The situation, Ralston decided, was not without its ironies. Instead of persuading Bartlett to part with information he had rescued him and was now about to dine with him. And his Israeli girlfriend and the girlfriend’s formidable mother.
From the balcony of the Rabinovitz fifth-floor apartment Ralston stared over the Sabbath-silent city of Tel Aviv to which they had returned for dinner. No shops open, few taxis, few people; no booze. But with the first star life would start up again with frenetic desire to recoup for a lost day – or so it seemed to a Gentile. The boulevard cafés would be packed, each with its own kind – artists or authors, old or young, Jews of German or Russian or American descent. Cinemas and theatres were already booked up for the evening. The streets would be thronged with a babel of nationalities; at a thousand parties they would be wooing and warring and forming another political party or two.
Ralston gazed across the cubes of apartment blocks and the green-lined boulevards past the Shalom Mayer Tower towards the sea. The action that morning seemed very remote in the studied peace of the Sabbath. He wished he was collaborating with these people instead of serving political prestige.
He picked up an Israeli magazine lying on a wickerwork chair. There was a lot about the Zionist organisations in the States in it. A long article about the United Jewish Appeal. An advertisement inserted by the United Israel Appeal inviting members to a special session of the Zionist General Council. An announcement about the appointment of officials at the Israel-America Society’s Haifa branch. An invitation from the Jewish National Fund to plant trees in the Hills of Judea.
Ralston’s appreciation of the bonds uniting America and Israel strengthened. And, as dusk approached, he opened up the file once more on Misgivings about the Assignment. Ten minutes later he had almost persuaded himself again that if his efforts contributed to peace then subsidiary considerations didn’t matter. And it would certainly be a blow against Communism if the West in the shape of the United States managed to produce the formula that would ensure that peace. Would it be so bad if the United States did gain a little prestige to counter her critics? Ralston decided it wouldn’t. But he was glad that he wasn’t an American Jew in Israel because then he wouldn’t be sure where his loyalties lay.
A winking aircraft flew across the sky which was losing the lustre of the day. Beneath the balcony a couple of cars pulled out from the kerb. He dropped his glowing cigar butt and watched it spin down to the lawn.
Then he considered his quarry. Was Bartlett a mug? Ralston didn’t think so. He was sufficiently acquainted with British agents to know that they were accomplished actors – particularly when portraying amiable eccentrics. But that didn’t mean he was convinced that Bartlett was an agent. It was possible that he might be; but if he was he was decidedly overplaying the amiable eccentric. And he seemed to have no positive affiliation to Arab or Israeli, to the Western or Communist powers.
Ralston lit another cigar and looked for the first star in the green sky. Nothing.
But if Bartlett was the complete innocent why had he gone to such extremes to hide the contents of his briefcase? This aspect of the operation grieved Ralston; he drew deeply on his cigar and exhaled a long, aggressive jet of smoke. First the porter at the Dan had treated his forged note of authority with contempt – the contempt it deserved, Ralston admitted. Then Bartlett had wandered into the walled city with a briefcase full of nothing. Now – as far as could be ascertained – he had hidden the contents somewhere in Jerusalem. There could be only one answer: Bartlett had understood the conversation between the President and the Ambassador in London.
So what could be done about it?
Bartlett said: ‘Shabbat, shalom.’
Ralston turned round. ‘Shalom,’ he said.
Bartlett gave his slow, friendly smile. ‘I understand that on the Sabbath you say Shabbat, shalom.’
Ralston grinned despite his problems. ‘Hi,’ he said.
The dinner was very good. After Martinis there was pâté; then steaks and mixed salad and French fries, a lot of local red wine and some sharp salty cheese. Ralston noticed no concessions to Kosher.
Raquel’s mother, who was inclined to plumpness, with curly auburn hair that could have been dyed, said; ‘We are good Jews in this household. But we do not follow the dietary rules as strictly as we should. Not so many Israelis do these days.’
Ralston sipped his wine and tried to assess the relationship between Bartlett and the girl. Meeting a Jewish girl’s mother was not a step to be undertaken lightly. But perhaps Bartlett’s intentions were platonic; anything was possible with such a man. If Ralston had been touring Israel and the occupied territories with Raquel the spirit of Plato would not have been in evidence. But Ralston sympathised with Bartlett whatever his intentions were – because he had met Bartlett’s wife.
Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘I think you are looking very thoughtful, Mr Ralston.’
‘It’s enough to make one thoughtful,’ Ralston said. ‘This hospitality and this food and this company.’
‘I’m glad that you like it,’ she said. Her accent was Brooklyn, Russian, Jewish – any accent you liked to put on the label. Her tone was gentle but assertive and would always call to order her daughter’s occasional indiscretions.
By the time they had reached the meat course politics and religion had been disposed of and the conversation had inevitably reached the Arab crisis.
Ralston sliced into his tender steak and said: ‘I have a theory about how the Israelis could conquer all the Arab countries.’
‘Is that right?’ Raquel said. ‘Then I am sure Moshe Dayan would be very pleased to hear it.’ She glanced at the photograph of the Defence Minister on the wall.
Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘Tell us about your theory, Mr Ralston.’
‘It’s like this,’ Ralston said. ‘Since coming to your country I have attempted to get across the road on a pedestrian crossing. I have also tried to get served at a post office. I reckon both are pretty frightening experiences. Now if you could paint pedestrian crossings right round your country’s borders it would ensure that all Israeli motorists would drive straight across them without bothering to see if anyone was on them.’
Mrs Rabinovitz chuckled. ‘And what about the post office – how does that figure in this ingenious theory of yours, Mr Ralston?’
‘Not the post office itself, Mrs Rabinovitz. The customers. It is my theory that Israelis trying to fight their way to the counter are the best shock troops in the world. Put them into the attack after the motorists and you could take Cairo tomorrow.’
The two women laughed; Bartlett smiled remotely. Raquel put her hand on his arm. ‘Thomas,’ she said, ‘you do not seem very happy this evening.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘Perhaps Shabbat has been too much for Mr Bartlett.’
Raquel said defensively: ‘You seem to forget that he was nearly captured by the Arabs and that one of them stuck a machine-gun butt in his stomach.’
‘It’s not that so much,’ Bartlett said. ‘It’s just all that unnecessary death and suffering.’
Raquel withdrew her hand. ‘You mean the deaths of the Israeli soldiers?’
Bartlett nodded. ‘And the Arab.’
Raquel said: ‘If Mr Ralston had not shot him he would have killed us. I ask you, how can you sympathise with El Fatah?’
‘They were brave men,’ Bartlett said.
No one spoke. The only sound was the scrape of knife and fork on plate. The light from the candles on the long table made their faces holy.
Finally Raquel said: ‘They were terrorists.’
Ralston wondered again about Bartlett’s affinities.
Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘Terrorists they might have been. But Mr Bartlett is right – they were brave. Both sides have brave men. It is sad that so much bravery should go to waste.’
Raquel said: ‘I do not remember so much bravery from the Arabs during the war.’
‘Then you are a very silly girl,’ Mrs Rabinovitz said. ‘There was much bravery on both sides.’
Bartlett sipped absent-mindedly at his wine. ‘It is the young people of Israel who frighten me. They are so aggressive, so reluctant to accept any point of view other than their own.’
Ralston said: ‘Isn’t that true of young people anywhere in the world?’
‘They aren’t fighting a war,’ Bartlett said.
Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘I do not think that you should worry yourself too much, Mr Bartlett. Israel is not governed by its youth. In Mrs Meir we have a wonderful leader. But as we are discussing youth then it is the youth of the Arab countries who should alarm you. El Fatah, the National Front for the Liberation of Palestine. It is they who are the fanatics already. And they are beyond the control of their countries’ leaders.’
Raquel said sulkily: ‘But they are all very brave, are they not, Mr Bartlett?’
Mrs Rabinovitz said: ‘Do not be stupid, Raquel.’
Ralston consulted his watch. ‘The news in English,’ he said. ‘Let’s have the radio on.’
They listened to the impersonal woman’s voice describe the incident at El Hamma. An artillery duel. Two Israeli soldiers killed, three wounded. There was no mention of Ralston or Bartlett or Raquel.
Ralston said: ‘I guess they don’t want to suggest that there was any American intervention.’ He grinned to show that he was joking because the atmosphere was not sympathetic to humour.
Raquel said: ‘We’ll have coffee on the verandah.’
Ralston sat in the wicker chair opposite Raquel and Bartlett while Mrs Rabinovitz made coffee in the kitchen. Tel Aviv was alive again. In a nearby apartment he heard laughter and singing. The sidewalks were moving with people, the streets weaving with cars.
Raquel sat close to Bartlett and said: ‘I’m sorry.’
Bartlett patted her hand paternally and said: ‘That’s all right.’
‘I realise that the Arabs were brave.’
‘If everyone could make concessions like that there might be some hope for peace.’
Raquel nodded and put her head on his shoulder.
Watching her face in the candlelight from the dining room Ralston decided that she was either in love with Bartlett or she was a superb actress. It was at this point that he also decided she was an Israeli agent.