Zion by Colin Falconer

think she’d be rather good at it.”
    He went out and was soon lost among the Friday evening crowds around the Gate.
     
     
     
    Katamon
     
    Katy Antonius was the widow of the most famous Arab historian and writer of his century, while she herself was the most celebrated socialite and hostess in Arab Jerusalem. Guests to her Friday night soirées included the most prominent members of the British and Arab communities. Henry Talbot accepted a gin and water from the white-jacketed Arab waiter and joined a group that included the Anglican Bishop of Jerusalem and the High Commissioner’s Private Secretary. The Haganah had blown up a bridge in Galilee and it was all anyone could talk about it, it seemed.
    He found it hard to concentrate on the conversation. He kept replaying his conversation with the Shai agent in his mind.
    If we don’t get tangible results we’ll destroy you.
    His attention wandered. Polished parquet floors, the clink of ice, dinner suits, the sparkle of a bracelet, soft ripples of laughter. And over there Elizabeth in a black cocktail gown, her father’s emeralds glittering at her throat, offering her snow white neck as she laughed. A new predator moving in for the kill tonight. Who was it now? Ah, of course, Chisholm, erect and martial in his red-braided khaki uniform and Sam Browne.
    “I think it’s about time we imposed martial law. What do you think, Henry?”
    The Private Secretary was addressing him. Talbot turned back to the group with practiced ease. “I should say it’s about time we showed them what we’re made of,” he said. In his experience, such opinions covered lapses in most conversations. “Now if you’ll just excuse me, I must have a quick word with my wife.”
    She had moved outside onto the balcony. The night was pleasantly cool, a faint breeze stirred the trees carrying with it the scent of pine and rosemary. A bell tolled dolorously in the Old City.
    Elizabeth and Chisholm were locked in whispered conversation, their hands almost touching. Talbot coughed to signal his presence.
    “Ah, Henry!’ Elizabeth said. ‘Just in time. Major Chisholm and I were just discussing the Jewish problem.”
    “Have you found a solution?”
    “Our feeling is there should be a little more intercourse between the two sides. Don’t you agree?”
    Chisholm grinned wolfishly. How wonderful if he fell backwards off the balcony right now. “The most important thing is that people don’t get hurt,’ Talbot said.
    “You’re too soft, Henry.” She grinned wickedly. “That’s always been your trouble.”
    “I just think negotiation is better than confrontation.”
    “Well I’m for anything that brings people closer together.’
    The little tramp.
    “Are we still talking about the same thing, Lizzie?” he said, using the diminutive she detested.
    Chisholm deflected the conversation back to his favorite topic. “I think these kikes have been allowed to go too far. If I was in charge of the army I’d do things a little differently, I can tell you. Hitler had the right idea about some things, in my opinion.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Like your wife says, Talbot. You’re too soft.”
    “Almost flaccid, in fact,” Elizabeth said.
    “Looks like it’s time to eat,” Chisholm said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
    He brushed past him on his way back to the dining-room.
    Talbot looked at his wife. On heat, he thought. I can smell her. “Not quite your type, is he?”
    “I don’t know. I quite fancy a bit of rough, occasionally.”
    “Do you have to be so brazen about it?”
    “What’s the point of pretending anymore?” She put her glass on the balustrade and took his arm. “I shan’t embarrass you, old thing. I promise not to fuck him until after dinner. Shall we eat?”
     
     
     
    They started with Arab mezze ; tiny dishes of hummus , brain salad, eggplant, and stuffed vine leaves. Chisholm dominated the conversation, expressing the view that the Jews should be brought to