Legends

“One of our most successful jokes was the one about two Communist Party apparatchiks meeting on a Moscow street. One of them says to the other: ‘Have you heard the latest? Our Soviet scientists have managed to miniaturize nuclear warheads. Now we no longer need those expensive intercontinental ballistic missiles to wipe out America. We can put the nuclear warhead into a valise and put the valise in a locker at Grand Central Station in New York City and if the Americans give us any trouble, pfffffft, New York will be reduced to radioactive ashes.’ The second Russian replies: ‘Nyevozmozhno. It’s not possible. Where in Russia will we find a valise?’”

Stella’s joke reminded Martin of a fragment from a previous legend: Lincoln Dittmann’s conversation, at a terrorist training camp in Triple Border, with the Saudi who was interested in obtaining a Soviet nuclear valise-bomb. Somehow Stella’s little joke didn’t seem like a laughing matter. Asher obviously agreed because he was gnawing on the inside of a cheek in irritation.

Stella, exasperated, repeated, “Where in Russia will you find a valise! That’s the punch line of a joke, for God’s sake. Is it against Israeli law to laugh?”

“Asher, like his colleagues in the CIA and the KGB, lost laughter a long time ago,” Martin said. “They’re time servers, hanging on by their finger tips to a world they no longer understand. If they can hang on long enough, they’ll get a government pension and end their days growing stringless green beans in some suburban backyard. The reigning emotion here is nostalgia. On the rare occasions they loosen up, they start all their sentences with: Remember the time we … Isn’t that right, Asher?”

Asher appeared to wince at Martin’s little speech. “Okay,” he said, turning to Stella, “for the moment let’s agree that you worked for subsection Marx spreading lousy anti-Soviet jokes so the country could let off steam. Whatever brings you and Dante to the Holy Land, it’s not to tell jokes.”

“Tourism,” Martin said flatly.

“Absolutely. Tourism,” Stella agreed emphatically. She reached for the mug of tea and dipped a pinky in it and carefully moistened her lips with the ball of her finger. “We came to see the Temple Mount, we came to see Masada on the Dead Sea, we came to see the Church of the Holy Sepulcher …” Her voice trailed off.

“Are you planning to visit your sister in her West Bank settlement at some point?”

Stella glanced at Martin, then turned back to Asher. “That also, naturally.”

“And Dante is keeping you company in exactly what capacity?”

Stella raised her chin. “I know him by the name of Martin. He is my lover.”

The Israeli eyed Martin. “I suppose you could describe her body if you had to.”

“No problem. Up to and including the faded tattoo of a Siberian night moth under her right breast.”

Out of the corner of his eye Martin saw Stella start to undo the top buttons of her shirt; once again there was no sign of an undergarment, only a triangle of pale skin. Asher, embarrassed, cleared his throat. “That, eh, won’t be necessary, Miss Kastner. I have reason to believe Dante works as a private detective and you hired his services. What you do after working hours is your business.” Asher regarded Martin. “So that’s what spies turn into when they come in from the cold—they metamorphose into private detectives. Sure beats cultivating stringless green beans. Tell me something, Dante, how does one go about becoming a private detective?”

“You watch old detective films.”

“He’s a great fan of Humphrey Bogart,” Stella asserted, avoiding Martin’s eye.

Asher watched her sip at the tea for a moment. When he spoke again his mood had changed; to Martin, he suddenly looked more like an undertaker than a cop. “Let me offer you some sympathy with your tea, Miss Kastner,” Asher began. He slid off the stool and walked over to a table and flipped open the top dossier on a thick pile of dossiers. “I am sorry to be the bearer of sad news,” he said, and he read from the page: “The following is a State Department advisory forwarded by the American embassy in Tel Aviv. ‘Please pass this information to Estelle Kastner: her father, Oscar Alexandrovich Kastner, suffered a heart attack at his home in Brooklyn five days ago.’”

Stella’s eyes tightened into an anguished squint. “Oh my God, I’ve got to telephone Kastner immediately,” she whispered.

Martin could tell from the dark expression on Asher’s face that there was no point to putting in a phone call. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid Dante’s right,” Asher told Stella. His gaze fell on Martin. “There’s something the little canary wanted me to pass on to you, Dante. The body of a Chinese girl was discovered on the roof over your pool parlor. Her boss at a Chinese restaurant went looking for her when she didn’t turn up for work. She’d been stung to death by bees from one of your hives. Hell of a way to go, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah,” Martin agreed grimly. “I would say.”