The Rainy Day Man: Contemporary Romance (Suspense and Political Mystery Book 1) (26 page)

In other circumstances I might have consoled myself with the fact that he had abandoned the idea of hurting her.  Now I was overcome by a powerless fury.  Was it to protect me from revenge that lay behind the ban on my leaving the Athenaeum or was it the fear that I would investigate, find out, fight back and convince...?

I wondered who had made the exchange.  Scheckler?  Was that the explanation for his sudden, sympathetic participation?  I recalled his face, hesitant and concerned, as he told me about what was happening in the house at the top of the mountain.  The amazement in his voice had been too genuine for such a scheming man.  Who was left?  Perhaps the priest.  His house was isolated and stood right on the edge of the wadi.  It was not inconceivable that he had slipped out at some stage during the curfew and substituted the suitcase for the kitbag.  And perhaps that had been his role from the outset, his part in the scheme.  Was that why he had preferred not to make contact with me, telling me that he had no connection with us?

My knees suddenly trembled as I realized how many people I would have to convince of my innocence.  How would I do it?  How should I begin?

  "From the suitcase alone you can't conclude..."

"There were dark stains, presumably blood, on it."

"Or paint, the blood of an animal, ink, iodine..."  I breathed deeply.  "I'm still not sure that he's dead."

She remained silent.

I got up and knelt down beside her.  She moved her body away immediately, but her scented fragrance wafted among the pictures of saints like something wanton. 

"I didn't put the suitcase there.  I put something else there..."  How could I explain to her without breaking all the rules?  "If the suitcase is the sign of his death and I didn't put it there, someone is trying to make you think that he's dead..."

Behind the grief in her eyes was a positive flicker which grew stronger as she asked simply, "Who?"

             
“I don't know."

"The people here loved him and have no interest in you."  She gave me a searching look.  "And your people..."

I swallowed.

One of the candles went out.  She took another from a wooden box and stood it in the pool of hot wax produced by its predecessor.  I touched her hand.

"I've got to see that suitcase.  Something's happening, developing all the time and closing in on me..."

She pulled her hand away and looked straight at me.  "I have no desire to help you."

I looked away.

"I have no regrets about us.  I was a full partner and will probably also pay the price.  But you did not give what you promised to give, and the moment I began to trust, you disappeared, and then the suitcase turned up..."

Now I wanted her more than ever.  In her words, the mess sounded so organized, incriminating and hopeless, a dress rehearsal for what I could expect from the person who had arranged it all.  But there was also a more familiar look in her eyes, which combined with all the longing accumulated in Tel Aviv and the spell which rejection cast on me.

"Why shouldn't I think that you killed Anton on the way to the detention camp?"

For a while I thought about a reply which would be no less organized than her straightforward logic. 

In the end, all I could say was, "I couldn't have done it."

"I assume that in your profession you have already done everything."

"That's true," I confessed.  "All the same, sooner or later you'll have to trust me.  I'm your only chance to know that he's not dead."

Her face conveyed doubt, but also a glimmer of hope.  We could hear a fresh series of broadcast commands from the Athenaeum.  Were they perhaps looking for me? 

"There isn't a lot of time," I said, looking around for a place to hide.  "Could you go bring me the suitcase now?"

She pondered.  "No," she said eventually.  "We'll meet here tomorrow.  At this time."

"It might be too late."

She did not reply, but her face said everything.  I remembered the meeting in the ruin, and then when we had first met.  If I could live the last month over again, I thought as I walked across the shafts of light and darkness between the pews, would I have done it all the same?

***

              Someone who has acquired a facility for booby-trapping cigarette packets, sweet boxes, doors, cars and even beds and deckchairs, cannot believe that he contains some quality to defeat evil.  It is sufficient for him to hope that he will manage an arrangement with it.  But nothing seemed possible before dawn and without my seeing the suitcase.  I collected the blankets from where I had left them, between the pillars of the colonnade and crept along the walls of the houses, heading toward the mountain.  The road was empty.  Nor were patrols to be seen.  I skirted the steel bridge and Michel's bulrushes across the wadi.  Beside the ruin, the barrels marking the perimeter were turned over and the coil of barbed-wire was out of position.  I put everything back in place, like closing a door behind me, and jumped over the remains of the gravel path, careful not to touch the ground.  Somewhere in the dark territory around me were landmines.  I could almost feel the slipperiness of the gelignite with my fingertips, smell the acridity of the cordite, sense the springiness of the detonating mechanism.  Their presence gave me confidence.  They were dormant demons to which I had occasionally granted a flash of life.  It was only fair that this time they should protect me, their sleepy trainer.

I spread the blankets in a hollow carved into a stone platform, a grave or maybe an ancient altar.  A moment later I fell asleep, embracing the noises of the night and the gentle movement of the clouds.

The next thing I saw was the barrel of a rifle.

Maybe because it had become repetitious, almost routine, I was not alarmed.  Another time, despair would have protected me from panic.  This time it was a sense of urgency which alerted me and almost simultaneously I noticed that the moon had sunk, that morning was not far off.

I wondered whether there were any bullets left or whether he had used up the entire magazine during my absence.  And either because he guessed what I had in mind or had been reading only a particular kind of book from the doctor's bookcase, he said with pathos, "I saved the last bullet for you."

People who tend to pathos are also easily drawn by drama. 

"Don't move," I improvised calmly and authoritatively.

He froze.  In an instant his false maturity dissolved.  "Why?" he asked.

"Because you're standing on a mine."

He looked down for a brief moment during which I threw a blanket over him, pushed the rifle barrel aside and began to run along the path.  Behind me I heard him struggle with the blanket.  A tracer bullet from his rifle came past, vanishing into the sky like a glow-worm.

"Don't worry!" he shouted after me.  "I've got more bullets!"

I did not wait.  I leaped over the coiled wire and ran down the path.  In the sandy square of the clinic I stopped to look back.  Perhaps because of his mother, I felt a concern for him, the kind one feels for an unruly child, always getting into trouble.  What if he stepped on a mine?  Supposing he was crawling around there, in the growing light, feeling his way across the ground, looking for the way out?

But after a moment he appeared, limbs flailing, panting and waving the gun.  I leaped down to the wadi and ran along the side, so as not to stand out against the skyline.  He came after me, experienced but too excited.  He set off a small avalanche of stones with each step.

On the metal bridge, a couple of guards were talking loudly.  The road gave off a heat that mingled with the smell of soft tar.  Crouching, I crossed to the other side, leaving Michel somewhere behind me.  I moved among patient, curly sheep industriously nibbling the stiff leaves of the wild plants.  They had probably escaped from some pen or other.  Only after advancing among them for a few minutes did I realize that they would make a terrible row.

It was too late to retreat.  A ram suddenly reared and bleated plaintively.  Around him there was a prolonged chorus of assent, transmitting the news in every direction, until all of them, down to the last baby lamb, had joined in the lamentation.  There was movement on the bridge.  Somebody shouted.  A burst of bullets cut through what remained of the night.  I could see figures moving carefully down the slope, rifles in their hands.

The sheep began a frenzied stampede.  Some of them plunged over the abyss.  I wondered where Michel was hiding.  His familiarity with the terrain offset all my knowledge and experience.  There was nowhere to escape.  Dawn broke suddenly, as if a huge lid had been removed.  I was left standing in the middle of the area which the sheep had abandoned, and I waited.

"Irfa Idak.  Hands up!" the soldiers shouted as they approached.

I raised my hands silently.

The first to arrive searched my body and my clothes.  Those who followed knocked me to the ground and asked some questions in Arabic.

"I'm an Israeli," I tried to explain.  "I belong to your unit..."

"He even knows Hebrew," said a bearded soldier.  "If you're an Israeli, where's your uniform and what are you doing in no man's land?"

He slapped me with a rough hand and ordered me to wait.  Someone was appointed to guard me.  The other soldiers conferred at a distance, their eyes on me.  They were reservists, in faded and ill-fitting uniforms, their bodies heavy, their paunches protruding. 

The guard shouted to them, "Don't leave me alone.  What if he's got a knife?"

A bit later, at about seven, they gave me a kick and ordered me up.  The bearded one, his mouth full of half-chewed bread and army margarine, removed the belt from my trousers and tied my hands behind my back with it.  Then I was marched among them through the awakening streets.

By the time we reached the Athenaeum gate my beltless trousers were around my ankles.  The captain was in the courtyard, talking to a short man in civilian clothes leaning against a small car.  I took one step and another.  The soldiers cheered.  My steps were very soft on the material of my trousers.  I lost my balance and the ground hit me in the face.

The next thing I saw was the fat, well-shaven face of a man in civilian clothes leaning over me and saying gently, "Simon?  At last!  I've been waiting for you all night..."

CHAPTER TWELVE

              He looked like a pigeon specially grown for bringing pleasant messages.  He was built in circles: his skull, his eyes, his nose, his fingernails, his paunch and even the sentences he uttered.  From his place by the window in the captain's office, he cooed with pleasure at the sight of the new wall and at the same time gurgled regret at the suffering of the refugees who had been exiled. His case, which sat on the most comfortable chair in the room, was secured with a chain and a lock.  A set of keys lay at the edge of the desk, next to a pack of low-nicotine cigarettes and a two-day-old newspaper he had obviously brought with him.

             
"You must have seen the Prime Minister on television," he said.

"We don't have a television," the captain said sharply.

"That's a pity," the man said sorrowfully, "he spoke about you, really about you.  Even before he finished his speech I thought, he's talking about our boys at the front, the ones I'm going to see... So what do you say, Simon?"

I mumbled something. He gave me an understanding look.  His concentrated expression, the apparently careless movements, the high voice were familiar.  I had met him once before, but where?

"I've got something for you," he gestured towards the case and the bunch of keys.  "Two turns to the right, one to the left."

I did not move.  Not yet.  It was all too unexpected. 

"What precisely is this about?"

He spread two pink palms in wonder.  "Your mission, of course. You didn't think that your job in Dura was over already, did you?"

Then I remembered him.  He was one of the two men who had left the Head's office at the moment I'd gone in for my briefing.  With relief I turned the combination lock.  It was well-oiled and opened immediately.   There were two cardboard files inside, emitting a wonderful fragrance of experience and secrecy.  I looked at the man in civilian clothes and then at the captain.

"It's all right," the man said, waving his hand generously.  "After all, we're all partners here..."

I cleared the desk of superfluous objects, the stapler, a carousel of rubber stamps, a pile of forms, a bottle of glue and a paratrooper's red beret.  The two files came out leaving a trail of chewed paper. 

"Mice."  I established my fresh proprietorship over them with a complaint.  The captain shifted uneasily in his chair.

The man in civilian clothes said, "We're going for something really big, wait and see..."

The files were spread on the desk.  Instead of the usual photographs, reports, assessments, I found sketches which looked like building plans.  A thin, mimeographed paper discussed the advantage of something called 'Plan 1' over 'Plan 3'. 

“’Plan 2’,'" the man in civilian clothes hastened to explain, "wasn't appropriate for this place."  He gave the impression that he was covering up for some injustice.  Maybe he thought 'Plan 2' was the best of the three.

The captain stood up.  "I'd prefer it if my sergeant-major were present..."

"Of course," the man in civilian clothes smiled.  "Of course..."

"Scheckler!" the captain shouted.

              He popped in so quickly that I assumed he'd been eavesdropping on the other side of the door. All the same, he looked at the files, examined the sketches and studied the maps. 

             
Finally he declared:  "This looks like we're finally starting to build houses!"

"Right!" the man in civilian clothes exclaimed.  "Is there a map of the area here?"  Scheckler rolled back the sheet that covered a map on the wall.  A fat cockroach fled across the room. 

Scheckler asked, "A Jewish settlement?" 

The man shook his head, but one could see he might not be against that idea either. 

"We're going to build houses for the refugees," he said.

             
The captain complained, "Who needs it?"

             
The civilian drew a black square around a section of the road at the edge of no man's land. 

             
"Once," he lectured, "people fought for territory, trade rights, natural resources..."  He filled the square with tiny rectangles, according to a design he copied from his notebook.  "Today we know that all those things have no value.  There is only one thing that is worth fighting for, and once you have it, you control everything..."  He turned to the captain.  "Do you understand?"

The captain shrugged his shoulders.  "No."

"Minds!" he exclaimed.  "Today we fight for people's minds.  The true natural resource..."  His fingers tapped the checkered area he had drawn on the map.  "You," he patted the captain on the shoulder, "have paved the way.  Now it's our turn to carpet it with flowers.  We'll build a splendid neighborhood here, three hundred and fifty homes, a school, a kindergarten.  We'll bring public figures, television, journalists, radio...  Three hundred and fifty families will go into clean, new, spacious homes and the whole world will witness it right after the report on Syrian atrocities, Druse snipers, Palestinian bombers, Shi'ite mobs and Christian assassins, who are all killing one another..." 

He went on to chatter about asbestos walls, reinforced concrete skeletons and steel foundations.  Scheckler, who was already completely captivated, asked about the sizes of the houses, the method of construction and work for the refugees who would live there.

              How had the bomb I was preparing turned into a crazy building company?  I looked through the papers again.  The civilian moved the captain gently to the door. 

             
"In another two or three days the first houses will be up.  They’re all ready to go.  They simply have to be loaded onto trucks and sent off on their way..."  He flicked his fingers to signify speed and efficiency.  The captain groaned something, put his beret on his head and went out.  Scheckler cast a last look at the map on the wall and hastened after him.

The man closed the door carefully behind them and came back to the desk. He pulled a chair over to it and sat down.

Something in the atmosphere changed.  Like an old cinema when the lights have been switched on, the room resumed its former, shabby appearance.  The civilian's expression relaxed into the visage of an aging man who has not slept enough. 

His speech became terse:  "What's he like, that captain?"

"A soldier..."

"Tough?"

"Enough."

             
He scratched his scalp roughly, then cleaned his fingernails with the clasp of a pen.  "What have you managed to prepare?" he asked.

"Nothing," I smoothed the plans on the desk.  "This is the first time I've seen..."

"I'm talking about what you came here for.  I was told that you'd already prepared something."

And had he not been told how the suitcase had been substituted for the kitbag?  "Napalm, a tin of five kilos."

He took a cigarette from his packet and lit it without offering me one.

             
"It's been lost," I added.

             
"How?"

             
I felt some sort of shame and did not answer. The man in civilian clothes smoked in silence.  Then he said:  "You're experienced enough to realize that I'm here, in a manner of speaking, to give out jobs..."  He stubbed out the cigarette.  "You were given your job back in Tel Aviv, so why don't you go on with it?"

For a moment I thought I understood what he meant and how concerned he was behind his quiet appearance.  But the next moment I was no longer so sure. 

"Go on?" I hesitated.

             
His head moved slowly up and down.  "As if nothing has happened."

Nothing connected yet.  No reality met my apprehensions, they were even bigger and more alien.    

"Where is it, the stuff you've prepared?" the man questioned me patiently.

             
There was only one course left. "In the wadi," I said. "In a rabbit warren..."

He got up immediately.  "Let's go there."

I let him lead, but he was too clever to be taken in by my obvious play. He walked ahead of me until we got to the guard hut, then stopped in the street to wait, looking at the last few neighbors returning from their night out.

"Where to now?" he asked when I was standing next to him.

I led him down the path and stopped again in the riverbed.  He stopped too, waiting patiently until I resumed walking.  At that moment I wanted to forget the exact site of the rabbit warren so that that roly-poly man would have to make his own way there and reveal his involvement.  But as usual, professionalism overcame logic and I turned up the riverbed to the rock I had used as my marker.

The sand at the bottom was clean and sifted, as if it had been swept.  The bushes I had placed over the opening of the warren were in place.  I gestured and he leaned over to help me, with the clumsiness of someone who was there for the first time.  As I cleared the soil away I examined his face out of the corner of my eye.  It remained expressionless.

After a few moments of digging my fingers touched the fabric of the kitbag.

I pulled it over to the rock.  A lizard scurried away as soon as my shadow fell on it.  The layer of glycerin in the tin was fatty and had spilled onto the books in an incandescent wave.  The man in civilian clothes bent down to sniff it.  Then he read with interest what was written on the box of antibiotic ointment. 

"What did you intend to do with it?" he asked.

"Refine it until the Butyllithium is left."

He clicked his tongue.  "There isn't time.  I'll get hold of some prepared Butyllithium and a few empty tins which you can scatter around."

"It has to be planned, the charge has to fit the size of the target."

He calculated something under his breath.  "Three tins together with yours should be enough."

"What am I going to blow up?"

"You'll see."

I pushed the kitbag, which rolled off the rock and landed on the sand with a soft thud. 

"Don't you think it's time you began letting me in on the plans?  What jobs are you giving out?  For what purpose?  What's the connection between the explosion I'm preparing and the idiotic plan to build houses for the refugees?"

He put the kitbag with the mixture of metal, napalm, glycerin and paper over his shoulder and began to walk back.  For a moment I thought to walk in the opposite direction.  I checked the priest's house, high above us, the pine wood and the tip of the church tower.  Then I turned to walk behind him up the steep path.

When we reached the top I said:  "You still haven't answered me."

"I prefer it to remain confidential for the moment," he panted.

"This isn't my first day in this business..."

"I know.  I also know that your behavior in the last few weeks hasn't been, how shall I put it, appropriate..."

"Not appropriate?" I exploded.  "You organize it, send me here to stage an explosion, at the same time instruct me to arrest a foreign agent in broad daylight, promise me the cooperation of the local agent and don't bother to check whether he's still on our side, take my kitbag out of its hiding place in the wadi in order to put someone else's suitcase there..."

He put a calming hand on my shoulder, but his short, strong fingers gripped my flesh. 

"I don't know about the foreign agent you arrested," he said in a low voice, "nor is the subject of the local agent clear to me.  Maybe it is like that, maybe not.  At any rate, it's of no importance now."  As we passed the guard hut the kitbag bumped against the chain at the gate with a merry sound. 

"But the suitcase in the hiding place that turned into a kitbag - that sounds a little delusory, doesn't it?"

I glanced at my watch.  Ten a.m. The knowledge that in another ten hours the suitcase would be in my hands gave me back a grip on reality.

"You see," he continued, pointing to a large field kitchen which had been arranged under the awning that remained of the garage, "everything is ready.  The cooks are out and all that's left in the kitchen is what you need. Prepare your concoctions and leave me to run the rest.  In another day or two it will all be over and by then the unpleasant little things will be forgotten..."

And would the broken vessel be consigned to a remote shelf or thrown away?  I had to gain time, at least until after tonight when I would have the suitcase. 

"It's a dangerous process," I said, "and a long one.  It'll take..."

"...Three hours, over a medium flame," he nodded at me.  "Don't think I don't understand you."  The sympathy in his voice sounded like an aberration.  "But Tel Aviv is surprised.  They expected you to act more sensibly."  He took out his packet of cigarettes and, as usual, lit only one, for himself.  "So don't give them another chance, Simon.  Do what you have to..."

***

By the afternoon the four tins were cooling on the counter.  The civilian, with the same wizardly timing which had characterized his previous appearances, popped up the moment I left the kitchen.  He was with the captain and four paratroopers, who would guard the door, the window and the serving hatch.  "Write down here everything you need for the detonating devices," he said.