“Why are you telling me this?”
“As I said, you made a mistake earlier. The man you killed was an American intelligence agent. They’re watching you, too.”
“And why is that?”
She chuckled. “Okay, Zachariah. Be cautious. Watch every word. But know this. We’re here, talking alone. If I were your enemy you could be under arrest. Instead I sent men to clean up your mess. The body you left in that trash receptacle? It’s gone. I don’t like the Americans. I don’t like them in our business. I don’t like having to cater to them.”
Neither did he.
“Jamison was working with some of our people—off the record, unofficially. I have many friends, so I made sure those agents don’t like Americans, either. Check it out. You’ll find Jamison’s body gone and no mention of his death anywhere in the press. The Americans themselves will not learn of it for several weeks. Take that as my show to you of good faith.”
His thoughts were confused, a state he always tried hard to avoid. But he held his ground, kept his mouth shut, and listened.
“I’m returning home soon,” she said. “To stand for election to the Knesset. From there, I will position myself to be prime minister. My support is growing by the day and, hopefully, will surge after you do what you have planned.”
“How do you know what I plan?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Jamison learned quite a bit from Alle Becket. He’s had a full day to interrogate her, as you well know. He reported that information to his superiors before you killed him.”
“So you have contacts with the Americans?”
She nodded. “Excellent ones. From what Jamison knew and I suspected, it was easy to piece the rest together. I must confess, I wish I’d thought of it.”
“And what of the Americans? Are they going to be a problem in a few weeks?”
She shrugged. “I’d say they are no longer a threat, and I will make sure that remains the case.”
He caught the threat in her tone.
She could allow that to drop either way.
“Zachariah, once you accomplish your goal I want to be the one to take matters from there. It fits perfectly with what I have in mind. In that way, we will all have what we want.”
“So I’m clear, what is it we want?”
“A strong, determined Israel that speaks with one, determined voice. An end to the Arab problem, with no concessions. And most of all, the world will not tell us how to exist.”
He was still deeply suspicious. But there was no way, other than checking that trash bin, to verify her credibility.
“You’re right,” she told him. “The spark needed to reawaken Israel cannot come from any official process. That would never work. It has to be spontaneous and external, without any hint of politics. It has to be heartfelt, deep-set, and evoke an unconditional emotional response. When I finally understood what you have planned, I knew instantly that it was the right course.”
“And if I succeed, will you carry through and do all that is required?”
Her understanding of what that entailed was a test, one she seemed to comprehend.
“Oh, yes, Zachariah. The Jews will remember the month of Av.”
She did know.
“It is more than a coincidence,” she said, “that our Second Temple was destroyed on the ninth day of the month of Av, 70 CE—the same day that Nebuchadnezzar’s Babylonian soldiers destroyed the First Temple six centuries before. I’ve always thought that a sign.”
He was curious, “And do you have allies who think as you do?”
That could be important.
“Just me, Zachariah. Do I have friends? In positions of power? Many. But they know nothing. I will simply use them. Only you and I are part of this.”
“Will you carry through on all that we require?”
He saw she understood.
“Rest easy, Zachariah. The Jews will have their Third Temple. That I promise you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
BÉNE AND HALLIBURTON ENTERED THE MUSEUM, A DETACHED building that appeared to have once been a two-storied house, the inside full of wood, marble floors, and frescoed walls. Moorish influences showed in the ornaments and lattice, a leafy courtyard visible beyond the windows. Displays filled the ground-floor rooms, one opening into another, cases filled with stones, fossils, photographs, books, and relics. Explanations were printed only in Spanish, which Béne had no trouble reading. A man of about fifty with a knotted face stood near one of the displays. Tre introduced himself and Béne, explaining that he was an academician from the University of the West Indies, come to see the document collection from the time of Spanish colonization. The man, who identified himself as the curator, offered a hand then explained that the document collection was private and permission would have to be obtained before they could examine it.
“From who?” Béne asked.
Tre’s revelation that Zachariah Simon possessed a connection to this place had unnerved him. This wasn’t Jamaica. He wasn’t Béne Rowe here. He was just some foreigner, and he did not like that feeling of helplessness. True, he was armed, and would shoot his way back to the plane if need be, but he realized that could prove futile. Diplomacy was the smart play. Which in Cuba, meant bribery. Exactly why he’d brought cash.
“Tell me, friend,” he said to the curator. “Are American dollars taken around here?”
“Oh, yes, señor. They are much appreciated.”
For all their brash talk the Cuban government was partial to American money. He withdrew his money clip and peeled off five $100 bills. “Is it possible to obtain that permission? Fast?”
He laid the money on a nearby counter.
“Sí, señor. I will make a call to Havana.”
———
TOM GLARED AT ALLE. SHE DESPISED HIM, THAT WAS CLEAR, BUT he wanted answers. “You converted?”
“How did you know?”
“Abiram told me.”
“In the note he wrote?”
He nodded.
She still seemed surprised. “What I did to you, I did for my religion.”
“Being Jewish means living a lie?” He shook his head. “Your mother would have never approved of your conversion.”
“My mother loved me. Always.”
“Yet you had no problem lying to her. You converted before she died, but kept it to yourself.”
That revelation surprised her, too. “How do you know that?”
He ignored her question. “You’re a hypocrite. You tell me what a worthless father and husband I was, yet you’re nothing but a liar yourself.”
They stood in the living room alone, Inna’s two children in their rooms. They should have gone outside to talk, but he felt safer out of sight, tucked inside one of the countless apartments that lined the street.
“Who is that woman in the kitchen?” Alle asked.
“A friend.”
“You had lots of friends.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult?”
“It’s what it is. I saw the pain on Mother’s face. I watched her cry. I saw her heart break. I wasn’t a child.”
She spoke of a reality he’d learned not to deny. “I was a bad person. I did bad things. But I never stopped loving your mother. I still love her.”
“That’s a joke.”
He heard Michele’s bitter tone in her rebuke, saw her anguish in Alle’s eyes. He knew he bore a lot of responsibility for that anger. He hadn’t taken Michele’s advice and mended his strained relationship. Instead he’d wallowed in self-pity while his only child learned to hate him.