The Eighth Dwarf by Ross Thomas

little.”
    â€œA bit down on his luck?”
    â€œHe paid for the drinks.”
    â€œStill claiming to be with the old firm?”
    â€œHe implied as much.”
    Ploscaru sighed—a long, breathy sigh full of sorrowful commiseration. “He’s not, you know. They cashiered him back in—let’s see—early ’44, I believe it was.”
    â€œWhy—because of you?”
    The dwarf smiled unpleasantly. “Not really. It was a number of things—although I may have been the last straw. He must be free-lancing now, poor old dear. He’s seen the Oppenheimers, of course.”
    â€œOnce.”
    The dwarf nodded thoughtfully. “They wouldn’t talk to him,” he said, more to himself than to Jackson. “His bona fides are all wrong.” Ploscaru brightened. “What else did he tell you?”
    â€œHe told me about all the people Kurt Oppenheimer supposedly killed during the war—and afterwards.”
    Ploscaru sipped his drink. “Probably mentioned the SS major general and the Bavarian Gauleiter.”
    â€œI thought you didn’t know anything about it.”
    â€œI told you I’d heard rumors—most of them a bit fanciful. What else did he say?”
    â€œThat the British don’t want him in Palestine. Oppenheimer.”
    The dwarf seemed to turn that information over in his mind for several moments, sorting it out, estimating its worth, probing its validity. He nodded then, a number of times, as though satisfied, and said, “An interesting point. Very interesting. It could lead to all kinds of speculation.”
    â€œYes, it could, couldn’t it?”
    Ploscaru made his eyebrows go up to form a silent question.
    â€œI mean,” Jackson said, “that’s there’s a possibility that we’re not being paid by a retired zipper king, but by the Zionists.”
    â€œI should make it a point never to underestimate you, Minor. Sometimes you’re most refreshing. Would that bother you, if it were true—the Zionist thing?”
    Jackson raised his glass in a small, indifferent toast. “Up the Israelites.”
    The dwarf smiled happily. “We’re very much alike in many ways, aren’t we?”
    â€œI’m taller,” Jackson said.
    â€œYes, I suppose that’s true.” The dwarf gazed up at the ceiling. “You know what’s really going on out there, don’t you?”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œIn the Middle East.”
    â€œA power struggle.”
    â€œExactly. Between Russia and Britain.”
    â€œThat’s not exactly new.”
    Ploscaru nodded. “No, but there is a new government in Britain.”
    â€œBut not one that’s dedicated to the liquidation of the British Empire.”
    â€œNo, of course not. So Britain has got to keep some kind of physical grip on the Middle East. Russia’s still nibbling away at Turkey and Iran, and Britain’s either going to pull out or be kicked out of Egypt and Iraq.”
    â€œSo that leaves Palestine.”
    â€œAnd Trans-Jordan, but Palestine mostly. Palestine is key. So if Britain is going to keep on being a world power, which means keeping the Russians out of the Mideast, then it must have a base. Palestine will do quite nicely, especially if the Jews and the Arabs are at each other’s throats. It would be easier to control. It always has been—except for one thing.”
    â€œThe Jews have started knocking off the British.”
    â€œExactly,” the dwarf said. “A rather interesting situation, don’t you think? But to get back to poor old Baker-Bates. What else did he say?”
    â€œHe said that both the Americans and the British are after Oppenheimer.”
    â€œThe French?”
    â€œHe didn’t say.”
    â€œProbably not. The French are so practical.”
    â€œBut the ones who want him most of all are the Russians.”
    â€œWell, now. Did he say