In the Name of God. Stephen J. Gordon

The Israelis are still good, but times have changed even for them.

      I let another moment go by as I watched the Baltimore detective and the chief Israeli security man. Chances were someone would be able to identify me as the one who shouted “gun.” The question was, could I extricate myself without making the Israelis more curious about me. I wasn’t worried about the Baltimore cops.

      “I guess you’re right,” I turned to Alli. “I really should talk to the police.”

      She nodded. “I’ll save your cake.”

      “No nibbling.”

      Alli smiled and I headed over to the edge of the room where the cop and the older Israeli were talking. As I approached, one of the younger Shin Bet agents immediately appeared in front of me. He wouldn’t let me pass. He was my height with short black hair. The man couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. He was not in good humor. “Yes? Can I help you?” he said this quickly, almost challengingly. But that could simply have been because English wasn’t his native language.

      The cop and the older Israeli looked over at me.

      I locked eyes for a split second with the Shin Bet man in front of me, then looked past him to his boss. “I’m the one who shouted ‘Gun!’”

      The older Israeli waved off the younger security man who took a step to the side. The Israeli in charge gestured, “Come.” He held out a chair for me at a nearby round dinner table. The younger Israeli remained close.

      I took the seat the boss offered, and he took one just a few feet away. I looked at the table. It was covered in a navy blue tablecloth and had a half-emptied cup of coffee near me. The rest of the table looked equally abandoned — partially finished water glasses, discarded cloth napkins, centerpiece candles burned almost all the way down, silverware scattered.

      I turned to my new Israeli host. He was watching me. The Baltimore cop stood to his right. He was watching me too.

      The Baltimore cop spoke up, “You are...”

      “Gidon Aronson.”

      “Gidon?” the Israeli repeated, somewhat surprised. He must have been expecting a more Anglicized name. “Atta m’daber Ivrit?” He was asking if I spoke Hebrew.

      I didn’t say anything. I shrugged as if I didn’t understand.

      “I’m sorry,” he said. “You don’t speak Hebrew?”

      I wasn’t sure whether that was a question or not. “No. But I get that a lot from Israelis. My parents named me after the Biblical character.”

      “I know that Gidon,” the man said. “He used spies and psychology against his enemies.” He held out his hand, “My name is David Amit. I am in charge of security. You saved Mr. Lev’s life. Thank you.” He paused. “So, what did you see? What happened?”

      I took a breath. It seemed the thing to do...you know, like I had to think about this. “I saw the waiter stop what he was doing and watch Mr. Lev work his way toward the exit.”

      “And?” the Baltimore cop asked.

      “The waiter put down his tray and moved very deliberately toward Mr. Lev. And he was sweating...a lot.”

      “Why didn’t you say something then?” This again from the cop.

      “Didn’t think of it. Besides, nothing had happened yet. And then there wasn’t enough time.” I turned to the Israeli. “Your men were looking the wrong way.”

      The Israeli looked at me, ignoring what could have been an accusation. “So what did you do?”

      I knew they would ask this, and I kept it simple. “I saw him pull out a gun, so I sort of tripped him...knocked him down.”

      “A very brave thing to do,” the Israeli observed.

      “No choice.”

      “Did you notice anyone else, anyone with him?”

      “Not that I could see. He was focused on Mr. Lev.”

      “You’re pretty observant,” the Baltimore cop said.

      I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

      “What do you do for a living, Mr. Aronson?” This, again, from the cop.

      “I teach.” Before anyone could ask something else, I said, “How do you think the waiter got the gun past your guys?”

      The younger Israeli agent, the one who had blocked my path earlier, leaned over to Mr. Amit and whispered in his ear. The senior Israel nodded, then leaned back, looking at me.

      Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of my adult self-defense students watching us from a nearby table. He was a medium-tall, slightly chubby balding man who was always asking me questions. Don’t come over here...don’t speak to me, was all I could think.

      I looked at him, but then turned back to the men in front of me.

      “So you don’t think there was anyone else with the waiter?” Amit asked again.

      “No, I didn’t see him interacting with anyone other than to wait tables.”

      “Unless there was someone in the kitchen you couldn’t see,” this from the younger Israeli standing beside his boss.

      “Maybe, but during Mr. Lev’s speech, the waiter spent the entire time out here in the hall.”

      The cop seemed surprised. “You noticed that also?”

      I smiled what I hoped was a good smile. “I was bored, so, I looked around.”

      The young Israeli agent leaned over to his boss and whispered again. The senior agent looked up at his man and said, “Kain, ani yodey-ah.” Yes, I know.

      I looked at them looking at me.

      One of us needed to say something, so I did: “Why don’t you check the TV crew’s camera. Maybe they got something on tape.” Of course I already knew they did that, so I tried to make it sound like an innocent, helpful suggestion. I’m not sure it came out that way.

      “Yes, thank you for that idea,” the cop said. His comment sounded equally lame.

      Amit turned to me. “Gidon, you are an interesting man. I would love to speak with you some more.” He smiled pleasantly.

      “Where can we reach you if we need to get in touch?” the cop asked.

      I gave him my home number and stood up. Amit held out his hand and I shook it. “Thank you for your help. As I said before, you saved Mr. Lev’s life.”

      I shrugged again, trying to look embarrassed. I seemed to be shrugging a lot lately. “I’m glad I could. Good luck.” I headed back to my table, not waiting to be dismissed.

      I heard them start to talk behind me, but my hearing wasn’t good enough to make out what they were saying. I wondered how long it would be before they paid me a visit at home.

      “So, how’d it go?” Alli asked, as I approached her.

      “Not as good as I would have liked. I always say too much.”

      “Too much? I don’t understand.”

      “Neither do I,” I smiled. I really had no idea why I wasn’t more forthcoming. Was there a reason not to be? Old habit, I guess. I let out a silent breath. Man, I was too tired for all this. I looked at Alli, “So, did you save my cake?”

      “I did.”

      I looked down at it, but it wasn’t calling me anymore.

      There was movement to my right, from the head table. The plain-clothed cop who interviewed me, had walked over to the head table and had picked up the microphone from the dais. He flicked the switch on the mic and the loud speaker popped to life.

      “Ladies and gentlemen,