It is the early 1970s when Peter Kramer, a special envoy to the president of the United States, successfully concludes an Arab-Israeli peace treaty. A few weeks before the official signing, Kramer's secret past is discovered and threatens to wreck not only the treaty, but also the precarious balance of world peace. It seems Kramer is not who he appears to be. This startling revelation sets into motion a course of events with roots planted during the Holocaust that now have crept into the highest echelons of international politics and finance-and the events seem to be unstoppable unless some of the players are eliminated. Baruch Ben-David, the prime minister of Israel, owes his life to Kramer and is willing to prove his gratitude many times over. Meanwhile, Simon Jensen, the egocentric president of the United States, appears mentally unstable; and Paul Cline, a political assassin, faces his most difficult challenge. At the center of this deadly paradox stands Peter Kramer himself as he walks a thin moral tightrope between being a traitor to his people or a traitor to himself.
A Righteous Gentile
By Augusto FerreraiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2009 Augusto Ferrera
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4401-9919-6Chapter One
Washington DC Time: The early 1970's
Peter Kramer thought of the jaw bone of Martin Bormann for the thousandth time since its discovery.
He stood alone on the terrace of the British Embassy sipping champagne, oblivious to the popular song being played by a string quartet and the din of hundreds of voices in dozens of languages. That jaw bone was occupying his waking moments, and sometimes his sleeping ones, more and more of late, especially because of the constant, almost nagging reminders from Erika. Erika, the worrier, Erika, the paranoid, Erika, his beloved.
He lifted the glass to his lips and again visualized a German laborer in blue trousers and jacket, heavy shoes and a blue peaked cap, tediously digging in that field of rubble in Berlin once known as the Invalidenstrasse, striking a human bone with his spade. The West Germans said the teeth matched Bormann's reconstructed dental records, and that damage to the collarbone was consistent with an injury Bormann had sustained years before his supposed death. But was it the jaw bone Bormann? Kramer's instincts told him that it was not.
A raspy voice with a trace of an accent broke his spell. "Are you that bored with all this, Peter, or are you scheming your next strategy for the Cairo meeting?"
Kramer turned and saw the cheery face of Aleksandr Korsakov, the Soviet ambassador. He smiled at the Russian, a smile that came from an open, honest face that most people liked immediately. "Hello, Aleksandr Sergeyevich. No, no strategy planning. My part in the treaty is over. I'd like to get back to my work at the university which, by the way, is what I was thinking about. All those theses I've got to grade. I can't put it off any longer."
Korsakov grinned wryly. "From the ridiculous back to the sublime, eh, Peter? I would be willing to bet you a case of the best Russian vodka against one bottle of Scotch whiskey that your days as a university professor are a thing of the past, at least with Jensen in the White House. They won't let you go, my friend. There is no one else who can make the peace accord a reality, and that includes Jackson Hetherington and Simon Bolivar Jensen. That is what the diplomatic community says, and I happen to agree."
"Well, the diplomatic community is wrong, as usual. This president is committed to peace. Hetherington and his people are superbly qualified." Kramer took a cigarette offered by Korsakov and reached for his lighter.
The Russian blew smoke. "Thank you. Just between you and me, Peter, I hate Russian tobacco, but for appearances I have to smoke it at the embassy. Moscow expects me to set a good example!" He inhaled the Winston deeply and smiled in satisfaction. Korsakov had spent more years in the United States than in his own country, first as a journalist, then as a diplomat. He turned serious. "No, Peter, you will get the call once more. You will see, my friend."
"Yes, well, we'll see," Kramer said, looking back out toward the wooded gardens. "Besides, why should you care? I should think the Kremlin would love to see me fall on my face. I don't think your people are eager for an Arab-Israeli peace. Are you?"
Korsakov moved closer and looked around. "Peter, I tell you this from the heart." He placed his hand on his breast. "For my part, I want you to succeed. Frankly, I like it here in America. I like your cigarettes, your liquor, your thick steaks, your women! I'd be a hypocrite if I said I did not like my job. But that job depends on a cold war, not a hot one. However, if you do not make peace in the Middle East, that madman in Libya will do something to make the United States step in. If that happens, maybe we will have to step in too, and then we will have a hot war that will end my splendid job here, and in the rest of the world as well."
"You reduce it all to such simple terms," Kramer said. "Is this your own view of things, or does the Kremlin see it that way too?"
"I do not blame you for being cynical, Peter. The fact is, there are cliques of hotheads and nuclear theorists in the Kremlin - such as you have in your own Pentagon - who want to hit the button before Jensen does, no matter what the consequences. But we also have men of reason, thank God, who know that the world can go on as it has for the past few decades despite all the inflammatory rhetoric and name-calling and saber-rattling. The cold war, my friend, it must go on. It is healthy. Like in a lightning storm, if you can hear the thunder, you are okay. In the cold war, if you hear the sabers rattling, you are okay. It is the silence that is deadly. That is why you must make peace in the Middle East." He smiled at Kramer as he inhaled his American cigarette smoke, pleased with his own assessment.
Kramer drained his glass silently. If only he could be sure of that jaw, he thought. Erika was right. The stakes were too high to take further chances with the ghosts of the past. Korsakov was right, too, in everything he said -and those stakes were the highest of all.
"Ah, Peter, there you are!" Jackson Hetherington joined them, looking the complete diplomat in his white tie and tails, a small line of miniature medals adorning his silk lapel.
"Watch out for these Russians," the secretary of state said, glancing at Korsakov. "They get more clever with age, especially this one. He and I go back to Yalta, don't we Aleksandr Sergeyevich?"
"Ah, the bad old days, Jack. Did you know I was on Stalin's shit list? I managed to hide under Molotov's skirt, and that saved me from the purge. I am a survivor, as I was telling Peter."
"Thank God for Molotov," Hetherington said.
"Please, Jack, we Communists do not acknowledge the existence of God."
"But Alex," Kramer said, smiling, "a minute ago you said, `Thank God we have men of reason in the Kremlin,' didn't you?"
"Yes, but that was unofficially!"
Korsakov walked away as the two Americans laughed, exhaling smoke from yet another Winston.
Hetherington turned to Kramer. "Peter, the reason I'm late is due to good news. I just heard from Leslie Pyle in Damascus. The Syrians have agreed to your five points. Leslie tells me they're ready to finalize this. Naturally, I passed on the news to the president. He wants a meeting with you and me right away, so let's bid our adieus quickly and get over to the White House." The secretary beamed with enthusiasm. The Syrian delegation had been an obstacle all along, beginning with President Haddad.
Kramer sighed inwardly. He wondered how he could have been so nave as to think that it was over for him. "That's wonderful news, Mr. Secretary."
Chapter Two
Twenty minutes later Secretary of State Hetherington and Special Ambassador Peter Kramer were being escorted through the Treaty Room in the executive wing of the White House. An aide opened the sliding doors to the president's study, the Oval Office. The signature blue carpet and its huge presidential seal dominated the room. Seated behind his massive desk, with the national and presidential standards behind him, was Simon Bolivar Jensen, lean, virile, and handsome. With athletic smoothness he rose and indicated the upholstered chairs around a coffee table.
"Thanks for coming, fellas," Jensen said. "I hate to pull you away from your party, but now that the Syrians are playing ball, it's urgent that we maintain game control. We've got to get over there now."
"I couldn't agree with you more, Mr. President," Hetherington said, taking the cup of coffee Jensen offered him. "The Syrians have tended to be prima donnas in this. They've changed their minds over the slightest issue."
"That's my feeling," Jensen said. He looked at Kramer. "Do you see it that way too, Pete?"
"I agree that Haddad is a bit capricious," Kramer said, "but we mustn't lose sight that he is a Sunni Baathist. He won't want to disappoint his fellow Sunni and Baathist Party supporter, Kmil. Especially considering the political risks Kmil has taken for Haddad with the Copts and the Circassians in Egypt. Kmil is in full accord with the necessity of a treaty. He'll keep Haddad in line. There should be no problems with him."
Hetherington wagged his finger at Kramer. "Astute analysis! That certainly validates your insistence, Mr. President, that Peter Kramer, and no one else, carry the ball." Turning to Kramer, he said, "Can you leave in the morning for Cairo, Peter?"
Kramer bit his lip. "That would be difficult, Mr. Secretary. I've neglected my work at the university far longer than I originally expected. For that and other reasons ... As I understood it, aside from occasional consultations, my work with the treaty would be terminated by now."
"What other reasons?" asked the president coolly.
Kramer looked at Jensen's stony face. "Personal ones, Mr. President."
"Come now, Peter," Hetherington said, shaking his balding, freckled head. "The university will surely understand the import-"
Jensen cut off the secretary with a wave of his hand. "Ambassador Kramer," he said in measured tones, "as you know, this administration is committed to two major goals, goals that got me elected. First, a sound economy, and second, global peace. In the three years and eight months that I've been in office, the first of these two goals is well on its way. But I still can't deliver a balanced budget. For that I need another four years in this place."
"Yes, sir," Kramer said.
Jensen was right; he was well on his way. With the help of a cooperative Congress, the youthful and charismatic Jensen had put through some sweeping and revolutionary economic legislation. Jensen's policies had also changed the image of the United States around the world. Ambassadors, normally wealthy appointees under political patronage, were now selected from the ranks of lifetime Foreign Service officers, men and women who not only spoke the language of the country to where they were assigned, but who were sensitive to the customs, culture, and needs of those countries. Gone were the flashy limousines for the high echelon of the Foreign Service, which did nothing but provoke ill will toward the United States. Gone, too, were the uniformed and armed Marine guards at the foreign missions. Security personnel were now inconspicuous in civilian clothes. Jensen's view was to promote diplomacy overseas, not militarism. Underdeveloped nations were beginning to advance with the help of the Jensen-revitalized Peace Corps, through which nations helped themselves while maintaining their dignity. Global peace was another matter, although the Arab-Israeli peace accord was a giant step toward those goals.
"We've got to get those fellows to Geneva and sign the damned thing," Jensen continued. "The more important of my objectives is world peace. Oh, I don't mean we're going to stop every little war that erupts here and there. I mean peace between the big powers, nuclear peace. And that means disarmament. But first, we must defuse that powder keg, the Middle East, and keep it defused. The only way to do that is with me in the White House for another four years. That fellow they're running against me isn't going to do it, that's for sure. Not the way he looks at the Soviet thing. My relations with the Russians are the best of any president since FDR. Maybe better, 'cause Joe Stalin walked all over Roosevelt. Anyway, I need those four years, and I need that peace treaty before November." Jensen looked directly at Kramer. "So now that I've told you where I place my priorities, where do you place yours?"
The question was forceful, the tone sharp. Under the circumstances, Kramer didn't blame Jensen for using such blunt words. What he didn't understand, however, was the president's cold demeanor ever since the start of the meeting. It wasn't like him. Something had changed in their normally warm relationship.
"Mr. President, please be assured that I am totally committed to the goals of this administration, especially as regards the peace accord. As to my ... reluctance, perhaps I should have been more candid with you. Aside from my need to get back to my work, I should have told you that I feel, well, inadequate in these stages of the treaty. I recognize the susceptibilities of the accord, and because I consider myself more a theorist than a diplomat, I felt it would be best handled by the secretary of state, who is vastly more experienced than I. I hope you understand, sir."
"With your permission, Mr. President," Hetherington said, "I should like to respond to that." He turned to Kramer. "I appreciate your compliment, Peter, but your humble assessment of your capabilities is inaccurate. All along you have adroitly handled the trickiest issues with these most difficult participants. You have wisely negotiated provisions that had been judged impossible, given the history of both sides. That is true diplomacy. Your book is recognized as promoting the most objective viewpoint of one of the most emotional issues of this century, a viewpoint with which few can argue. And that includes the combatants about whom you write, all of whom have read and respect your book. No, Peter, I judge you are by far the best qualified to successfully conclude the treaty."
The book to which Hetherington referred was Kramer's thesis, Abraham/Ibrahim - Semite vs. Semite, a study of the crises that had engulfed the Arabs and Jews for most of the twentieth century. Using an in-depth historical and political view of those two peoples, Kramer showed the ethnic and religious parallels between them. It was the book that had brought Kramer to the attention of the State Department and, ultimately, to President Jensen.
"All right, I agree with Jack," the president said with a touch of impatience. "Are you with me, Pete?" The tone, the look in his eyes, the tenseness of his body said the unspoken words: If you're not with me, you're against me.
So. In effect, it was a presidential order. Erika would understand. She would have to understand.
"I'm with you, Mr. President."
"Splendid!" Hetherington said.
Jensen nodded. "Okay, we'll close this now and get on to other things. Let's look at the game plan once more."
The three men discussed the U.S. position in the United Nations' peacekeeping forces, along with other items of importance to American interests. Finally, close to midnight, the president dismissed Kramer.
After Kramer left, Jensen turned to his secretary of state. "What's his game, Jack?" he asked.
Hetherington smiled his confusion at the question. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Mr. President."
"Kramer. What's he after? Anyone else would've offered his balls on a platter for the chance he's getting, and he's playing hard to get. What's he after?"
Hetherington frowned. "The question perplexes me, sir. I don't know that he's after anything other than trying to do the best job possible for us - and for you."
"I know that's what it looks like, Jack, but there's something that bothers me right here." Jensen patted his belly. "It's as if by downplaying his ability, he knows we'll tell him how good he really is, and then we'll tell the world how good he is, and suddenly the whole thing'll be his ball game, not ours. See what I mean?"
Hetherington rose wearily from his chair. Deep in thought, he paced in front of the president's desk. He stopped squarely atop the large presidential seal woven into the carpet, as if to gain insight from the symbol. Straightening his bow tie, which did not need straightening, he looked at Jensen.
"Mr. President, I don't know what to say other than to express in the strongest manner that I disagree with your statements. I have the utmost confidence in Peter Kramer, in his character, in his honor, and above all in his loyalty to you. Further, I would ask you - with due respect, of course - why, if you have even the slightest doubt about, do you entrust Peter Kramer with this most delicate of missions?"
"I doubt only his motives, Jack, not him," Jensen said dryly. "Besides, the Israelis like him, especially Ben-David. But you can bet I'll watch him."
Hetherington shook his head.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Righteous Gentile by Augusto Ferrera Copyright © 2009 by Augusto Ferrera. Excerpted by permission.
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