his entire family.

After attaching the bomb to the car, and setting it to go off in ten minutes, Caspi hid behind a stand of olive trees in the middle of a deep field across from Khalil's house. His own car was parked on the far side of the field.

At that hour there was a definite chill in the air, but Caspi, clad in jeans and a black sweatshirt, did not feel it. He was a veteran of three wars, four counting the Sinai war of attrition, which was in some ways the nastiest; he knew that feeling of lightheadedness that precedes combat and recognized the feeling now. Events that were now totally out of his control had been set into motion. He felt the peacefulness of being a pawn.
 

A loud explosion rent the air. The windows of the garage shattered, and debris rained down from the roof. Lights went on in the house. A moment later the front door burst open and Khalil ran out, wearing only a pair of pants. As he caught sight of the collapsing garage, his steps faltered; he stopped and stared, holding his head. A woman appeared beside him, a passel of children visible behind her. Khalil said, “Call the fire department. Stay inside,” and herded them back into the house. He walked down the porch steps and stood in the yard, peering out into the black night.

“Caspi!” he screamed.

Caspi watched through infrared binoculars. He could see Khalil's face perfectly. He had no difficulty hearing him, either.

“Come out here, you fucking coward,” Khalil hollered. “Show your face, you fucking kike—get it out here. Show yourself, you motherfucking bastard, you chickenshit Nazi swine.” The garage had caught fire, and Khalil was silhouetted by the flames, a perfect target, had Caspi chosen to kill him. But Caspi wouldn't have killed him for the world. The Arab was sobbing. He punched the unresisting air furiously, his body palsied with frustration.

“I know you're out there,” he shouted through his tears. “I know you're watching. You coward, Caspi—come out and fight like a man!” He danced on his toes. “I'm not armed. What are you afraid of? Come out!”

Hearing sirens, Caspi turned away reluctantly and sprinted for his car. Khalil heard his heavy footsteps and plunged into the field. Khalil was faster, but Caspi knew where he was going and reached his car without being seen. Not that it mattered; he was sure Khalil would identify him anyway. Over the revving engine he heard Khalil's last despairing cry.

“I'll kill you for this, Caspi. I'll kill you.”

 

Driving home, Caspi was suddenly struck by fear, not for himself but for Vered and especially Daniel. Was Khalil canny enough to strike at his heart's blood? He imagined a bomb going off in his home, Daniel lying torn and bloody— and Caspi got to shaking so badly that he had to pull over and stop. How could he have overlooked the danger? His action so far had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes—might not the inevitable reaction exceed his wildest fears?