Beck looked pained. The two men shook hands, and Beck handed him a card, identifying him as the agricultural attaché to the Israeli UN Mission.
FIFTY-FOUR
Stone walked back to his office and phoned Pablo.
“Yes?”
“It’s Stone. I’ve just had lunch with one Aaron Beck of the Mossad. Do you know him?”
“I do, but under a different name: Moishe Aarons. He is quite highly placed in the organization, and I’m surprised to hear that he is in this country.”
“He may have come here to see you,” Stone said. “He knows about your conversation with Lance and his people. He may even have heard about that from Lance himself.”
“Or possibly not,” Pablo replied. “Wherever there are Jews, Mr. Aarons has sources.”
“If you say so.”
“Why do you think he might have come to the United States to see me?”
“Because he was deeply interested in having a conversation with you, along the lines and depth of the one with Lance.”
Pablo snorted. “Tell him that if he has any questions of me, Lance is in a position to answer them.”
“I like that,” Stone said. “Did you make inquiries about why the Israelis might be interested in you?”
“My inquiries, though oblique, lead me to believe they may think I have sold arms to the Palestinians.”
“Ah.”
“You may tell Mr. Aarons the following,” Pablo said. “Quote: I have never knowingly sold arms or ammunition to any person or group representing the cause of the Palestinians. Unquote.”
“ ‘Knowingly’?”
“In my business identities can be . . . flexible, but I am usually aware of with whom I am dealing.”
“I will pass that on to him,” Stone said, “along with your suggestion of asking questions of Lance.”
“I hope that will be an end to it,” Pablo said.
“I hope so, too,” Stone replied. “I’ll let him stew for a while, then call him tomorrow. Goodbye, Pablo.”
“Goodbye, Stone.”
They both hung up.
Joan buzzed him. “A Mr. Herbert Fisher to see you,” she said.
Stone sighed. “Oh, all right, send him in.”
Herbie opened the door, let himself in, and sat down. “Hey, Stone.”
Stone noticed that he was wearing a cashmere tweed jacket, a custom-made shirt, and that he had, apparently, found a barber who disdained gel. “How are you, Herbie?”
“Troubled,” Herbie replied.
“What is troubling you, Herbie?”
“My wife.”