Hannah had smiled at Aharon triumphantly. And he, Aharon Handalman, had run a hand over his face, as he had been unable to stop doing for the past two hours, still shamed and nauseated by the lack of hair there. He felt like Samson. He felt unmanned. At last, Hannah had managed it.
What on earth was he going to say when they got back to Jerusalem?
Now they were lying on a wooden floor, with only a knotted rag rug between their bodies and the hard surface. Hannah lay on her side facing him, a clear water glass pressed to her ear, its other end on the wall.
Foolishness, Aharon thought again, with a mental snort. Such a thing as a glass against a wall was good for cartoons, maybe, but not for real life. Aharon himself had tried his ear against the wall, but though he could hear murmuring, he could tell nothing that was being said.
“That’s not going to work,” he said quietly to Hannah, watching her intensely focused face. “We’re going to have to make a hole when they go out. Tomorrow I’ll buy a drill.” He thought about it some more. “Or maybe one of those doctor’s things would work—you know what I mean? I could go see the doctor in town about some complaint or other. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of complaints.”
“Shhh!” Hannah said.
He could not believe he was talking about drilling holes and stealing medical apparatus. He could not believe that he, he and his wife, were in Auschwitz spying on the Mossad.
On the other hand, after his experiences on Fiori nothing seemed as frightening or as crazy as it ought to. He could even feel delighted to be lying on the floor on Earth, spying on the Mossad.
He sighed contentedly, watching his wife. “So what are they saying?” he asked her teasingly.
“They’re talking about the Americans,” she whispered.
Of course they were. What else would they be talking about?
It was ridiculous. Because right now they were in a life-and-death situation. Not only their life and death, the latter of which was extremely likely, but some huge, apocalyptic potentiality, and still he was getting warm thoughts about his wife.
But he’d learned on Fiori that sometimes it served not to think too closely about what you had to do. Better to allow himself to lie here on his side watching Hannah pretending to be able to hear and allow his mind to wander to greener pastures. They were in the hotel, they had gotten in, he and Mrs. Goldman, and that was good enough for tonight. After all, he could hardly drill holes in the wall with their neighbors in the room, even if he had a drill, which he didn’t. And if the Mossad was there, in the next room, they weren’t out doing anything worse.
“Hannah,” he said, his voice soft so as not to be heard in the next room and also a little husky. “This is the first time we are alone, you and me.”
“They’re arguing about whether or not the woman can get inside the house,” she said, her voice conspiratorial.
“Of course they are.” Aharon took her small fingers and brought them to his lips.
Hannah flushed, her eyes focusing on him for the first time—finally seeing the kind of mood he was in. She smiled and frowned at the same time, a halfhearted rejection, yet her hand unfurled to close the brief distance to his cheek. She rubbed her fingers over its smoothness. Her eyes ignited playfully.
“I can think of some advantages to those soft, bare cheeks of yours,” she whispered.
“Hannah!” he gasped, shifting on the floor. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Hush!” Her voice went distant again as she strained at the glass. Even he could hear the rising voices, though he still couldn’t make out words. Probably because his ears were filled with pounding blood. His fingers reached out of their own volition, smoothing over that crazy sweatshirt of hers.
Hannah’s eyes widened. “Aharon, this is important! They’re arguing over ways to get her into the house.” She made a cease-and-desist motion with her hand.
“Good,” Aharon murmured, raising up the hem of her sweatshirt. “You listen for both of us.”
Denton approached the back of Anatoli’s house, wary of the early-morning sunlight. Hannah had left some of her “spy gear” in the hostel, including a small pair of binoculars. Denton had to chuckle at that, thinking about how crazy she made Aharon.
Just now Denton had seen that the only person who appeared to be awake in the house was the younger of the two agents, or Marines, or whatever they were. The big, hulking one must be asleep. Although the big, hulking one was probably the dimmer bulb of the two, Denton was reassured. He would be watching the house for quite a while today, bundled up like a snowman in every stitch of clothing he could find. But his immediate agenda was to talk to Anatoli.
The younger agent was in the little kitchen sipping coffee. It wasn’t far enough away from Anatoli’s room for comfort, but then, no room in Anatoli’s house was.
Denton slipped up to the window.
He could see better in the thin light of day. The window had been made escape-proof by nailing two two-by-fours in a cross shape on the inside of the window frame. That left gaps for light and air, but nothing bigger than a cat could crawl through. The window itself was indented from the window frame and was not affected by the boards. And it was not locked. It eased up under Denton’s fingers—and stuck at about two inches.
“Anatoli?” Denton whispered. “Anatoli!”
A shape loomed up against the glass. Anatoli’s bed was just inside the window and when he sat up his face popped into view like that of a ghost. He looked frailer than ever, his wispy hair in a staticky dance around his head, his eyes large and popping, like the eyes of a drowned sailor.
Denton had the feeling the old man was about to scream and put his fingers against his lips urgently. “Shhhhhhh!”
The old man’s mouth opened into the shape of a scream, but no sound came out. He blinked at Denton.
“Anatoli, it’s me, Denton Wyle!”
The mouth closed. Anatoli’s bony fingers crept under the boards and onto the windowsill. Denton looked down at the poor, gnarled things and took off a glove, covering them with his own.
“Denton…” Anatoli’s eyes were confused.
“Yes. Shhh! We must whisper.”
“Is he with you? Did he come back with you?”
Anatoli’s confusion had melted into a mad fanaticism, his face eager. Denton felt a surge of disappointment and covered it with a smile. “No, Reb Kobinski did not come. But he, uh, sent us back to take care of a few things.”
“What things? What did the master say?”
Dang, this was dumb.
“Um, he’s afraid that some of his work has gotten out. We have to make sure that isn’t the case.”
“But… I dug up all of the master’s work and burned it. I did just as he said!” Anatoli’s eyes watered with tears.
“Shhhhh!” Denton soothed. “I know. I know you burned it.” But Anatoli had not burned it, thank god. Denton was selfishly glad that he hadn’t. “Listen to me, Anatoli. We need to know about the men who are holding you. Do they know about Reb Kobinski? Have they talked about him?”
Anatoli looked upset by the question, befuddled. For a moment, Denton thought this was all hopeless. Anatoli’s eyes were like windows into a chaotic whirlwind. But a struggle went on in those eyes and slowly they cleared. Denton could see in the tension clutching that fragile body, knew that Anatoli was fighting hard for this moment of clarity. Denton could have kissed him in gratitude.
“I don’t think… No, they have never mentioned Reb Kobinski. And I have not spoken his name.”
“That’s good,” Denton said with relief. “Anatoli, that’s very good.”