He grinned, shrugged, then turned serious. 'I've seen Sokolov several times but our encounters have not been satisfactory. He refuses to despise me-he won't forgive, and he won't retaliate. But I don't bring him up to burden you with that. For years I've lived with guilt; I'll manage to live with it some more.'
'Then why do you bring him up, Sasha?'
'Because there's something very peculiar going on. He's involved with something here, something that's not quite right. He claims to have designed some simple-minded pattern they've carved out in the Negev, some sort of enormous environmental sculpture. But I'm absolutely positive he had nothing to do with it even though he's listed officially as the artist.'
Anna shook her head. 'I don't understand why you're telling me this.'
'It's a fraud. Your boyfriend, the detective-I thought he might be interested.'
'David's working on a murder case, Sasha. He barely has time now to sleep.'
'Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Will he at least come to my unveiling?'
'Both of us will come, of course.'
'I promise to astound you, Anna…' Tears filled his eyes.
Rokovsky, usually so glacial and ironic, was excited, nearly feverish. He paced about Targov's apartment at Mishkenot, puffing vigorously on a cigarette.
'Oh, he moved all right! In a way I'd never seen before. Agitated. Extremely agitated. Like a tightly wound spring just starting to uncoil.'
Targov smiled. 'So the twisted wire no longer holds the bottle's shape.'
Rokovsky stared at him. 'Pardon me?'
'Nothing, Tola. Just a passing thought. Where did he go so fast?'
'He boarded a bus, got off at Zion Square, plunged into the mob. He headed up Ben Yehuda like a demon, then, at the intersection near that big department store, he looked around as if afraid he was being followed.'
'He didn't see you?'
'He doesn't know me. Anyway, he can barely see. But he was scared and angry. I'm telling you, Sasha, whatever it was he saw in those Polaroids, it gave him one big boot in the ass.'
'So where…?'
'The foundation, the one that funded the design. He stormed up the stairs, then walked straight in without bothering to knock. I stood outside and listened to the argument. He was furious. The other man tried to calm him down.'
'What did he say?'
Rokovsky stopped pacing, spread his arms. 'You know I don't speak a word of Hebrew. But Sokolov doesn't speak it so well himself. Occasionally he'd slip into Russian. I understood enough. He was demanding extra money.'
'More than the ten thousand? Incredible!'
'Maybe not so incredible if he was threatening to talk.'
'I see what you mean. The fraud…'
'It's fishy as hell. Sokolov signed the drawings and was paid. But now things are different and he thinks he's entitled to more.'
'Did he get it?'
Rokovsky shrugged. 'I don't know. Finally he quieted down. When he left he looked exhausted. I followed him back on the bus, saw that he was going home. Then, when I started to look for a cab, I was stopped by another man who turned out to be a cop.'
'What?'
'I'm telling you, Sasha-this thing is serious. The cop started yapping at me. Wanted to know who I was following and why. When he saw my American passport he changed his tune. Said he'd picked us up when we left the office building. He wanted to know which office Sokolov had been visiting. I told him, of course. He let me go and it was only later that I realized he'd been following the other guy-the guy Sokolov had gone there to meet.'
Targov, astonished now and totally confused, slapped himself on the top of the head.
The unveiling took place at noon. The sun beat mercilessly, but the Israelis, out of respect for the occasion, had placed umbrellas behind the dais.
The Mayor of Jerusalem was there; he made a gracious speech. Several ministers attended, the Director of the Israel Museum, and leaders of the Russian emigre community, each of whom embraced Targov in a slobbering Russian hug.
Targov was tense. Would Sergei change his mind? The plan, fashioned so coolly back in California, now struck him as insane. Fact is, he thought, I'm a terrible coward. I'm nearly sixty-one and still afraid to die. Irina was right: I want to be like Trotsky. But even Trotsky would have flinched if he'd known the hour of his death.
There was another thing-'The Righteous Martyr' didn't look all that splendid or even righteous anymore. It was one thing to view it inside a studio; here, beneath the sky, it seemed smaller, somehow diminished. Jerusalem was a great city packed with great works of public art. The Martyr was good, but no masterpiece, and it most certainly did not dominate its site.
So, another illusion melted away, along with the image of the saintly Sergei and his sense of himself as a man who could face bullets with a smile. Now all he wanted was to get through the unveiling--get through it alive.
'…and so we give our fondest thanks to Aleksandr Targov, who has donated this fine bronze work to commemorate the martyrdom of the suffering refusnik Soviet Jews. Let this site henceforth be the rallying point from which we demonstrate. Let it be the place from which we shout: 'Let My People Go…' '
Targov modestly accepted the mayor's thanks, then the mayor's wife pulled the cord. The veil fell. 'The Righteous Martyr' stood revealed in all its mediocre competence. Polite applause. Targov stiffened. If he's going to shoot he'll do it now. But there was no shot, the applause faded, and then the audience started to disperse.
Anna kissed him on both his cheeks. The detective warmly shook his hand. Rokovsky led him to the car that would carry them to the reception at the mayor's home.
As they drove off from the site Targov slowly shook his head: He had survived, and, perhaps best of all, Sergei Sokolov had proved himself a coward too.
Early the next morning frantic knocking at his door. It was the director of Mishkenot, her face contorted with distress.
'An outrage, Mr. Targov. A desecration. No words to describe our shame. That such a thing could happen here-it is not, I assure you, the Jewish way. But,' she added sternly, 'the damage will be repaired. And the culprit, we vow it, will be punished as he deserves.'
'What culprit? What the hell are you talking about?'
'I just don't understand it,' the woman said. 'Sometime in the night a maniac fired bullets at your sculpture. He hit it, too, and, I regret to say, shot off the martyred figure's nose.'
Targov stood stunned for a moment. Then he began to laugh. 'Have you read Gogol, Madame? If so you'll understand. The nose, you see, is an organ with which all of us Russians are constantly obsessed.'
ROOM 304
When Shoshana told David that Amit Nissim had identified rabbi Mordecai Katzer as the 'scary-looking man with the beard,' he could see the pattern beginning to come clear.
The morning after Amit's revelation he called the PC Unit together. Stationing Rebecca Marcus at the door to be sure no one walked in, he picked up a piece of chalk and approached the blackboard which Dov had mounted on the squad room wall.
At the top he drew a rectangle with three large circles inside. Below he drew a smaller box, and then another larger box at the bottom.
He pointed to the rectangle. 'The van,' he explained. He pointed to the three circles. 'The three men who fled.' He pointed to the smaller box. 'The Chief of Operations.' He pointed to the large box at the bottom. 'The
