The Fury of Rachel Monette by Peter Abrahams

man in a hurry and a young woman carrying three cups of coffee. One of them was wearing too much perfume.
    Sarah Cohn was already at work, typing a letter and dealing with someone on the telephone, the receiver wedged between her uplifted shoulder and tilted head. She was always first to arrive, usually the last to leave. A trim fit-looking woman crowned with tight auburn curls, she ran the office in the same pleasant efficient way she ran Moses Cohn’s life. He thrived under it, and so did the office.
    As Calvi moved toward his inner cube Sarah held up her hand to catch his attention and then pointed with exaggerated significance at his private door.
    â€œWho?” he mouthed, approaching her desk.
    She wrote a word on a sheet of paper and turned it so he could see: Grunberg. Calvi nodded. Sarah crumpled the paper and tossed it into a wastebasket.
    On the lemon-colored walls of Calvi’s inner office were hung framed photographs. All were handshaking studies: Calvi with Ben-Gurion, Dayan, and Golda; with chairmen of the United Jewish Appeal; with the chief Sephardic rabbi; with five of the last six presidents of the United States. Richard Nixon was represented by a lighter colored rectangular patch on the wall. Sarah had removed him the day the American people had done the same.
    A big uniformed man was standing before the picture of Eisenhower. He turned when Calvi entered the room. He was not as tall as Calvi but as broad, perhaps broader, and at least twenty years younger. He was deeply tanned with thick black eyebrows hanging over sunken dark eyes that had seen it all. On his epaulets he wore the single oak leaf of a major.
    They looked at each other.
    â€œDo we have an appointment?” Calvi asked in a polite but slightly puzzled tone.
    â€œWe should.”
    â€œThen we shall, by all means,” said Calvi affably. He gestured toward one of the old wooden armchairs by the desk. The Major sat down. Calvi eased himself into the dilapidated swivel chair on the other side.
    â€œWhat should we talk about, Major …?”
    â€œYou know who I am,” the man replied in the kind of bored voice people use on children when explaining something for the twentieth time.
    Calvi didn’t like it. “I suppose you must be Major Grunberg, Army Intelligence. My friend Moses Cohn told me what an early riser you are. Still, I think that even rudimentary security procedures require that I see some identification.”
    The Major gazed thoughtfully at Calvi. There was not the least sign of anger, fear, or even annoyance in his black eyes as he unbuttoned his shirt pocket. He handed Calvi a photostat encased in plastic. Calvi looked at the picture on the photostat. He saw the same calm deep-set eyes, eyes that seemed capable of penetrating any screen his own eyes could raise, eyes that Calvi would not easily forget.
    â€œYou’re very photogenic, Major Grunberg,” said Calvi, handing it back.
    â€œSo are you, Mr. Calvi. I’ve had many opportunities recently to see your face in the newspapers. You must be pleased with all the publicity.”
    â€œYes, I am,” Calvi said. He reached in the desk drawer where he kept his cigars and came out with two, offering one to Grunberg. Grunberg waved it away. Calvi lit the other and blew a little cloud into the air between the two men. “But not for me personally. I am pleased for the movement. I myself have no political ambitions. Furthermore, Major Grunberg, I never have had any. I am here by circumstance. I hope you believe that.”
    Grunberg’s head moved slightly forward on his thick neck, perhaps no more than a millimeter or two, but it seemed to Calvi as aggressive as a shaking fist. “I don’t give a damn about your career, your politics, or you,” Grunberg said. “On all that I am neutral. Absolutely neutral.” But Calvi knew he was lying from his tone. Grunberg despised him and he wondered why. “All