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Authors: Charles McCarry
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off, the bullet blasting a crater in the concrete wall. Hawk was quite light, all bones except for a few pounds of wasted muscle. His flaccid face quivered like Jell-O, hishead snapped back and forth, his long gray hair flew. I was afraid that I might have gone on too long and broken something. So much for adrenaline and being out of practice.
Despite the gunshot and a loud glottal outcry from Hawk, Joaõ did not appear. This either meant that Hawk had given the only possible witness to whatever he’d had in mind for me the rest of the night off, or that Joaõ was not the sort of fellow to intrude on a private moment.
There is nothing like a good shaking to improve conversation. Generally no physical harm is done, but it does seem to awaken fundamental collective memories of encounters with cave bears. Only a moment ago Hawk had mentioned my being in his power. He now had a better understanding of who was in whose power, and was no doubt kicking himself for not just shooting me between the eyes without warning instead of making a fancy speech. Had I been a smaller man he might have done just that, but perhaps he doubted his ability to carry or drag a hulk like me to that churning stomach of a last resting place that he had mentioned. On the other hand, maybe he’d just been kidding. But in that case, why cock the pistol?
I poured him another glass of cognac. He lay sprawled in his chair where I had thrown him, twitching and gasping for breath. Apart from these involuntary movements he looked dead or close to it—eyes staring, skin a paler shade of yellow, nervous system apparently shut down. He was quite old. Perhaps he
was
dying.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “But I don’t know you well enough to have you pointing a gun at me.”
His eyes regained some expression. Putting the glass to his lips I said, “Here, drink this. It’ll do you good.”
Hawk, eager to obey, took more brandy than he could swallow and went off into a coughing fit. I pounded him on the back. He recovered. I put the glass down on the table beside him and refilled it. He was living now in a world of surprise, and I believed that he was looking at me in an entirely different way. What I haddone to him was, I admit, the act of a bully. I was a foot taller and probably forty pounds heavier than he was, not to mention at least twenty years younger. But playing the bully was the whole point, if you leave aside the element of self-defense. Hawk, after all, had belonged to a culture of bullies—people who punched old men into submission, set fire to rabbis’ beards, shot children for sport, kicked women into filthy railroad cars. Bullying was something he understood. He was still in his chair, seemingly too subdued to move without permission.
This was hardly the moment to reassure him. I laid his Walther on the table beside me.
“Now I hope we can talk business,” I said.
Hawk, avoiding my eyes, nodded his head. He was, as they used to say in the Schutzstaffel, at my orders.
12
When the interview began my intention was to help Simon Hawk calm down, so I chose what I thought would be a neutral subject.
“Why don’t we begin with something that truly interests me?” I said. “May I ask where you picked up your amazing command of English?”
“I grew up in England,” Hawk replied. “I was sent to the best schools.”
“Which ones?”
He sensed a trap. This was vital information. If I knew his school and his approximate age I could ferret out his true name. And wouldn’t the Mossad be delighted to have that information?
“Simon,” I said. “Relax. I mean you no harm.”
“Worksop College,” he said at last, in tremolo, as if divulging the key to the innermost code of the Third Reich.
This was a new one on me. Where was it exactly?
“Nottinghamshire,” he said.
“Ah, Sherwood Forest. You must have fond memories.”
“Right,” said Hawk with deep sarcasm. “Filthy weather, vile food, the jolly old birch drawing
Despite the gunshot and a loud glottal outcry from Hawk, Joaõ did not appear. This either meant that Hawk had given the only possible witness to whatever he’d had in mind for me the rest of the night off, or that Joaõ was not the sort of fellow to intrude on a private moment.
There is nothing like a good shaking to improve conversation. Generally no physical harm is done, but it does seem to awaken fundamental collective memories of encounters with cave bears. Only a moment ago Hawk had mentioned my being in his power. He now had a better understanding of who was in whose power, and was no doubt kicking himself for not just shooting me between the eyes without warning instead of making a fancy speech. Had I been a smaller man he might have done just that, but perhaps he doubted his ability to carry or drag a hulk like me to that churning stomach of a last resting place that he had mentioned. On the other hand, maybe he’d just been kidding. But in that case, why cock the pistol?
I poured him another glass of cognac. He lay sprawled in his chair where I had thrown him, twitching and gasping for breath. Apart from these involuntary movements he looked dead or close to it—eyes staring, skin a paler shade of yellow, nervous system apparently shut down. He was quite old. Perhaps he
was
dying.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “But I don’t know you well enough to have you pointing a gun at me.”
His eyes regained some expression. Putting the glass to his lips I said, “Here, drink this. It’ll do you good.”
Hawk, eager to obey, took more brandy than he could swallow and went off into a coughing fit. I pounded him on the back. He recovered. I put the glass down on the table beside him and refilled it. He was living now in a world of surprise, and I believed that he was looking at me in an entirely different way. What I haddone to him was, I admit, the act of a bully. I was a foot taller and probably forty pounds heavier than he was, not to mention at least twenty years younger. But playing the bully was the whole point, if you leave aside the element of self-defense. Hawk, after all, had belonged to a culture of bullies—people who punched old men into submission, set fire to rabbis’ beards, shot children for sport, kicked women into filthy railroad cars. Bullying was something he understood. He was still in his chair, seemingly too subdued to move without permission.
This was hardly the moment to reassure him. I laid his Walther on the table beside me.
“Now I hope we can talk business,” I said.
Hawk, avoiding my eyes, nodded his head. He was, as they used to say in the Schutzstaffel, at my orders.
12
When the interview began my intention was to help Simon Hawk calm down, so I chose what I thought would be a neutral subject.
“Why don’t we begin with something that truly interests me?” I said. “May I ask where you picked up your amazing command of English?”
“I grew up in England,” Hawk replied. “I was sent to the best schools.”
“Which ones?”
He sensed a trap. This was vital information. If I knew his school and his approximate age I could ferret out his true name. And wouldn’t the Mossad be delighted to have that information?
“Simon,” I said. “Relax. I mean you no harm.”
“Worksop College,” he said at last, in tremolo, as if divulging the key to the innermost code of the Third Reich.
This was a new one on me. Where was it exactly?
“Nottinghamshire,” he said.
“Ah, Sherwood Forest. You must have fond memories.”
“Right,” said Hawk with deep sarcasm. “Filthy weather, vile food, the jolly old birch drawing
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