The Heat of Ramadan, page 42
Someone shouted. A fist and forearm looped around his throat and he went backward off his chair as the blond hippie dragged him while knifing down onto his collarbone with an open hand. A second man appeared, spinning on one leg like a ballet dancer as he back-kicked his heel into the killer’s solar plexus. The chair banged onto the sidewalk as an engine roared and a white Vespa sprang over the curb from the street, the driver slamming the heels of his boots onto the concrete as he pushed the flailing motor scooter onto its side and leaped headfirst into the fracas. Three soldiers came sprinting up the street, sober as policemen, their weapons thrusting out like spearheads down into the mass of screaming flesh as the café patrons scattered like spooked pigeons.
A dark van screeched to a halt at the curbside. The side door flew open and three men in plainclothes, pistols drawn, tumbled out. Moments later, the entire group of adrenaline-poisoned men were dragging their captive toward the van. Another ten seconds and they were all inside. The door closed, the van sped away, and everything was gone, like the finale of a magic act at the Moscow Circus.
She stood there shivering in the evening heat, looking like a jilted, vengeful lover. Her pocketbook was at her feet, both of her hands gripped around the butt of her Beretta. She would have cried, had her survival instinct not shut down every emotional valve of her psyche.
She jumped when she felt the hand around her shoulder. It was Heinz. He was pressing against her, trying to lead her gently away from the scene. His face was close and he was grinning like a boy who had just rescued the pigtailed girl from the schoolyard bully.
“Come, Ettie. It’s over.”
Her eyes darted. People were staring at them. Someone pressed her yellow pocketbook into her stomach and she took it. She felt herself taking steps on wobbly legs, succumbing to the pressure of Heinz’s encircling arm. She heard whispers. Someone asked, “Who was he?”
“Bank robber,” Heinz answered over his shoulder. He was still grinning.
There was a grey taxi parked twenty meters up the street. They walked toward it. The driver was holding the door open. From inside, the sounds of excited electronic voices crackled from a radio set.
“We got him!” Heinz squeezed her shoulder. “You were terrific!”
She said nothing. She felt herself resisting his pull.
“We have to move,” Heinz said. “They’ll start the investigation without us.”
Ettie stopped walking as they reached the Peugeot. Yes, it was over. She had done her part, and now she didn’t give a damn what happened. She didn’t need to be a part of the backslapping and strutting that was about to transpire. She only wanted Eytan—and Eytan was not to be had.
“Heinz.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I’m not going. I need a drink.”
He looked at her and smiled wryly. “I have to be there. They can’t do it without me.”
She realized that he thought she was extending an invitation. She almost laughed, but managed an expression of disappointment instead.
“Well, they can certainly do it without me,” she said as she touched his arm. “I need to relax now.”
Heinz shrugged. He reached out and took the pistol from her hand. “Well, if you’re going to get drunk, I’d better take this.” He pocketed the Beretta. “I’ll give it back to you tomorrow, okay?”
She raised her hands. “Sure.”
“Lunch?”
“Sure.” She backed away.
Heinz winked at her, saluted and dove into the car. “Move!” he shouted at the driver and the taxi screeched away from the curb.
Ettie walked for a long time. She walked without direction, no destination in mind, yet with every step her posture changed, her shoulders dropped, her muscles warmed and the evening air began to penetrate her pores. She was still wound with tension, but as she moved farther away from the sight of the “snatch,” it began to ease. For the first time in weeks, she felt free, released from the manacles of dread.
It was over. No more of her comrades would die. Eytan was safe. Soon she would be in Paris. Other perils would replace this one, yet moving and working again would bring relief. It was like any dangerous sport. You were scared until you started, then it was fine.
She stayed away from the cafés now, walking west on Ben-Gurion toward the sea. She took off her heels and strode through the trees on the dark center island of the thoroughfare. There were few people here, but in Tel Aviv, even an attractive single woman was safe on the streets.
She reached Kikar Atarim and trotted up onto the plaza, where hundreds of tourists sat out at the open-air pizza parlors and teenyboppers spilled out from the door of the big disco that looked like a flying saucer about to take off. Colored strobes flashed inside the huge frosted windows and rock and roll blared from the doors. She kept on, across the plaza, down the wide flights of cement stairs to the beach.
The fine sand between her toes was like aloe cream to sunburned flesh. She moved buoyantly, swinging her purse from the strap in her hand, tossing her hair back and opening her mouth to the black sky, sucking in the salt air as the Mediterranean crashed over the breakwater at the marina.
She looked to where the waves lapped at the flat shore, the pools of rushing water slithering under the moonlight. There was no other light here, and she squinted at the scattered dark shapes of couples wrestling in the peppered dunes.
She felt a pulling at her thighs, her own private gravity, a sharp longing. Her tension still gnawed at her. She did not know exactly what she wanted, but she knew what she needed.
She looked up to the left at the massive towers of the beachfront hotels. A thousand lights, a thousand beds. Perhaps relief was there inside, even an hour of headlong passion to wash it all away and start over again with tomorrow. Yes, anonymity was there as well. On the streets, the public cafés, she was vulnerable. Inside one of these expensive oases, she would be in another country.
There was a ramp leading up to the Ramada Continental. She stopped at the base, brushed off her feet, and put her heels back on. She found her lipstick and touched up her mouth without a mirror. Then she marched up the walkway and entered the main lobby at the front of the hotel.
It was perfect. Full of strangers. A busload of American tourists was poking over three long rows of suitcases in the middle of the shiny slate floor. Bellhops in purple jackets loaded hand trucks and pushed toward the elevators. Tour guides shouted at the desk managers. A cluster of Italian pilots, still in their sweaty UN flight suits, interrogated a short, flustered bell captain as to the best night spots and the fastest women.
Ettie pushed through the crowd. The lobby dropped off into a large lounge, dotted with low glass tables, stuffed armchairs and secluded banquettes around the perimeter. At the far wall, before a panorama window that faced the sea, a long mirrored bar was lined with foreigners perched on rattan stools. Ettie suddenly felt her raging thirst.
She moved to one corner of the lounge. There were a few empty tables cocooned by curved, high-backed couches. She selected the farthest one and sank into the soft sofa, facing the room.
A waitress appeared quickly. Where there were dollars to be had, the service was decidedly un-Israeli. Ettie ordered a screwdriver, specifying foreign vodka. It arrived and she finished half of it in one long pull, put her head back on the soft velour and lit a cigarette.
It was not her first time inside the Ramada. As a trainee, she had been in all the major hotels. The teams often came here to practice their covers, striking up conversations with tourists, lying about everything from birth to concocted ambitions, perfecting their foreign tongues and accents.
She watched a man come across from the lobby, taking a table near the bar. There was a discotheque on the lower level, and its curved stairway broke open near the man’s seat. Just as he settled, the loud beat of a rock-and-roll band thrummed up from the opening, and he quickly abandoned his position.
He looked around, searching for a quieter spot. He came toward Ettie’s banquette and sat down at another table a few meters away, with his back to the lounge.
Ettie looked at him. He was tall and well built, with jet-black curls and eyebrows. He had chiseled features, yet his eyes were obscured by a pair of large, heavy-framed tortoiseshell glasses. However, he was not a tourist. He wore an open-necked simple blue shirt rolled at the sleeves to his biceps, black jeans, and sandals. Almost immediately, he set to reading from a book of Hebrew poetry by Abba Kovner.
Ettie sipped her drink, snatching glances at the stranger. She found herself smiling. Here, in the midst of this circus, he was cutting out all the cacophony and reading Kovner. Probably a kibbutznik, although a farmer at the Ramada was certainly not likely. At any rate, he was obviously here on business.
A waitress approached the stranger. He ordered soda water, and then he called her back and smiled shyly, begging for two aspirin as well. She walked away and he rubbed his temples with his fingers.
Ettie found herself staring at the man, yet he did not even glance at her. Then she shifted her body, crossed one leg and bore her eyes into the side of his head, trying to force him to notice her.
He did not comply. He continued reading.
The band on the lower level took a break, leaving only the chatter of ten different languages echoing in the lounge. Glasses clinked. Hotel employees called to each other.
“Tomato juice,” Ettie heard herself say.
The man looked up from his book, turning his head toward her with an expression that was uninviting.
“Slicha?”
“Tomato juice. It’s good for a headache.”
He smiled politely. “Thanks.” He returned to his book.
The waitress brought the stranger his soda water and a plate with a pair of white tablets. Ettie motioned to her.
“I’ll have another.” She tapped the rim of her glass. “And bring my ill friend here some tomato juice, please.”
“Vakashah.” The waitress left.
The stranger looked at Ettie. His smile was slightly warmer now, although he merely nodded his head in thanks.
“‘A Canopy in the Desert,’” she said.
The man looked at his book, then back at her, his expression showing surprise.
“You know it?”
“My favorite poem.”
“I thought no one read Kovner anymore.”
“There are a few of us romantics left, I’m afraid,” said Ettie.
The man looked at her for another moment. Then he slowly closed the book. She got up, taking her drink with her, and sat down across from him on the small divan.
“I’m Ettie,” she said, extending her hand.
“Ronni Grossman,” said Amar Kamil. It was so easy. So unbelievably easy. Even the most highly trained agent, at the right place, the right time, the correct point of weakness in her life, was open to the simple gambit.
He had tracked her all evening, carefully, at a considerable distance. At some point he had concluded that she was unaccompanied, yet not alone, moving with a discrete entourage. Then he sent in his sacrificial decoy, and they snapped him up like famished piranhas.
The rest of it was elementary, for all of her defenses were down. He shook her hand very briefly now, maintaining the teasing air of reluctance. Just a bit shy.
“And what brings you to ‘Sodom,’ Ronni?” Ettie asked playfully.
He sighed. “Oh, one of those stupid bankers’ conventions.” He shrugged as if embarrassed to be seen here. “Believe me, I’d rather be home.”
“Thank you very much.” She put her fingertips to her chest and bowed her head to the executioner.
He laughed. “Not at this moment,” he said. “In general, I mean.”
“Where is home?”
“Petach Tikva.”
Ettie looked at his face. He was very tan, and behind the glasses she could see that his cheeks were patched with peeling, reddened skin.
The waitress brought the drinks. They did not look up at her.
“You look like you’ve been at the beach,” Ettie said.
“Lebanon,” said Kamil quietly. This was the only dangerous juncture. He had carefully patched his scar with spirit gum, then dyed it with tea. He had done the same to the other cheek. Now he reached up to the left eye, behind his glasses, and peeled away a small patch, rolling it between his thumb and finger. “It was hot.”
Ettie nodded. Unfortunately, this was not unusual. Most combat reservists were spending their thirty-day stints in the security zone of southern Lebanon.
“Yes, we’ve been having quite a spell,” she said.
“Lebanon is hot even in January,” he said sadly. He looked away.
Ettie felt him drifting, his thoughts wandering back up north, back to wherever he had recently lain in ambush and fear. She did not want to lose him.
“So, Mr. Grossman,” she said brightly. “When you’re not soldiering or banking, what do you do for fun?”
They talked for half an hour. For Ettie, at first, it was a bit like pulling teeth. Ronni was inherently shy. He was clearly an intellectual type, and his Hebrew was complex and showed an education. But he was no social butterfly. He had recently endured a painful divorce and confessed that he had been avoiding women. That was fine, Ettie thought. She wasn’t looking for a wedding.
She lied fluently about her own life, mixing fact with fantasy. She expressed her artistic ambitions, and Ronni knew quite a bit about art. It turned out that they shared a love of music. However, when the subject came up Ronni sneered at the banging noise that flooded up from the disco. He said that he was going through a Greek phase, listening to a lot of old Aris San records.
Ettie told him about the Rondo. It was usually a common disco, but Yehudah Poliker was appearing now. Poliker was gaining popularity with his full band of Bouzoukis and his Hebrew renditions of wild Athenic tunes.
“Do you dance, Mr. Grossman?” she finally asked.
“I haven’t in a long time,” said Kamil.
They walked along the promenade, south toward the Rondo. Ettie took his arm and chatted, ignoring the stiffness in his body. When they mounted the stairs into the large cabaret, the pounding of the tambours and the snapping fingers of the spinning crowd seemed to break his mood.
Ettie took him straight to the bar. When he had finished two brandies, she got him out onto the floor.
It was here that Kamil quickly shed Ronni Grossman’s reserve. He let Poliker’s basso Greek tones surge through his body, joining a hundred others spinning and stamping, flailing their arms and crying “Yassoo!” as they twirled their partners. Ettie laughed with pleasure and kicked off her heels. She tossed her purse behind the bar and clutched his big hands, driving her body in toward his and then back again before they touched. They joined long lines of hora circles, split off and danced with strangers, then found each other again, laughing and covered with sweat, their shirts as limp as summer bedsheets.
At last, Poliker broke the frenzy. His lead female singer took the floor, and she began a soft, mournful, haunting tune about a woman who wished she had died in battle with her lover.
Ettie slid her arms around her partner’s waist. She looked up at him. He rested his fingers at the curve of her back, and they began to sway. Ettie pressed her chest against his, feeling the heat. Her hips locked with his legs. All four of their hands slipped lower.
“Take me home,” she whispered hoarsely.
“I will take you,” he said.
In the taxi, they kissed. Clothes wringing wet, tongues intertwined. She tried to remove his glasses; he said he was blind without them.
She took his hand and pulled him up the stairs to her flat, laughing as she fumbled with the keys, her vision blurred by alcohol and the rush of blood that came with her anticipation.
She flicked on the light and he immediately flicked it off. She took his hand and started toward the bedroom, but he stopped at the couch and turned her, pushing her down. She grabbed at his shirt, pulling herself up, covering his mouth with her own, driving her tongue inside. Then she tore the shirt open and slid down again, carving her nails through the hair of his chest as he began to breathe in hoarse rasps.
She snapped his belt open and groped at his jeans, yanking them down over his hips as she pulled her heels up onto the edge of the couch and her spandex skirt slid up to her waist. She reached toward him and groaned as his flesh sprang into her mouth. And then he was reaching down, pulling her blouse over her head—she fighting to keep what she had at her lips, squeezing with her hand, pumping with her mouth as he tore her panties from her and grabbed her hair. He pulled her head away, growled, bent at the knees, and plunged into her.
She reached around and up under his shirt, digging her nails into his back as she bit down hard on his nipple.
Ettie Denziger was rough.
Amar Kamil was even rougher.
18: Jerusalem
Later
IT WAS BENNI BAUM’S TURN to answer the door with a pistol.
The hammering of the brass lion’s-head knocker was violent and incessant, yet it did not cause Baum to go crouching through the darkened rooms of his stone Turkish house in Abu Tor. He was too old and too proud to play commando in his own home.
He threw on the lights and came rumbling through the salon, his slabby feet whip-cracking on the cold tiles, one hand holding the drawstrings of his blue cotton pajama bottoms against his hairy belly, the other hand swinging a heavy, oily, Colt .45 automatic. His “house” gun.
“Koos eema shelchah, tafseek kvar!” he cursed as he reached the big wooden door. He was not worried about disturbing the neighbors—the Baums had owned the two-story villa for many years, and it stood alone on a hillside plot of land. But Maya had already been awakened by the racket, and his wife’s wrath was potentially much more deadly than the venom of some political fanatic. The banging stopped. “Who the hell is it?” Baum growled.
“Eckstein.”
Baum turned the key, and Eytan came barreling into the room as if he had been about to ram the door with his shoulder. Baum sidestepped like a blasé toreador as Eckstein blurred past him, the breathless captain quickly recovering his footing as he stopped short and turned.
