Pattern Crimes (35 page)

"But, David, what was the illegal mission?"

"That," he said, "is what I'm going to find out."

Here was Sergei, living free and retired in this gorgeous sun-struck city, behaving like a bored old pensioner in Minsk. He rarely ventured out, and, on the few occasions that he did, it was to buy a Russian language newspaper and take it to a drab suburban park. There he'd read it, leave it on his bench, then walk back to his hideous housing block. He did not look around, gaze at buildings, absorb the beauty, breathe deeply of the air.

Targov spent three days following him. When it became too tedious he turned the job over to Rokovsky.

"Listen," Targov told him, "this is a little man who lives a little life. Not one who dreams up vast schemes to be carved out in the desert sand."

"The work is his. I've verified that."

"Who paid for it?"

"I told you. An American group, some kind of fine arts foundation."

"Why choose him?"

"Perhaps out of pity."

"Perhaps this, perhaps that. There's something wrong here, Tola. I want facts. You must find out for me: Why Sokolov?
Why?"

At night Targov visited the warehouse where "The Righteous Martyr" was stored. Rokovsky had arranged for the sculpture, covered with a plastic sheet, to be placed upon timbers so that it was suspended a foot above the floor.

Targov, wearing work clothes, wriggled beneath it, dragging along a flashlight, a hammer, and a pot of clay.

If it should fall now and squash me,
he thought,
it would probably serve me right.

Once beneath the hollow bottom, he sat up straight so that his torso was literally inside the statue. Using the hammer, he carefully broke the seal he had painted to match the bronze, then reached up, unclasped the hidden tube, pulled it out, and set to work patching up the hiding place with clay.

When he was finished he shined his flashlight around. Finding his repairs seamless, he lowered himself and wriggled out. When he stood up, triumphant, grasping the tube, he moved too fast and strained his back.

In three days the unveiling would take place. The plumbers had installed the pipes, the sod had been laid, and now masons were busy positioning the paving stones so that viewers could circle "The Righteous Martyr" without treading on the grass.

"There seems to have been some sort of military fund," Rokovsky said. He and Targov were on the first of their three daily inspections of the site.

Targov grimaced. "You told me a foundation."

"A joint venture. Each put up a certain amount. The foundation funded the design; the military paid for the actual work. The work, by the way, is entitled 'Circle in the Square.' "

"How much?"

"Ten thousand for Sokolov. Impossible to estimate how much to move the sand."

"Ten thousand dollars! Impossible!"

"That much, Sasha, is a fact."

"But
something's not a fact—is that what you're telling me?"

Rokovsky nodded. "There is something queer about the deal."

"What?"

"Difficult to say. Maybe it's just my feeling. The designs were drawn in a most exacting manner, like architect's plans, precise to the centimeter, as if the measurements were crucial, and the exact angles to the compass points as well."

"Tola, for God's sake! What does all that mean?"

Rokovsky shrugged. "Maybe Sokolov didn't make the drawings."

"He could have come up with the idea, then hired a draftsman...."
But why the hell am I arguing the other side?

"I spoke to the engineer in charge of the project. He was quite certain about this, absolutely firm: Sokolov never, ever, not one single time, contacted him or visited the site."

Targov strode away. He couldn't understand it. The whole business was just too maddening.

"Okay, rent a car," he yelled across the freshly watered lawn. "No more planes. This time we drive. We'll leave right after lunch."

Down rocky roads, across sinuous sands, through a stony wasteland of sweltering emptiness. When they finally arrived, exhausted, eyes tired, throats parched, Targov shook his head.

"You see, Tola, in the middle of nowhere it serves no purpose, none at all. Oh, I know the theories—I've read them in the art magazines: how the difficulty in reaching the site is inextricable from the work; how the inaccessibility is the point, blah-blah-blah.... But Sokolov the trinket carver! Such grand concepts never entered his brain. I'm telling
you
: Israelis don't waste money.
There's a fraud being perpetrated here."

"Good. Now what are we going to do about it?"

"To begin with, get out the Polaroid and photograph the damn thing from every side. I'm telling you, this shape means something. 'Circle in the Square'—that's not even what it is. It's a circle in a trapezoid. I've seen it before, too, but, in my pathetic dotage, I just can't remember where...."

On
Sokolov's face an expression of bemused contempt. "So it's you," he said, blocking the door.

"Pardon me, Sergei, but were you expecting someone else? Irina's gone home. She didn't say good-bye? Oh dear!"

Sergei, glancing meaningfully at the tube in Targov's hand, stepped back into his room. "Is that the punishing instrument?" He asked. "I meant it, Sasha. I decline to participate in your self-serving little farce."

"I brought it anyway, in case you changed your mind."

"I won't."

"Don't be so sure. I may give you a new reason to want to knock me off."

"Don't you understand: the sweetest vengeance I can have is to wake up every morning thinking of you waking up remembering what you did."

"I'm not here to discuss vengeance, Sergei. My unveiling is tomorrow. I'm inviting you to come. I'd like you to be my honored guest."

"So if I won't lie in the shrubbery with your ridiculous rifle, I'm to sit at your right hand cheering with the notables."

"You're in trouble, Sergei Sergeievich!"

"Not me, Aleksandr Nicholaivich! I bear no guilt."

"Twice I've been out to see your earthwork. You didn't design it. You acted as a proxy. For whom? And why? You'd better tell. Because I promise you this, Sergei: The fraud won't stand."

Now, at last, a stricken look. The crafty old
zek
was scared. He said nothing, just gulped and turned away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, here's food for thought," Targov said, rising, pulling out an envelope, laying it carefully on his chair. "Since I know you've never been out there, you couldn't possibly know what's been going on. Here are my photographs. When you recover from your little terror, examine them closely and compare them to your own. I think you'll find some interesting changes. There have been—how shall I put it?—erosions. Yes, certain erosions which most certainly do not coincide with the pristine vision you conjured up during all those painful years on strict regime."

Out on the street, Targov walked briskly to Rokovsky, waiting in the rented car.

"He's scared now. Maybe unnerved enough to move. Wait here and follow. I'll get myself back to Mishkenot."

They were alone in the luxury restaurant behind the artist's residence. Anna, looking unhappy, said that she and her cello had unaccountably become estranged.

"Renew the friendship," Targov suggested.

"Easier said than done."

"The detective—maybe he's the problem."

She shook her head. "David wants desperately to help."

Targov thought for a moment. "There's a drawing by Balthus. The Guitar Player.' It's very sexual."

"Naturally." She smiled.

"A man sits on a stool plucking at the genitals of a woman who lies across his lap like a guitar. He makes her sing. You could do that with your cello. Indulge yourself. Make love to your instrument. Think of it as, well...a little outside affair." She giggled. "Seriously, I wonder if it was a mistake for you to settle here. Everyone's so tormented. Loudmouths too. The pressures. The paranoia. All that's bound to take a toll."

"Oh, Sasha," she said, "you don't understand. I wouldn't dream of living anyplace else. No outside affairs either—if that's what you're hinting at."

He grinned, shrugged, then turned serious. "I've seen Sokolov several times but our encounters have not been satisfactory. He refuses to despise me—he won't forgive, and he won't retaliate. But I don't bring him up to burden you with that. For years I've lived with guilt; I'll manage to live with it some more."

"Then why do you bring him up, Sasha?"

"Because there's something very peculiar going on. He's involved with something here, something that's not quite right. He claims to have designed some simple-minded pattern they've carved out in the Negev, some sort of enormous environmental sculpture. But I'm absolutely positive he had nothing to do with it even though he's listed officially as the artist."

Anna shook her head. "I don't understand why you're telling me this."

"It's a fraud. Your boyfriend, the detective—I thought he might be interested."

"David's working on a murder case, Sasha. He barely has time now to sleep."

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Will he at least come to my unveiling?"

"Both of us will come, of course."

"I promise to astound you, Anna..." Tears filled his eyes.

Rokovsky,
usually so glacial and ironic, was excited, nearly feverish. He paced about Targov's apartment at Mishkenot, puffing vigorously on a cigarette.

"Oh, he moved all right! In a way I'd never seen before. Agitated. Extremely agitated. Like a tightly wound spring just starting to uncoil."

Targov smiled. "So the twisted wire no longer holds the bottle's shape."

Rokovsky stared at him. "Pardon me?"

"Nothing, Tola. Just a passing thought. Where did he go so fast?"

"He boarded a bus, got off at Zion Square, plunged into the mob. He headed up Ben Yehuda like a demon, then, at the intersection near that big department store, he looked around as if afraid he was being followed."

"He didn't see you?"

"He doesn't know me. Anyway, he can barely see. But he
was scared and angry. I'm telling you, Sasha, whatever it was he saw in those Polaroids, it gave him one big boot in the ass."

"So where ...?"

"The foundation, the one that funded the design. He stormed up the stairs, then walked straight in without bothering to knock. I stood outside and listened to the argument. He was furious. The other man tried to calm him down."

"What did he say?"

Rokovsky stopped pacing, spread his arms. "You know I don't speak a word of Hebrew. But Sokolov doesn't speak it so well himself. Occasionally he'd slip into Russian. I understood enough. He was demanding extra money."

"More than the ten thousand? Incredible!"

"Maybe not so incredible if he was threatening to talk."

"I see what you mean. The fraud…."

"It's fishy as hell. Sokolov signed the drawings and was paid. But now things are different and he thinks he's entitled to more."

"Did he get it?"

Rokovsky shrugged.
"I don't
know. Finally he quieted down. When he left he looked exhausted. I followed him back on the bus, saw that he was going home. Then, when I started to look for a cab, I was stopped by another man who turned out to be a cop."

"What?"

"I'm telling you, Sasha—this thing is serious. The cop started yapping at me. Wanted to know who I was following and why. When he saw my American passport he changed his tune. Said he'd picked us up when we left the office building. He wanted to know which office Sokolov had been visiting. I told him, of course. He let me go and it was only later that I realized he'd been following the other guy—the guy Sokolov had gone there to meet."

Targov, astonished now and totally confused, slapped himself on the top of the head.

The unveiling took place at noon. The sun beat mercilessly, but the
Israelis, out of respect for the occasion, had placed umbrellas behind the dais.

The Mayor of Jerusalem was there; he made a gracious speech. Several ministers attended, the Director of the Israel Museum, and leaders of the Russian émigré community, each of whom embraced Targov in a slobbering Russian hug.

Targov was tense. Would Sergei change his mind? The plan, fashioned so coolly back in California, now struck him as insane.
Fact is,
he thought,
I'm
a
terrible coward. I'm nearly sixty-one and still afraid to die. Irina was right: I want to be like Trotsky. But even Trotsky would have flinched if he'd known the hour of his death.