“We watched your destruction. It came fast, didn’t it? But then, we’re good at what we do.”
“Who is we?”
The man came even closer. Tom did not move.
“Did you ever stop to consider the consequences of what you wrote? Did you know people died because of what you wrote? You were told to stop, but you refused to listen.”
Told to stop? He racked his brain. By whom?
Then it hit him.
The West Bank. Two years ago. A Palestinian official who’d consented to an interview, then promptly walked out of it, but not before saying, “You need to stop, Mr. Sagan. Before it’s too late.”
“That’s right,” the man said. “You do remember.”
He now knew who they were.
“First off, this has nothing to do with any government. We’re an independent body. We work outside the law. Do the jobs that either can’t be done or won’t be done. You happen to fit into both categories.”
“So you destroyed me?”
“We silenced you. It’s not always necessary to kill people. Sometimes it’s even better not to do something that drastic. In your case, we killed your credibility and that was enough.”
He thought back to the story that cost him everything. “You fed that to me. You made sure I went to the Israeli and Palestinian sources you created. You handed it to me, let me run it, then erased it all.”
The man nodded. “It took several months to make it happen. You were a pro. Good at what you did. We had to be careful. But you eventually took the bait. It was just too good, wasn’t it?”
Yes, it was.
EXTREMISTS ON BOTH SIDES, OUT OF CONTROL
“You pissed off some important people,” the man said. “They’d had enough. So they hired us to take care of the problem. We’re telling you this now so that if you even think about trying for a comeback, we’ll be there, ready to take you down again.”
“You’re saying the Palestinians and the Israelis got together to destroy me as a reporter?”
“In a sense. We approached them both, separately, pitched the idea, and they both paid us to do the job. Neither knew the other was involved. They just wanted you out of the way for their own particular reasons.”
“I won’t be that stupid next time.”
“Really? How would you ever know? You had no idea then. I told you we’re good at what we do. Think about that if you decide on a comeback. Every source you talk to, you’ll question in your mind. Every lead that comes your way, you’ll wonder. Is it real? Are they back? Is it going to happen again?”
The sorry SOB was right. He would always wonder. Everything that happened—it had destroyed his life, but it also destroyed something else.
His edge.
“You screwed with the wrong people,” the man said. “I came to tell you, so you’d know. Listen to this message and keep doing what you’re doing. Ghostwriting. That’s perfect for you, so long as you stay a ghost.”
And the man walked off.
———
BENE LISTENED AS HALLIBURTON ANSWERED HIS QUESTION.
“Moses Cohen was a pirate. One of the best. He ravaged Spanish shipping. His brother, Abraham, was an entrepreneur. The brothers were never close. They attended separate synagogues and there’s little in the records I’ve seen to link them. That’s what makes this document you have so interesting. By all accounts they didn’t care for each other, and here we have proof of that with Moses suing Abraham. Brother against brother.”
“Why is it important? Seems trivial.”
“Not at all. In fact, it could be critical.”
Oliver Cromwell died in 1658 and, as one diarist commented, “None but dogs cried.” His brand of Puritanism had left the people little to do except contemplate their sins and wail for forgiveness. Having had enough of misery, England looked to its exiled heir, Charles II. In 1660 Charles returned to a magnificent homecoming, one he interestingly compared to “the return of the Jews from Babylonian captivity.”
He was restored to the throne with but one problem.
The Crown was broke.
And so was England.
The Lord Protector Cromwell had bankrupted the nation.
To solve that problem, Charles turned to the Jews.
