THE SHIN BET MANDARINS DIDN’T BEAT AROUND THE BUSH. “We appreciate your coming over on such short notice,” said the bald man presiding over the morning session in the Tel Aviv conference room. He introduced himself and the others around the table using first names. “I’m David. This is Zev. This is Itamar.”
“I wouldn’t pass up an invitation from Israel’s illustrious FBI,” Sweeney said sweetly. He nodded toward the portly man in sun glasses sitting on the sill of the window. “Who’s he? J. Edgar Hoover?”
“He’s from Amnesty International,” David said with a straight face. “He’s here to make sure we don’t tickle you to death.”
“You guys are a laugh a minute,” Sweeney said. “Do any of you have last names, or do you go through life using only first names?”
The men around the table avoided each other’s eyes. At the window sill, J. Edgar, as Sweeney now thought of him, actually cracked a languid smile. David said, “Our press people got hold of the story you wrote on the Aza wake. It was very moving. Our hearts bleed for poor Anwar, who had the bad luck to be wounded while murdering four Jews and abducting two others, and was then shot in the brain by his own side so he wouldn’t fall into our clutches.”
“War is hell,” remarked Sweeney.
The man called Itamar said, “You’ve been in Israel long enough to know that the Shin Bet is in the life and death business of defending Jews from terrorist attacks. You could make our work easier if you told us more about the mujaddid, or Renewer, you mentioned in your article.”
“Does this Abu Bakr, whoever he is, actually claim to be the Renewer,” David wanted to know, “or are some Islamic fundamentalists claiming it on his behalf? What is the relationship between the individual who goes by the name Abu Bakr, and the Abu Bakr Brigade which claimed responsibility for the kidnapping of Rabbi Apfulbaum and his secretary? Is Abu Bakr the active leader of the brigade, or just its spiritual leader?”
“Did Jesus claim to be the Messiah,” Sweeney shot back, “or did the disciples hang the label around his neck? Was there any connection between this Messiah and the uprising against the Romans organized by Barabbas?” He stretched his lanky body in the chair. “Whichever, everything I know about the Renewer is in my article.”
The agent called Zev tapped a stack of loose-leaf books filled with photographs of Palestinians. “We have pictures of thousands of people who took part in intifada demonstrations. You would be rendering a service to Israel if you could identify the cleric who guided you to the store, as well as the kid who was served up as the next martyr.”
Sweeney said, “Don’t tell me, let me guess; if I cooperate, you’ll plant a tree for me on a barren hillside and hang a plaque on it identifying someone named Max—no last names, please—as a righteous gentile.”
Itamar flattened a map of the Jabaliya refugee camp on the table with the palm of his hand. “It would be useful if you could tell us where the cleric took you—even if you only have a rough idea.”
“There were too many twists and turns for me to pick out the route even if I had a sense of direction, which I don’t. Look, it’s obvious to me even if it isn’t obvious to you that the cleric and the kid were the B team engaged in public relations for the Islamic fundamentalist folks. I know you guys think Palestinians are dumb, but even they aren’t dumb enough to trot out the A team for an American journalist who’s bound to be questioned by Israelis with only first names. The whole thing—the talk of a Renewer, the cleric, the kid—was a PR job.”
David observed coldly, “That’s not what you said in your article.”
“I wrote it the way it happened. The reader is free to put any spin on the story he wants.”
Itamar said, “You didn’t write about the Rabbi’s kidnapping the way it happened. You barely mentioned the four dead Jews. You left out the business about the finger being cut off.”
Sweeney shrugged. “You guys are trying to make me feel guilty for going into Gaza and talking to a father who was mourning the death of his son.”
From the window sill, J. Edgar said quietly, “The four dead Jews have fathers who are mourning the deaths of sons. You didn’t knock on their doors.”
“Look,” Sweeney said, “as long as I don’t jeopardize Israeli security by spilling state secrets, whom I interview and what I write about is my business.”
David tried one more time. “You were taken to meet the martyr who is supposed to step into the shoes of the dead Anwar. That makes it Shin Bet business. You may be right—the cleric with the pointed beard who took you into Jabaliya, the fresh-faced kid you met there may come under the heading of public relations. But we have to act on the assumption that the kid you interviewed could walk into a crowded Tel Aviv movie theater tomorrow carrying a knapsack crammed with explosives—unless you pick out his photograph and we can convince the Palestinian Authority’s cops to incarcerate him first.”
Sweeney swallowed a yawn. “The least you guys could do is serve coffee and doughnuts at this hour of the morning.”
“How about it, Mr. Sweeney?” David said pleasantly. “Do us a favor and take a look at our loose-leaf books.”
“What’s in it for me?”
Itamar lost his temper. “What do you want, a medal or money?”
Sweeney scraped back his chair and stood up. “I work for a respectable leftwing publication, not the Shin Bet. The moment I become an agent for the Shin Bet, I lose my credibility as a journalist.”
David said quickly, “I guarantee nobody is going to know you helped us.”
“Why didn’t you spell that out before? The kid you’re looking for is seventeen years old, has dirty feet and the angelic smile of a choir boy. Ah, yes, and he chews gum.” Sweeney had to laugh. “Listen, I can personally name three reporters who cooperated with you. If I know who they are, you can bet the Palestinians know who they are. And if the Palestinians know, everyone in the Middle East knows. Which is why two of the three are afraid to set foot outside Jewish Jerusalem. The third still goes into the West Bank on assignment, but he’s suicidal.”
Itamar angrily folded the map. “We’re wasting our breath. This is the guy who wrote the article about the reservist complaining he was ordered to break the arms of Palestinians.”
“You fellows tried to get me kicked out of Israel over that one,” Sweeney noted. “You backed down when it turned out the reservist did complain, and arms were broken.”
David pushed a small button on the telephone console. A uniformed guard opened the door. “He’ll show you out,” David said.
“I’m a big boy,” Sweeney said. “I can find my own way.”
“That’s what you think,” Itamar mumbled.
J. Edgar came off the window sill. “It goes without saying, this meeting, what was said during it, is off the record.”
Sweeney turned back at the door. “Hey, it doesn’t go without saying. Here’s the deal: everything is on the record until someone says it isn’t. I promise not to quote anything you say from here on out.” Sweeney looked from one to the other. “Don’t get nervous, I’ll only use your first names when I write about how the Shin Bet tried to recruit an American journalist.”
“Anti-Semitic prick!” Itamar muttered under his breath.
“I heard that,” Sweeney said. “Too bad it’s off the record. It’d make a perfect kicker to my story.”