THRILLER: The Galilee Plot: (International Biological Terror, The Mossad, and... A Self-contended Couple) (10 page)

Shmulik stood up, held out
his hand in valediction. “Tomorrow,” he said, “same time, same place.”

My wife was not best
pleased on hearing the news, but she realised that no argument, however acute
and persuasive it might be, could compete with the accumulation of facts.

“Watch out for those
German women!” she made a point of warning me.

“By the grace of God we
shall do our best.”

“Amen to that!” was her
blessing.

From Shmulik I received a
ticket for a Lufthansa flight, business class: a window seat, comfort
guaranteed. Next day, carrying just a light suitcase, I was driven to the airport.
My wife came to see me off and after a brief conversation we parted. The flight
was smooth, and could be described as pleasant and agreeable. It seemed the
stewardesses had agreed (or been asked?) to take special care of me, with the
kind of womanly concern universally reserved for an attractive man (I knew I
hardly qualified as that).

In Berlin I boarded a
taxi, and gave the address, which I had memorised. The driver dropped me off,
at midday, beside a tall and somewhat antiquated building, reminiscent of a
watchtower on a medieval city wall. A listed red-brick building, protected by a
pair of cumbersome doors, constructed from heavy Teutonic timber, extravagantly
carved. I stood on the opposite side from the house on Humboldt Strasse, Number
19. No doubt, I looked strange to the passers-by, as well as to the residents
of the old house, rising to a height which with some slight exaggeration could
be described as great, and containing no more than three modern storeys. I
didn’t want to waste any time. On the contrary, all I wanted was to get the job
done in the minimum time possible, not a particularly encouraging omen for the
success of the mission, but I decided to take the risk and I really didn’t care
that much. The tenants of the house in question didn’t seem to be on edge in
anticipation of some attack coming from outside, on the part of a (hitherto)
unseen enemy.

I leaned my case against
the decidedly modern wall of the house facing Number 19 Humboldt Strasse, and
there was nothing old about this one: fenced like the house opposite with a low
wall, but freshly whitewashed, and gleaming white. The sun beat down with the
harsh light of late summer on the old house, and I was lucky to be standing in
the shade and not exposed to the full force of the rays, which would have been
quite capable of microwaving matza bread. I waited. An hour passed, and still
no one showed any interest in me. From the whitewashed house behind me, a
portly, dignified German gentleman emerged, in a blue suit, blue shirt with
white stripes, and a big blue bow-tie, matching his eyes. He looked like a
business partner in some corporate institution, hurrying to his work-place, not
far away, with heavy tread – indicative of age and lack of interest in his
work. No doubt looking forward impatiently to his date of retirement and
planning a round-the-world cruise in the company of his wife or alone. About
twenty minutes after him, a woman built on generous lines came out, evidently
his wife, and turned in the opposite direction to that taken by the man,
behaviour perhaps symbolic of the total lack of understanding between the
embittered pair, who have stopped asking questions and stopped arguing – while
each cherishes secret expectations of the departure of the other. And then one
of the heavy doors opposite opened, and a large-limbed woman, heavily pregnant
(Hilde, I guessed), came out, waited for about ten minutes, stopped a taxi and
disappeared inside it. The taxi sped away, in whatever direction she had asked
for.

I felt as if my heart was
beating with redoubled force, and it seemed to be trying to climb up my throat
and moisten my mouth which had dried. The heavy door swung open again, closely
followed by the matching door. A new Audi, skilfully driven by a young woman
(Erika, was the logical supposition) left the house, in no particular haste. I
began following it on foot, an act of desperation, and then the taxi I was
hoping for hooted behind me. I stopped, got in and asked the driver to follow
the receding Audi. He did so, looking less than absolutely enthusiastic. The
Audi stopped in a huge parking lot outside a pub, brightly lit in the middle of
the day, a gesture of cheap extravagance. I asked the driver to pull up, got
down and paid. The tip brought a smile to his face, scored with deep wrinkles,
which did not betray his age.

The driver wished me “Good
hunting!”

I went into the pub and
soon located the “subject”, or what in Bulgaria we used to call the “object”.
This was a pleasantly shaped young woman, somewhat reminiscent of the lady who
left the house before her, the pregnant one. This resemblance encouraged me. I
sat down some distance from her and watched every move she made. She ordered
calvados, a French drink distilled from the juice of apples, not powerful
enough to cast you into the void of oblivion or even to induce mild
intoxication.

So, she had no intention
of getting drunk. This was my first assumption, and I knew it wasn’t to be
trusted. I ordered myself a small calvados, doing everything possible to avoid
drawing attention, on the part of those seated at the bar, the few sitting at
tables, those entering and leaving or the barman, who in obedience to his rules
of professional etiquette, immediately expressed curiosity and asked where I
was from and all the rest of it. The German that I learned in high school and
improved more or less on holidays in Switzerland proved its worth and I
succeeded in cooling his curiosity, sending a message that I wasn’t interested
in any conversation. The barman was experienced, he understood, served the
calvados without further ado and moved away from me.

The “object” ordered beer
– meaning, she was thirsty, as simple as that. This was followed by a small
brandy. The calvados had just been the camouflaged opening gambit. Camouflaged
from whom? I reassured myself and decided with uncharacteristic optimism, from
herself. It was a long time since I last drank beer and I didn’t want to drink
it now, but the barman was approaching and if I wanted not to attract
attention, I had to order something.

“Beer!” I saw the barman’s
curiosity soaring to new heights. His brown eyes clouded over. He put the glass
down in front of me with a slam that said a great deal. As far as I was
concerned the meaning was: Stop pissing about! If you’re going to do something,
get on with it! I answered myself: Yes, I am going to do something, really! And
I meant it, grasping my almost desperate situation, my time that was running
out, and my determination to complete the assignment in the best way possible
and as quickly as possible and go home satisfied. On assessing the situation,
it seemed all these objectives were remote and yet, as somebody told me, things
that are remote are not necessarily unattainable, and there was no doubt that
when the moment came, I would dive in at the deep end, whatever the outcome. On
the other hand, I consoled myself – don’t exaggerate, what outcome are you
talking about? Here there’s a woman who’s bored if not more than that and any
man who dares will get everything he wants from her. Including information. All
the information she’s capable of supplying. The lady ordered tequila and this
struck me as dangerous; it seemed she was after all intent on getting drunk and
“forgetting it all”, rendering herself incapable of distinguishing between
reality and unreality, and entangling herself and me in stories, just as likely
to be fiction as fact.

Without giving much
thought to what I was doing, I picked up the half-empty glass with the contents
that only made me feel nauseous, sat down beside her and muttered a few words
of apology, which I meant sincerely, for staring at her these last few minutes,
an attractive young woman, trying to forget something – as indeed I was. I just
had this fantastic idea that maybe I could help her somehow, and with a little
goodwill, maybe she could help me too.

The response came more
quickly than I expected, and all of it was a surprise.

“Sir, there’s no need to
sniff around me… it’s true that I’m young and attractive and in bed I’m a
thousand times younger and a thousand times more attractive, and you think a
good fuck will do both of us good… maybe you’re right, maybe not… I’ve had my
share of bitter disappointments. Come on, let’s take a closer look at you.” She
moved her bar-stool slightly and our eyes met. Her eyes were like the eyes of a
hungry leopard, or leopardess I should say, on heat and ready to explode. I
didn’t know how I looked to her, but she didn’t hesitate to tell me – “You look
small to me, too small to jump into bed with me, although quite often the
little ones can be a surprise… You aren’t local, Asiatic I’d say,” she added,
showing astonishing intuition. “I’m guessing, though I rather wish I wasn’t,”
she went on effusively, “that you’re from Israel and you haven’t come here just
to chat me up and offer me a fuck, you want to milk me for information…”

“My brother-in-law is an
Arab, and he’s done something very nasty to you people, and being the kind of
guy he is, he’s very proud of it. And you want to know all about it. Listen
carefully, little Israeli that you are. I’m the granddaughter of a Nazi
general. What this means is, I’m as full as a pomegranate with guilt-feelings
of all shapes and colours, and I’m prepared to do anything to atone a little,
to ease the burden on me and on my conscience. Come on, let’s go to my
apartment.” She left a note on the counter and slid off her stool with its
round seat upholstered in black leather, and I did likewise and followed her
out of the pub, like a horny tomcat that’s had a bucket of icy water thrown
over it. I joined her in the Audi, and no more than five minutes later we
arrived at Number 19 Humboldt Strasse. I got out to help her, opening and
closing the gates, and all this without a word exchanged between us. She led
the way, running up the creaking wooden spiral staircase, like the staircases
of watchtowers since time immemorial. Admittedly, her apartment wasn’t built
like a fortress, but was like any other apartment anywhere in the world –
modestly proportioned, with three medium-sized rooms.

When we reached the
apartment, still panting after the climb up three storeys and three flights of
spiral staircase, she apologised profusely for the lack of a lift, but added
that she preferred things the way they were, the air of down-at-heel antiquity
and the memories that the thick wall had absorbed. She offered me a glass of
brandy, took one for herself and without any ceremony, emptied the glass at one
gulp and put it down on the old, round, mahogany table, laden with heavy boxes
in polished walnut wood, and sensing my embarrassment she surprised me with a
toast in pure Ashkenazi: “Lehaim!” and invited me to taste the amber liquid.
Seeing no other way out of my awkward predicament, I did as she suggested.

“You may be surprised to
hear that my surname, like the name of the street I’m living in, isn’t
accidental,” she assured me. “You must have learnt in your geography lessons at
school about the brothers Alexander and Wilhelm Humboldt, who made a very
significant contribution to the science of geography – what do they call it? –
physical geography and bio-geography – and about their ‘murderous’ grandmother
who brought them up, who used to drag them out of bed on frozen winter nights
and force them to wrestle half-naked in the yard at the back of our house, and
that way she toughened them up for their adventures around the world in the
service of science. The two brothers explored the North Pole.”

“It wasn’t the North Pole,
or the South,” I corrected her – “but the lower Amazon and the estuary of the
Orinoco”

“As you see,” she
responded, “my soul is the soul of an artist. Humble details mean nothing to
me. Besides my German body, and my sexual proclivities – I don’t even have half
of a German gene!” she stressed proudly, in a tone brooking no disagreement. “And
there was a Frenchman with them too,” she added off-handedly, “I’ve forgotten
his name.”

“Bonpland,” I reminded
her.

“What a memory you have!”
– she was genuinely impressed. “With the limited technical means available to
them at that time,” she continued, reverting to the main topic, “they achieved
so much and returned to their homeland garlanded with worldwide renown, just as
their grandmother wanted. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the
municipality of Berlin decided to call the street where the Humboldt brothers
lived by their name.

“The brothers were in
love, both of them, with their charming and succulent neighbour, Erika,” she
went on to say. “Despite the meticulous, vulpine you could almost call it,
supervision on the part of their grandmother, they nearly fought a duel over
her. Erika was pregnant by one of them, to this day no one knows which, and she
gave birth to my grandfather, who had the same kind of Spartan upbringing,
according to the rules laid down by his great grandmother. He was drafted into
the army, and he was a colonel during the First World War. Hitler impressed him
and he soon became one of his most loyal generals, utterly loyal and a talented
tactician as well, the bitter rival of Guderian, the tank supremo. Anyway, he
was one of Hitler’s closest adherents and most committed acolytes. He killed
himself the moment he heard the Fuhrer had done the same in his bunker.

“As his granddaughter, I
fervently hope he has found some peace, at least in the other world. My
grandfather was a man with a conscience and he suffered torments over
everything that he was obliged to do in the Second World War, on the orders of
the Fuhrer whom he admired, but he went ahead and did it anyway, and he knew
what others were doing and was a witness to their actions. A thoroughly tragic
figure. Again, I express the hope that his tragic, tormented soul finds eternal
rest!”

“Amen to that!” I chimed
in – on an obsequious impulse, lacking full conviction.