10
The next day I went to Windmill’s office. His secretary was surprised to see me and asked whether I had made an appointment.
For a brief moment I stood in front of her, a little hesitant. The wall behind her was full of pictures of Windmill either standing or sitting next to important people. For a moment I stared at her, irritated, then went into his office and sat down in one of the visitor chairs facing his desk. As always Windmill was wearing a perfectly ironed white shirt, leaving the top three buttons open. He immediately stopped filling out whatever forms he was filling out and gave me an insecure smile.
“Why don’t you turn on the radiator?”
“It’s not snowing anymore.”
“It’s cold.”
“I didn’t think I’d see you again this soon,” he said.
“I need a job.”
“Those are a little rare at the UN these days.”
Windmill’s expression turned to amusement. I couldn’t name a reason why he should get me a job, but it was worth a shot. His office was as cold as Lenin’s tomb. The interior decoration was neutral and predictable. A soft, lightly colored carpet, a desk with a glass top, above which hung an abstract painting. A large one.
“I want something in Israel.”
“Why Israel of all places?”
“Are you Claude Lanzmann?”
Windmill grinned and I quietly closed the door behind me.