He knew they were getting close to him, to Cobra. He knew that Aharon and Ya’ara wouldn’t return from Rhode Island empty-handed. They were moving in on their prey in ever-tightening circles, and they would eventually corner him. Michael tried to picture that moment in his thoughts, to imagine the very instant in which they closed in on him and brought him down. He couldn’t shake the image in his head of a large gray wolf, injured and bleeding, slowly collapsing into the deep snow, staining it with its blood, its mouth gaping and spewing steam, its yellow eyes dimming and losing focus, and them standing around it in a circle, dressed in heavy coats, the hunting rifles in their hands pointing toward the earth, looking at it in silence, at the dying beast, huge stretches of snow all around them, the air painfully crisp and very cold.
Michael put on the headphones he found in the seat pocket in front of him. And once again he wondered why the airlines—in this day and age, with headphones of wonderful quality readily available—continued to provide their passengers with inferior-quality devices that made every sound that came through them very unpleasantly tinny. “You’re cranky,” he said to himself in silence, while noticing that it wasn’t the first time that same self-analysis had passed through his mind in recent months. “You’re cranky,” he said, addressing himself in the second person, “and it really doesn’t suit you. Make an effort to snap out of it.” He could hear, or rather he thought he could hear through the rasping tinny screen, Frank Sinatra singing “New York, New York,” and immediately thereafter came a grandiose Italian number, San Remo Festival style. “If you’re familiar with the San Remo Festival, you’re probably not that young anymore,” he said to himself with a fair amount of self-pity, and his thoughts wandered to Ya’ara, “who probably doesn’t even know what kind of music you’re talking about.” And he thought about her beautiful, serious face, about the way in which rays of sunlight trapped and illuminated strands of gold in her hair.
He smiled to himself and then turned serious. Just before falling asleep again he thought about Cobra, pictured him in the interrogation room immediately after being caught. Cobra, shocked to the core at being apprehended, fists pounding on the door of his home, his hair disheveled, his eyes puffy from sleep. They would take him in at a time when a man’s walls of defense are at their weakest. They would drag him out in his pajamas, to make him feel ridiculous and humiliated, a terrible dryness, that insipid taste of the night, in his mouth. He would be pushed into the backseat of the unmarked security vehicle, his head would bang against the door frame as he tried to bend down, his limbs would still be stiff from an uneasy sleep. They would move off in a convoy of three vehicles, accelerating aggressively, displaying with their manliness, with his terrified wretchedness, just how fast and far he was falling. Michael drifted into a broken sleep, his head resting on the arm of the seat, imagining the fear gripping Cobra, the sour taste rising in his throat, the sudden sense of thirst that would overcome him, his shriveled cock, the uncontrollable shudders that shake his body from time to time. For an instant, just a nanosecond, his mind entertained the thought that under different circumstances, in an alternative pattern of revolving doors, he could have been Cobra.
44
PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND, MARCH 2013
Ya’ara rang the doorbell at the home of Professor Julian Hart. Aharon was standing one step behind her. They could hear the chimes echo through the expanse of the interior. The wide stretch of lawn in the front of the house was covered in mud stains. The shrubs were topped with the remains of dirty snow. The tall trees on the sides of the house stood bare, their leafless branches sketching gray lines on the backdrop of a cold sky. Two cars, stained with splatters of mud and salt water, were parked side by side at the entrance to the home’s garage. The taxi that had dropped them outside the residence turned around and disappeared down the windy road.
An attractive, well-groomed woman in her fifties, wearing a light-colored dress and a thin gray sweater, opened the door for them. “Good afternoon,” Ya’ara said. “This is Professor Max Katz,” she continued, gesturing toward Aharon, “and I’m Annabelle Eshel. We’d like to speak with Professor Julian Hart. We’ve just come from the university, where we were told that Professor Hart should be at home.”
“Hello, I’m Frances, Professor Hart’s wife. It’s a shame really that you didn’t call before coming. Not to mention not bothering to make an appointment,” said Mrs. Hart, clearly agitated, openly hostile, and with more than just a hint of reproach in her tone of voice. She looked every inch a lady, but Ya’ara noticed that her high-heeled shoes and makeup weren’t exactly appropriate for such an early hour. Yes, she was definitely overdressed for that time of the day. “Regrettably, my husband isn’t home. He was called away in the middle of the night.” She glanced over their shoulders, presumably looking for the vehicle that had brought them there, but they had chosen to take a cab rather than rent a car. It wouldn’t take more than a simple inquiry with the car rental company for a vehicle to reveal their real names. And the fact that they were there without the option of making a quick getaway served their purpose, too—to spend as much time as possible in Hart’s house, even if he was unwilling to see them. Finding out that he had gone away in the early hours of the morning, perhaps unexpectedly, was in itself significant. And even if he wasn’t there, his wife was a worthy target for their efforts. They were clinging to every sliver of information, every little thread. “I take it you came by taxi,” Frances continued. Her manners wouldn’t allow her to leave them outside. “Come, come in, please, have something to drink. We’re quite a way out of town. Tell me,” she said while taking their coats, her hands shaking slightly, “what brings you to see Julian?”
Aharon and Ya’ara sat down in the large living room, which was a model of comfort and good taste. A fire burned in the stone fireplace, casting a golden glow over the volumes of books on the shelves, and antique-looking Greek urns that Ya’ara presumed were hand-crafted copies stood proudly in small, well-lit display cabinets. Everything spoke of old money, stability, and refinement. Noticing the two empty wine bottles on the floor, alongside one of the armchairs, Ya’ara looked away. She was playing her part to perfection, as she always did, slipping easily into any and every character, and now she was a loyal academic assistant, serious and altruistic. She sat there looking innocent, her feet together, upright and alert. Frances Hart excused herself and went to the kitchen to make tea. The sound of glass shattering disturbed the silence, and Ya’ara thought she also heard a stifled sob. Then she heard Frances speaking softly. Probably on the phone.
Frances returned from the kitchen a few minutes later, bearing a tray with two porcelain cups and a plate of cookies. Ya’ara thought she looked troubled, but even if she had been crying, her eyes were now dry. Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the tray on the low table in front of them. “I have called for a taxi to take you back to town. Remind me of your names, please,” she asked, and sat down across from them, folding her arms across her chest, as if she needed to keep warm. Or protect herself.
“I’m an antiquities dealer from Israel,” Aharon introduced himself. “With a Ph.D. in Near Eastern Studies from many years ago,” he said, alluding to his advanced age. “Back then already, I ran into your husband’s name. I’m aware of his expertise when it comes to ancient texts from our part of the world, and I wanted to interest him in a scroll that came into my possession in one of those ways that are best left untold, as is customary in the field. A scroll that was discovered in the Transjordan region, passed from one hand to another, and was brought to my attention by a colleague from Bethlehem. I was thinking that Professor Hart might like to review the manuscript, check it, verify its originality, and perhaps receive first rights with respect to its study.”