Hostage (4 page)

The first results were disappointing. One person remembered running into him in front of a newspaper stand. Another recalled seeing a fifty-year-old who looked like him entering a flower shop and never coming out. One employee at a train station remembered selling him a ticket to Washington, D.C.; another employee said he had sold him a ticket to Chicago. It didn’t take long before a journalist phoned the police commissioner to obtain additional information about the missing person. Ryan took an unusual step in requesting his silence; once it was given, Ryan informed him of the broad outlines of Shaltiel’s
abduction. When other journalists inquired, Ryan went to their bosses to request their cooperation. They all wanted to know if he was hiding more substantial information; he swore that he was not. For the time being, they knew as much about what had happened as he and his subordinates. He asked them to promise not to release any new detail they might come upon. Each promised, so long as all the others agreed to do the same.

He told them he would keep them informed.

Ryan instructed Saul to call the State Department. “They can get information from the Israel Ministry of Foreign Affairs about the possible Arab terrorists who might be involved in this business,” he said.

Saul returned after only a few minutes.

“They’re already informed. We’ll have the names in a few hours. They don’t think Israel will free anyone. And we won’t either. Looks like Mr. Feigenberg will be going through a bad period.”

Actually, for Shaltiel Feigenberg, things were already going badly, very badly.

Just as in the past. And then too it was in a basement.

Hours went by and the New York police made no progress. Six detectives were working on the case nonstop, checking through the archives, questioning their sources in the Mafia and in Muslim circles. They didn’t come up with one lead.

By mid-afternoon several meetings had been called and many reports filed. Saul had met all of Shaltiel’s relatives and
friends in the area. They consented to having their telephone lines wiretapped. Security forces in several countries were alerted in case the hostage was no longer on American soil.

The abductors contacted Blanca again—three twenty-second phone calls from two different telephone booths, detailing their demands and giving instructions. Their words were few and carefully chosen. There were two voices, one Arabic-inflected, one not. The ultimatum was extended to three days hence. If their demands weren’t met—in other words, if their comrades in arms were not free in three days—the hostage would be executed.

During the third call they gave the names of those to be released: Hassan Idris, Mahmed Yussuf and Rashid Moussa. The first two were in Israeli prisons; the last one, sentenced three months earlier as an accessory to murder, was awaiting the appeal of his case in a maximum-security prison in the United States.

When Saul heard about the calls, he asked to see the prisoners’ records.

Ryan told Saul that he had talked to Dan Ramati, head of Mossad. “Dan confirmed what we already knew. Jerusalem sticks to its political principle of never giving in to terrorist blackmail. He said he was going to send us one of his best agents as a consultant. Did you hear from him yet, Saul?”

“Yes,” Saul said. “His name is Hagai. He’ll be coming with Rachel, his deputy. Hagai sounds like a real professional, though he’s young. He thinks things will turn very sour if we don’t soon find where the hostage is being held. Rachel evidently has been involved in lots of secret operations in Arab countries. She’s very charming.”

“Will Israel allow us to negotiate the abductors’ demands?” Ryan asked.

“Ramati doesn’t think so. The Israeli government insists on our taking a united stand. As you said, they won’t give in to terrorists. If you show you’re weak once, soon you’ll have more of the same.”

A detective eavesdropping asked, “Even if it’s to save the life of a Jewish hostage?”

“Ramati would like to get permission to bring over his entire unit from Tel Aviv to take part in our investigation,” Saul said.

“That’s like admitting that we can’t manage on our own,” said the detective.

“Calm down,” said Ryan. “These guys have helped us more than once. In any case, nothing will be done without the approval of the White House. And Jerusalem.”

“How about inviting Ramati to our meeting tomorrow?” asked Saul.

“Good idea. He’s not one of us; his impressions could be useful. What bothers me is that we’re not getting anywhere.”

A policeman arrived with the records of the three prisoners. “All three are Palestinian,” he said. “The one here is from Hebron. He was arrested for aiding and abetting a homicide, illegal gun possession and for being a member of an underground terrorist group. The two in Israel are from Gaza; they were arrested during an attack on a civilian bus not far from Tel Aviv.”

Ryan wanted their families contacted.

“What if the identities are fake,” Saul asked.

“Let’s find out.”

So, from one day to the next, Shaltiel Feigenberg and his family became famous. Their names and faces appeared on the front pages of newspapers. “The Mysterious Disappearance of a Jewish Storyteller” was one headline. They were discussed on television. President Gerald Ford, when brought up to speed, made his concern publicly known. His secretary of state, Henry Kissinger, followed developments closely. The prospective presidential, senatorial and congressional candidates published statements condemning “all forms of terrorism and proclaiming their solidarity with the Jewish people.” Blanca and her nieces reluctantly submitted to the journalists’ questions to assuage them.

Time
magazine quoted Malka saying that the investigations should focus on anti-Semitic groups: “It’s simple. They’re everywhere. They won’t forgive us for having survived and for having children.” (The magazine pointed out that the hostage had no children.)

The New York Times
published excerpts of a short story that Blanca had found in the jumble of her husband’s desk drawers. A literary agent contacted her and asked whether she wouldn’t consider publishing his short stories in a book that could be produced in a matter of weeks.

An Israeli evening daily printed Shaltiel’s Israeli short story
in its entirety. It was hardly characteristic of his oeuvre, if oeuvre is the right word. It lacked the intellectual, let alone mystical, preoccupations of his other writings. This one was an action narrative.

Brooklyn was in turmoil. Some young Hasidim created a small self-defense group and offered to protect the Feigenberg family. Their elders announced a day of fasting and invited the entire community to join them in reciting the appropriate Psalms: Heaven will help the Jews when men prove to be powerless or indifferent. A great mystic spent the entire night in silence, in strict reverent meditation, trying to locate and protect Shaltiel.

In Israel, for understandable reasons, official circles and the public were following the Feigenberg episode with ever-greater interest. Are people more interested in the fate of a writer, no matter how modest, than in the fate of an anonymous person? Possibly.

The special adviser to Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, General Peleg HarEven, summoned Dan Ramati. Tall, elegant, taut with an angular face, looking perpetually curious and vigilant, he was feared, dreaded and admired.

Ramati, who had been nicknamed “the great,” had had a legendary life. In his youth, before the creation of the Jewish state, in the years 1942 to 1948, he had been a member of the famous Berger Group, whose members were called terrorists by their opponents and resistance fighters by their supporters. The number two man on the English security services’ most-wanted
list, he was reputed for carrying out bomb attacks. In the official structure of the state of Israel, as the director of the Mossad, he had exceptional authority, both professional and moral. His opinions were sought after and respected.

“What do you think of the Feigenberg case?” asked the prime minister.

“I don’t know yet. I’ve sent two of our best people to New York. We have excellent relations with the FBI and the CIA, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I want you to make this affair a priority. And to take charge of it personally.”

“Why? Is there something here I’m unaware of?”

“No. But there
is
something that seems important to me, an intimate connection that has to exist between the Jewish state and the Jewish people—I mean, the Jewish Diaspora. This may be taking place in America, but I think we have a role to play in it. In my mind, wherever a Jew is threatened or persecuted just because he’s Jewish, we’re responsible for his fate. Keep me posted.”

Dan Ramati nodded his head approvingly.

They are in a dilapidated, foul-smelling basement with a few odd chairs and overturned benches. A small window near the ceiling is full of dust and produces a cloudy beam of light. A smell of acrid smoke causes occasional sneezing. Huge cobwebs hang from the ceiling and fill the corners.

There are two men and their hostage. An Arab, Ahmed, is impatient and speaks with a guttural, nervous voice. An Italian, Luigi, seems more easygoing. His voice can be gentle, almost warm at times.

“What do you want from me?” Shaltiel asks. “What have I done to you? Why did you bring me here? Who are you? What am I to you?”

“We can be whatever you want us to be, your salvation or your death,” says Ahmed. “Don’t have any illusions: You can yell until hell freezes over; no one will hear you. And even if they do, no one will care about your fate. They’ll write about you in the newspapers for a few days, then they’ll forget all about you. We have three days left. If our demands aren’t met, too bad for you.”

Shaltiel can vaguely make them out through his ill-adjusted black blindfold. They’re looking hard at him, as if they expect
to see him change in some way. He can see their silhouettes. Odd, it’s not like in the crime films where the prisoner can’t see a thing. Is he dealing with amateurs or professionals?

He can distinguish half their faces, like masks. He sees huge eyes. I’m speaking to eyes, not human beings, Shaltiel thinks.

Somewhere in his subconscious, a voice keeps whispering: This must be a case of mistaken identity, a monumental, stupid mistake. These things happen. They must somehow think I’m a dangerous person. But I’m not a danger to anyone. He had been on his way to Srulik Silber’s, an old collector friend, whose house, near the ocean, was crammed with books and esoteric manuscripts. It was an unplanned visit. Shaltiel was going home and suddenly felt like seeing Srulik, especially since he had to return an eighteenth-century Sabbatean pamphlet that he had borrowed the week before. He liked Srulik. Last month, Shaltiel was telling him that his erstwhile dreams had evaporated a long time ago. The Messiah would not be coming. The world, cursed through its own fault, would not be saved; the Messiah would arrive too late, or, as Kafka said, on the day after. Srulik smiled when Shaltiel said that. “Do you really think I don’t know?” he asked.

He never got to meet Srulik again because Satan meddled. Footsteps came up behind him, someone was suddenly rushing, shadows were approaching. Shaltiel walked on, heedless. He was struck on the back of his neck and collapsed, his head on fire. As he regained consciousness, everything was swirling around. The stars were falling with a thunderous noise.

And what about the book he was going to return to Srulik, full of calculations sketched out in concentric circles? It was meant for the initiated and was particularly interesting. Why
was everything being sabotaged by some curse plunging him into this makeshift prison?

There is an unpleasant half-light. He is
clinging
. At first, to pass the time, he plays mental chess against an imaginary opponent. If he wins, he thinks, God will smile down on him; he’ll get his freedom back. But it’s difficult. The white bishop makes a marvelous opening. The king is too old, too slow. The queen is too nimble, too quick, too eager to win. The knight is a prisoner. The game is interrupted by his torturers.