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Kaplan added with a wry smile.
    Cohen dropped his hand. A moment before, while Kaplan maneuvered into position beside Cohen, Tina had been grinning—nervously—from ear to ear. Suddenly, she looked worried.
    Carey leaned back in his chair, arms crossed against his chest, studying Kaplan, who was patting Cohen on the shoulder as if they were old friends. The photographer remained poised, waiting for action to capture.
    Cohen sighed. “You don’t owe me an apology.” “I’m glad to hear that,” Kaplan said.
    “You owe Israel an apology,” Cohen said softly.
    Lassman covered his eyes and Tina’s expression changed to fear.
    Carey kept his poker face.
    “For what?” Kaplan demanded.
    “For helping to pay for a campaign that ended with the assassination of our prime minister,” said Cohen. “As I wrote in my book.”
    “What are you talking about?” Tina exclaimed. “Avram?”
    “In the chapter about how the undergrounds are financed by American contributors,” Lassman reminded her.
    “You didn’t mention Mr. Kaplan. Believe me, I would have caught that,” she said, then turned to the author in the wheelchair. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Kaplan. I’m Tina Andrews, Avram’s agent. And I’ve been a huge fan of yours since I was a little girl … “
    Kaplan gave her a practiced grin. But he was concentrating on Cohen. “It’s too bad, really. I don’t want to have to sue you for libel and slander.”
    “Oh, shit,” Carey moaned. Kaplan’s narrow eyes shifted to gaze at him.
    “Carey Mccloskey,” the editor offered, rising out of his chair to extend his hand. “TMC.”
    “Yeah, I’ve heard of you. The golden boy. A real smart ass, I hear.”
    Mccloskey could only smile weakly.
    “Don’t worry, smart-ass,” Kaplan said, suddenly changing tone. “I’m not going to sue. Unlike him,” Kaplan added, pointing a thumb at Cohen, “I believe in free speech.”
    Cohen scowled, working to hold his temper. But the dam broke. “Mr. Kaplan, we were in a meeting here,” he tried, wanting the old man to go away and leave him alone.
    “Until you interrupted us rudely.” He was tired of fighting.
    The book was supposed to do the fighting for him.
    Tina was appalled, Carey amused, and Lassman was watching both Kaplan and Cohen like a fan suddenly allowed into the dressing room to meet the boxers before the fight.
    Kaplan easily ignored Cohen’s request; as one of the ten best-selling novelists worldwide for more than three decades, he could set rules of behavior. And he set a new one on the spot, suddenly turning on Tina to ask if she was Jewish.
    “Like Charlie Chaplin said,” she answered, almost automatically, as if she had used the line many times before, “I’m afraid I don’t have that honor.”
    “And I know you aren’t, Mccloskey,” Kaplan added. “So neither of you really have any idea of what Cohen’s book is about. What it’s really about.” He paused to create a sense of mystery, but lost his advantage when Lassman interrupted.
    “It’s about how ‘, not religion; faith, not fanaticism, must prevail,’ ” Lassman quoted from memory.
    “So he’s ready to sell out to the Arabs,” the old author hissed. He turned to Cohen. “Who’s he?” he asked referring to. Lassman.
    “My name’s Benjamin Lassman. I translated Avram’s book, and my own book, about … ” But Kaplan wasn’t interested. “Bernie?” he asked the little fat man, “can you see Francine? She’s supposed to be bringing some champagne.” Cohen shifted in his seat, but said nothing.
    “Avram, what is he talking about?” Tina asked.
    “Jewish wars,” Lassman explained. “It’s what brought down the commonwealths in the past. The stronger we get, the more we argue among ourselves about whether we’re really strong—and if God has anything to do with it.”
    “Jews didn’t used to argue about God having something to do with it.” Kaplan sneered.
    “I leave discussions of God to religious people,”