They hurtled through a long underpass and came out under Tel Aviv. Reuven passed a police car on the right, veered into an exit lane, and steered the Jeep onto another freeway. MJ saw a solid wall of brake lights ahead. The gridlock didn’t faze Reuven, who steered the Jeep onto the narrow shoulder of the road, leaned on the horn, and just kept going. When the Jeep skidded on some loose gravel, fishtailed, and almost hit the guardrail, she actually screamed. When Tom caught a glimpse of her horrified expression, he laughed out loud.
5:55P.M. Reuven Ayalon sped north along the Herzlyia beachfront, swerved right, and accelerated into a narrow side street past a sign that bore the words KEDOSHAI HASHOAH. Two hundred feet later he pulled up onto the garage apron of a walled three-story villa. A foot-square antique tile set into the wall next to the mail slot was emblazoned with the number 71 and Hebrew lettering.
Reuven switched off the lights and set the parking brake. “Home sweet home.”
Tom looked confused. “I thought you told me you’d made us reservations.”
“I did,” the Israeli said. “At the Ayalon Hilton. You get your own suite.”
“We don’t want to put you out.”
“Out? Me? I welcome the company. Ever since Leah died, I’ve becomeun reclus.” He turned toward MJ. “A bit of a hermit. You know she was killed in a homicide bombing last year.”
“Tom told me. I’m so sorry.”
He nodded. “Thank you. It was why when Tom asked me to join his firm I couldn’t say no.” Reuven opened the Jeep’s rear gate, yanked MJ’s suitcase onto the concrete, and extended the handle. “So you’re staying here-I don’t accept arguments. My boys are both married. They have their own lives. Believe me, I crave adult company.” He waited as Tom retrieved his own suitcase. “Look-for the last ten days or so, I’ve begun asking the dogs for investment advice. What worries me is that they’re starting to make sense.”
To the sound of muffled barking, Reuven led the way to a tall, wide, eggplant-colored metal gate. He punched a code into the keypad that sat at eye level, waited until the gate lock buzzed, then nudged it with his shoulder. “Bou-come. Follow me.”
He led the way. MJ was impressed. The thick, razor-wire-topped wall was covered in bougainvillea and wild roses. The pathway from the gate to the front door was made of textured stones and bordered in ground cover. There were palm trees and lemon trees and Roman columns all lit by accent lights. A millstone, also beautifully illuminated, rested against the far end of the garden wall. To its right, near a huge dining table protected by a tent-like covering, sat a terra-cotta urn that had to be six feet high. MJ was entranced. “This is breathtaking, Reuven.”
“Thank you. Believe me, I didn’t do anything. It was all Leah.” The Israeli pushed open the ornate wooden front door, and they made their way into a marble-floored foyer. To their left was a wide marble staircase. MJ could see what looked like a living room up the half-dozen steps. At the top of the steps, two huge black Bouviers des Flandres poked their square muzzles around the wall, Totem-pole fashion. They saw the strangers and barked.
“Sheket, klavim.”Reuven gathered Tom and MJ in his arms and squeezed them close to him. He machine-gunned Hebrew at the dogs, who trotted down the stairs and sniffed the visitors.
“Let them smell your hands, MJ,” Reuven instructed. “Tom they’ll remember.”
And indeed, the smaller of the two Bouviers was already standing on its hind legs, forepaws on Tom’s shoulders, licking his face.
Tom laughed and ruffled the dog’s ears. “This is Cleo, right?”
“Of course. Your girlfriend.” Reuven made a clicking sound and the dogs sat obediently. He turned to MJ. “Cleo likes to sleep with Tom when he visits.” He looked at Tom reprovingly. “Not that he visits very often. The big male is named Bilbo.”
Cleo nudged Tom, herding him up against a wall until he scratched behind her ears then transferred his attention to her rump, grinning when her stump of a tail vibrated with pleasure. “How’re the boys?”
Reuven extracted a treat from his pocket and tossed it at Bilbo, who caught it midair. “Like I said, married. They have their families and big success in business. In the summer, they go to Turkey on the weekends. In the winter, Switzerland to ski.” He glanced at Tom. “Take your bags upstairs-you know where to go-and then come down. I’ll open a bottle of wine. We can sit outside and catch up, and I’ll cook us some dinner later.”
10:35P.M. MJ sat on the wide marble balcony, her feet propped on the low wall, and stared westward toward the high-rise buildings that rimmed the coast road. The clouds had blown out to sea and the night was brilliant-the moon huge and golden. At 8:30, Reuven had cooked a simple dinner of omelets filled with onions, goat cheese, and wonderful Russian sausage, along with green salad and an extraordinary red wine. They ate outside, and it was chilly enough for MJ to run upstairs for a sweater.
Now she drained the glass of mellow red, padded inside to the kitchen, and poured herself another two fingers’ worth. She stared at the label. It was unintelligible-entirely in Hebrew. Well, that made sense because the wine was Israeli. Reuven had said it was a Merlot-he’d called it a Kfira Merlot to be precise. Well, this Israeli Kfira Merlot was as good as any she’d ever tasted. Cleo at her side, she headed back to the balcony. She’d already had three glasses tonight and she was slightly tipsy.
She sat, sipped, then let her head loll back against the chair while her left hand played with the Bouvier’s rough coat. There’d be time tomorrow to call the office and explain the fact that she wasn’t going to be back for a few more days. But that would be tomorrow. Tonight, she was content to sit and stare into space while Tom and Reuven jabbered at each other in a bewildering mixture of Arabic and French with an English word thrown in every now and then. She guessed they were talking about the materials she’d brought to Paris. So what? No one at Coppermine cared enough to give her work a second thought. Tom had found it valuable enough to bring it here.
He was a complex man, was Tom. So different. He’d grown up overseas. His mother had died of cancer when Tom was ten. His father, who’d never remarried, worked for the State Department. They’d lived in France, and Belgium, and Germany, and Morocco, and Tunisia, and Italy. By the time Tom was fifteen, he spoke three languages fluently and “got along,” as he put it, in what he’d called kitchen Arabic.
He’d been educated in a series of French, German, and Swiss boarding schools, and finally at St. Paul’s and Dartmouth. She’d grown up on Long Island and gone to parochial schools. Tom had skied at Gstaad and climbed the Matterhorn. She’d summered on Long Beach, learned to eat steamed clams at Lundy’s in Sheepshead Bay, and ridden the Ferris wheel at Coney Island. Tom’s idea of fun was skiing downhill or riding his motorcycle at some obscene speed. She’d ridden with him-twice. After the first episode, her fingers had taken half an hour to unclench. And yet, when she curled up with theNew York Times crossword puzzle, he’d sit and watch her noodle the words, and tease that they’d make love as soon as she finished-which she always did.
They were so different. And yet so good together. Opposites do attract. Because, underneath it all, they weren’t that opposite. They were both pretty conservative. They both loved their country. For both of them, their lives revolved around public service, something that had been inculcated into them by their parents.