Geographically, the restaurant was perfectly positioned, just about midway between the Morgans’ home at the edge of Chevy Chase Village, and the Israeli embassy, which was situated three miles north of downtown D.C. off Connecticut Avenue. The other attraction of Matisse was that it was generally regarded as among the top five restaurants in the Washington area, a favorite haunt of presidents and senators.
With its superb design inspired by Henri Matisse’s work, its gleaming white tablecloths, and French Mediterranean cooking, the restaurant felt no obligation even to put prices on its menu. The introduction of crude commercial considerations would doubtless have caused the head chef to have a nervous breakdown.
Arnold Morgan lived only a mile away, and he was a regular. For this night, he chose a corner banquette in the cozy back dining room, with its cheerful limestone fireplace. It was automatically assumed that a member of the proprietor’s family, the lovely young Deanna, would serve the table personally.
Admiral Morgan arrived first with his wife, Kathy. His driver, Charlie, dropped them right outside the door on Wisconsin Avenue, and they stepped out into a biting January wind gusting out of the northwest. As soon as they were seated, the admiral ordered a bottle of supreme white burgundy, his favorite Meursault, Premier Crus Perrieres 2004, made by the maestro Jean-Marc Roulot at his small domaine off the main road through to Puligny.
He was certain this would please General Gavron, who, despite hardly touching alcohol while he was involved in the Mossad, these days had mellowed and hugely enjoyed a glass of what Arnold described as
This was plainly a phrase more befitting the torpedo room of a nuclear submarine than the fabled small chateaux of the Cote d’Or in central France. But it did not disguise the admiral’s knowledge and enjoyment of great French wine, and tonight was an occasion to be savored.
If it were successful, the admiral’s selections ought to be paid for by a nationwide donation drive of pure gratitude by the American people.
In the absence of that, Arnold would probably toss the check at the Oval Office for a refund. As for charging one dollar for his time and skill, the admiral would have had the same stunned reaction as the Matisse head chef if anyone happened to mention money.
At 7:42 P.M., Ambassador Gavron’s driver dropped him off outside the door. He arrived at the admiral’s table dressed in a dark blue lightweight suit, with a white shirt and a blue silk Israeli Navy tie. He leaned over to kiss Kathy’s hand and then shook the hand of Arnold Morgan.
Just then the chilled Meursault arrived, and the waiter poured three glasses. David Gavron raised his and said quietly, “To the United States of America.”
“Thank you, David,” replied the admiral, who usually presumed he
“Before we begin, let me have them prepare a bottle of Bordeaux for our main course,” said Arnold.
“No argument from me,” chuckled the Israeli, flashing his wide smile, which Kathy, along with several other beautiful women, some of them divorced, considered so engaging. It made him one of the most attractive men in Washington. Especially if anyone knew his background: decorated warrior, the Mossad’s James Bond, and latterly a high-ranking diplomat on the world stage.
Arnold studied the wine list, which he normally referred to as the race card, and chose a third-growth bottle from Margaux, the 1996 Chateau Palmer, which sits on the left bank of the Gironde, just west of the junction with the mighty Dordogne River.
“I think we’ll be okay with that,” he said. “Sixteen years old from the slopes near the village of Margaux, where they once grew the favorite wine of Thomas Jefferson. and you know something? People still say that after a really hot summer, those wines still surpass all others grown in the High Medoc.”
“Arnie, how the hell do you know all this stuff?”
“David, you may, during the course of this evening, become astounded at some of the things I know.”
“Not for the first time, old friend,” said the ambassador. “And, I hope, not for the last, given your predilection to share the
“They keep a darned good cellar here,” replied Arnold. “Shall we just sit quietly and have a drink, or do you want to have a look at the menu?”
Kathy spoke first. “Let’s just have a drink,” she said. “Unless David’s in a rush.”
“Not me, my dear,” he said courteously. “I’m happy to sit here with my two favorite people and sip the finest wine on earth until midnight if necessary.”
“That’s good,” said Arnold, sipping luxuriously. “Because there’s a character who looms from our past who’s just become highly topical.”
“There is? And who might that be?” asked the ambassador.
“Do you remember General Ravi Rashood?”
“Remember him! Jesus Christ, I still wake up in the night thinking about him. What’s he done now?”
“Well, nothing we actually know about. But we have some interesting new information about him.”
“And I bet I know where you got it.”
“I bet you don’t.”
“Okay, how about Guantanamo Bay, where you’re grilling the Boston airport bombers?”
“Now, how the hell do you know that?” asked the admiral, plainly incredulous.
“During the course of this evening,” said the Israeli, deadpan, “you may become astounded at some of the things I know.”
Both men laughed. But Arnold Morgan looked serious when he said, “No one knows who we have and who we don’t have in Guantanamo. Except, apparently, the Mossad.”
“We don’t know much,” said Gavron. “We just heard from one of our lawyers that both the wounded man who had the bomb, and the big cheese you picked up in New York, have been removed from the U.S. civilian justice system. We actually guessed the rest. Guessed, specifically, that you would want both terrorists out of the way, under military security, where you could interrogate them in peace and hopefully get some answers.”
“And that brought you to Guantanamo?”
“Absolutely. But I’m not going to ask you to confirm that. Because it’s none of our business. But I’ll say one thing: we would be inordinately grateful if you could help us to nail that terrible bastard Rashood. sorry, Kathy.”
“David, you forget, I live in the ops room of a nuclear submarine. Even our clocks chime the bells of the watch — I haven’t known the correct time for years, and I’m really used to sailor’s language.”
David Gavron smiled. “Of course,” he said. “Anyway, back to that terrible bastard Rashood. we’d do anything to find him. But he’s always escaped us, in Israel, in Syria, in France, once even in London. He always seems to be one jump ahead.”
“So you’ll be pleased to know I may have a permanent address for him?” interjected the admiral.
“Pleased? My entire country would be thrilled. He’s done us a huge amount of damage, and he’s still out there. Somewhere.”
Arnold Morgan, sensing an advantage, decided to keep his guest on the hook for a while. “Okay, let’s have a look at the menus, shall we? David, I don’t want you to get overexcited on an empty stomach.”
They read through the short list, three appetizers, four entrees. “All fresh, nothing frozen, and no bullshit,” said Arnold, glancing up at the newly arrived Deanna and saying, “Crab cakes, and then rack of lamb, please. Kathy?”
“Sea scallops and grilled rockfish, please.”
David Gavron went for gravlax and then breast of duck with risotto, spinach, and port sauce. All three of them were accustomed to making swift, firm decisions.
“Arnie, do you really have an address for Rashood?”
“Of course I do, and since you plainly know our source, you’ll understand we have assessed it as highly reliable.”
“Will you tell me?”
“Got a pen?”
David Gavron produced a slim gold ballpoint and a wafer-thin leather notepad, and looked up expectantly.
