Chapter 3

Three years later

I put down my dog-eared copy of Fateful Triangle and rubbed my eyes. My mother’s head appeared around the edge of my bedroom door. “Joshie? Bedtime soon?”

“Give me thirty more minutes,” She disappeared, and I winced: my voice had dropped into command register automatically. It was happening all the time now: I didn’t mean to control my mother; it just happened. She didn’t even blink any more.

It had been necessary, in the beginning. I had needed her to sign the papers withdrawing me from school, then to pay for the books that lined my walls. Then I’d pushed her to fund my trips to Toronto and Ottawa, where I had interrogated ambassadors, talked to government officials, and studied political systems. But now – too often – talking to her as a command was automatic and unconscious, like ordering a child.

I turned back to my book. Like most other things, understanding political systems was easier if you started early and studied often. I’d done little else for the last three years.

Angelina’s plan hadn’t concentrated on legislative processes or political philosophy. Its sole focus was the application of political power: who had it, where they could be found, and how to leverage them to achieve her aims.

My phone pinged. Shabbat had passed; the rabbi I had recruited to teach me Hebrew had responded to my question about an arcane grammar inconsistency. It had been a relatively easy language to pick up after Arabic, especially since I had only studied the spoken word; my literacy in both languages was still that of a five-year old.

I looked at the map of Israel and Palestine that dominated the wall over my desk. New and growing settlements were marked in green pins across the West Bank; the barrier between the two was a dark, thick line crawling for 700 kilometres across the surface. Recent attacks by both sides were dotted in red.

Angie had desperately wanted me to attain peace in her homeland first, but we had both recognized that doing so was impossibly dangerous for a 15 year old kid, even one with a voice that could command legions.

As an alternative, she had turned to the Israeli-Palestine conflict. It was, she reasoned, the political Gordian Knot of the entire Middle East, used to justify war, recruitment and funding by every side for almost 80 years. “Solve this,” she said with her small smile, “And the rest will be easy.”

Angie’s notebook covered more than Israel-Palestine: it had guided every aspect of my life from the moment of her death. But as thoroughly as she had left me prepared, her plan still had gaps, missing details that she could not know, or never had time to complete. When I wasn’t spending my time preparing, I had been bridging those gaps, working out how to achieve her dream.

Finally, I was ready. What I lacked now was money.

Exactly thirty minutes later, my mother reappeared at the door. “Time,” she said quietly.

Nodding wearily, I closed the book and pushed back from my desk. “Thank you.” I turned to bed, and caught her gazing worriedly at the small messenger bag waiting just inside the door. Her fingers wrung together, tight with strain. Some sort of unconscious physical projection, one that persisted no matter how many times I’d reassured her that everything would be okay.

“How long will you be gone?” she asked. I ached at how forlorn and confused her voice sounded.

“I told you. Four weeks, maybe less. Maybe longer.”

“And you’ll call?”

“Every time I land somewhere new. Yes.”

I turned to hold her, hugging her slim frame. There wasn’t anything more I could do. Except this. I found the point in my throat, placed my lips over her ear. “Don’t worry about me.”

The tension melted from her muscles instantly. She stepped back, smiling, hands relaxed by her sides. “I won’t,” she smiled. “Have a good trip, okay?”

“I will.”

She exited the room and I turned off the light, sending the room into darkness.

Pennsylvania Avenue was a broad black and white ribbon in the midday sun. The Freecycle cab pulled up smoothly outside the broad office at the 1001 block at exactly 12:10pm.

I stepped onto the warm pavement, slid on a pair of sunglasses, took a deep breath, and walked into the cool of the lobby.

Angie had reluctantly made this step the initial part of her plan. It was also the first in which I could get into serious trouble if anything went wrong.

“Welcome to the Carlyle Group, sir.” Three suited guards manned a desk; another two stood either side of a security gate and X-ray scanner. “Could I have your name, please?”

“David Reitman.” I looked up at the security cameras crawling across the white marble walls and ceiling, every black lens focused on the exact location I was standing in.

He frowned, scanning his screen. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t see you listed for today. Were you expected?”

“No.” My voice dropped, heart thumping in my chest. “But you’re going to let me in anyway.”

He blinked. “Of course, sir. Which floor?”

“Boardroom.”

“Very good, sir. Elevator three.” The security gate unlocked with a soft buzz. The other men behind the desk didn’t even turn their heads.

The X-Ray machine beeped as I stepped through it, and I turned my attention to the two men beginning to wave metal and bomb detector wands. “That won’t be necessary.” The security detail blinked and moved back; at the same instant, I glimpsed the guard at the desk lifting a phone to his ear. “And you won’t announce me,” I shot at him. The handset was quietly placed back in its cradle.

The last guard stood in front of the bank of elevators. The expression on his face registered surprise, then complete confusion as I quickly crossed the space between us. He had seen but not completely heard the interaction at the desk: the hard white surface of the lobby had diffracted the command tone in my voice.

I took the last three paces towards the guard at a run as he reached for his radio. “There’s no reason for alarm.” I said quickly. “You won’t see any unusual activity for the next twenty minutes.”

He relaxed; the elevator arrived behind him with a soft three-note chime, and I stepped inside.

I pressed my hand against the wood paneling of the elevator, gasping. Beads of sweat crawled down my back and under my arms like insects as my heart tried to wrench itself out of my chest.

The elevator rose like a bead of mercury inside a glass tube. By the time I disembarked at the top floor I had loosened my collar and settled my heart to slightly less than sprint-pace.

There was just one secretary at the desk in front of the immense double doors of the boardroom. She frowned. “I’m sorry, you can’t –”

“Don’t be concerned,” I said. “They’re expecting me.” And pushed open the doors with both hands.

I used the next three seconds of shock to my advantage. “Don’t speak,” I said loudly, using every skill I had practiced for three years. “Don’t move.”

The fourteen men and women in the room remained locked in stunned silence. I could see several immediately straining, muscles tensing beneath their suits.

I walked around the magnificent flame-red boardroom table. Indonesian rosewood, I had read. Illegally felled from one of the last old-growth forests and presented to the board as a gift from one of its members, a former president.

The view was magnificent. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed a spectacular view of the Washington Mall, a swath of green between the three major centres of political power in the United States. Making this room, balanced between them, the fourth.

I came to the stenographer at the back of the room and looked down as she writhed in her chair. “Relax.” Her face was turning purple. “Oh.” I looked up. “You can all breathe.”

The boardroom echoed with relieved gasps as two dozen men and women desperately gulped in air.

“You can respond to my questions.” The woman’s shoulders fell. “Are there any other recordings of this meeting?”

“Not to my knowledge,” she said quietly.

“Don’t start transcribing again until I tell you.”

“Yes, sir.”

I completed my slow circuit of the boardroom, heart pounding. Every eye in the room followed me, rolling in fear or rage.

At the far end of the table I opened up my messenger bag and removed several folders and Angelina’s notebook. “Mr. Chairman, you will respond to my questions, and only my questions. You will do so with complete honesty.”

I pushed the manila folders around on the desk. By now, I know their contents by heart: Angelina’s research had led me right to this location.

I raised my head. “Mr. Chairman, is it true that this company benefited financially from sub-prime mortgages before July 2007?”

“Yes.” The tall, patrician man at the other end of the table responded. His voice sounded almost strangled.

“And the board was aware that at least some of these mortgages were being sold to customers and financial institutions with misleading terms?”

“Yes.”

“How much profit did the Carlyle Group make from these investments before July 2007?”

“I think –” There was a strangled, garbled sound, and the chairman cleared his throat. “Approximately two hundred million dollars.”

“And the group, and its board members, were never fined or reprimanded for these activities?”

“Correct.”

“And is it safe to say that this is one investment among many by the Carlyle Group that would be considered illegal or unethical had this company not influenced observance of the law by governments and regulators?”

“Yes.”

I nodded. A cool sense of relief and certainty filled me. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to vote on a motion. It does not appear in any minutes before you. It will be raised by the Chairman in special session, following bylaw 15.1 in your corporate charter. You will have the ability to raise your right hand when a vote is called: the motion will be agreed with unanimously.”

“The motion is this: that the company provide an annual donation to the Doaa Foundation of $50 million dollars, in perpetuity. Mr. Chairman, you may make the motion, after invoking special session. Miss,” I nodded to the back of the room, “you will transcribe the motion and its vote.”

He motion was carried. It passed with all hands raised.

“Very good. Members of the board, Ms... “ I looked to the back of the room.

“Haversham,” came the mild reply.

“Thank you, Ms. Haversham. You will all entirely forget that I was here the moment I leave; your meeting will continue as if nothing unusual has happened. However, you will all remain strong proponents and defenders of the motion you have just passed. Here –” I tapped one manila folder. “Is the information you need for the Doaa Foundation, including account numbers. I look forward to receiving your generous donation.”

The sunlit blue of the Mediterranean winked through the Airbus window as the aircraft made its final turn towards Ben Gurion. I rubbed my eyes tiredly. I had spent most of the flight from Munich rehearsing my plans, failing to fall asleep even in the fully reclined seat.

The short walk from the airport concourse to the town car was a furnace. I flipped on sunglasses, slipped gratefully inside the dim coolness of the car’s back seat, and watched the sun-baked vistas of Tel Aviv slide by.

Streets, hotels passed in a blur. By the time the door to my suite opened the setting sun was shadowing my bent, exhausted figure against the wall.

I slipped my shoes off and fell exhausted on the bed, still fully dressed.

I woke 12 hours later, my stomach growling.

The hotel restaurant was quiet and almost entirely empty, the breakfast service almost over. From my small table under pale awnings I had a view of the ocean, gulls wheeling above the waves.

“Your order, sir?”

I started from my reverie. “Slicha.” I picked up the menu. “Fresh fruit, please. And a lime cordial.”

“Of course.” A pause. “Sir, clothing in the restaurant is usually expected to be a little more ... formal.”

I looked down and flushed. I was wearing the same jeans I had put on in Thorncliff.

“I’m very sorry. I hadn’t realised.”

“It’s alright.” The waitress grinned, looked sideways at the mostly deserted restaurant, and lowered her voice. “I’ll make an exception today.”

“Thank you.” In moments the table was covered in a platter of fresh fruit and a tall tumbler of ice and cordial. “Perhaps –” the waitress turned, dark eyes under a parted fringe. “Perhaps you can help me.” I gestured helplessly at my jeans. “This is my first day in Tel Aviv. And the only clothes I brought with me.”

Her grin reappeared. “There’s the store in the hotel foyer. Which I should recommend. But it’s –” her hand flew dismissively.

“Ah. Elsewhere, perhaps?”

“Along the promenade, maybe. But I don’t shop there much.” Her head tilted, curious. “You’re here by yourself?”

“Yes.”

She chewed her bottom lip for a moment. “It’s Pride. You’ll have a hard time getting anywhere today.” She held up a finger. “Some of my gay guy friends will have a much better idea of where to shop. I’ll ask around.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

She paused and looked at me. “It’s a great parade. Some of us have the afternoon off. If you don’t have any other plans, maybe you’d like to come.”

Nothing for yourself. Angie’s words echoed instantly in my mind. But my voice hadn’t hit its register during the entire conversation. I was sure of it.

“I’d like that. But I have an ... appointment at the University. I may not make it back in time.”

“Oh,” she shrugged. “Well, if you do, we’ll be out on the beach at noon. Opposite the hotel.”

“Thanks. I’m Joshua, by the way.”

“Yael,” she smiled.

I pushed my way through the narrow, twisting concrete corridors of a nondescript university building, following a hand-drawn map penned by the third student I had asked for directions. Posters for academic groups and protests climbed the walls, plastered over each other.

I turned left, then right, and knocked on a partly open door with a Hebrew nameplate. “Dr. Weisz?”

“Yes?” a voice rumbled. I pushed my head inside.

The man behind the desk was all curves and hair: round bifocal spectacles, gleaming jowls framed in muttonchop sideburns, all set underneath an enormous halo of white hair with a yarmulke on top. A window high in the back wall was the only source of light in the tiny space. “My office hours are clearly marked on your schedule, son.”

“I’m afraid I’m not a student.” I pushed the door open a little further, almost destabilizing a pile of papers that had been placed on the floor.

“Then you should have made an appointment.” He glowered, setting down a book.

“My apologies - there’s been little opportunity for that.” I looked up, my voice hitting its register. “You will give me fifteen minutes.”

The eyes behind the round lenses blinked. “Well, yes. I have a little time before today’s lecture.” He gestured toward a chair. “Sit.”