Hard Rain (19 page)

"Yes?"

"Sarah Cardozo to see the consul," Mrs. Cardozo said briskly.

"It's the Sabbath," the metallic voice said. "Sarah Sarah go away. Do come back some other day."

Mrs. Cardozo rang the bell again.

"You don't speak Yiddish?" the gatepost asked.

"Shabbish the shabbash," Mrs. Cardozo said, "let me in or I'll climb the gate."

"You'll be electrocuted," the voice said. "Who are your bodyguards?"

The camera whirred more energetically and increased its arc so that it could take in Mrs. Cardozo's companions. She pointed to her right. "My son Simon, Mr. Rosenblatt." She pointed to her left. "My houseguest, Izzy Sanders, an Israeli like yourself. Now let us in." She shook her umbrella at the camera. "I don't like today's climate."

"How do you know my name?" the little loudspeaker asked.

"We met before," Mrs. Cardozo said. "I gave you money. I'm the chairperson of the Committee for Trees in the Desert."

The gate clicked open. Mrs. Cardozo pushed it with the point of her umbrella and marched in. Two swarthy young men bounded from the building's front door at the end of the path and blocked the way. They said Shalom and ordered Simon and Izzy to raise their hands and turn around.

"
Shalom,
" Mrs. Cardozo said. "It means 'peace,' so be peaceful with us."

"What do you have under your arm?" asked the young man who was frisking Cardozo.

"My gun," Cardozo said. "You can take it out. I'm a policeman, my card is in the breast pocket of my jacket. You can take the card out too."

The young man read the card and put it back. "You can have the gun again when you leave."

"You won't feel me," Mrs. Cardozo said, "but you can look in my bag." She snapped the bag closed again. "We come in peace, on a matter of life."

"Or death," said an elderly man with an unkempt beard. He walked down the steps leading to the front door. "Some visitors wish us death. We take precautions. I'm sorry they're rude." Mr. Rosenblatt's wide shoulders slumped and his long spine curved forward, but the sadness of his physical bearing was belied by a sparkle in his slanting Slavic eyes above strong cheekbones. He offered Mrs. Cardozo his arm.

Cardozo bounced up the steps, Izzy slouching behind him. The consul spoke to Izzy in Hebrew. Izzy had trouble formulating his hesitant answer.

"A deserter?" Rosenblatt asked in Dutch.

"I'll explain everything," Mrs. Cardozo said. "I remember there's a room in this building, with chairs to sit on. It's time for a glass of beet juice, it seems to me. All in good time."

"Time," the consul said, as he guided his visitors into a large back room, mostly furnished with computer gear, placed haphazardly on plastic-topped tables, "I don't really have, due to being at war forever."

"No!" Izzy tore at his tousled hair with both hands. "No more war, please," he shouted. "Stop it. At once."

"We are a little crazy today?" the consul asked.

Izzy glanced at a computer screen, then covered his eyes. His shoulders shook.

"Izzy is a good boy," Mrs. Cardozo said. "He went to school with my son Samuel. I knew him well. Izzy is an idealist and became an Israeli and fought in your wars."

"Our wars," the consul said.

"No," Mrs. Cardozo said. "Maybe the first few, but you can't go on exchanging eyes for eyes, teeth for teeth. Exchange hearts instead."

"They have none, Mrs. Cardozo."

"Maybe we tore them out?"

"You preach love at me?" the consul asked. "Let's hear about love. Where is this love?"

"Here," Mrs. Cardozo said, touching her breast, "I brought you some today, you can plant it in your desert."

"What do I give in return?" the consul asked. "Thank you for your love. Now what do you want?"

"A letter," Mrs. Cardozo said. "For Izzy here. He needs papers. He can't hide forever. He works a lousy job and lives in a hole in the wall. Stop chasing him. Izzy stays in my house now, but he needs more than chicken soup and noodles. Give him back his identity."

"Talk to me, Izzy," the consul said. "Tell me what happened. You gave up the good fight?"

"It wasn't a good fight," Izzy said. "In the beginning, maybe it was. They shot at me first, so I wanted to shoot back and the colonel leaped ahead, shouting, 'Follow me.' The sand was all around us, the biblical sand, and I saw Moses and Aaron leading us on, to the Promised Land for us Chosen People. All the bullets whining past us and into the colonel were fired by the wicked Pharaoh, who had whipped us because we couldn't build the pyramids fast enough. I placed my machine on the colonel and his body sheltered me, and my bullets brought the charging SS men down, and the guard who sprinkled gasoline on my grandfather's beard and then struck a match."

"Oh, yes," the consul said. "I did that in Warsaw, but the corpse I hid behind was my older brother, and my rifle malfunctioned. I had to scurry away like a rat in a sewer."

"That's how Izzy was living here, when my policeman son Simon found him," Mrs. Cardozo said.

"We have better rifles now," the consul said. "Good machinery helps. Our airplanes strike anywhere. It's not good, but it's better."

"Machines!" wailed Izzy, looking around the room.

"Izzy tells us he had shellshock," Cardozo said, "after the battles. He fired a bazooka into a tent."

"The kids that came running out," Izzy whispered, "were afire, like my grandfather's beard."

"Then Izzy got transferred," Cardozo said.

"That was worse," Izzy said slowly. "The flying machines informed my machine and I helped to compute the data and my machine programmed drones and the drones zoomed over the desert and were killing kids again. The kids were dots on my screen. My machine penetrated into the enemy's machines and made them turn around and kill more kids, and set the Old men's beards afire. I did that." Izzy pulled frantically at his tie.

"So Izzy came back here," Mrs. Cardozo said. "Now he has no papers. He lives in fear. I can't cure him unless you help."

Mr. Rosenblatt buried his fingers in his beard.

"You have a beard too," Cardozo said kindly.

The consul nodded. "My beard flows in freedom. I'll defend yours for you. So Izzy no longer is a freedom fighter?" He looked at Izzy. "Please give me your full name and army number."

The consul fingered one of his keyboards. "Let's see what we know." The Teletype clicked. It kept clicking after Mr. Rosenblatt stopped touching his keys. He read the answer that lit up on the screen. "Yes, that's right, we are looking for you, but we may have found you already. Let me try something else." He moved his hands to another set of keys. The screen came alive again. The consul looked at Izzy. "Ezechial Sanders? Illegally employed by the Banque du Credit? Residing in Mad Nun's Alley?"

"Yes," Izzy whispered.

"We can't arrest you here," Mr. Rosenblatt said sadly. "It would be better for you if you gave yourself up. I'll have you flown back to Tel Aviv and you can explain your reasons to the court. If you had battle fatigue before, you'll probably be forgiven and your guilt will take wing and fly back to hell."

"There's nothing to forgive," Mrs. Cardozo said. "Izzy fought the wrong fight. You won your wars, now treat the enemy with respect."

"It's not so easy," Mr. Rosenblatt said. "There are rules. Izzy broke them. He also betrayed us. The Banque du Credit finances surreptitious activity, buys illegal oil, lends the profit to the enemy, helps them to buy more arms."

"You won't give Izzy a letter to the Dutch authorities." Mrs. Cardozo asked, "so that he can apply for a passport here again and live a useful life?"

"No," Mr. Rosenblatt said.

"Mother?" Cardozo said. "There's a nice garden outside. Take Izzy for a walk. Let me talk to Mr. Rosenblatt for a minute."

"You see," the consul said, "I can't just give. There's no end to giving. We'll give it all away and I'll be behind my brother's corpse again, in a Warsaw alley, and my rifle won't work, the rifle we gave money away for so that a crook could make a profit."

"Exactly," Cardozo said. "Mother, please take Izzy for a walk."

"Come along, Izzy," Mrs. Cardozo said. "I saw some weeds in the garden, we'll go and pull them out, for free, as our gift."

"Now," the consul said to Cardozo. "You're a policeman? How did you meet with Izzy?"

"I agree with you," Cardozo said. "I fight the good fight too. My department now battles the Banque du Credit. I met Izzy there. He has changed, but I recognized him as my brother Samuel's friend. I thought I could use Izzy."

"You don't want to save him?"

"My mother will save Izzy," Cardozo said. "She flies in heaven. I grovel in the dust."

Mr. Rosenblatt read his screen. "We were aware that Izzy worked at the Banque du Credit, but didn't worry too much. Izzy got to the bank through the drug trade. He must have met other Israeli deserters who have started coffee shops here and sell hashish and maryuana. Their accounts are with the Banque du Credit. Izzy has good computer training. The bank must have hired him without papers because that way he would owe them. They have a grip on him because they could give him away to us."

"So remove Izzy's fear," Cardozo said. "Then he can help me better."

"To do what?" the consul asked.

"To bring the bank down."

Mr. Rosenblatt pressed buttons. The screen faded and then filled up again. "The Banque du Credit is owned by Willem Fernandus. Fernandus also runs that phony Society for Help Abroad that controls the semiofficial canteens that are set up by the city to keep unemployed youths off the street. The canteens sell drugs. The drugs are partly Arab. There's a lot of money made and it certainly does not go to the needy abroad. The Society also exploits a sex club and brothel that caters to the high and mighty."

"A mess," Cardozo said.

"Run by powerful men," the consul said. "Here are more names. Baron Bart de la Faille, Martin IJsbreker."

"IJsbreker is dead."

"Yes," the consul said. "I have that here too. A suicide."

"With two bullets?" Cardozo asked.

"I see." The consul smiled at Cardozo. "What department are you with?"

"Homicide," Cardozo said.

"Isn't there some reorganization scheduled at your Headquarters?" The consul switched off the screen. "I hear your commissaris was relieved of his duties."

"And I'm on vacation," Cardozo said, "and the adjutant and the sergeant who work directly under the commissaris are respectively on sick leave and suspended without pay. The team is complete and active. We have other support."

The consul scratched his beard. "What's your rank?"

"Detective constable first class."

"Not so high," the consul said.

"The commissaris is under surveillance," Cardozo said. "He doesn't know about my angle yet. I want to surprise him. Could you look at your screen again?"

"What do you want to know?"

"How good Izzy is with computers."

"I just checked that," the consul said. "Lieutenant Sanders was second in charge of a mobile center that broke into the enemy's communications. Izzy must be very good."

"Write that letter," Cardozo said. "It's a small thing. You have the authority to clear him."

"Why was IJsbreker shot?" the consul asked.

"I think Fernandus wanted him out of the way," Cardozo said. "There was a struggle for power. Three junkies were killed, after they removed IJsbreker's wealth."

"So they're that ruthless?" The consul got up and looked out the window. "Your mother is weeding our garden in the rain."

"What is Izzy doing?"

"He's being useless," the consul said. "Sitting on a rock. Talking to himself."

"A letter from you will uncrazy him," Cardozo said. "Then he'll be useful again. That bank is an enemy fortress; we can blow it up."

"My specialty," the consul said. "I blew up a lot of buildings. I got shellshock too, and was transferred to diplomacy. I saw a dead Arab who looked just like my Warsaw brother. The Arab was killed by a device that I placed."

"We'll do all the work cleanly," Cardozo said, "for mutual profit. Just write the letter."

"What if you went away?" the consul asked, "you and your dear mother?"

"And Izzy?" Cardozo asked.

The consul's lips became a pink nipple that pushed itself from the gray curls of his beard.

"The kiss of compassion?" Cardozo asked. "All is forgiven and forgotten?"

"Forgive we don't," the consul said.

"All right," Cardozo said, "forgetting is fine too." He pointed at the files strewn about on the tables. You have quite an administration here. In administrations, much is forgotten. Forget your charges."

"Well?" Mrs. Cardozo asked in the garden.

"It's okay," Cardozo said.

"He said that?"

"He did not say that," Cardozo said. "And he has lost something now, his administration is a shambles."

"What?" Izzy asked.

"His charges against you, it seems," Cardozo said. "When I left he had stopped looking. Apply for your Dutch passport. I don't think this consulate will object."

\\\\\ 18 /////

"I
S SHE BEAUTIFUL?" THE COMMISSARIS'S WIFE asked, watching how her husband arranged his new pale blue tie, standing very straight in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway.

"Yes," the commissaris said.

"Whowho?" asked Carl, swaying his unbalanced body into the hall. "That's a nice tiehie."

Mrs. Jongs dragged the vacuum cleaner behind her. "Bob also sees other women. He has three at home, and me, I'm his wife."

"Who?" the commissaris's wife asked. "I thought your womanizing was over now. All this gallumphing about is getting you into trouble, Jan. You need a much stricter routine. I wish you could go back to work."

"She's part of my work," the commissaris said. "She's my secret agent and she's young and beautiful, so I put on my new tie."

"Secret agent indeed," his wife said, brushing his sleeves. "And I polished your shoes. Is she the secretary you're sending to the whorehouse?"

"Where are my car keys?" the commissaris asked. "I've got to go. I'll be late. I had them here on the table."