Hostage Read Online Free PDF

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-wantedlist, 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 expectto 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