by Dov Alfon
The bus took a sharp turn into a very narrow street, managing to negotiate the puddles close to the passersby who huddled under the awnings. Yermi wiped the steam off the window again and perused the shop windows – luxury stores, that much was clear, with no end of lace, jewellery and designer brands, including a large Fabergé store, which would certainly have delighted his grandparents, who had an entire shelf of art books in their living room in Ashdod devoted to the Tsar’s missing jewels.
Now the small street became a wide boulevard, teeming with more people than he had ever seen in his life, ambling this way and that. He guessed by the shopping bags that it was a street with large department stores, maybe the one his grandmother had told him so much about. Instinctively he checked the front pocket of his trousers in which he had secreted the money she had given him for the trip.
The bus turned slowly onto a small roundabout, and a moment later came to a quiet halt. The driver opened the rear door and the passengers pushed their way to the luggage compartment, apparently worried that, out of all the suitcases, theirs would be the one to go missing. The last to get off, Yermi clutched his suitcase in his right hand and, with his left, pushed back the fringe of the hood attached to his padded military coat.
He stood in a small square that, according to the plaque, was named after the Russian impresario Sergei Diaghilev. He tried to take this as a positive sign but had no idea where to go next. He estimated that he was beyond the department stores, which meant that the opera house should be in front of him. Crossing the street, he advanced several paces and glanced at the shop windows. George Clooney stared at him from a poster in one, recommending he drink coffee made from capsules.
There were hotels on all sides, but they seemed shabby, and he doubted that any of them were equipped with the technology he needed. He walked into a stiff breeze, and after a short while saw to his left a building that was monstrous in both size and ugliness. He assumed that he had reached the rear facade of the opera house. The square in front of him was deserted in the rain. On either side of the street were hotels.
In the first, the receptionist stared at him and explained – with an almost convincing tone – that regrettably no rooms were available.
*
He crossed the street to a hotel whose lobby seemed much broader than the Opéra itself. He heard a melange of languages being spoken around him, a lot of Russian, and even Hebrew. There were only women in the reception area, a fact that increased his chances exponentially.
The receptionist looked at him quite eagerly as he explained that he had no credit card. After consulting the shift manager, she returned with a reasonable compromise: under the present circumstances and without a reservation, the hotel would be willing to host him against their regulations, but the payment – even for one night – must be up-front. She photocopied his passport and offered to help fill out the forms she had handed him. She copied his name from the passport, Vladislav Yerminski. Nationality: Israeli. Age: 21. He provided an address and postal code. Purpose of visit: Business? Holiday? Other? “Business.” After depositing half his money into her hands, 250 euros, he received a key for room 5508. As he had hoped, the key was a 32-bit encoded card. A piece of cake.
The room was smaller than he had expected, considering the price, but the price included the option of connecting to the hotel’s Ethernet network, and that was all that mattered. The curtains were wide open, revealing a view of the front of the opera house with all its gilded Greek deities. The T.V. was on, playing an annoying adaptation of Tchaikovsky by way of a commercial for the hotel. He searched for the remote and pressed the T.V. button in an attempt to change the soundtrack. The music switched immediately to a frenzied news report in French, and when the picture appeared on the screen, he saw an El Al plane underneath a giant headline: “Le Kidnapping à Charles de Gaulle.” Without taking his eyes off the screen, Yermi tried to sit down on the bed, feeling that his legs had ceased to obey him. He slid down until he found himself on the carpet, staring at the footage of the Chinese and the blonde, his brain slowly processing the images.
Chapter 25
Every car park along the Champs-Élysées announced in neon letters that it was full. The avenue projected cheerfulness and pride, glittering in the sun after the squalls that had washed the city only moments before. Abadi tried his luck in the nearby streets. Thanks to the long and blundering security checks at the Israeli embassy, he was at risk of running late for the secure conversation, and for a moment considered driving up to the embassy’s barrier and taking a chance on parking there. But it was a rental car, and he was in for enough confrontations as it was.
He noticed a valet parking service at the entrance of an expensive restaurant, Le Boeuf sur le Toit, and casually handed over his keys along with a generous tip. Immediately upon entering the restaurant he apologised to the hostess, saying he had forgotten something which he would collect and then return, and was gone before she could protest. He cut left onto avenue Matignon. Of all the monuments in Paris, he had a strong aversion to the Arc de Triomphe. The mere sight of it depressed him. His last school trip as a French pupil had been here. For the briefest of seconds, Abadi remembered standing on the roof, his beloved teacher M. Lefebvre gesticulating into the wind towards the Place de l’Étoile while glorifying the military achievements of Napoleon. Two weeks later, his parents made their aliyah to Israel, and he had never forgiven either them or the monument that presaged his exile.
He hastened towards the embassy. The police officers behind the barrier noticed him from a distance. Abadi had years of experience visiting Israel’s embassies around the world, and it always seemed as though the guards disliked him on a personal level, always having difficulty understanding the nature of his role and taking offence at his refusal to elaborate. The ordeal generally involved twenty minutes of questioning, X-ray security scanners, physical searches, and then a humiliating wait. The security business was a circus and every circus allows time for clowns to express themselves. Inhaling, he stepped into the ring.
*
At the first barrier, the one under French jurisdiction, everything went rather quickly. The officers asked to see his passport and reported his name on the radio. Abadi noticed tiny cameras fixed to their uniforms. No doubt in his mind that the personal details of every visitor to the Israeli embassy were stored somewhere in French counter-intelligence’s database. He was the last person who could protest.
To his surprise, the officers almost instantly received authorisation to let him in. There were no delays at the second barrier either. The X-ray scanning was straightforward, almost careless, and the physical search was cursory. The security guard said, “You can go ahead,” and handed him his passport. He did not request instructions over the radio or ask Abadi the purpose of his visit.
At the third barrier, he was asked the purpose of his visit. “I need to use your code room,” Abadi said, and pulled out his security officer I.D. card, which had expired some time ago. The guard did not seem too bothered. He searched for his name on the printed list of names hanging on the wall of his booth, spoke to someone on the intercom, and returned the card to Abadi without comment, possibly even with a smile.
“Third floor, all the way to the right. The embassy’s head security officer is waiting for you.”
Now this was just plain science fiction. The embassy’s head security officer had abused Abadi many times in the past, stalling his entrance each and every time, interrogating him about his job, trying to deny him access to the secure wing. This time he was indeed waiting for him upstairs, promptly opening the code room for Abadi and wishing him good luck.
On the wall in front of him hung six clocks set to the time in cities around the world – an old-fashioned yet endearing practice. He punched in his code and typed the access number to Special Section of Unit 8200. According to the wall clock, it was 15:59 in Israel – time to call the one person in 8200 whom he could trust, a young officer whom he had never me
t.
Chapter 26
They proceeded towards the Quartier Asiatique on foot.
Like all xiake in the organisation, the warriors were named after dragons in Chinese mythology. The senior of the two, the xiake Zhulong, was named after the dragon with the human face, and like him preferred to keep his secrets to himself. He did not bother explaining to his young partner why he had decided they should get off the métro at Tolbiac instead of staying on the train to the last station.
He simply assumed the chances for random security checks by the French police would be higher at the end of the line – certainly considering the number of illegal immigrants that passed through the station. He had no reason to suppose there would be any police checks at all; until now, everything had gone smoothly.
That was thanks largely to his young partner, who would certainly be promoted to senior dragon after this mission. He had chosen the optimal location for execution, had done an excellent job guiding the girl they had used as bait, had helped his commander carry out the operation and had also proven himself in planning the retreat, in which they blended into a group of Chinese tourists leaving Charles de Gaulle airport.
So far, the tally of unexpected obstacles had been nil, a rare achievement even for more experienced soldiers. Now they had only to get to the safe house in the 13th arrondissement, in the heart of Chinatown, and wait for the briefing before being shipped back to the homeland.
They took the escalator up to the avenue d’Ivry exit, where the torrential rain caught them by surprise. Their matching suits, which had given them cover in the airport, stood out on this street, right next to Buttes-aux-Cailles, Paris’ historic left-wing stronghold. They started along the avenue towards Chinatown, but the rain was relentless and after a few minutes Zhulong said that they would take shelter.
In front of them was a supermarket, its bright sign boasting “The Largest Chinese Supermarket West of Beijing!” He decided to purchase umbrellas and light raincoats before continuing on their way.
Apart from one or two Frenchmen, the customers inside were all Vietnamese. The only Chinese were the employees. He felt uneasy glances directed at them as they followed the signs to the clothing aisle. He bought two rolled-up nylon raincoats for two euros each, cheaper than in the homeland. Then he added two black umbrellas, though he was not sure they would survive in this wind.
They got lost on the way to the cash registers. The supermarket was huge – the fish section alone was bigger than any Chinese supermarket he knew. Having tried to retrace their steps, they found themselves in the electronics department, in front of a wall covered with dozens of cutting-edge T.V. screens, all silently broadcasting the same news channel. A French anchorwoman with big beautiful eyes spoke animatedly, the image of an airplane behind her.
Suddenly the image changed, and he saw himself.
He ducked instinctively, as if under fire, then cautiously stood back up, his gaze fixed on the wall. The video was in black and white, but the picture was sharp and his image stared back at him, multiplied on dozens of screens, mocking him – mocking the precautions he had taken, his premature confidence in the mission’s success, all his past achievements. The past was dead.
The video was edited oddly; at any rate, it did not capture the event from beginning to end. The xiake had been filmed sneaking up from behind, lunging at the victim, then collecting his belongings. Maybe the camera had not caught everything, but what it did catch was too much.
When the newscast cut back to the presenter, her blue eyes turned to the viewers in a plea for help, and the image switched to a screenshot of the two of them. A telephone number appeared underneath, and, even without knowing French, Zhulong understood the text. Have you seen these people? If so, call the police immediately.
Slowly he looked around, trying not to attract attention. The shoppers were absorbed in their own affairs, but one or two were following the report. Despite the enlarged images from the security camera – sophisticated as it might be – Zhulong knew that under different conditions they would have had a decent chance of escaping. All South East Asians look alike, after all.
But here, in this supermarket, people could tell each other apart, and anyone might quietly take out his mobile and call the police. They had gone to the Quartier Asiatique assuming it would be easier to blend in, but, like their previous paths of action, this plan was flawed: it had led them to the one spot in Paris where they might be identified.
His partner stood beside him frozen in his tracks, still glued to the screens, which were now reporting on the violence in the Middle East. He looked very young, almost a child. But he understood only too well the significance of what he had seen. His first task for the mission had been to choose a location in the airport where there were no security guards or cameras. He had interviewed more than twenty employees in the terminal, had grilled the constructions contractor for an hour, had toured the place himself three times.
He did not understand where he had gone wrong. But there was one thing he understood for sure – that it did not matter. He had failed, and that was doubling the odds that his commander would get caught. He tried to think of something to say, if he could still right his wrong and be useful. His mind refused to comply.
The nylon raincoats and umbrellas in their hands suddenly weighed a ton. Any interaction with another person in the quarter, let alone paying at the cash register which probably had a surveillance camera above it, posed a risk. They abandoned their items on one of the shelves and went in search of the exit. The danger must have sharpened their sense of direction, because this time they made it out of the maze in less than a minute.
The rain had stopped. Looming in front of them were the towers of the Quartier Asiatique. There the safe house waited. As things stood, the apartment owners – not to mention the neighbours or the thousands of passersby they would encounter along the way – might very well turn them in.
Zhulong looked to his right. Judging by the flight of seagulls and the sound of the wind, the river was nearby. He hoped it was deep enough to accept the body of his young and promising partner, whose luck had betrayed him in, of all places, the most beautiful city in the world.
Chapter 27
The encryption system started running its usual complex algorithms. Her interlocutor, Aluf Mishne Zeev Abadi, had already appeared on the screen and was staring into the camera without moving a muscle. They were not allowed to speak until the installation of the encryption was complete, which took about a minute. Oriana always felt uncomfortable during this suspension, as if on a silent lift ride with a stranger. She took advantage of the wait to ask Rachel to make coffee.
So that’s what her future commander looked like. While he certainly resembled the user photograph she had lingered over since his appointment, there were a few stark differences. First, he was in civilian clothing – an elegant white shirt, the two top buttons open against a tanned and hairy chest. His skin tone was darker than it appeared in the photographs, perhaps because her gaze immediately fell on his light eyes, which even a low-resolution encrypted communication could not dim. Seconds before the voice joined the picture, she spotted the difference between him and his frozen head shots: his gaze was soft and distant. It reminded her of her nephew watching his beloved birds on the kibbutz.
“Hello, Commander,” Oriana said. She was aware that the smile in her voice sounded somewhat ironic, but she had no intention of changing just because some thug with swagger had suddenly entered her life, a man who knew how to terrorise even Aluf Rotelmann.
Chapter 28
Yermi took the box out of his suitcase. The tin foil he had wrapped it in was unwrinkled. As he expected, no-one had tried to open it. First he removed the audio reel, the reason for his journey, and put it on the narrow dressing table. What he needed now was the second piece of military property in the box: a hacking scanner, black and shiny, proudly displaying the Tzahal emblem. The standard warning for intelligence equipment was etched o
n the front of the device, detailing the punishment awaiting anyone who attempted to remove it from the premises of Unit 8200. Yermi placed it next to the T.V. set.
The hotel’s cable box was unencrypted, not that it would have taken him long to crack the code. He located the cable at the bottom of the suitcase and connected the scanner to the box.
On the floor around him were all the tiny bottles he had found in the minibar – a little pick-me-up. There was no Irish whiskey, only three very mediocre brands of Scotch. Yermi mixed the three bottles in the elegant glass provided by the hotel, hoping that blending them might improve the quality of the drink.
He sat on the bed in front of the screen, picked up the remote and flipped back to the hotel’s home channel. The appalling soundtrack had changed to Vivaldi’s “Spring”. A narrator with a soothing voice sang the praises of the hotel, built by the Pereire brothers in the 1800s, and in which Émile Zola had set the death of the heroine in his novel Nana. Yermi liked that. The narrator explained that today the hotel featured 470 rooms, a fact he liked even more, since the number of rooms increased his chances of finding what he was looking for.
The scanner started running. One after another, every connection from the building’s network appeared on the screen, beginning with the adjacent rooms. In the first three rooms the guests were surfing Facebook, which did not help him. In the next two rooms, the guests had their Gmail accounts open, and drafts of personal letters appeared on his screen – an option that gave him some leeway if he did not locate something better.
On the tenth scan, the guest in room number 5348 appeared, checking his account balance in a London bank. Big mistake. An app which saved all the user’s passwords appeared on the screen. Yermi did not need much more than that. He began recording the screen and raised his glass of mixed Scotch to salute the generous guest.