The Heat of Ramadan, page 11
“Boker tov lach,” he said and extended a hand to return her Walkman. “I borrowed it. Hope you don’t mind.”
Yudit tossed her black purse onto her desk top and retrieved the radio. “And if I did?”
“Then you wouldn’t be Yudit,” said Eckstein.
The girl almost blushed, but she managed to suppress it. She worked hard not to reveal the crush on her elder co-worker, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. She examined the cassette-radio without really seeing it.
“So you’ve heard, then.”
“What’s that?” He feigned ignorance.
She knitted her brows. Everyone knew by this hour, everyone who had a radio or a television, from the top cabinet ministers to the Bedouins in the Negev. “You know. Beirut.”
“Ah, yes.” Eckstein sat back in his chair and blew out some smoke. “Used to be a lovely seaside city. Seems to me I was there once.” He squinted up at the ceiling.
“Come on, Eytan.”
“Yes. I heard.” Eckstein gave up the game. Yudit was still very young, not yet bruised with the cynicism of experience. He straightened the papers before him, as if bored by the whole affair. “Quite an operation,” he said. “Must have been the Brits, or the Americans.”
“Of course.” Yudit was smiling at him again, and suddenly Eckstein realized that her look also harbored a degree of sympathetic indulgence. He always thought of the girl as a teenager, so much younger than himself, yet here she was already well-armed with those sophisticated psychological tongs with which women handled fragile male egos. It struck Eckstein that Yudit was certainly no child, probably long past virginity. She was a very pretty girl, and with her long black curls and blue eyes her form was reminiscent of Simona’s.
“Yudit!” He suddenly sat upright. “For God’s sake, you’re wearing a uniform!”
All at once he was alarmed for her. It was one of Ben-Zion’s strictest regulations. No one, no matter their military status, was ever to appear at Headquarters in anything but civilian clothes. And here she was, in olive Class Alephs, with her sergeant’s stripes no less.
“I know. Don’t worry so,” she said, pleased with his concern. “Haven’t you heard?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“New rules. All support staff have a day, once a month now, in uniform. I heard it was Benni Baum’s idea.”
“Naturally.”
“Benni said it wasn’t normal. Every building in the country’s got soldiers going in and out, even if it’s just personal business. Doesn’t look right without them.” She dug into her purse and came up with a buttered roll wrapped in sweating plastic. “Smart, huh?”
“Yeah.” Eckstein tapped a pencil on the desk. “That’s Benni.” Indeed it sounded like Baum’s reasoning. Baum had a chess master’s mentality. He could always determine what the opposition would be thinking and then provide an appropriate bit of strategic doublethink.
Yudit stood up to make some coffee. “Want some more?”
“Sure.” Eckstein watched her. The uniform was a drab, thick green cloth tunic that covered the top part of her slacks. The Supply Corps had recently replaced the old women’s uniforms, which had been of light grey cotton, skintight miniskirts, blouses and slacks which revealed every delicious crevasse and curve.
“I liked the old uniforms,” said Eckstein.
“That’s what all the men say,” Yudit answered a bit too quickly.
“Morning.” Danny Romano came bounding in, his empty pipe clutched between his teeth. “Ah, coffee is what I need.”
“Coming up,” said Yudit.
“Morning,” said Eckstein.
Romano dropped his briefcase on his desk by the window. “Feeling better, Eytan?”
“Walking wounded.”
“I don’t see the cane.”
“And you won’t again.”
“Good man.”
“Did you hear, Danny?” Yudit asked as she handed him a glass full of steaming black liquid. He took it by the top edges with thumb and forefingers, but it burned him anyway and he hurried to set it down.
“Yo!” He wrung out his hand. “Damned Russian Jews!” He cursed the Slavic tradition of placing hot liquids in glass receptacles, a painful habit which no government institution seemed capable of abolishing. “Yes, I heard. Itzik will be fucking insufferable today.”
As if on cue, the door was pushed open and Heinz filled the frame. The captain’s white-blond hair was wild, unwashed and hardly finger-combed, giving him a more-than-usual crazed look. Heinz was often referred to as Ben-Zion’s Stiletto, for he carried out the Colonel’s most morale-depleting directives, such as transfers, reprimands and rank-bustings, with cruel relish. Heinz’s near-translucent blue eyes were shot through with fine pink lines. He had been up all night and was functioning on caffeine and adrenaline.
“Department heads upstairs in exactly fifteen minutes,” Heinz snapped, and he looked at his watch like a platoon commander who wishes to frighten his green troops into punctuality. Then he glanced over at Eckstein and returned his gaze to Danny. “Just you, Romano,” he said pointedly. “And bring a clean glass.” He left and closed the door.
There was a moment of embarrassed silence in the room, then Eckstein emptied a pencil cup onto the desk and threw the plastic receptacle at the door, where it made a resounding crack and bounced onto the floor. “Good morning to you too, asshole,” Eckstein shouted. He looked over at Yudit, who sat stiffly in her chair like a frightened cat. “Sorry,” he said. He hated Heinz, primarily because the man had no mind of his own. He was an empty vessel, a pure reflection of his boss’s moods and desires.
If Ben-Zion had liked Eckstein, then Heinz would have spent plenty of time kissing Eytan’s ass. “And bring a clean glass,” Eckstein muttered, imitating Heinz’s self-important tone. He picked up a pencil and tried to return to his work. Things had changed too much in the department, and he prayed that it was merely a passing influence of an ambitious commander rather than an indication of growing national callousness. He remembered with melancholy clarity how, long ago after a successful mission in southern France, during which a pair of terrorists had been blown up in their car, his team had split up and reassembled a week later in Jerusalem. There, after a lengthy debriefing, they had spontaneously gone down together to the Western Wall to pray together—believers, agnostics and atheists alike. Now, in stark contrast, when Itzik Ben-Zion’s people killed someone, the cold commander gathered his department heads together and poured champagne like the owner of a winning basketball team.
Exasperated, Eckstein dropped his pencil and sat back, rubbing his forehead. Yudit had retreated behind her computer, tapping out the reports on her plastic keys. The clatter was grating. Eckstein pushed his chair back and stood up.
“I’m going to the canteen. Anybody want something to eat?”
Yudit shook her head.
“Eytan.” Romano looked up from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Keep an even keel, okay?”
Eckstein turned in the doorway.
“You know something, Danny?” He began to raise his voice, then realized that Romano was no target for his anger. He smoothed his tone to a low burn. “I don’t mind being out of the action, I really don’t.” And he knew as he said it that for a long while that had been true, but it was quickly becoming a lie. “But I’m sick to death of having my nose rubbed in it.”
He went out into the hallway and turned toward the cafeteria. Itzik Ben-Zion was coming briskly along the hallway, followed by a young man carrying a large wooden crate. Ben-Zion nearly tripped over a telex cable that snaked across the floor like a black asp waiting in ambush. He immediately stopped short and slammed his palm against the first doorway that presented itself. It happened to be Cover, whose personnel certainly had nothing to do with communications. But that did not matter to the Colonel. Victims were plentiful wherever his wrath would find them writhing in the corners of his kingdom.
He ducked his large head into the doorway.
“I want those fucking cables off the floors today! This isn’t a goddamn movie studio!” He let the door slam.
“Could have fooled me,” Eckstein mumbled to himself, “what with all the melodrama.”
Ben-Zion continued his march, walking right past Eckstein as if his once unsurpassable team leader were merely an apparition.
Eckstein stopped, lit a cigarette and plugged it between his teeth. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his khaki chinos and concentrated on keeping his gait even. Down the hall, a small crowd was gathered around the long table that held unclassified reports and copies of the morning papers. The men and women were passing sections of newspapers to each other, reading headlines aloud from Maariv and Yediot. Eckstein started forward, feeling the click in his knee vibrate up to his groin.
He braced himself mentally as he passed the table, where no less than eight people were chattering excitedly about the Beirut operation. Pnina from Cover looked up at Eckstein and smiled broadly.
“Morning, Bavaria!”
Eckstein made sure to smile back just as hard. “Morning.”
She held up the front page of Yediot. “Have you seen this?” she asked excitedly.
Eckstein waved a hand. “Read them all, cover to cover,” he lied. As a young paratrooper in the late 1970s, he had once relished reading the after-action newspaper coverage of his own unit’s operations in Lebanon. But he quickly came to realize how distant was journalism from reality. Later on, following team operations in Europe, he was amazed to discover that news reports of the events were mostly fiction, deduction and fantasy.
“Do you believe those French?” Pnina clucked her tongue as Eckstein passed.
He could guess at her meaning. The Europeans were probably widely condemning Israel for her assumed actions.
“What do you expect from the people who gave Paris to the Nazis with hardly a shot?” he said.
“Yeah,” someone else concurred. “But under the table they’re clapping their hands.”
“Come on,” another voice retorted. “Let’s at least give the French credit for what they do well under the table.”
Eytan strode past as the banter became pornographic.
He arrived at the cafeteria and plunged into a seat. The room was filled with the morning coffee crowd, many of whom had newspapers spread out and were happily discussing the evening’s event. There wasn’t a field agent among them, but they were all support staff and were proud of any successful Department endeavor. More than most days, Eckstein felt completely out of place, precisely because he knew that this was in fact now his peer group.
“Café, mein Herr?”
Benni Baum appeared from out of the crowd, his solid girth imposing like a rising planet.
“Morning, Benni.” Eckstein smiled tightly at him. “No more coffee, thanks. Sit.”
Baum took a place at the table. He sipped from a cup and took a drag from a cigarette. “How are you feeling?”
“Sorry about last night, Benni. Truth is, I just did not want to socialize.”
“No apologies. Just answer the question.”
Eckstein looked at his former field commander. There was no lying to Benni. When you did, he immediately called you on it anyway and then sucked out the truth.
“I feel like shit. Especially since Itzik is upstairs right now gloating like an idiot.”
“That’s honest.” Baum smeared some sweat into his bald head with a thick palm. “Selfish, but honest.”
“I’m glad the operation came off,” Eckstein hastened to say. “But I don’t know how long I can take it, being half in and half out like this. Days like today are hard, that’s all.”
“Who wanted the scrambled eggs?” a girl behind the coffee bar called out to the room. “They’re getting cold.”
Benni waited for her to stop shouting, then he leaned in close to Eckstein.
“Look, I told you we’d try to get your situation improved. You have to be patient.”
“So Simona tells me too. I know, we want to be parents and I have to last until partial pension, at least. But I’d rather be some idiot’s driver at this point. Limping around here like some crippled ghost is getting to me.” Eckstein stabbed out his cigarette while Baum clucked his tongue and shook his head. “I’ve decided, Benni. I’m going to demand my rights. Today.”
Benni’s eyes widened. “To-day?” He jabbed a finger to his own temple. “Hishtagata?”
“No, I’m not crazy. It’s the right time. Itzik will be peacocking and obnoxious right now, but it’s probably the only window of magnanimity I’ll ever find.”
“Department heads!” someone in the room yelled. “Duty calls.” A number of men began to leave the room.
Baum looked at his watch. “Eytan,” he said. “You are a stubborn young bastard and I like you.” He drew himself up and out of the chair, coming to a Prussian erectness. “But it is my duty to say, as your friend and superior officer, that I strongly recommend against this action.”
“I’m doing it, Benni,” said Eckstein. “Today. Now.”
“I will back you up,” Baum said almost instantly.
“I thought you might.” Eckstein smiled up at the major.
“But wait for at least half an hour.”
Eckstein looked at his watch. “Okay. Half an hour.”
As he headed for the door, Benni put a meaty hand on Eckstein’s shoulder. “If my sons turn out like you,” he said, “they’ll be all right.”
“Benni,” Eckstein called after him. “You forgot to take a clean glass.”
“I don’t drink at graveside,” said Baum, and he left for the meeting with Itzik Ben-Zion.
* * *
The conference room on the top floor of Headquarters was not comparable to that of a major banking institution, but it was plush by Israeli governmental standards. The windows were curtained in long green brocade, and there were small brass chandeliers as opposed to flickering fluorescent lights. The floor was uncarpeted, but the long teak table, at which twenty officers could be seated comfortably, was shiny and freshly oiled. Instead of the usual metal folding chairs, there were expensive office swivel types, armless but adequately cushioned. There was a TV monitor at one end, a VCR and a pull-down screen for slide or film projections. A huge tear-off paper pad stood on an art easel, its brace of colored markers held in an attached blue plastic bin.
The room was filled with smoke—pipe, cigarette and cigar—and most of the tabletop was obscured by copies of the morning papers, empty coffee glasses and reams of telex, decode, and computer printouts. Someone’s pistol had apparently been chafing his flesh, and it lay next to a half-empty glass of champagne, this single shiny black object altering the character of the room from that of Think Tank to Armed Camp.
There were two women in the room and eleven men. All of them were department heads or seconds-in-command. None of the field agents or team leaders were present, since anyone who had actually been on the ground in Beirut was now being debriefed at some distant safe house. The meeting, or rather the celebration as Ben-Zion would have it, was drawing to a close. The department heads had mostly risen from their chairs, were gathering their notes and printouts, many of them slightly euphoric from a night of intense work topped off by a morning glass of champagne. The Israelis by nature are not fond of alcohol, and it usually has a rapid and dizzying effect. Field agents actually have to be trained to drink.
Except for Ben-Zion’s secretary, no one in the room was younger than thirty, and there was no rank below captain. Under normal circumstances, the exhausted officers would have been anxious to get back to their offices, where they might be able to steal an hour’s nap. However, blatantly successful days such as these were rare, so they lingered. Three men were in a far corner, clucking their tongues and loudly expressing their sympathy for the commanders of the CIA.
The Americans had been asked for a favor vis-à-vis the Beirut operation, and a special vessel attached to the Sixth Fleet had jammed Russian communications off the coast of Lebanon for six mind-bending hours. But the much-to-be-pitied U.S. intelligence services were constantly taking a beating in the American press. So, when they did participate successfully in an anti-terror operation, they were not allowed to admit it.
In another part of the room, Benni Baum was chatting with a homely old woman named Sylvia who headed up encrypted telex and cable traffic. He was sitting on the conference table and waving his arms, and the woman laughed and suggested that he dismount before the cost of the new table was deducted from his monthly salary.
At the front of the room next to the white projection screen, Itzik Ben-Zion stood talking to a uniformed major general. The officer was as tall as Ben-Zion, grey haired and handsome in a rather regal manner. The man was Amnon Zamir, Rosh AMAN, the Chief of Israeli Military Intelligence. If Eytan Eckstein had been forewarned of Zamir’s presence, he might not have chosen that moment to enter the conference room.
The wooden door swung open and an exchange could be heard from outside. The guard from the second-floor desk had been posted to keep unauthorized personnel out of the meeting.
“It’s department heads only, Bavaria,” said a pleading voice.
“So, shoot me, Moshiko.” Eytan stepped into the room and closed the door. All heads turned to look at him, and he assumed an optimistic expression, if not actually a smile. He raised a hand as if clutching an invisible champagne glass. “Kol Hakavod to everyone,” he offered. A couple of people said, “Thanks, Eytan.”
Eckstein stalked straight along one wall, heading for Itzik Ben-Zion, who looked over at him briefly and returned to his conversation with General Zamir. Heinz, who was standing by Ben-Zion like a ball boy at a tennis match, glared at Eckstein with undisguised disdain.
Eckstein stopped close to Ben-Zion. Benni Baum eased himself off the table and edged closer to Eckstein.
“Excuse me, Itzik,” Eckstein said.
Ben-Zion sighed and turned slowly to the captain.
“We’re in conference, Eckstein.”
“Just wanted to say mazal tov, Itzik.” Eckstein smiled. “It was quite an operation.”
