“Boker tov, Nahtan.”
“In English,” Esther chided. “He is going to America. He needs to practice his English.”
“I know he is going to America,” Yaacov mocked her gently.
Nathan’s mouth tightened. “Eli told me about your assignment.” It was spoken harshly, more than he had intended.
Yaacov’s eyebrows came up slightly, quizzically. “Eli?”
“Eli Weissman, the deputy director.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
“Why, Papa? Your field is not intelligence work.”
“Nathan!” Esther said sharply.
Yaacov laid his hand on her arm and smiled sadly. When he spoke, it was to her rather than to his son. “The president of the United States is informed that Saudi Arabia has had two or three very sobering incidents with enemy aircraft penetrating their airspace. He panics and authorizes the sale of the most advanced fighter aircraft in the world to our sworn enemies. When our own prime minister hears of this, he personally asks me to serve as an advisor to the intelligence team set up to prevent the sale from occurring. Personally mind you. The prime minister himself. And my son asks why I did not decline. I should have said perhaps, ‘But Prime Minister, my son will not like it. Surely you must reconsider your request.’” He turned to Nathan, and hurt finally crept into his voice. “Tell me, Nathan? If this upsets you so much, why didn’t you refuse the assignment?”
Their eyes locked for a long moment. It was Nathan who looked away first. “All right, Papa, I’m sorry.”
“When the Prime Minister called last night, he did not tell me that you would be the team leader. I learned that later, when the director called to brief me.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”
“Is it so terrible,” Esther Shoshani asked softly, “to have to work with your father?”
“You know it is not that, Mama. It’s just that—”
“It’s just that he’s afraid that I’ll bring my tefillin and tallit to the meetings and embarrass him.”
“No! No, I’m not!” Nathan retorted hotly. “But I do fully expect that we will hear a lecture or two about this being a time for faith, that what Israel needs is not good intelligence or a strong military, but more prayers, more dedication to Torah.”
Now it was his father who was nettled. “I have never said that a strong military or good intelligence work is not necessary. But I do say that those who trust in man’s arm alone, including my own son, are sowing the seeds of destruction for the very Israel they think they are defending.”
“Please,” Esther pleaded, looking first at one, and then the other. “Not now. Not again.”
“Do you really think,” Nathan shouted, “that standing in the alcove every morning, putting on a piece of cloth and two leather boxes is going to make one bit of difference in this world?”
“It could make as much difference as sending a team of faithless men to America!”
“Enough!” Esther cried. “That is enough!”
Both men stopped, breathing hard, shocked by the fierceness of the woman who had stepped between them.
“Nathan is leaving today,” she went on in a hoarse whisper. “Must it always be like this? Can you never speak of things without attacking one another like two blind scorpions? Now sit down, both of you. I will get some coffee, and then we will visit like normal human beings.”
She glared up at them, daring either to challenge her command. They looked at her, then at each other. Finally Yaacov smiled ruefully. “She is well named, this woman of ours. Even the king of Persia would not have dared to cross such an Esther.”
Nathan laughed, nodding and putting his arms around his mother.
“Well, I mean it,” she said, much of the storm blown out of her by the sudden switch of moods. “Now, sit down, and I’ll get some coffee.” She pushed her husband and son toward the couch and then disappeared into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” Nathan said. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”
“You say what is in your heart,” his father answered sadly. “That is what causes me the greatest sorrow.”
Chapter Six
Marc broke off what he was saying as a Western Airlines DC-10 thundered past, rattling the windows, and both he and Valerie turned to watch. The Proud Bird Restaurant sits just a few dozen yards south of the main runways of Los Angeles International Airport, where a plane lands on the average of about every sixty seconds. The whole north side of the restaurant is glass, providing a perfect view of the planes as they approach final touchdown. Marc and Valerie sat next to the window, the remains of two excellent prime rib dinners still on the table.
The DC-10 lumbered over Aviation Boulevard and disappeared; and they turned back to face each other. “I’m sorry,” Valerie said. “What were you saying?”
Marc turned his glass idly, watching her. “Your mother tells me you’re a runner.”
She shook her head. “Not really. I just jog four or five times a week for the exercise.”
“Oh.”
“Why? Do you run?”
Marc looked up in mock horror. “Not me. I collect articles on the dangers of running.” That startled her for a minute, but then she laughed merrily, and a tiny smile broke through his sober expression.
Valerie sat back, liking the way the smile danced in his eyes and softened the line of his jaw. All through dinner he had been tense and on edge. This was more like the Marc she saw fathering his two sons around the house, or joking with her mother.
He was watching her as well, and finally spoke. “Tell me what you were thinking just then.”
She blushed a little and dropped her eyes.
“Come on.”
Finally she looked up. “I was thinking now that you’ve survived dinner, you’re feeling a little more comfortable.”
There was a flicker of surprise, then the smile was in his eyes again. “That obvious, huh?”
She shook her head slowly. “Not really.”
He looked out the window and watched an American Airlines 737 gliding downward. “It’s been a while,” he mused. “I’m out of touch.”
“Well, now that I know it’s my running that makes you nervous, I don’t feel quite so bad.”
He chuckled softly, then the green eyes seemed to deepen as he became more serious. “I just wanted to say thanks for these last four weeks. We wouldn’t have survived without you.”
“Thank you. It’s been a delightful time for me. I’m going to miss being with your boys now that Mother’s back up to full steam.”
“What do you mean you’re going to miss them?”
“I’ve been unemployed long enough. I’ve got to start looking for a job.”
“Well, that’s fine, but you’d better not stop coming over or you’re going to have two very disappointed young men on your hands.” He gave her a searching look. “Maybe three.”
That caught her completely off guard, and she felt a sudden rush of pleasure. “Well, Mother’s not completely better,” she said softly.
He smiled. “Definitely not up to heavy work yet.”
“Definitely.”
Marc pushed his chair back and looked at his watch. “We’ve got a lecture to catch. Are you ready?”
She nodded, and they both stood.
As they left the restaurant and headed for the car, Marc suddenly slowed his pace. “Will you answer me something?”
“If I can.”
“Did you think it was odd when I invited you to attend the lecture at UCLA with me?”
“Odd? No, why do you ask that?”
“I happened to mention it to one of my colleagues today, and he about fell off the chair laughing. Like I said, I’m out of touch with this dating scene.”
Valerie slipped her arm through his. “It’s been a delightful evening so far, and I look forward to the rest of it. Thank you for asking me.”
As the applause filled the lecture hall, Marc looked around, joining in. With less than
two hundred graduate students present, it couldn’t be described as a thunderous ovation, but it was warm, sincere, and enthusiastic. He turned to Valerie, who smiled and nodded. “That was very interesting.”
Before he could answer, the dean of the graduate school stood to join the lecturer at the podium. The applause continued for another few moments, then died out quickly.
“On behalf of UCLA and the Graduate School of Business, thank you, Mr. Alex Barclay, for a stimulating and thoughtprovoking lecture.” The dean glanced at his watch. “We still have about ten minutes. Mr. Barclay has agreed to answer questions from the floor.”
There was a brief smattering of hands as the dean sat down and Barclay stepped forward again. “Thank you, Dean Sandberg. And thank you, for being a warm and gracious audience. Okay, any questions?”
A hand shot up directly in front of Marc and Valerie.
“Yes, please.”
It was a girl, midtwenties, thin boned, with short, cropped hair and huge round glasses. “Mr. Barclay.” Her voice was stronger than Marc had expected. “You titled your address, ‘The Creation and Use of Leverage in Effective Business Transactions.’”
Alex nodded.
“You said that one way to create leverage with clients or potential clients is by doing special things for them, things that are not directly related to your business. Sometimes, you said, those acts of service may actually be disadvantageous to you or cost you considerably.”
“Yes, I feel that is very important.”
“I understand that and agree totally. My question is, how do you get clients in the first place so you can create leverage with them?”
“Ah!” Barclay leaned forward, his face thoughtful. “That is a very good question.” Let me answer it in two ways. First, I have one rule in business I never violate. I call it performance integrity. No matter how small or insignificant the deal or the client, you deliver”—he punched the air with his finger as he hit each word emphatically—“always. On time. As ordered.”
He smiled easily. “Do that without fail, and word starts to get around. Your reputation creates leverage for you—it becomes an important basis for client attraction. Do you see that?”
Marc was nodding along with the girl and several others.
“But there is a second way. This is more subtle, and in some ways not as easy to see. But I consider it almost as important as the first. Besides clients and potential clients, there is a third group of people—those who will never be clients. Now,” he said, warming to his subject, “we’ve already talked about creating leverage with the first two groups. But most businessmen ignore the last group. If they aren’t potential clients, they write them off. That’s a mistake. I do things for this group as well—even when there is not the slightest chance they will buy my services or my products—and it often pays off with rich dividends. The more markers you have out on the table, the greater the likelihood you can call them in when you need them.”
Marc’s hand shot up, surprising himself almost as much as Valerie. Barclay stopped. He adjusted his glasses and looked more closely. “Yes?”
Marc stood up tentatively, aware that he had acted before thinking. He took a deep breath. “On the surface, that philosophy sounds a little manipulative and self-serving, doesn’t it?”
There was an instant murmur of disapproval, and Barclay noted several dirty looks directed at the questioner. He opened the folder he had brought with him to the podium, studied the black-and-white photo attached to the first page and then looked up. Bingo! No doubt about it. The young man standing before him was Marc Allen Jeppson. He looked up and smiled.
“No, that’s all right,” he said to the audience. “That’s a fair question.” He turned to Marc. “I suppose it does sound a little manipulative and self-serving the way I stated it. But I assure you, I do not view people as mere chips in a poker game.”
He removed his glasses, took out a handkerchief, and began to polish them. “Let me use an example to make my point a little more clear. Suppose I’m in the business of making widgets. I have a neighbor who has no use for widgets—never has had and, as far as I can determine, never will. Okay?”
Marc nodded.
“One day I find out my neighbor has a problem. Or, better, let’s say he has always wanted something that I happen to be in a position to get for him. So I do it. It even costs me. Why do I do it? Because I like to do nice things for others. Okay? My motives are sincere. I’m just a nice guy.” He grinned. “Will you grant me that?”
“Yes,” Marc agreed with a smile.
“How is my neighbor going to feel toward me?”
“Grateful,” Marc responded.
“Does the fact that my neighbor feels gratitude toward me make me manipulative?”
“No.”
“Opportunistic?”
Marc sensed that he was being boxed in, very neatly and with great finesse. Yet he couldn’t resent it, for Barclay was doing it with such charm. He shook his head. “No, of course not.”
“Okay, good. Let’s continue the example. Several months later, my neighbor is at his men’s club. He’s having lunch with some of the guys, and, lo and behold, the conversation happens to turn to widgets. Mr. X mentions that he needs a whole trainload of widgets and is trying to decide where to get them.”
He paused, savoring the moment, for the trap had just shut tight. “Now, tell me, what is my neighbor very likely to do at that moment?”
Marc grinned good naturedly, conceding defeat. “He’s going to say, ‘Well, Mr. X, I just happen to know a man…’”
Barclay chuckled, a deep, rich, pleasant sound. “Exactly! I have created leverage. Not through manipulation. Not through caculating narrowness. But through being a good guy. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Thank you.” Marc sat down, feeling a bit foolish. Valerie touched his arm in encouragement.
And so the questions went for the next few minutes. Barclay was candid, witty, and direct. Even when he occasionally attacked the logic of the questioner, he did it with the greatest of charm. And when the Dean finally stood up to cut off the questions, the applause swept the hall again—warm, appreciative, and enthusiastic.
“Well, what did you think of Alex Barclay?” Marc asked as they exited the building and started for the car about ten minutes later.
“Fascinating. I guess I’ve always known there were people who make a living selling weapons, but I’ve just never thought about it I guess. I would have pictured them as having swarthy skin, hair that was glossy black and slicked straight back with a comb, pencil thin mustache, trench coat.”
He laughed. “With the collar turned up.”
“And mirrored sunglasses.”
“Right. Barclay certainly doesn’t fit that.”
“He’s very charming, almost delightful.”
“What did you think of his idea of leverage?”
Valerie pursed her lips slightly. “Well, I can see what he’s saying, but like you, I find it still seems pretty calculated and self-serving.”
“And yet,” Marc chose his words carefully, “if you could keep your motives right, it would be exciting. I mean, to know that what you were doing—your own creativity, your own ingenuity, the ability to bind people to you with positive relationships—was what made the difference.”
She looked up at him and made a shrewd guess. “And that’s why a man with a doctorate in Near Eastern Studies is pursuing an MBA.”
He glanced up, then looked out across the campus. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I guess it is. I’ve always enjoyed teaching, but I’ve felt so stifled lately, so boxed in. This kind of stuff just rejuvenates me.”
They had reached the Volkswagen. Marc unlocked the door and threw his briefcase in the back. Valerie looked up at him and smiled. “Well, tomorrow when you see your colleague, you can tell him that the last laugh is on him. I really enjoyed the lecture.”
“Good.” He shut the door and came around to the driver’s side. As he slid in and
inserted the key in the ignition, he paused. “Would you like some ice cream or something?”
She leaned her head back against the headrest. “Not really, unless you do.”
“Would you like to do four laps around the parking lot before we drive home? I’d be happy to drive along with you.”
“You’re never going to forgive my sins, are you?” she laughed.
He turned the key, liking the way she laughed—deep, with softness and rich with enjoyment. But instantly his face fell. The engine of the VW did not turn over. Not even a whimper. Surprised, he released the key, pumped the gas pedal twice, then tried again—with exactly the same results. Valerie sat back up again and turned to watch. He waited a full ten seconds and tried again. Nothing.
“Wouldn’t you know it,” he said in disgust. He opened the door and got out.
Valerie was fighting back a smile. “My mother warned me about California boys. Are you sure this isn’t a put-on?”
He pulled a face at her and walked around to the rear of the car, mumbling to himself. He opened the hood, wiggled a couple of wires, tentatively poked at something that resembled a greasy tin can, put his foot on the bumper, and bounced the car up and down a couple of times, then came back around and slid in alongside Valerie.
Now Valerie was appropriately serious. “Can you see what’s the matter?”
He shook his head. “I was only joking about the four laps around the parking lot. How about a quick fifty-mile run out to Claremont?” He turned the key once more, without much hope. His expectations were correct. The car was dead.
“Wonderful!”
“What if we push it?”
Thoroughly disgusted now, Marc surveyed the situation. There was a slight incline to the parking lot, but he had parked facing uphill. “It’s worth a try. Can you steer if I push us around? There’s a bit of a hill going the other way.”
“Sure.”
As Marc got out, Valerie slid across into the driver’s seat, careful not to snag her nylons on the gear shift. He rolled down the window, then shut the door and leaned down. “Have you ever done this before?”
“I used to drive a Beetle. How do you think I got started into running?”