explaining that, now that we're quits?'
'How could I love a woman who wasn't honest?'
'I wasn't dishonest. I just didn't tell you everything. Question is: Is she honest with you? Is she? Do you really understand her? Totally? Completely? Do you really think you know everything?'
He didn't answer. He knew he didn't understand Anna, that as much as he loved her she still remained a puzzle. Perhaps because she too held herself apart. But in Anna's case this didn't madden him; it intrigued him all the more.
'I'm asking for a reason. It would be great to make love with you tonight, if you decide you'd like to stay, but even if we do I wouldn't expect us to go back to being lovers the way we were. And I'm not out to hurt you, or to interfere with your sweet domestic bliss over there in scenic Abu Tor. But I have to tell you that I know a thing or two about your cellist. I wonder if you'd like to hear.'
What could he say? Of course he'd like to hear. But there was no way he was going to ask.
'She has a past, you know.'
'Everyone has a past.'
'Hers is more complex than most. Just the fact she's Russian makes it more complex.'
'What are you trying to tell me, Stephanie? Are you speaking to me now as my friend?'
'I want to be your friend. And I admit that if from time to time I could go to bed with you, I'd enjoy that too. But even if you never touch me again in my entire life, I still think I should tell you what I know.'
'So what's holding you back?'
'What's holding me back is that you won't come straight out and ask.'
'You'd feel better if I asked?' She nodded. Damn her! 'So, okay, I'm asking: What do you know?'
She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then slowly blew out the smoke. Then for the third time she shook her head to fling her hair across her face. 'It's like this, David. Your Anna Benitskaya-yes, of course I know her name- has been involved with a prominent Russian emigre, a man the KGB wants to discredit. She was his mistress. I'm not saying she is now. I can't be sure. But she was very much involved with him, and there's a school of thought that goes that she was sent out to the West to go after him, get close to him, and maybe not just him either, maybe some other important controversial emigres as well. Her defector story, you see, has got some holes. Makes good copy, that tale about leaving her state-owned Montagnana cello under the sheets in her hotel bed, slipping out to the U.S. Consulate, begging for asylum, all of that. But did it really go down that way? Or was she ordered to do it? To gain credentials-you see what I mean? To gain a super credibility so no one would suspect her later on.'
'If you're saying she was a false defector, that's a load of shit.'
'I knew you'd be angry. And I expect you to be skeptical considering this is coming from a woman who admits she gets horny just looking at your wrists. Look, I'm just passing on what certain people think, based on information obtained in Moscow and confirmed by at least one other source I know about. It was interesting that the people who accompanied her were never punished. The man she was sleeping with at the time, that conductor, Titanov, he's been allowed to travel to the West since her so-called defection and that doesn't add up because he was responsible for her-unless of course he was in on the deal too. Now hear me out, David. She's a world-class musician, no doubt of that. A star cellist, not a spy. But there could have been a trade-off. Something like: 'You defect, build yourself a career in the West, make lots of money, and become a star, and in return for our letting you do all that you'll get close to certain people we're interested in, find out what they're up to, and report back on them to us.' '
'What you're saying is that she's just like you. I don't believe that. But suppose you're right. Then what the hell is she doing with me? I'm of no use to a spy.'
'Oh, I don't know, a smart young Israeli police officer, a man who might have a big career ahead of him. A man, moreover, who's in a certain position right now, involved in a case that could have implications that go beyond…well, I'm only speculating.'
He looked at her sharply. 'What do you know about my case?'
'I saw you on TV. I know you're up to your ass in something big.'
'How big?'
'I don't know, David. All I've heard is rumors.'
'What rumors?'
'I gather there're some people around who're getting…well…upset.' Suddenly she seemed nervous, as if she'd said more than she'd intended to. She shrugged. 'I see I've offended you. All I can say is that your Anna may have reported back on a man named Aleksandr Targov and that it wouldn't surprise me now if she were also reporting back on you.'
He set down his glass, stood up, then walked over to the door. She watched him. She didn't look too happy. He turned to her, ready to leave. 'I don't know what to think of you, Stephanie. Whether you're a lying little schemer or just a run-of-the-mill American bitch. Whatever your game is, I'm not interested in playing. I'm sorry I was stupid enough to come.'
She nodded. 'Okay, David, if that's the way you want it. But please trust me on this: I'm worried for you. I think you're in over your head and that if you keep on the way you're going you might end up getting hurt. I wouldn't want that. I'd be very upset if something bad happened to you.' Their eyes met. She blew him a kiss. Then, as he was shutting the door, he heard her light another cigarette.
Later, when he thought back over their conversation, he realized she'd offered only one detail: Titanov, the conductor, whom she said had been seen recently in the West.
Anna had spoken of this man several times, described how much she'd loathed him and her pleasure in knowing that when she'd fled he had taken most of the blame. Her defection story was rock-solid. She'd left her cello in her bed because she wasn't a thief and so that when Titanov looked in on her he'd think she was asleep. But there was a fifty percent chance he'd come in anyway – that had been her greatest risk. He thought nothing of awakening her. 'My discovery, my property,' he called her. 'I own you body and soul.' She'd defected, she'd told David, as much to get away from him as to live freely in the West.
Now Stephanie said Titanov had been seen, and that was a fact that could be checked. He took it to Sarah Dorfman, who inquired of her music world friends, one of whom even telephoned a knowledgeable impresario in New York. Word came back. Titanov had not toured outside the Soviet Union since the day Anna Benitskaya had asked for asylum in Milan. He was still in disgrace, still blamed for her defection. Sarah's sources, David knew, were absolutely reliable, so Stephanie's single 'fact' was proven false. For David that was enough to discredit everything she'd said.
An American nun on tour of the Holy Land and a working class Israeli trucker. Could they somehow be linked? Could their lives have crossed?
Susan Mills had kept a travel diary. Dov, Uri, and Micha had each been through it several times. Names, dates, places-it was the basic source for their attempts to trace her friends. She commented on the weather, the impact of first seeing certain important religious shrines, everyday encounters with Israelis, her excitement at walking where Jesus Christ had lived and trod. No mention of a truck driver named Yaakov, or of any truck at all. David reread the diary, and then looked at her photographs, including ones developed from the roll found in her camera after she'd been killed.
These photographs amounted to a diary in themselves. Susan seemed to have shot two or three thirty-six- frame rolls a day. Her camerawork was excellent. She changed lenses, shot interiors and exteriors, all perfectly focused, perfectly exposed, perfectly framed for the scrapbooks she would make.
Together, David and Dov examined every shot. They were looking for Schneiderman, or possibly his truck. Nothing. But everything else was there, every shrine described in the diary, every person mentioned, even the facades of the hotels where she had stayed. If she mentioned getting into a conversation with an old bookstore owner, there would be a photograph of him standing before his shop. Susan was a documentarian. She was on a once-in-a-lifetime trip. She had carefully constructed a record of it. But they could find no Schneiderman, no matter how hard they looked.
'We have to go deeper, Dov. She tells us a lot, but she couldn't put down all of it.'
'Deeper how?'
'Several times she says: 'Wrote Margaret today.' We ought to have a look at those letters. Check her address book. Search for a Margaret.' Probably her closest friend.'
While Dov went through Susan's personal address book, David turned back to the papers taken from Yaakov
