The Consulate Conspiracy, Page 3

  “So it’s because of the success of the lecture tour that you ended up being sent here?”

  He leaned back, stretching out his hands, looking for a spot to rest them casually. “Listen, the story is out there, and sooner or later it’ll get back to you, so I might as well tell you: Avi just felt he owed me one.”

  “Avi? You mean…” Could he have been on a first-name basis with Foreign Minister Aviezer Peled? “Ahhh...” I said, but I still didn’t quite understand.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the story. When Avi was Chief of General Staff, I was head of the Personnel Directorate. I was behind the Soldiers’ Relief Fund, the Paratroopers’ Fund, then most of the other units. We raised incredible sums of money. People love to love the IDF. I’m sure you know that.”

  I stayed quiet, ashamed of my ignorance. Almog had some serious protektzia. That’s what we call preferential treatment based on personal connections, and it doesn’t get more personal in the Diplomatic Corps than being a personal friend of the Foreign Minister.

  “Avi understands very well that I have an extraordinary talent for fundraising. That’s what the party needs now. That’s the real reason why I’ve come here.” For a moment he paused, then straightened up in the car seat and brushed an unseen crumb off his blazer. “Beyond serving our nation and our people. Of course.”

  5.

  “So everything went well?” McFlaherty asked me on the phone the next day.

  “Sure,” I said. “Are there any results from the ballistics test?”

  “Hopefully this evening. The pathologists just started today. Maybe you suddenly recall something else?” On the phone, he sounded even more sleepy than in person.

  “No, I was preoccupied.”

  “Maybe something the two of you were discussing before the murder?”

  “I told you yesterday, we only talked about routine things, the usual bullshit. Any progress on your side? Any leads?”

  “Nothing,” he admitted in his monotone; I began to think that beneath the veil of opacity might lie a new Lt. Columbo. As if to confirm my suspicion, he went back to nagging, “If you remember something else, you’ll tell me?”

  “Sure.” I hung up.

  The thing about the “buffer,” Jay’s last words to me, had caught me totally by surprise. I was familiar with it in theory, but I hadn’t expected to hear it from Jay, of all people. Buffer. The sound of that strange word irritated me the first time I’d heard it, ten days before Almog landed. I heard about it in New York, but the buffer story begins in Houston. Maybe that was the moment, along with the morning mail and the first coffee of the day, when the bullet that killed Jay was first chambered.

  Now, the first working hour of the day was sacred for me. Nobody was allowed to bother me. They all knew it in the consulate, but Noni couldn’t help himself. He called me, unable to contain his joy.

  “Happy days are here again!” He had this nasal voice, as if he suffered from a chronic runny nose. He’d sniffed out the intriguing kind of trouble, something that would not harm him.

  “New York wants you to come to review your security clearance,” he said, holding a telegram in his hand, trying to read between the lines. Then he looked at the stapler on his desk he liked to play with. Usually, he didn’t look in the eyes of his interlocutor.

  “Lucky you,” I said. “It means you get to skip a security readiness test. They don’t have to send someone over, if I’ll be going to meet them there.” I avoided making eye contact.

  “Remember that they might make problems for you,” he warned me without being too specific. I neither knew what he meant nor cared.

  “Maybe they’re going to make problems for you too,” I said evilly, just to throw him off-balance, which was immediately successful.

  “Me?! Why would that be? They haven’t had any problems with me for two months now.”

  I didn’t intend to make it easier for him. He should have kept me out of his petty, ugly games. I had my own concerns. They wanted to review my security clearance in New York? Very good. There were many books at Barnes & Noble in New York that had not yet reached Houston. I was looking for some Milton Friedman, some Fischer. Macmillan had put out a new compendium of Second World War planes. My security clearance review, which had made Noni so happy, could prove to be useful for me as well.

  Reviewing security clearance is routine, consistent with the sea of forms that diplomatic security likes to frolic in. Still, my forms had been approved at record speed right after my arrival. Sometimes that could take ages. So maybe someone all of a sudden had started to suspect, so what? I was not worried. Again I’d go through all the usual questions: Making new friends? A new girlfriend? Having sexual dysfunction? Depression? Other medical issues? Perhaps anxiety? How about drugs?

  There in Houston we had a security officer, Saar, who was a local student. He wasn’t allowed to review security clearances; that could only be done by the “home office,” as it were. That’s why they had to fly me to New York.

  Efrati, the outgoing consul general, had received very good evaluations and recommendations before I arrived. He grinned broadly when we first met and said, “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a shithole like this?”

  “Looking for a quiet place to study,” I replied politely. “Maybe I could also make some business connections for later on.” He did not seem to care at all. A year before he was due to go back home, to Israel, he was interested only in the purchase of furniture and appliances. He had a rare collection devoted to Scottish folk songs, from books to 45s. It was something connected to the legacy of his ancestors, who had been among the first members of the Jewish community in Glasgow. It took many months to nail down the transit and insurance details for the collection, even as he was preoccupied with his wife Bilhah’s shopping spree. “The most beautiful view in Texas is through the display windows of Macy’s department store,” she used to say, trying to complete her purchase of full kitchenware and bedding sets for all their daughters and grandchildren.

  Perhaps under other conditions he would have paid me a little more attention. I, in return, would have taken my job more seriously; but Efrati had no time for that.

  “An information officer needs to disseminate information about Israel, and to have good relations with the press. As for personal contacts, you can work on that on your own time. Other than that, I want you to keep your finger on the pulse: public opinion, general trends — all that crap, you know.”

  So said Efrati, then hurried to Today’s Man to buy some more shirts on sale.

  Reviewing my security clearance did not bother me. I didn’t know the security officers in New York personally; I was in contact with them only when it came to the diplomatic mail traveling all over the world, protected from any prying eyes by diplomatic immunity.

  Still, on the flight I was unable to concentrate on my in-flight Continental magazine, which offered German language lessons through audio tapes or special floss to clean your teeth and eliminate bad breath simultaneously. But I had no patience for foreign language or flossing. I could only think about getting my security clearance review done in under an hour, so I’d have enough time to get to the store on the corner of Twenty-second and Sixth.

  The DC-9 started its final descent, giving me a view of the Manhattan skyline, from the Statue of Liberty, through Battery Park, to Wall Street. It was like a model in an architects’ office. I was always thrilled to observe the most advanced anthill on earth. For me, it’s always been the busiest and most exciting city across the globe. There’s always something waiting for you there, with a permanent feeling of electricity in the air: world-class businesses, restaurants, topless bars, jazz clubs. I had no complaints about Houston, but it was really impossible to compare it to New York.

  As I exited the terminal, someone called to me from the window of a black pickup. It had diplomatic plates with the le
tters AV, the mark of the Israeli diplomatic mission. The New York diplomatic pouch officers were kind enough to send a car to pick me up. There’s a brotherhood of local personnel in the Diplomatic Corps. At the wheel was Ofer, assistant diplomatic pouch officer, with sunglasses and the sports section of the paper, chewing gum.

  “Hi there, how’s it going?” he asked.

  “Okay, and here?”

  “All well. Just great.”

  We drove without talking until we hit the big traffic jam getting on to the Van Wyck. Then Ofer told me he was studying engineering at Fairleigh Dickinson. You could get a degree from there without ever setting foot on campus — in fact, even without taking tests. Land of opportunity, right? Ofer cursed under his breath, in three languages. His Puerto Rican girlfriend enriched his vocabulary impressively.

  “So you are here to see Porat?” he asked through his chewing gum.

  “Who is Porat?”

  “Regional security director. He’s here for a year now.” Ofer was surprised at my ignorance.

  The RSD is in charge of Israeli security in North America, as well as the recruitment of assets and preventative security — which is basically espionage, even though we are not supposed to spy among friends. On the other side of the same coin, the RSD stops Israelis who are about to give out valuable information they accumulated back home.

  “I don’t know the guy,” I said. “I’m just here for a security clearance review.”

  “No way,” said Ofer as he maneuvered around a taxi which had suddenly screeched to a halt in front of us. “That just doesn’t add up. You are here to see Porat. Only you don’t know it yet.”

  “I don’t know him at all. Is he any good?”

  “Looks like a kid, but kind of a genius.” Well, this Porat guy had to be good, if he passed the test of the New York diplomatic mailroom that easily!

  “He was the intelligence officer for the General Staff Reconnaissance Unit, then a field agent for the General Security Service, then a department head there. Very serious. A killer and a whiz kid.” Ofer was focusing on the traffic, proud of his show of knowledge.

  “So what does he want with me?”

  “Well, I’m not sure.” Ofer might have regretted what he told me.

  “Has anything special happened?” I did not show any signs of nervousness; if he didn’t want to tell, I wasn’t going to press. He might have been making up things just for small talk on the road. The traffic was very slow-moving.

  “The longest parking lot in America,” said Ofer scornfully. Then, out of the blue, he added, “There are rumors about the Bogotá security officer.”

  “Danny Koren?” My shock was genuine.

  “Then you know him.”

  “He was a platoon commander in Golani Brigade with me. What are the rumors?”

  “Drugs.”

  “Can’t be.” I know that there must be a mistake. “User?”

  “No, dealer.” Ofer chuckled. “He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to get a big surprise. They say he used the diplomatic pouch to transfer drug money.”

  I looked at the huge advertising signs on the way, which I remembered from my previous visits. They were still the same ones. If you lived here, you’d be home by now, an orange sign attached to a high-rise residential tower tried to tease us. But who would want to live in Queens, next to the highway?

  “Well, I have no connection to that,” I informed Ofer.

  “Yeah, sure, no doubt. That’s what everyone says at the beginning.”

  6.

  The name of Porat’s secretary was Ofra, and she was divorced. That’s what she told me in the second sentence of our introduction. Since I wasn’t supposed to know about Bogotá, I entertained a lot of irrelevant questions from her. Finally, she sat me down in front of a ten-page security clearance review form.

  “Take your time,” she said, dressed in fashionable jeans and a revealing red blouse, an outfit trying to make her look younger than she is, belied by her dry, thin lips. Still, her brown eyes were nice, cheerful, gazing at me openly. I returned the look with pleasure.

  “Do people tell you that you look like Mel Gibson?” she asked me

  “Once, a while ago. Someone who wanted to flirt with me. But actually I’m taller, and I understand that there is something special about his butt that I do not have.”

  “We can certainly check that out.” She smiled, and I was not sure if this was part of the security clearance review or if she really meant it. She might have been older, but she seemed nice and understanding. Test or not, the game between us would not have been too long or too complicated.

  “The resemblance is striking,” she continued enthusiastically.

  “No way,” I maintained modestly. “it’s just the madness in the eyes.”

  But she was not listening. “I just love him. Have you seen the Mad Max movies? I love gang stories. Oh, and the Lethal Weapon movies! ‘Diplomatic immunity!’” She positively beamed as she laughed, but just then a blond, curly-haired guy came in. He looked to be in his late teens, blue eyes wide open with curiosity and wonder. Perhaps the son of one of the diplomats here, maybe even Ofra’s son. She was at least forty.

  Before I could open my mouth, the blond smiled heartily, reached out a hand and asked, “Markovsky?”

  “Yes.” I reached my hand out as well, somehow embarrassed before this polite young man.

  “Giora Porat. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please join me in my office.” He enunciated the words slowly and carefully, almost phlegmatically. Not only was his appearance misleading, but his speech as well. And this was the RSD, the regional security director for Israel in North America! I followed him, trying to recover, as I left Ofra with her unfilled forms and her unfulfilled Mel Gibson fantasies.

  Giora’s table was full of papers and technical manuals. In the background, a radio was playing classical music. He was wearing thick blue corduroy pants and heavy Caterpillar work boots. Unbelievable, I thought to myself. The man is supposed to be a diplomat? He also wore a blue-striped shirt that must be obligatory for all consular personnel. The top button was open and his tie loosened.

  “Coffee?”

  “Black, two sugar.” I waited for him to start talking, but he was in no hurry. He did not hold any papers in front of him, not even the form I’d been filling out.

  “Markovsky from Ramat Gan or Afeka?” He grinned, as if I were the scion of a great dynasty.

  “From north Tel Aviv, Dubnov Street. Do you have any special contact with any of the Markovskys?”

  “In our town, there was someone who used to say he was a distant relative of ‘Markovsky of the pencils,’ but no one believed him.”

  “He might have been right,” I said. “Markovsky” mainly refers to my grandfather. He was the one who had made a big fortune and then brought over everyone else from the old country. He had a huge family scattered throughout Israel. “What town are you from?”

  “Kfar Haim,” he replied proudly.

  “I don’t know of any family from there, but that does not mean that the guy you knew was wrong.”

  “And you’re still based on Dubnov Street? The business in Tel Aviv is now managed by Dubi Markovsky, if I remember correctly.” The boyish smile did not leave his face.

  “I’m based in Texas,” I replied curtly. “What about your family?” I did not like his refined method of interrogation, and I hoped that he would finally get to the point.

  “We tried to stay in Kfar Haim, but it was too hard for me. The people are just too noisy there. We got along much better in Neot Afeka, after the wedding.”

  Why does he tell me all this? I find myself saying, “On Dubnov Street, it’s no different than Kfar Haim. Everyone has to know everything that’s going on with you, and in that sense it’s much more convenient for me to live in Houston.”

 
“Do you have a lot of Tel Avivians out there in Houston?”

  “Not particularly. Why did you summon me here?” I caught him unprepared. “It’s not to tell me about Kfar Haim,” I continued, but his constant smile did not flicker for a second.

  “You have a good background,” he informed me. “What have you done since you left the ranks?”

  “I studied economics in Tel Aviv,” I replied. “That’s all right there, in my paperwork.”

  “But how did you make a living? What kind of life did you have? You were ‘our man’ before that, weren’t you?” As Giora did not have any papers in front of him, he kept his gaze on me, which made me quite nervous.

  “I’m not your man. Or anyone’s man.”

  “For us, ‘our man’ is a compliment, but nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Obviously, you don’t have financial difficulties, Markovsky of the pencils.”

  He was wrong for the second time. I guess he’d never heard of a mother who leaves all of the family’s money to her favorite son alone. “I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken. I was never really close to my family.” For some reason, I wanted to please him. Maybe it was his friendliness, or just to ease the tension, but I added, “I worked as a security guard. Before that, I was an air marshal. I’m sure you know that. My work history has to be in my papers.”

  “That could be,” he admitted, without arguing.

  “Level with me: what’s going on?” I examined his face, with his permanent smile. If he had any problems with the Bogotá security officer, let him say that. I had nothing to hide. I was actually quite tired of these mind games by security. Maybe that’s why I’d moved to Houston, to avoid them as much as possible.