Read Online THRILLER: The Galilee Plot: (International Biological Terror, The Mossad, and... A Self-contended Couple) by Shlomo Kalo - Free Book Online
Authors: Shlomo Kalo
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you, he wants you to go down to meet him, to discuss something important
and extremely urgent. The reception clerk says the man looks suspicious to her.
Apparently an Arab – according to her guess and judging by the name she read in
his passport: Abd Rahman. She reckons the best thing to do is tell him you’re
not in your room, or you don’t want to see him…”
Well, this was it, this
was what Shmulik warned me about. In the “Combat Squads” we had learned that
when you go out to meet an enemy, you should make sure you have equality of
forces, carry a gun in your pocket at least. Of course, the best advice was to
try to occupy a position of decisively superior strength.
“It seems to me, the best
thing,” – my wife commented, sensing my indecision, “is to accept the clerk’s
advice. She sounded scared out of her wits…”
“She’s as nervous as a
baby mouse!” I said without thinking.
“I hope you’re not
intending to go down there!”
“That is the most
appropriate thing to do!” I declared provocatively, “After all, no one’s going
to dare to kidnap me or attack me in front of witnesses.” I opened a
counter-offensive, relying on the axiom that the best form of defence is attack.
“The detective novels you read and the suspense films you watch, have broken
down all the barriers of logic in your muddled mind.”
My wife was silent for a
long moment.
It was easy to guess at
the struggle going on in her heart, everything revolving around the question,
how to stop me going down to the hotel reception, where the fragile clerk was
sitting, scared to death; this was actually a good reason for not panicking,
because if a kidnapper or hired assassin came, he would make a point of presenting
a reassuring appearance, and on no account would he arouse fear or draw any
kind of attention, thus jeopardising his project.
I decided to go down
although I realised that my decision was based, in part, on a childish need to
prove myself, to reassure my wife and perhaps to teach her, for future
reference, that no purpose is ever served by panic and hysteria. I put on heavy
boots, bearing in mind that if fisticuffs should ensue, any kick from a boot
such as this, designed for climbing in the Alps, would put a leg in plaster for
an appreciable time.
“I’ll be right back!” I
announced with a smile, intended to express unshakable confidence in the
cultural tradition of the world, and to put firmly in their place all the
action and suspense programmes which cram the television screens to the point
of suffocation.
My wife tried to convince
me that if she were to accompany me, the meeting would take on the cachet of
official family business, and this would have a profoundly calming effect.
“I don’t think there’s
going to be any need for that kind of calming,” I commented, “and you would
just be adding to the tension and unease. When all’s said and done, look at the
name my visitor has chosen for himself: ‘Rahman’, i.e. ‘merciful’. It’s a name
that speaks for itself.”
I bolstered my wife’s
faltering spirits with reassurances and expressions of confidence, and left the
room. I went down in the lift, then along a narrow, dimly-lit corridor to the
hotel reception. Behind the desk stood the young duty clerk, and when she saw
me she nearly fainted. I looked around. In one of the armchairs sat a man,
whose appearance immediately explained the reception clerk’s unconventional
behaviour.
The face was long, but not
over-long and not narrow – in fact, long, broad and swarthy, scored by two deep
grooves, with a crease in the cheek that was scorched by the desert sun. The
eyes blazed. This was a Bedou with a lot of self-confidence, as if located in
his natural environment – the desert. My quick glance unnerved him for a
split-second. The first sentence that sprang into my mind, clear and acute,
was: “He’s done this before.” He has already committed murder, and there’s no
reason
and extremely urgent. The reception clerk says the man looks suspicious to her.
Apparently an Arab – according to her guess and judging by the name she read in
his passport: Abd Rahman. She reckons the best thing to do is tell him you’re
not in your room, or you don’t want to see him…”
Well, this was it, this
was what Shmulik warned me about. In the “Combat Squads” we had learned that
when you go out to meet an enemy, you should make sure you have equality of
forces, carry a gun in your pocket at least. Of course, the best advice was to
try to occupy a position of decisively superior strength.
“It seems to me, the best
thing,” – my wife commented, sensing my indecision, “is to accept the clerk’s
advice. She sounded scared out of her wits…”
“She’s as nervous as a
baby mouse!” I said without thinking.
“I hope you’re not
intending to go down there!”
“That is the most
appropriate thing to do!” I declared provocatively, “After all, no one’s going
to dare to kidnap me or attack me in front of witnesses.” I opened a
counter-offensive, relying on the axiom that the best form of defence is attack.
“The detective novels you read and the suspense films you watch, have broken
down all the barriers of logic in your muddled mind.”
My wife was silent for a
long moment.
It was easy to guess at
the struggle going on in her heart, everything revolving around the question,
how to stop me going down to the hotel reception, where the fragile clerk was
sitting, scared to death; this was actually a good reason for not panicking,
because if a kidnapper or hired assassin came, he would make a point of presenting
a reassuring appearance, and on no account would he arouse fear or draw any
kind of attention, thus jeopardising his project.
I decided to go down
although I realised that my decision was based, in part, on a childish need to
prove myself, to reassure my wife and perhaps to teach her, for future
reference, that no purpose is ever served by panic and hysteria. I put on heavy
boots, bearing in mind that if fisticuffs should ensue, any kick from a boot
such as this, designed for climbing in the Alps, would put a leg in plaster for
an appreciable time.
“I’ll be right back!” I
announced with a smile, intended to express unshakable confidence in the
cultural tradition of the world, and to put firmly in their place all the
action and suspense programmes which cram the television screens to the point
of suffocation.
My wife tried to convince
me that if she were to accompany me, the meeting would take on the cachet of
official family business, and this would have a profoundly calming effect.
“I don’t think there’s
going to be any need for that kind of calming,” I commented, “and you would
just be adding to the tension and unease. When all’s said and done, look at the
name my visitor has chosen for himself: ‘Rahman’, i.e. ‘merciful’. It’s a name
that speaks for itself.”
I bolstered my wife’s
faltering spirits with reassurances and expressions of confidence, and left the
room. I went down in the lift, then along a narrow, dimly-lit corridor to the
hotel reception. Behind the desk stood the young duty clerk, and when she saw
me she nearly fainted. I looked around. In one of the armchairs sat a man,
whose appearance immediately explained the reception clerk’s unconventional
behaviour.
The face was long, but not
over-long and not narrow – in fact, long, broad and swarthy, scored by two deep
grooves, with a crease in the cheek that was scorched by the desert sun. The
eyes blazed. This was a Bedou with a lot of self-confidence, as if located in
his natural environment – the desert. My quick glance unnerved him for a
split-second. The first sentence that sprang into my mind, clear and acute,
was: “He’s done this before.” He has already committed murder, and there’s no
reason
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