P. Deutermann - The Last Man

“Yes, Colonel. Chess, wasn’t it? Come in.”

The two large men remained outside as Skuratov came through, trailing a faintly medicinal smell. He was a head taller than Ellerstein, but stooped and walking with an effort. He was wearing a dark suit. He took off his hat and proceeded directly to one of the two leather armchairs in the living room, where he sat down with a sigh of relief. He did not unbutton his suit jacket, and it hung in limp folds from his thin chest.

“May I get you something — a cognac, perhaps?” Ellerstein asked. He recognized that he was stalling for time but wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just that ghastly face.

The colonel stared up at him with those unusual gray eyes. “A cognac would be very kind,” he said, touching his lips with a handkerchief.

Ellerstein went to the bar and poured two snifters of VSOP. He handed one to the colonel, gave a small salud, then sat down.

“So, Colonel Skuratov?”

“This concerns an American engineer, one David Hall, who is visiting Israel just now.”

“Ah, yes,” Ellerstein replied, sipping his cognac. He decided to say as little as possible. Israel Gulder was going to sit right up when he called this little visit in.

“It is my understanding that you have met with this American and helped him to arrange his trip down to Metsadá. Along with Professor Ressner.”

“Yes, I did. At the request of the ministry. May I ask, Colonel — of what interest this is to the security apparatus at Dimona?”

“No, you may not,” Skuratov said, keeping the twisted smile on his face, the smile that did not quite reach those gray eyes. He took a birdlike sip of cognac. “Forgive my bad manners, Professor. What I meant is, of course you would ask, but I am not at liberty to make an answer. Tell me something: Did the American tell you much about himself?”

Ellerstein considered the question. He had to be careful here. What had Gulder said — piece of cake? He did not want to become Skuratov’s piece of cake.

“We had drinks, once, no, twice. He said he was a nuclear engineer and that he had worked both in industry and for the government.”

Skuratov took another small sip of cognac. “Did he tell you about a scandal he precipitated in Washington?”

“He said he’d gotten into trouble with his company for being a whistle-blower.”

“Yes. A whistle-blower. Such a quaint expression. Did he explain what it was that he was blowing his whistle at?”

Ellerstein sat back in his chair. “Not really,” he said. “Or if he did, I wasn’t paying much attention. He did say his company fired him and then there was a lawsuit. Now, as I understand it, he no longer needs to work for money.”

“Now he is here. This man who does not need a job anymore.”

“Well, what of it, Colonel?”

Skuratov put down his glass. “Here’s the thing, Professor,” he said. “We think there is a chance that this American is, how to put this… connected? That he is involved in the American intelligence apparatus somehow. They do that, their CIA. They have what they call… consultants.”

Skuratov was looking at him intently. It took everything Ellerstein had to keep his face impassive.

“So?” he asked. Consultant. He wanted to swallow but did not want Skuratov to see him do that.

The colonel blinked once, twice, and then changed gears. “Are you aware that the American and Mrs. Ressner are seeing each other?”

This time Ellerstein let surprise register on his face. “Really? I would have thought she was still angry with him. How do you know this?”

“Let’s just say it’s my business to know. Frankly, Professor, we are worried about this American. These are delicate times in our relationship with the United States. There are seismic shifts occurring in the balances of power here in the Middle East, and our own nuclear deterrent is a factor in those balances. We find his Metsadá quest somewhat unbelievable, and therefore we are asking ourselves what his real purpose for being here is.”

Ellerstein shrugged again and drank his cognac. The professional spooks always assumed the royal “we” when they were fishing for information. He decided to probe a little. “You think David Hall is a spy?” he asked. “If he is a spy, what the hell is the connection between Metsadá and Dimona security, if I may ask. Oh, sorry, I forgot.”

Again, the smile that was not a smile. “He went out at night, yes? Twice?”

“Up to the fortress, yes.”

“How does anyone know that, Professor? The up-to-the-fortress part, I mean?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dimona is only forty kilometers from Metsadá, Professor.”

“So, what? He drove down to Dimona in the middle of the night? And did what? Did someone find a vehicle? Did he take pictures — better picture than their satellites can take? I rather doubt that, Colonel.”

Skuratov continued to stare at him, as if he were some kind of specimen under a microscope. Then he put down his glass. “You are close to Professor Ressner, yes?” he asked, changing tack again.

Ellerstein felt another tingle of alarm. “Yes, she is a good friend. I have helped her at the university.”

“I think you can help us, Professor. It is like this: We would like you to keep an eye on Mrs. Ressner for as long as she is seeing this American. Oh, I don’t mean chaperone them or anything like that, but see if you can find out what they talk about, what questions he asks, if any, especially about Dimona. That sort of thing.”

Ellerstein shook his head in wonder. This was exactly what Gulder wanted him to do: keep an eye on Yehudit Ressner. “Look,” he said. “I can arrange to see her often enough. I can even make a casual inquiry about the American, but beyond that, well, you don’t know her. I can’t just pry like that.”

Skuratov heaved himself to his feet, grunting with the effort. “That would be sufficient, Professor. You know how we security people are — professionally paranoid. The American may be exactly what he says he is. A fool for history. However, if she has doubts? Concerns? Anything about his behavior? These are things I need to know, and quickly. There is much I cannot tell you, of course.”

There always was, Ellerstein thought as Skuratov handed him a card. “We ask these things as a favor to the government, Professor. We don’t want you playing spy or counterspy. We’d just like some informal feedback. Information. That’s the key. Pieces to a puzzle.”

The colonel was smiling again. For some reason, Ellerstein couldn’t resist. “Like a distant consultant, then, Colonel?”

Skuratov’s smile held in place. “Exactly, Professor. Like a consultant.”

Once Skuratov and his bodyguards had left, Ellerstein poured himself another cognac. He shouldn’t have said that, he thought. He sat down to call Gulder but then wondered if his phones were tapped. Skuratov had watchers on Yehudit and the American, Hall. He could be watching Ellerstein as well. Or listening.

Gulder already knew that the colonel was watching Ressner and the American, so he would call Gulder in the morning, from a random office phone at the university, and tell him about Skuratov’s nocturnal visit. On the face of it, he could see why Skuratov had come to see him. Then again, it could also mean that the old Russian sensed movement in his backfield, and perhaps suspected that the government might be aware of the new Zealots. He might even suspect that Yossi Ellerstein was a government agent himself. What better way to neutralize him than by enlisting his support? Ellerstein was in no position to say no to Skuratov without revealing his own mission. Even the government did not know the breadth and depth of this new conspiracy. Or did they?