'Come on, David, give me a break. This man, whom I'm not at liberty to name, moves in what we call extremist circles. He keeps his ears open, and, for as long as I've known him, he's been a highly reliable source. Today, at our regular get-together, he mentioned he's heard that something big is due to happen soon. Then he muttered something about the ninth. Since today's August fifteenth, I figured he meant a month from now. But there was this sense of urgency, you know-of imminence. And since it was in the context of the killings, which he once told me meant a lot more than met the eye, I thought I should, though I have no idea what any of this is about, call you up and pass the information on.'
'Tell me more.'
'Can't. Can't jeopardize this relationship over an internal Israeli matter.'
'How do you know it's just internal?' She was silent. 'Have you any idea, Stephanie, how many times I've been deliberately misled on this? I hope you're not trying to do that now, because-'
'You're fucking impossible! I try to help you and you practically accuse me-oh! never mind! You know, David, I think that sometimes, really, you do expect too much. Anyway I'm running late. So, anyway,' she paused, a little mournfully, he thought. 'I hope we run into each other one of these days…' And, when he didn't respond to that: 'Well, that's it, I guess. Good-bye.'
When Dov's photographs came in, he showed them to Shoshana. 'Piss-poor pictures, David.'
'Show them to her anyway.'
She glanced at her watch. 'I'd better hurry then. School lets out in twenty minutes.'
'Yeah, David, he was here all right.' Micha was telephoning from Immigration Central Records. 'Harrison Stone, U.S. citizen. I'm looking at his form.'
'Date of entry?'
'One day before the accident.'
'Departure?'
'The day after. Not too bad.'
Another rush of excitement. 'What else is on the form?'
'He gives tourism as the purpose of his trip and the Tel Aviv Hilton as his address. I just checked with them. He had reservations there, but then he canceled out.'
'So where did he stay?'
'Hey, David, I only just got this a couple minutes ago.'
'You're down there now, so you work Tel Aviv. Check everywhere. I'll have Uri call around up here.'
'David-'
'I want to know where the hell he stayed. So stay on it till you find out. Good-bye.'
Shoshana was pouting. 'Amit doesn't remember him. For a second there I wanted-but then I remembered what you said about not trying to lead her on.'
'Forget it, Shoshana. She's just a kid. And now we're getting close. I want you to work now with Uri. Help him find out where Stone spent his nights.'
Dov called again: 'Big roaches here. Between them and the heat you nearly die. Okay, with Gael Rubin's help, I finally got in to see Peter Crownshield. He's Stone's public relations representative, whose job, according to Gael, is to deflect all queries and protect Stone from the press. This Crownshield's a real smoothie. He wanted to be sure to set me straight. Mr. Stone's a firm supporter of Israel, rumors notwithstanding that his support is based on Biblical prophecy. 'What prophecy's that?' I asked, playing the not-too-bright Israeli journalist. 'That the Second Coming of Jesus Christ,' he said, 'cannot occur until Israel is destroyed.' He's talking about the prophecy of a war of Armageddon. And he wanted it clear that Stone doesn't think that way. 'Mr. Stone,' he said, 'sees no reason why Christ can't return to earth tomorrow. His support for Israel is unequivocal. Far as the foundation's concerned, Mr. Stone set it up to nurture art and beauty in the Holy Land.' '
'So that's it?'
'Pretty much.'
'How's Miss Rubin?'
'She'd like to come over for a visit soon.'
'American girls are nice.'
'I know you're an expert, David-that's why you're living with a Russian. Seriously, I don't think there's much more for me to do over here. I've got reserve duty…'
'Come home, Dov. You've done a terrific job.'
David had never been inside Mishkenot Sha'ananim, although he knew the 'Peaceful Dwelling' well. One of the first buildings constructed outside the walls of the Old City, this nineteenth-century landmark had been converted, after the Six Day War, into a guesthouse for visiting writers, artists, and musicians.
He and Anna walked to it from Abu Tor. Anatole Rokovsky met them in the lobby. He embraced Anna, gravely shook David's hand, then escorted them down a flight of stairs to a corridor off which there were numbered doors, and a series of small perfectly kept internal sky-lit gardens.
This was the first time David had seen Rokovsky; he studied the Russian as he led them along the long stone corridor. Thin, stooped, his thick gray hair cut almost to his scalp, Rokovsky loped along gently on the balls of his feet. The way he moved reminded David of the surreptitious gait of a jailer who sneaks around the halls of a penitentiary trying to catch the prisoners breaking rules.
Targov's greeting was effusive, his handshake powerful. 'Come in! Come in! We have tea prepared. And also we have vodka. I'm so glad to see you again. And Anna, too. I always love to see her.' He grasped Anna in his arms.
When David mentioned he'd never been inside Mishkenot, Targov took him on a brief tour of the apartment. There was a master bedroom and bath, a kitchenette, a study, and, on the second floor, a second bedroom suite. When they returned to the living room, Anna was reclining on the sofa sipping tea from a tall glass and speaking Russian with Rokovsky.
'They treat us well here. No disturbances so we can work. And if we want to meet somebody-anybody, including the president…' Targov clicked his fingers. '…like that! It is instantly arranged!'
David sat beside Anna. 'In the matter of Sokolov-'
'Yes, yes!' Targov leaned forward eagerly. 'I'm dying to know: What did you think of him?'
'Not too much really. A complicated man. A man who knows not to ask questions when there's money on the table. A man who doesn't care about anything, except, of course, survival. No more ideologies, no more loyalties or principles for him. In short, a man who in a situation like this, offers himself as the perfect shnook.'
Targov glanced quizzically at Anna.
'A Yiddish word, Sasha. David means he thought Sergei was more than willing to play the patsy.'
'Yes, that seems right. He's a hard old zek. But don't forget-convicts become experts at concealment.'
'Concealing or not, he claimed he didn't know anything. He'd been paid to sign the drawings and that was good enough for him.'
'And the extra pay? What did he say about that?'
'He denies he asked for or received any extra pay.'
'He's a liar! Rokovsky heard him.'
'I know. That's why I'm here. I want to know why he lied about that. It must have had something to do with the photographs you gave him. If you still have some from the same series, I'd like to see them.'
Targov snapped his fingers. Rokovsky jumped up and headed for the study. 'When I handed them to him,' Targov said, 'I pointed out that there'd already been erosion. I wanted to be sure he saw how quickly his masterpiece was deteriorating, and that it couldn't possibly last.'
Rokovsky returned with a sheaf of Polaroids.
While David examined them, Targov fumed on. ''Circle in the Square.' It's ludicrous. If that's what passes for sculpture these days, then maybe it's time for me to think about retirement.'
'We thought it could be some sort of ideogram,' Rokovsky said. 'A symbol. Or writing. Ancient Hebrew perhaps.'
David looked closely at the photographs. 'It's no kind of writing I've ever seen.'
'So-what is it?'
'Perhaps not a symbol. Not abstract at all. Perhaps something very concrete.'
'Such as what?' Targov asked.
