Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [141]
I WAS WORKING in the Foreign Office. The country itself was only seven years old, and things were upside down and inside out. We had a lot of brilliant men, ambassadors, and ranking officials, but crafting a Foreign Office according to the letter of international protocol was an impossibility during those times. Israel had too many other priorities—bringing in the remnants of European Jewry, building a defense force and a national air and shipping line, finding money to operate, bringing in the Jews from Arab countries, contending with enemies on every border. There was a lot of hit and miss, trial and error in the Foreign Office.
LOOK AT THE SHOW out there! First, the stars came out one by one, now hundreds every second ... here I am, Shlomo! Look at me twinkle! Muffled voices can be heard from the command post. An order is given over the field phone and a flare bursts near the opening of the Pass. ...
AT ANY RATE, I never knew my rank or title in the Foreign Office if, indeed, I even had one. It was “Shlomo do this, Shlomo do that.” Shlomo Bar Adon became, as they say, a jack of all trades.
Monday morning I was taking a delegation of American senators around. It was quite important for us to gain credibility and sympathy from the American Congress.
Tuesday morning they left with a good impression and Tuesday night I was called to the office of Nimrod Newman, the chief of the American Section.
“Shlomo, you did a fantastic job with the Americans.”
My mind immediately went to a promotion, a salary raise, a permanent position, accolades. My visions of glory were short-lived.
“Something interesting has come up,” Nimrod said. “A request came in from the States a few months ago. We’ve been kicking it around. To make a long story short, I had a meeting yesterday at the P.M.’s office. Jackie Herzog was there with Teddy Kollek, Moshe Pearlman, and Beham. Dayan was also present.”
Ah, here comes my promotion. Nothing less than ambassador to France would be suitable. “So what did you decide,” I asked, “to parachute me into Damascus?”
Nimrod smiled. He smiled when he was happy, sad, hurt, unsure, in love, out of love. He smiled. What did Nimrod’s smile mean?
“There’s an American writer. You probably have heard of him—Gideon Zadok.”
“Zadok? Yes, I’ve heard of him. Great first novel, then some kind of oblivion in films.”
“Zadok wants to come to Israel to research a novel. He asks complete cooperation, short of top-secret material. We have agreed, among us, that such a book could do the country a lot of good at this time in our history, if he succeeds. We want you to make certain he succeeds, arrange his travel, get him appointments, set up his interviews, and we’ll open the archives, up to a certain point.”
“Nursemaid to a writer?”
“This would be the first American novel about Israel. It could be valuable in gaining favorable world opinion.”
“I have a choice?”
“No,” Nimrod answered with a smile. This particular smile I understood.
“How long do I have?” I asked.
Nimrod shrugged. “Probably several months.”
“What is his security situation?”
“He looks like an excellent risk. We’ll keep a close watch. You won’t be involved unless he probes too much in sensitive areas.”
“So, when does he arrive?”
“Next week. And one more thing. His uncle was Matthias Zadok. That alone demands some respect.”
AN EGYPTIAN FLARE burst over our lines. So, we know you are in there and you know we are out here. I love to contemplate in the desert. The bastards are going to ruin my night. I felt my carbine for the hundredth time. It comforted me, especially the night scope.
ZADOK? It was, how do you say it, a love-hate affair from the beginning. Love? I loved the little shmendrick’s mind. He didn’t come to Israel to fart around. He wanted to know everything. He chewed up the country in great bites. His mind could retain a biblical battle, spear by spear, or the more recent battles, mortar by mortar. Gideon’s days were dawn to midnight.