This was the background to the Deputy’s feelings of petulance over loss of control of his organization as he heard the doors of the auditorium bang open. He rose to his feet as Diamond entered at a brisk pace, followed by Miss Swivven who carried several rip-sheets from the Fat Boy printout and the stack of photographs of members of the Munich Five.
In minimal recognition of Diamond’s arrival, Starr lifted most of the weight off his butt, then settled back with a grunt. The Arab’s response to Miss Swivven’s arrival was to jump to his feet, grin, and bow in jerky imitation of European suavity. Very nice looking woman, he told himself. Very lush. Skin like snow. And most gifted in what, in English, is referred to as the knockers.
“Is the projectionist in the booth?” Diamond asked, sitting apart from the others.
“Yes, sir,” Starr drawled. “You fixin’ to see the film again?”
“I want you fools to see it again.”
The Deputy was not pleased to be grouped with a mere agent, and even less with an Arab, but he had learned to suffer in silence. It was his senior administrative skill.
“You never told us you wanted to see the film,” Starr said. “I don’t think the projectionist has rewound it yet.”
“Have him run it backward. It doesn’t matter.”
Starr gave instructions through the intercom, and the wall lights dimmed.
“Starr?”
“Sir?”
“Put out the cigar.”
…the elevator door opens and closes on the dead Japanese gunman’s head. The man returns to life and slides up the wall. The hole in his palm disappears, and he tugs the bullet out of his back. He runs backward through a gaggle of schoolchildren, one of whom floats up from the floor as a red stain on her dress is sucked back into her stomach. When he reaches the lightblurred main entrance, the Japanese ducks as fragments of broken glass rush together to form a window pane. The second gunman jumps up from the floor and catches a flying automatic weapon, and the two of them run backward, until a swish pan leaves them and discovers an Israeli boy on the tiled floor. A vacuum snaps the top of his skull back into place; the stream of gore recoils back into his hip. He leaps up and runs backward, snatching up his rucksack as he passes it. The camera waves around, then finds the second Israeli just in time to see his cheek pop on. He rises from his knees, and blood implodes into his chest as the khaki shirt instantly mends itself. The two boys walk backward. One turns and smiles. They saunter back through a group of Italians pushing and standing tiptoe to greet some arriving relative. They back down the lane to the immigration counter, and the Italian official uses his rubber stamp to suck the entrance permissions off their passports. A red-headed girl shakes her head, then smiles thanks…
“Stop!” called Mr. Diamond, startling Miss Swivven, who had never heard him raise his voice before.
The girl on the screen froze, a blow-back douser dimming the image to prevent the frame from burning.
“See that girl. Starr?”
“Sure.”
“Can you tell me anything about her?”
Starr was confused by this seemingly arbitrary demand. He knew he was in trouble of some sort, and he fell back on his habit of taking cover behind his dumb, good-ol’-boy facade.
“Well… let’s see. She’s got a fair set of boobs, that’s for sure. Taut little ass. A little skinny in the arms and waist for my taste but, like my ol’ daddy used to say: the closer the bone, the sweeter the meat!” He forced a husky laugh in which he was joined by the Arab, who was anxious to prove he understood.
“Starr?” Diamond’s voice was monotonic and dense. “I want you to do something for me. For the next few hours, I want you to try very hard to stop being an ass. I don’t want you to entertain me, and I don’t want you to supplement your answers with folksy asides. There is nothing funny about what is going on here. True to the traditions of the CIA, you have screwed up, Starr. Do you understand that?”
There was silence as the Deputy considered objecting to this defamation, but thought better of it.
“Starr? Do you understand that?”
A sigh, then quietly, “Yes, sir.”
The Deputy cleared his throat and spoke in his most authoritative voice. “If there’s anything the Agency can—”
“Starr? Do you recognize this girl?” Diamond asked.
Miss Swivven took the photograph from its folder and sidled down the aisle to Starr and the Arab.
Starr tilted the print to see it better in the dim light. “Yes, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s the girl up there on the screen.”
“That’s right. Her name is Hannah Stern. Her uncle was Asa Stern, organizer of the Munich Five. She was the third member of the commando team.”
“Third?” Starr asked. “But… we were told there were only two of them on the plane.”
“Who told you that?”
“It was in the intelligence report we got from this fella here.”
“That is correct, Mr. Diamond,” the Arab put in. “Our intelligence men…”
But Diamond had closed his eyes and was shaking his head slowly. “Starr? Are you telling me that you based an operation on information provided by Arab sources?”
“Well, we… Yes, sir.” Starr’s voice was deflated. Put that way, it did seem a stupid thing to do. It was like having Italians do your political organization, or the British handle your industrial relations.
“It seems to me,” the Deputy injected, “that if we have made an error based on faulty input from your Arab friends, they have to accept a goodly part of the responsibility.”
“You’re wrong,” Diamond said. “But I suppose you’re used to that. They don’t have to accept anything. They own the oil.”
The Arab representative smiled and nodded. “You reflect exactly the thinking of my president and uncle, who has often said that—”
“All right.” Diamond rose. “The three of you remain on tap. In less than an hour, I’ll call for you. I have background data coming in now. It’s still possible that I may be able to make up for your bungling.” He walked up the aisle, followed closely by Miss Swivven.
The Deputy cleared his throat to say something, then decided that the greater show of strength lay in silence. He fixed a long stare on Starr, glanced away from the Arab in dismissal, then left the theater.
“Well, buddy,” Starr said as he pushed himself out of the theater seat, “we better get a bite to eat while the gettin’s good. Looks like the shit has hit the fan.”
The Arab chuckled and nodded, as he tried to envision an ardent supporter of sports fouled with camel dung.
For a time, the empty theater was dominated by the frozen image of Hannah Stern, smiling down from the screen. When the projectionist started to run the film out, it jammed. An amoeba of brown, bubbly scab spread rapidly over the young lady and consumed her.
Etchebar
Hannah Stern sat at a café table under the arcade surrounding the central place of Tardets. She stared numbly into the lees of her coffee, thick and granular. Sunlight was dazzling on the white buildings of the square; the shadows under the arcade were black and chill. From within the café behind her came the voices of four old Basque men playing mousse, to the accompaniment of a litany of bai… passo… passo… alla Jainkoa!… passo… alla Jainkoa… this last phrase passing through all conceivable permutations of stress and accent as the players bluffed, signaled, lied, and called upon God to witness this shit they had been dealt, or to punish this fool of a partner with whom God had punished them.