Vicious Circle (12 page)

You guessed it, that someone won’t be me
.

As for the conversation with the President: after what seemed like an eternity she finally came on the line. There were no
apologies for keeping me waiting, no small talk. “What do you make of this kidnapping, Zack?” she said, her voice as curt
and crabby as ever. I don’t think I’ll ever cease being awed by the woman’s ability to turn on the charm in public and yet
be so graceless in private. I once saw her, her photo-op smile pasted on her lips for the benefit of the cameras recording
the moment, tell an Undersecretary of State, sotto voce, “I don’t give a damn what you think. Just do it.”

You’re right, I am straying from the subject
.

The subject is Israel. The subject is the kidnapping of this crazy Rabbi what’s-his-name. That’s it. Apfulbaum. I reported
to the President that we had gone into a damage control mode, our object being to keep the lid on long enough to get this
peace treaty signed in Washington. I told the President I’d talked to both sides again this morning. The bottom line is the
Israelis won’t wear sackcloth and ashes if Apfulbaum winds up dead. From the Prime Minister’s point of view, that’ll be one
less critic of the peace process to deal with. On the other side of the fence, the Palestinians won’t light memorial candles
for the Abu Bakr Brigade for much the same reasons
.

“So I’m off the hook,” the President said. (Her use of the first person singular wasn’t lost on me; seen from the Oval Office,
it’s the President’s opportunity to win a Nobel Prize, as well as America’s security and regional stability, that’s at stake.)
Yes, “I’m off the hook” were her exact words; I can have my secretary show you her shorthand notes if you’d care to see them.
After which the President added, “Even if this ends in a shootout, they’ll still turn up in Washington for the signing, right?”

At which point I said something like, “Wrong, Madam President. For the record, the signing is still on the agenda; neither
side wants to be seen to be the first to back away from the peace agreement. Off the record, both sides are saying the same
thing: they’re afraid of getting sucked back into a vicious circle. It’s the principle that plagues them: if an Israeli politician
is to survive politically, Jews who get murdered by Palestinians must be avenged, and vice versa.”

I got the feeling that the President’s patience was being sorely tested. “Listen, Zack,” she said; I’m quoting her from memory
again. “I want you to read them the riot act. Lean on them—the President of the United States expects this to be treated as
an isolated incident. Let them let the police deal with it. The President of the United States won’t permit the tail to wag
the dog; she won’t put up with a return to the status quo ante, where the lunatic fundamentalist fringe on both sides drove
policy. You remind the Israelis that my get-tough-on-Israel policy plays surprisingly well in the streets. You remind the
Palestinians that you can count the Palestinian voters in the U.S. on the fingers of one hand. God damn it, Zack, I haven’t
come this far to let the peace thing slip through my fingers.”

That’s correct. That’s what she said. “Peace thing.”

No, there was no goodbye, only the shrill peal of the severed connection ringing in my ear
.

T
HE
S
HIN
B
ET MANDARINS DIDN’T BEAT AROUND THE BUSH.
“We appreciate your coming over on such short notice,” said the bald man presiding over the morning session in the Tel Aviv
conference room. He introduced himself and the others around the table using first names. “I’m David. This is Zev. This is
Itamar.”

“I wouldn’t pass up an invitation from Israel’s illustrious FBI,” Sweeney said sweetly. He nodded toward the portly man in
sun glasses sitting on the sill of the window. “Who’s he? J. Edgar Hoover?”

“He’s from Amnesty International,” David said with a straight face. “He’s here to make sure we don’t tickle you to death.”

“You guys are a laugh a minute,” Sweeney said. “Do any of you have last names, or do you go through life using only first
names?”

The men around the table avoided each other’s eyes. At the window sill, J. Edgar, as Sweeney now thought of him, actually
cracked a languid smile. David said, “Our press people got hold of the story you wrote on the Aza wake. It was very moving.
Our hearts bleed for poor Anwar, who had the bad luck to be wounded while murdering four Jews and abducting two others, and
was then shot in the brain by his own side so he wouldn’t fall into our clutches.”

“War is hell,” remarked Sweeney.

The man called Itamar said, “You’ve been in Israel long enough to know that the Shin Bet is in the life and death business
of defending Jews from terrorist attacks. You could make our work easier if you told us more about the
mujaddid
, or Renewer, you mentioned in your article.”

“Does this Abu Bakr, whoever he is, actually claim to be the Renewer,” David wanted to know, “or are some Islamic fundamentalists
claiming it on his behalf? What is the relationship between the individual who goes by the name Abu Bakr, and the Abu Bakr
Brigade which claimed responsibility for the kidnapping of Rabbi Apfulbaum and his secretary? Is Abu Bakr the active leader
of the brigade, or just its spiritual leader?”

“Did Jesus claim to be the Messiah,” Sweeney shot back, “or did the disciples hang the label around his neck? Was there any
connection between this Messiah and the uprising against the Romans organized by Barabbas?” He stretched his lanky body in
the chair. “Whichever, everything I know about the Renewer is in my article.”

The agent called Zev tapped a stack of loose-leaf books filled with photographs of Palestinians. “We have pictures of thousands
of people who took part in
intifada
demonstrations. You would be rendering a service to Israel if you could identify the cleric who guided you to the store,
as well as the kid who was served up as the next martyr.”

Sweeney said, “Don’t tell me, let me guess; if I cooperate, you’ll plant a tree for me on a barren hillside and hang a plaque
on it identifying someone named Max—no last names, please—as a righteous gentile.”

Itamar flattened a map of the Jabaliya refugee camp on the table with the palm of his hand. “It would be useful if you could
tell us where the cleric took you—even if you only have a rough idea.”

“There were too many twists and turns for me to pick out the route even if I had a sense of direction, which I don’t. Look,
it’s obvious to me even if it isn’t obvious to you that the cleric and the kid were the B team engaged in public relations
for the Islamic fundamentalist folks. I know you guys think Palestinians are dumb, but even they aren’t dumb enough to trot
out the A team for an American journalist who’s bound to be questioned by Israelis with only first names. The whole thing—the
talk of a Renewer, the cleric, the kid—was a PR job.”

David observed coldly, “That’s not what you said in your article.”

“I wrote it the way it happened. The reader is free to put any spin on the story he wants.”

Itamar said, “You didn’t write about the Rabbi’s kidnapping the way it happened. You barely mentioned the four dead Jews.
You left out the business about the finger being cut off.”

Sweeney shrugged. “You guys are trying to make me feel guilty for going into Gaza and talking to a father who was mourning
the death of his son.”

From the window sill, J. Edgar said quietly, “The four dead Jews have fathers who are mourning the deaths of sons. You didn’t
knock on their doors.”

“Look,” Sweeney said, “as long as I don’t jeopardize Israeli security by spilling state secrets, whom I interview and what
I write about is my business.”

David tried one more time. “You were taken to meet the martyr who is supposed to step into the shoes of the dead Anwar. That
makes it Shin Bet business. You may be right—the cleric with the pointed beard who took you into Jabaliya, the fresh-faced
kid you met there may come under the heading of public relations. But we have to act on the assumption that the kid you interviewed
could walk into a crowded Tel Aviv movie theater tomorrow carrying a knapsack crammed with explosives—unless you pick out
his photograph and we can convince the Palestinian Authority’s cops to incarcerate him first.”

Sweeney swallowed a yawn. “The least you guys could do is serve coffee and doughnuts at this hour of the morning.”

“How about it, Mr. Sweeney?” David said pleasantly. “Do us a favor and take a look at our loose-leaf books.”

“What’s in it for me?”

Itamar lost his temper. “What do you want, a medal or money?”

Sweeney scraped back his chair and stood up. “I work for a respectable leftwing publication, not the Shin Bet. The moment
I become an agent for the Shin Bet, I lose my credibility as a journalist.”

David said quickly, “I guarantee nobody is going to know you helped us.”

“Why didn’t you spell that out before? The kid you’re looking for is seventeen years old, has dirty feet and the angelic smile
of a choir boy. Ah, yes, and he chews gum.” Sweeney had to laugh. “Listen, I
can personally name three reporters who cooperated with you. If I know who they are, you can bet the Palestinians know who
they are. And if the Palestinians know, everyone in the Middle East knows. Which is why two of the three are afraid to set
foot outside Jewish Jerusalem. The third still goes into the West Bank on assignment, but he’s suicidal.”

Itamar angrily folded the map. “We’re wasting our breath. This is the guy who wrote the article about the reservist complaining
he was ordered to break the arms of Palestinians.”

“You fellows tried to get me kicked out of Israel over that one,” Sweeney noted. “You backed down when it turned out the reservist
did complain, and arms were broken.”

David pushed a small button on the telephone console. A uniformed guard opened the door. “He’ll show you out,” David said.

“I’m a big boy,” Sweeney said. “I can find my own way.”

“That’s what you think,” Itamar mumbled.

J. Edgar came off the window sill. “It goes without saying, this meeting, what was said during it, is off the record.”

Sweeney turned back at the door. “Hey, it doesn’t go without saying. Here’s the deal: everything is on the record until someone
says it isn’t. I promise not to quote anything you say from here on out.” Sweeney looked from one to the other. “Don’t get
nervous, I’ll only use your first names when I write about how the Shin Bet tried to recruit an American journalist.”

“Anti-Semitic prick!” Itamar muttered under his breath.

“I heard that,” Sweeney said. “Too bad it’s off the record. It’d make a perfect kicker to my story.”

I
T WAS
B
ARUCH, WITH HIS DETECTIVE’S MANIA FOR DETAIL, WHO
fitted the first two pieces of the puzzle together. He had phoned his wife from his Jerusalem office to say he would be late
for supper. “So what’s new?” she had asked with a faint laugh in her voice. Baruch never talked shop at home but knowing him,
she took it for granted he would be burning midnight oil after the kidnapping of Rabbi Apfulbaum. “Only once, call to say
you’ll be home early,” she had quipped, “I’ll die of a heart attack.”

“Thanks,” Baruch had said.

“For what?”

“For being there. For having a sense of humor. For keeping the food warm.” He had added quietly, “For keeping the flame alive.”

“Are you all right, Baruch?”

His answer had almost been lost in a low growl. “I’ll never be all right.”

“Me neither. I miss her so.” She had caught her breath. “Sorry. We weren’t supposed to … Sorry.”

Hanging up, Baruch turned on the desk lamp and picked up the silver-framed photograph of his daughter. He had snapped the
picture the day she finished officer’s school. The back of her hand covered her mouth, trying to stifle a smile of pride,
but her eyes gave her away. She was nineteen years old and freckled and lean and beautiful in her short khaki Army skirt and
khaki sweater. “Do me a favor, phone up when you get back to the base,” Baruch had said when he dropped her off at the bus
station after her leave. “Oh,
aba
, I’m an
officer in the Israeli Army, not a school girl.” She had pulled a face. “If it will make you happier, I’ll call.”

She never called. The radio had interrupted its program for a bulletin. A bomb had exploded at the Beit Lid junction. Twenty-one
soldiers, three of them girls, had been killed, dozens more had been wounded. His daughter had been identified from her dog
tags. At the funeral the next day Baruch’s wife had collapsed when a personal message from the Prime Minister had been read
aloud. “Jews have died for Israel in the past,” he wrote, “they will die for Israel in the future. I have no consolation to
offer, only an unshakable conviction to hang on to: this land, this people, would not exist if it weren’t for the girls and
boys, our daughters and our sons, whom we bury today.” As for Baruch, his hair had started to turn white the morning of the
funeral; within three weeks it was the color of chalk.

Baruch set the silver frame down on the desk and glanced again at the photograph of Rabbi Apfulbaum, snapped in the Jewish
kibbutz of Yad Mordechai hours before he was kidnapped. Picking up a magnifying glass, he took a closer look at his face.
Was it his imagination or could he actually see the Rabbi’s eyes burning with biblical zeal? Baruch didn’t know whom he feared
most or liked less, the crazy Jews or the crazy Muslims, each armed with fundamentalist versions of ancient myths that took
every biblical or Koranic injunction literally; each flaunting an arrogance that came from having a hot-line to God; each
confusing his subjective world view for an objective orthodoxy. Shaking his head, Baruch began reading the official account
of the conversation between a Jerusalem police brigade commander and Attorney Nabil Abad al-Chir, the father of the prisoner
Maali.