Rooting in the garbage.
Try calling Australia.
He wondered about Gavrieli, wondered if he liked Melbourne, how he was taking to the duties of an embassy attache. Gorgeous Gideon wore a tuxedo well, knew how to make conversation at parties, the right wine to drink; still, Daniel was certain he was far from fulfilled.
Rooting and nosing. Biting the hand that had fed him- and fed him well, not scraps.
Laufer was a fool, but his words had opened up old wounds. The guilt.
Not that there had been any choice.
He still wondered why Lippmann had been assigned to him. Gavrieli had never answered that one, had avoided Daniel since the day the report was filed.
Surely he must have known it would all come out.
Or had he expected a cover-up-or failure, a premature wrap-up? All the talk about Daniel's talents just more toothy subterfuge used to capture another pawn, place him into position?
Gavrieli had always had a way with words.
They'd met in '67, in early May, just after Passover, in the army training camp near Ashdod. A beautiful spring, balmy and dry, but rumors had settled over the base like storm clouds: Nasser was planning to move troops into the Sinai. No one was sure what would happen.
Daniel had been a nineteen-year-old inductee, a year out of the yeshiva, an honors graduate of paratroop training still basking in the memory of his jumps-the deathly thrill of human flight. Newly assigned to the 66th Battalion, he'd reported to base in sergeant's chevrons, a red beret, and trooper's boots, all of it so new it felt like a Purim costume.
At the 66th, he was put through a battery of physical and psychological tests, then assigned to a night-attack unit. Gideon Gavrieli was the commander. From his reputation, Daniel had expected a leather-face, but encountered instead a young man, tall, black-haired and blue-eyed, endowed with movie-actor looks and a double portion of arrogance.
Gorgeous Gideon. Only six years older than Daniel, but decades more seasoned. Both parents lawyers and big in the ruling party, the father a retired general on top of that. A nice childhood in a Zahala villa, riding lessons at the Caesarea Country Club, season tickets to the Philharmonic and Habimah, summers abroad. Then three top-rated years in the army, decorations in marksmanship and hand-to-hand, a captain at twenty, onward to Hebrew U. and election as student body president. One month short of his own law degree when the southern border had started to simmer and he'd been summoned back to command. Soon, they said, he'd be a major, one of the youngest, with no intention of stopping there.
He'd singled Daniel out right away, called him to the command post and offered him water wafers and instant coffee.
You're Yemenite.
Yes.
Then say Yemenites are intelligent. Does that apply to you?
I don't think that's for me to say.
This is no time for modesty. No matter what you've heard, the Egyptians are going to attack us. Soon you'll be shooting at more than paper targets. Are you intelligent or not!
I am.
Good. I'm glad you realize it. Now I'll tell you, your tests confirm it. I want you to take some additional exams next week. They'll help you qualify for lieutenant and I expect you to receive an excellent score, is that clear!
Yes.
Tell me, what does your father do for a living!
He's a jeweler.
In the event you survive, what do you plan to do with your life!
I don't know.
Do you make jewelry too!
Some.
But you're not as good as your father.
No.
And never will be.
Never.
A common problem. What are your other career options!
I've thought of law.
Forget it. Yemenites are too straightforward to be good lawyers. What else!
I don't know.
Why not!
I haven't thought about it in detail.
