“What does the U.S. State Department say?” Kabakov felt sick inside.
“They don’t want a diplomatic uproar over this. They want to quash it. Officially, you are no longer welcome here as an arm of Israel.”
“The fat-faced idiots! They deserve—” Kabakov shut his mouth with a snap.
“As you know, Major, the United Nations entertains the U.A.R. motion for a censure of Israel this week over the action against the fedayeen camps in Syria last month. This matter should not be exacerbated by another disturbance now.”
“What if I resign my commission and get an ordinary passport? Then Tel Aviv could disown me if it became necessary.”
Ambassador Tell was not listening. “It’s tempting to think that if the Arabs succeed in this project, God forbid, the Americans would be enraged and would redouble their support for Israel,” he said. “You and I both know that won’t happen. The salient fact will be that the atrocity happened because the United States has helped Israel. Because they got involved in another dirty little war. Indochina has made them sick of involvement, just as it did the French, and understandably so. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Al Fatah strike in Paris if the French sell us Mirages.
“Anyway, if it happens here, the Arab governments will denounce Al Fatah for the four hundredth time and Khadafy will give Al Fatah some millions of dollars. The United States can’t afford to be angry at the Arabs too long. It sounds horrible, but the U.S. will find it convenient to blame only Al Fatah. This country consumes too much oil for it to be otherwise.
“If the Arabs succeed, and we have tried to stop them, then it won’t be quite so bad for us. If we stop helping, even at State Department request, and the Arabs are successful, then we are still at fault.
“The Americans won’t ask the Russians for any intelligence from the Middle East, by the way. The State Department gave us the news that the Middle East is a ‘sphere of continuing East-West tension’ and no such request is possible. They don’t want to admit to the Russians that the CIA can’t get the information themselves. You were right to try it anyway, David.
“And now there is this.” Tell passed Kabakov a cable from Mossad headquarters. “The information has also been relayed to you in New York.”
The cable reported that Muhammad Fasil was seen, in Beirut the day after Kabakov’s raid. He had a wound on his cheek similar to the one described by Mustapha Fawzi, the first mate of the Leticia.
“Muhammad Fasil,” Tell said quietly, “the worst one of all.”
“I’m not going—”
“Wait, wait, David. This is a time for utter frankness. Is there anyone you know, in the Mossad or elsewhere, who might be better equipped to deal with this matter than you?”
“No, sir.” Kabakov wanted to say that if he had not taken the tape in Beirut, had not questioned Fawzi, if he had not searched the cabin on the ship, checked the ship’s books, caught Muzi at a disadvantage, they would know nothing at all. All he said was “No, sir.”
“That’s our consensus also.” Tell’s telephone rang. “Yes? Five minutes, very well.” He turned back to Kabakov. “Major, would you please report to the conference room on the second floor? And you might straighten your tie.”
Kabakov’s collar was cutting into his neck. He felt as though he were strangling, and he paused outside the conference room to get hold of himself. Maybe the military attaché was about to read him his orders to go home. Nothing would be accomplished by screaming in the man’s face. What was Tell talking about anyway, what consensus? If he had to go back to Israel he would by God go, and the guerrillas in Syria and Lebanon would wish to hell he was back in the United States.
Kabakov opened the door. The thin man at the window turned.
“Come in, Major Kabakov” said the foreign minister of Israel
In fifteen minutes Kabakov was back in the hall, trying to suppress a smile. An embassy car took him to National Airport. He arrived at the El Al terminal at Kennedy International twenty minutes before the scheduled departure of Flight 601 to Tel Aviv. Margaret Leeds Finch of the Times was lurking near the counter. She asked him questions while he checked his bag and while he went through the metal detector. He answered in polite monosyllables. She followed him into the gate, waving her press pass at the airline officials, and dogged him down the very boarding ramp to the door of the plane where she was politely but firmly stopped by El Al security men.
Kabakov passed through first class, through the tourist section, back to the galley where hot dinners were being loaded aboard. With a smile at the stewardess, he stepped out the open door into the elevated bed of the catering truck. The bed whirred downward, and the truck returned to its garage. Kabakov climbed out and entered the car where Corley and Moshevsky were waiting.
Kabakov had been officially withdrawn from the United States. Unofficially, he had returned.
He must be very careful now. If he fouled up; his country would lose a great deal of face. Kabakov wondered what had been said at the foreign minister’s luncheon with the Secretary of State. He would never know the details, but clearly the situation had been discussed at some length. His instructions were the same as before: stop the Arabs. His team was being withdrawn, with the exception of Moshevsky. Kabakov was to be an ex officio advisor to the Americans. He felt sure the last part of his instructions had not been discussed over lunch; if it was necessary to do more than advise, he was to leave no unfriendly witnesses.
There was a strained silence in the car on the way back into Manhattan. Finally Corley broke it. “I’m sorry this happened, old buddy.”
“I am not your old buddy, old buddy,” Kabakov said calmly.
“Customs saw that piece of plastic and they were screaming to bust those guys. We had to bust them.”
“Never mind, Corley. I’m here to help you, old buddy. Here, look at this.” Kabakov handed him one of the pictures given him as he left the embassy. It was still wet from the darkroom.
“Who is it?”
“Muhammad Fasil. Here, read the file.”
Corley whistled. “Munich! How can you be sure he’s the one? The Leticia crew won’t identify him. On advice of counsel, you can bet on that.”
“They won’t have to identify him. Read on. Fasil was in Beirut the day after our raid. We should have gotten him with the others, but we didn’t expect him to be there. He got a bullet stripe on the cheek. The Lebanese on the freighter had a scab across his cheek. Fawzi said so.”
The picture had been taken in a Damascus café in poor light and it was fuzzy.
“If you’ve got the negative, we can improve it with the NASA computer,” Corley said. “The way they enhance the pictures from the Mariner project.” Corley paused. “Has anybody from State talked to you?”
“No.”
“But your own people have talked to you.”
“Corley, ‘my own people’ always talk to me.”
“About working through us. They made it clear you’re going to help with the thinking and we’re stuck with the work, right?”
“Right. You bet, old buddy.”
The car dropped Kabakov and Moshevsky at the Israeli mission. They waited until it was out of sight and took a cab to Rachel’s building.
“Corley knows where we are anyway, doesn’t he?” Moshevsky said.
“Yes, but I don’t want the son of a bitch to think he can drop by whenever he feels like it,” Kabakov said. As he spoke, he was not thinking about Corley or Rachel’s apartment at all. He was thinking about Fasil, Fasil, Fasil.
Muhammad Fasil was also deep in thought as he lay on his bed in Lander’s ground-floor guestroom. Fasil had a passion for Swiss chocolates, and he was eating some now. In the field he ate the rough fare of the fedayeen, but in private he liked to rub Swiss chocolates between his fingers until the chocolate melted. Then he licked the chocolate off his fingers. Fasil had a number of little private pleasures of this kind.