THRILLER: The Galilee Plot: (International Biological Terror, The Mossad, and... A Self-contended Couple) (9 page)

My wife burst into tears,
I embraced her in a fatherly sort of way and she soon regained her composure.
Then she went to the phone and began talking to nameless people in fluent
English. I went into the bathroom, feeling the need for a shower, although it
was my waistcoat and trousers that were soiled. Leaving the bathroom, I felt
much refreshed and began urging my wife to follow my example and freshen up in
the shower.

“There’s no time for
that,” she objected.

“Why do you say that?”

“We’re going home
tomorrow!” she announced.

“What do you mean, we’re
going home?” I asked with affected innocence and added: “We’ve got the flight
to sort out and all that.”

“It’s all arranged,” she
assured me. “Now, you’re to phone Shmulik,” she demanded.

Without further discussion
I picked up the receiver, with Shmulik’s visiting-card in front of me.

Somewhere or other, his
wife woke him up. He sounded tense. “We’re coming home tomorrow!” I told him
and saw fit to add that there had been another attempt on my life. For a moment
he was silent and then he responded:

“Maybe it’s time after all
to sort out that nasty friend of yours!”

“That wouldn’t solve
anything,” I declared with some heat, although I knew I was in the right – “If
I were to meet him, that could be infinitely more profitable!” I concluded.

“See you tomorrow!” cried
Shmulik, and he hung up.

On the plane there was a
party. Champagne was distributed, and a rabbi sitting two rows in front of us,
on his way to Israel to spend the holidays there, raised his glass, said a
prayer and pronounced a blessing: “Blessed be He who has given us life and has
brought us to this time!” I was astonished. I asked my wife: “What is all this?
Who ordered the champagne?”

The reply was unequivocal
and succinct: “You did!”

We embraced. My wife whispered
in my ear: “I sent some to Heinrich and his team too.”

In a way that cannot be
explained, that was uninvited, my lungs began breathing in a rhythm different
from that in which they had breathed hitherto. It began with the row of 
houses blazing white below me, strewn across arid, overheated land – “We’re
coming home!” – I stretched out in my seat. A gate invisible to the eye opened
and substitution began, between what was outside it and what was inside. As if
the whole of the Bible had put on intangible skin and sinew and passed through
this gate. Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and his twelve sons, David and Solomon,
Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos and Elijah. They sprang up in our hearts like something
that will never be revealed to the senses and yet exists – was, is, and shall
be

It isn’t a question of a
piece of land but of the spirit, homeland of the spirit, which nothing can
impair and which impairs nothing. I was the most fortunate of men and not
immune from sorrow, I knew that finally I had found myself in the dazzling
light, streaming below me, above me and in me, I knew there were no words
capable of expressing this, and yet, I am writing these lines, to spread
happiness over the whole world, consummate happiness, which cannot be shared
and yet can be lived in such a way that one is an inseparable part of it,
happiness which erases all sorrow and above all – cleanses the soul of the last
vestige of doubt. All the world has a share in this light of joy, which will
not be taken from it, not ever. I was ready, at that moment, to break into
song. My wife leaned over and sang
King’s Bride
in my ear, understanding
my thoughts and bringing them to a conclusion.

The plane began its
descent, resembling a gigantic messenger, bringing with him a thousand tidings
of truth for which the world is thirsty, and it shall accept them and be
changed.

We returned full of
impressions of all kinds and tendencies; this was unlike any other holiday we had
ever spent, in that place, and between approximately the same dates, over the
past dozen years. Neither of us could say for certain
whether this made
things better or worse. My wife was firmly of the opinion that events had been
bizarre, intervention had been crude and always negative, and henceforward she
would be taking more seriously, and certainly paying more attention to – the
stories I told her about my past and in particular the warnings I gave, which
to her mind had all too often smacked of outright paranoia. I accepted
everything submissively, in the solid hope that there might still be unexpected
developments in the right direction. On our arrival at Ben-Gurion Airport,
another surprise awaited us. After we had collected our baggage we were accosted
by a group of ruffians who escorted us to a special department set aside for
the reception of V.I.P.s. In the spacious, rather dingy room, we were met by
Shmulik, in person. He extended his broad hand and to our utter amazement he
apologised, the kind of apology that wasn’t at all his normal style. And he
didn’t just mumble a few barely intelligible words either, as might have been
expected, but spoke out with uncharacteristic clarity:

“I’m very sorry, but I had
no other way of welcoming you home and wishing you a long life of health and
happiness.” The words were sincere, with no remaining vestige of the
sergeant-major about them.

There’s nothing to be
said, I thought to myself, the Mossad is pretty efficient  when it comes
to training its operatives. By way of reply, I spoke a few words of thanks and
appreciation, and couldn’t resist the temptation to say:

“The Mossad ploughs a deep
furrow in its people. If we hadn’t met recently, I wouldn’t have recognised
you!”       

“You have to understand,
Madam,” he said, turning to my wife and ignoring my comment, “we shall need to
bother your husband for a few more days, as few as possible, and the bother
shouldn’t be too troublesome, although as I’m sure you know, the situation is
serious, things are hotting up and they must not be allowed under any
circumstances” – he stressed the
under any circumstances
 and the
thought that flashed into my mind was that Shmulik would never make it as a
diplomat; the sergeant-major syndrome had left a deep imprint in his soul after
all, and deviousness did not come to him naturally; the end of the sentence,
addressed  to my wife was – “to get out of hand.” Our troubles must not
under any circumstances be allowed to get out of hand.

This statement on
Shmulik’s part sounded like a vow, and I had not the shadow of a doubt this was
one of the vows that would be kept, in all respects and senses, in the letter
and in the spirit.

“And now, I apologise
again for the delay I have caused. Go out and meet your reception committee.
There seem to be a fair number of people waiting for you. I know – I did some
checking-up,” he admitted and steered us towards a side-exit – straight into
the familiar Israeli maelstrom, the crowd waiting impatiently for returnees
from abroad.

It took us a whole week to
get ourselves sorted out at home: we put things back in their places, filled
the freezer, told friends and relations we were back. At the end of that week,
Shmulik phoned.

“I won’t ask how you got
my phone number” – I was rattled, feeling that my privacy had been violated.
“It’s supposed to be protected,” I added. “All the same, maybe I should learn
to be more careful.”

“If someone wants to
learn, he’ll learn,” Shmulik retorted, ignoring my bruised sensibilities. “The
secret of learning is to leave behind any kind of conceit, and take on a little
humility – however little it may be.”

“I agree with every word
of that,” I conceded sincerely. “But I still want to know who leaked you my
number,” I demanded, without any real hope.

“The phone company,” was
the answer.

“How?” I asked, although I
realised my question was superfluous.

“There’s a certain
hierarchy in every properly run state,” Shmulik explained patiently. “One
official service defers to another official service, and this deference is
sanctioned by higher authority in the public interest.”

“I’m well aware of all
that,” I assured him. Shmulik changed the subject and arranged a meeting at a
time convenient to me, which he reckoned was eleven in the morning, in a
café on Ben Yehuda Street, Tel Aviv.

We met, had something to
drink, and a snack of some kind. He paid, and made a point of getting a
receipt. I asked if it was at his employer’s expense. He nodded. Our
conversation was both practical and succinct. Shmulik began by asking me again
if the elimination of Amin Abu Halil would lead, in my opinion, to the
eradication of the plague. My unequivocal answer, after thorough consideration
lasting some five minutes, was “No!” 

“For the time being you’ve
saved his life,” Shmulik commented with a faint smile and added: “I’ll make
sure he gets to hear of it.”

I couldn’t restrain my
curiosity, and I asked Shmulik again about the man who saved
my
life.

Shmulik smiled a broad,
unexpected and magnanimous smile, transforming the expression on his face beyond
recognition – from dour austerity to a look of fatherly understanding, and
willingness to oblige. “Your gratitude has been passed on,” he began, “and if
you want to know more of his particulars…

“He’s a Polish Jew in his
early thirties, who did his army service in Poland. He did not get on with his
sergeant-major, a tough guy who hated Jews – it was like an intoxicating drug
in his blood-stream. He knew all the derogatory terms for Jews in all languages
and dialects and enjoyed applying them to Mr Atlas. Mr Atlas’s first name was
Saul, or according to the translation of the Christian scriptures – Paul. This
was the name he adopted. On manoeuvres with the Polish army, he put a bullet in
the sergeant-major’s thick skull with a revolver fired from long range, and
then deserted. He turned up in Paris and became a professional hitman, hanging
out with underground types at the “Poule” – that’s what they call the basement
café in the centre of Paris. Naturally, he has a sentimental attachment
to his persecuted race, and he’s the one we usually turn to. Your story
impressed him. Incidentally, he sends you this greeting: ‘Enjoy life and don’t
sell yourself short’.” Suddenly he returned to the subject that interested him
most: “Never mind that, what in your opinion is likely to halt this disease –
meaning, besides identifying it. The medical establishment is baffled by the
diagnosis that’s been thrown at it so readily, and has no rational explanation
for it, or any hope of a rational explanation. Doctors are strangely reluctant
to go anywhere near Hasda, and the same applies to all the ancillary services
too, so if you can think of any way of halting the spread of the disease, or
alleviating the symptoms, anything at all, let’s hear it. We can’t afford to
lose the battle with the crude racism that’s in the ascendant now, getting
stronger all the time and threatening to take us all over, whatever the outcome
is going to be. We have no mercy to look forward to, and it seems the only one
we can trust – is God.”

“I suppose you have read
some other books, besides
Erral
,” was my comment.

“The point has been made,
that homework is needed, and anyone as thoroughgoing as me does this in depth,
not missing any crevice, as everyone has to do everything he possibly can, to
stop this volcano that’s erupting and going on erupting…” He fell silent. I
took the hint.

“I very much hope you’re
not pushed for time,” he added – it was part question, part statement.

“I’ve done everything I
can to free up as much time as possible.”

“You’ve done the right
thing,” Shmulik concluded, and after a couple of minutes of concentrated
thought he asked: “Tell me everything you know about Rocky Mountain spotted
fever, in as much depth as possible and from all angles. Sometimes the insight
of the layman can uncover things that the experts and self-styled pundits are
incapable of grasping, simply because they are experts and self-styled pundits.
I assume you’re familiar with the disease and its causes.”

“Very much so,” I told him
truthfully, and went on to explain: “Well then, the disease is caused by a
micro-organism that isn’t a bacterium and isn’t a virus, and is called
‘Rickettsia” after the man who discovered it – Howard Taylor Ricketts.”

His notebook in his left
hand, and his right scribbling away at furious speed, Shmulik asked for
clarification: “What is the difference between a bacterium and a virus, and
what are the distinguishing features of Rickettsia?”

“A virus can pass through
bacterial filters, something totally impossible for a bacterium. A virus
proliferates on a medium of living cells, while a bacterium readily
proliferates on a normal medium.”

“And where does Rickettsia
fit in here?”

“It doesn’t pass through
bacterial filters.”

“And in that respect it
resembles a bacterium” Shmulik deduced. I nodded.

“It proliferates on living
cells.”

“And thus it resembles a
virus” Shmulik concluded.

To save time, I made no
reference to his highly commendable perspicacity. I went on to say:
“Antibiotics destroy bacteria, but they have no effect on viruses. For
Rickettsia, no effective antibiotic agent has yet been discovered. There have
been suggestions that chloromphenicol might be of some use. All these facts are
known to us thanks to the hard work put in by Ricketts, who transmitted the
disease from infected to healthy animals, and isolated Rickettsia not only of
the sick animals but also of ticks and their eggs. And thus he has proved this
is a natural channel of transmission. A tick infected with Rickettsia attaches
itself to a host, and infects it with R.M.S.F. The cycle of infection, on the
basis of the bite of a tick carrying Rickettsia, includes human beings, with
all the implications resulting from that. Ricketts made another step forward,
when he proved that very few humans infected by R.M.S.F., only ten percent of
them, have any immunity to it. But he was unable, in live experiments, to
create antibodies. Ninety per cent of sufferers from R.M.S.F. die. To this day,
as far as I know, there has been no success in using animals to create antibodies
to Rickettsia rickettsii, which causes R.M.S.F.

“Cultures of Rickettsia
can be grown in human blood, until they become dependent on this particular
blood – in other words, they only attack this type of blood. Just now, Doctor
Amin has made them dependent on a certain type of human blood, bearing certain
D.N.A., the D.N.A. of Jews. Those Rickettsias won’t proliferate in any other
blood, and therefore they will attack and damage only those whose blood is
Jewish.”

“Isn’t it possible to make
them dependent on other blood – Arab blood for example?” Shmulik asked.

“It certainly is possible,
if Arab or other blood carries D.N.A. different from that of any other blood.
In fact it would be quite feasible, it seems to me, to make it dependent on all
types of human blood.”

“And then the whole of
humanity will be wiped out,” Shmulik hissed.

“Wiped out is a bit of an
overstatement,” I commented.

“Thanks very much for the
concise lecture. It seems to me,” Shmulik continued, “that by investing effort
worthy of the name it should be possible to come up with something that will
halt this infernal disease. By the way, the offer of a post in the Nes Ziona
laboratories is still open…”

“Thankyou very much,” I
thanked him wholeheartedly, but I’m not interested.”

“Don’t forget, you could
be drafted!”

“That never does anyone
any good,” I replied, rejecting the threat, “but I think there are things that
can be done.”

“We shall do and listen,”
Shmulik declared, quoting the Bible.

“I’m going to meet Amin
Abu Halil,” I said, taking up the cue that he wanted me to take up.

“That shall be done!”
Shmulik declared, with a return to his sergeant-major’s manner, and after a
moment of silence he added:

“Your good friend is
currently living in Berlin. As I told you before, he’s married to Hilde,
granddaughter of a Nazi general, who died alongside Adolf Hitler. The energetic
Amin has already made his lady pregnant. They’re expecting a baby. You’re to go
to Berlin. You know the address. The happy couple are living in the general’s
house. Frau Hilde has a sister called Erika, who lives in a separate apartment
in the same building, the late general’s property. Fraulein Erika is a
spinster, and apparently man-hungry. You can start breaking down the walls with
her. Come back here tomorrow, we’ll drink some more of this vile coffee and eat
some more stale buns, and you’ll get all the information you need.”

I nodded in assent. I
sensed his satisfaction, which he made no attempt to conceal.

“If all goes according to plan,”
he went on to say, “the day after tomorrow, you’ll be walking the streets of
Berlin. Don’t take any excess baggage, you don’t need it.”