Chapter Thirteen First Week of June

After a wait of a delicious ten minutes of stolen glances, a phone on the exquisite receptionist’s desk rings. She answers it, then turns to Wattenberg and Bergman. “The prime minister will see you now,” she says in a throaty contralto, then rises from her chair to escort the two men into the prime minister’s office. This time Wattenberg takes the lead, knowing he owes Bergman something for all his embarrassment: the receptionist’s hand laid gently on the shoulder of the last to enter, the grazing of a breast against an arm, and the full, luscious smile and slow wink that always accompany it. Yaakov Brumwell’s receptionist is nothing if not predictable.

Unfortunately, Bergman can barely appreciate the fleeting moment, the touch, the graze, the smile and the wink, as nervous as he is. He has never spoken directly with the prime minister before.

The prime minister rises and shakes both of their hands. “Have a seat,” he says graciously. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Yosef, I’m hearing some very creative thinking coming out of your group.”

Bergman is floored that he’s the first to be addressed, and by first name. “Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister,” he says, somewhat disconcerted, but hits his stride quickly. “But let’s get it off the ground first, and see it to completion. Then you can tell me if it was such a great idea.” He smiles sheepishly.

The prime minister raises his eyebrows. “What? What kind of a confidence level is that?” Have I been misjudging what I’ve been hearing?

“The confidence of this being a good idea is there, sir,” Bergman says, making an effort to convey greater conviction. “In all honesty, however, I will feel better when we have our people back on Israeli soil and we have the data we require,” he adds.

“Good,” says Yaakov, nodding. “Over-confidence can lead to lousy planning and disasters.” Then he turns to Wattenberg. “So, tell me how your meeting went with our two scouts.”