shoes are polished to mirror brightness, and a thick individual with a goatee and thinning hair who is officially the embassy’s deputy commercial attaché. The Marine guard in the reception booth stands as still as a tree. Whatever it is he sees is not something he will ever consider remembering, unless in a moment of alcohol-fueled effusion he whispers it to his Cypriot girlfriend, who may then whisper it to someone else.
Following diplomatic protocol, the chargé speaks first. “Welcome to Cyprus, Mr. Arad. It’s always good to see you.”
“Likewise, sir,” Zalman Arad says in the clipped accent he acquired in his youth when the British ruled Palestine and Cyprus and much of the Middle East. He follows a protocol of his own. “And this must be Mr. Smith.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir,” Smith says. He has been to Tel Aviv twelve times to sit down with Arad and share intelligence of a distinctly non-commercial nature, but protocol is protocol. “Our guest has already arrived.”
“Oh, very good,” Arad says.
Smith leads him through the magnetometer, which issues not so much as a peep, and up the limestone stairs to a reception room richly paneled in walnut.“Mr. Awad,” Smith says. “I believe you know Mr. Arad.” He smiles. “It occurs to me—your names differ by only one letter. Funny, I never noticed.”
“That is because we are cousins, Mr. Smith,” Zalman Arad says. “I do thank you for making available this very pleasant venue.”
The hint is not lost on Mr. Smith.
Now that they are alone the cousins do not shake hands. They are of course not alone at all: cameras and microphones record their every gesture, every syllable.
Arad takes a seat on a white linen couch opposite Fawaz Awad, himself seated on an identical white linen couch. Between them a plush white rug is emblazoned with the great seal of the United States of America, an eagle in a circle inscribed with the words E Pluribus Unum .
With one-armed grace, Fawaz Awad lights the Gauloise in his gold cigarette holder. “Always a pleasure to see you, Zalman,” he says in English.
The older man responds in Arabic. “How I wish I could say the same.” He pauses. “Of course you are aware the Americans forbid smoking in their buildings.”
“Very health-conscious, the Americans,” Awad returns in Arabic. Why not? The Jew’s Arabic is perfect. “Admirable. If they are so interested in saving lives, they should not send their sons to die in Muslim lands.”
“Not to worry. They will continue to do so.” Arad watches as the other man smokes, very much aware of the first rule of negotiation among Arabs: Never speak first. But Zalman Arad has been doing this for a long time. He is unafraid of breaking the rules of negotiating with Arabs. He made most of them. “Fawaz, now that you have sent a message to our hosts, can we speak candidly?”
“As candidly as possible in a bugged room. How are you, Zalman?”
“Exhausted. Almost sixty years I have been at this. It is time to pass the baton. And you?”
“Nothing personal, but I will not retire from service until the last Jew is drowned in the sea.” He smiles. “Patience is an Arab virtue.”
“How pleasant that you have at least one. You requested this meeting. Here I am.”
“Always direct, Zalman. So very Jewish.”
“My plane leaves in an hour.”
“Then hear me well. In the past, we have bargained over prisoners. You have jailed thousands of our brave fighters, our heroes.”
“Suicide bombers, terrorists, murderers of children.” Arad offers a wry smile. “Nothing personal. Please do continue.”
“Sometimes you have agreed to trade hundreds of our people for one of your own.”
“Not I. My government. I would not have traded, not once.”
“Now we wish to offer a trade of a different proportion. One of ours for two of yours. Give us Mohammed Al-Masri and take back the two soldiers.” He drops cigarette ash on the rug, looksat the
Following diplomatic protocol, the chargé speaks first. “Welcome to Cyprus, Mr. Arad. It’s always good to see you.”
“Likewise, sir,” Zalman Arad says in the clipped accent he acquired in his youth when the British ruled Palestine and Cyprus and much of the Middle East. He follows a protocol of his own. “And this must be Mr. Smith.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir,” Smith says. He has been to Tel Aviv twelve times to sit down with Arad and share intelligence of a distinctly non-commercial nature, but protocol is protocol. “Our guest has already arrived.”
“Oh, very good,” Arad says.
Smith leads him through the magnetometer, which issues not so much as a peep, and up the limestone stairs to a reception room richly paneled in walnut.“Mr. Awad,” Smith says. “I believe you know Mr. Arad.” He smiles. “It occurs to me—your names differ by only one letter. Funny, I never noticed.”
“That is because we are cousins, Mr. Smith,” Zalman Arad says. “I do thank you for making available this very pleasant venue.”
The hint is not lost on Mr. Smith.
Now that they are alone the cousins do not shake hands. They are of course not alone at all: cameras and microphones record their every gesture, every syllable.
Arad takes a seat on a white linen couch opposite Fawaz Awad, himself seated on an identical white linen couch. Between them a plush white rug is emblazoned with the great seal of the United States of America, an eagle in a circle inscribed with the words E Pluribus Unum .
With one-armed grace, Fawaz Awad lights the Gauloise in his gold cigarette holder. “Always a pleasure to see you, Zalman,” he says in English.
The older man responds in Arabic. “How I wish I could say the same.” He pauses. “Of course you are aware the Americans forbid smoking in their buildings.”
“Very health-conscious, the Americans,” Awad returns in Arabic. Why not? The Jew’s Arabic is perfect. “Admirable. If they are so interested in saving lives, they should not send their sons to die in Muslim lands.”
“Not to worry. They will continue to do so.” Arad watches as the other man smokes, very much aware of the first rule of negotiation among Arabs: Never speak first. But Zalman Arad has been doing this for a long time. He is unafraid of breaking the rules of negotiating with Arabs. He made most of them. “Fawaz, now that you have sent a message to our hosts, can we speak candidly?”
“As candidly as possible in a bugged room. How are you, Zalman?”
“Exhausted. Almost sixty years I have been at this. It is time to pass the baton. And you?”
“Nothing personal, but I will not retire from service until the last Jew is drowned in the sea.” He smiles. “Patience is an Arab virtue.”
“How pleasant that you have at least one. You requested this meeting. Here I am.”
“Always direct, Zalman. So very Jewish.”
“My plane leaves in an hour.”
“Then hear me well. In the past, we have bargained over prisoners. You have jailed thousands of our brave fighters, our heroes.”
“Suicide bombers, terrorists, murderers of children.” Arad offers a wry smile. “Nothing personal. Please do continue.”
“Sometimes you have agreed to trade hundreds of our people for one of your own.”
“Not I. My government. I would not have traded, not once.”
“Now we wish to offer a trade of a different proportion. One of ours for two of yours. Give us Mohammed Al-Masri and take back the two soldiers.” He drops cigarette ash on the rug, looksat the
Similar Books
