Good and Dead (An Avner Ehrlich Thriller Book 2)

by E. L. Pini

  BOOK 2

  14.

  Bella had boycotted the meeting so Moshe had to buzz me into his office, and I followed him to the more intimate conference table. Froyke was already there. A cup of pale tea sat on the table in front of him, along with the usual fruit bowl and a bottle of water.

  “Sit down, please,” said Froyke, and sighed.

  “Already sitting, boss.”

  “I know you’re on your way to your vacation, so I’ll make this short. The best we managed to get you, and even this after a considerable struggle, is six months of paid leave, starting today, and another six months’ furlough.”

  “The fuck’s a ‘furlough’?”

  “It’s… unpaid leave,” Froyke muttered.

  “The first part is insulting. The second part’s ridiculous!”

  “Calm down, Ehrlich,” said Froyke. “You have to take the paid leave, or you’ll lose the vacation time, and we’ll hire you as a consultant during the other six months. You’ll be consulting for the Service, as well – they’ve already agreed.”

  Moshe nodded, and Froyke went on, “The most we can do is twenty hours a month at NIS 314 an hour. It’s the maximum amount permitted by the accountant general’s office. Another twenty hours with the Service, for a total of forty monthly hours. It’s about a quarter of your current salary. And you’ll have to fill out a monthly report of your work hours and submit it for approval. No car, no vacation days, no pension, no benefits,” said Froyke.

  Moshe gave him an inscrutable look, then looked at me and said, “It is what it is. And even this was an uphill battle, Froyke knows.”

  “Who were you battling, exactly? Bella? Tzilla from HR?” I asked, though I knew the answer. Moshe looked at me silently.

  “The Prime Minister’s office,” said Froyke. “They wanted you out. Moshe fought to keep you.”

  “And this bottle is here for us to toast with?” I asked. Froyke poured two glasses of water and with a small gesture asked Moshe if he’d like one as well. He did not.

  “The first six months, the ones I’m getting paid for, I assume that’s just the unused vacation days I’ve accumulated?”

  Moshe nodded while Froyke handed me my glass. I took a sip or two and got up. “It’s been swell, friends. If you’ll excuse me, the doctor is waiting for me at the airport. I’m starting my paid vacation today, and immediately after it I’d like to receive my severance pay and the insurance policy with my pension compensation.”

  I reached a hand out to Moshe and he shook it awkwardly and sat back down.

  “Ehrlich,” he said, “You’re not…”

  “Yes, Ehrlich here, what is it, boss?”

  “Never mind,” he sighed. “Never mind.”

  Froyke raised his glass and winked at me.

  Froyke seemed confident that everything “Vill be fine, and much sooner than you think.” He probably knew things I didn’t, but what really annoyed me was Moshe’s pathetic attempt of getting me that consulting position. He obviously knew it wasn’t the money I’d miss once I got my severance. I expected that I’d get some job offers, as well, and if I didn’t, I could always find work as a bodyguard or a debt collector. For a moment I was thrown into the scene from Pulp Fiction where Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta show up at that apartment to collect for their boss, Marsellus Wallace, and after Jules shoots that one guy in the face he says, “Oh, I’m sorry, did I break your concentration?” then Moshe appears, looking like Marsellus Wallace, and tells me, “You leave town tonight, right now. And when you’re gone, you stay gone, or you be gone.” And Froyke shows up, sharing Marsellus’ face, though he also looks like Wolf, and says, “You may feel a slight sting. That’s pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps.”

  I shook the movie out of my head and finally realized what it was that really pissed me off. It was the ease with which Moshe folded in front of the PM. And why was the PM so eager to see me gone? When I get back from my vacation, I decided, I’ll be catching that little schmuck Mordechai for a chat.

  15.

  Ami Kahanov insisted on driving Verbin and me to the airport. We had arranged for him to stay at the house and dog-sit while we were gone.

  “Have a nice trip, you crazy kids,” he said, kissed Verbin and hugged me.

  “Hurry back, and if you feel like it…”

  “I won’t feel like it, but thanks.”

  “I give those pricks a month – two months, tops,” said Kahanov, “before Moshe sends over the old witch and Froyke and himself, on all fours.”

  “Alright man, get outta here. Don’t forget to feed the puppies.”

  “I won’t. It’s either feed them or get eaten, so.”

  Verbin looked happy and beautiful in her large sunglasses and the wide-brimmed straw hat that shaded the little mound of her belly. After we went through security we sat down in the lounge with a Campari and orange juice that hit the spot with striking precision. She placed a hand on her belly and listened.

  “How’s our kid?”

  “He’s clapping,” she said. “Happy to spend some time with his dad.”

  I crouched to press my ear to her belly just as my phone rang, a number with a Cyprus area code that I instantly recognized as belonging to Abrasha – an IDF major-general in the past, intelligence and arms dealer in the present, and a true brother.

  “You’re on your way to Larnaca, I assume?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Not really! Oh, I see how it is. You’re going to visit Bruno, then. Give him my best, yeah? He has a gorgeous villa up in Umbria, and he’ll probably offer you one of them 600-horse-power Maseratis. Don’t fall for it, they got stuck with a bunch of those ridiculous things. Look, I have an office all set up for you down here, we’ll get you a Range Rover Sport like I got with the steering wheel on the right, three times your old salary – and in euros! You’ll have a lovely house on the beach for the price of a one-bedroom in Tel Aviv, your lady won’t even have to change jobs.”

  “Abrasha…”

  “What is it, kid? Triple your salary with that exchange rate isn’t enough for you? I didn’t want to say anything, but there’s dividends, too.”

  “Abrasha, we’ll talk when I get back, I promise.”

  “Who loves you, huh? Take care.”

  First serious job offer.

  Four hours later we landed in Fiumicino. Bruno Garibaldi, who was my counterpart in the AISE, the Italian foreign intelligence service – and more importantly, the original owner of my glorious mastiff – got us quick passage through the airport and picked us up in his new Maserati Levante. In the passenger seat was his lovely wife Julia, also carrying a little hillock in her belly. After a series of hugs and kisses we set out on our long drive north. “For dinner,” Bruno informed us, “We will be visiting the Villa Il Palagio, an estate in Figline Valdarno, near Florence. It is owned by one Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner,” he concluded, and promised Verbin there would also be a small surprise.

  Julia and Verbin had already been close friends, but their matching pregnancies had bonded them to one another with the sisterly fierceness of a terrorist cell. They spent most of the day talking and hugging and laughing, and examining baby clothes and nursery furniture from every online store in existence.

  Bruno’s attractions knew no bounds. Gordon Sumner turned out to be none other than Sting, and he was an exceedingly gracious host. After a friendly chat he took out an acoustic guitar and started singing, concluding the impromptu set with an astounding rendition of Adon Olam, a solemn liturgical hymn known even to us sinners.

  On the way back, while Julia and Verbin were chatting in the back seat, Bruno told me about a Russian submarine officer who had defected to Italy after he’d gotten cancer serving on an Akula sub, only to find that the fleet neither admitted responsibility nor cared.

&nbs
p; “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

  “Because it reminds me of Froyke and the whole Kishon business13. Besides, you’re unemployed now, and that’s a juicy piece of intel. So… what do you say?”

  “About what?”

  “About you and the doctora taking a break from your fucking Middle East. Move here with us, we’ll get you a nice villa in Umbria just like mine for the price of a two-bedroom apartment in Tel Aviv. You’ll get a Maserati 600, a gift from my government. I will personally buy you a pair of Guccis you’ll never want to take off, to cover up those peasant feet of yours. Snug little desk job, you’ll never go out in the field again, keep the doctora happy. A consultant, licking the cream like a fat cat, what do you say?”

  “I’m not saying anything, Bruno; I’m on vacation. When I’m not, we can talk about work.”

  We arrived at their summer home in Umbria and settled in. Julia and Bruno unfortunately had to go to work the next morning, but Verbin and I spent a fantastic week in that villa, much of it never leaving the bed. I spoke to our child, whom I struggled not to think of as ‘little Eran,’ pressing my ear to Verbin’s belly as she replied for it like a ventriloquist dummy. Sting and Pavarotti played in the background. For the first time I felt as though ‘quality time’ wasn’t just something people made up.

  “Do you think we could always live like this?” she asked.

  I shrugged.

  “We can sell the house in Agur and my apartment in Ein Kerem. If what Bruno’s saying is true, we can buy a house like this one and live off the surplus.”

  “And when we run out of Sting and Pavarotti and Zappa CDs?”

  “Then you can cook. We can build some cabins here. Our friends will come visit.”

  “Sounds pretty tempting. We’ll think about it, ask around. Anyway, I still owe another six months.”

  “You don’t owe anything to anyone. Only to yourself. And to us,” she said, lightly tapping her belly. On our last night before returning to Israel, we all went to dinner together, along with O’Driscoll, who had managed to make it to Italy in time to see “the pensioner” and made sure to mention that whenever I wanted it, I had a job waiting for me with him. Job offer number three.

  Verbin said that I was going to be a father, which means taking responsibility and no more of these ridiculous “Mortal Kombats” of mine, or any other testosterone-based shenanigans. On the way to the airport she paused for a minute from stroking the back of my neck and said, “You know what, honey bear? It might be a good idea after all.”

  “What is?”

  “Moving to Virginia for a while. You could work with O’Driscoll, or not. I have an open invitation to Johns Hopkins, and the kid’ll have an American passport. Think about it. Everywhere in the world people are begging you to come, and meanwhile our own assholes are suspending you.”

  “Johns Hopkins?” I said, just as the cab pulled up in front of the gate. “Nice! When did this happen?” She just smiled, a private little smile, and reminded me with a nod to help the guy with our luggage.

  Right after the plane took off, I ordered a Campari and orange juice and she ordered some weird herbal infusion, and she leaned her head on my shoulder and said, “I’m glad you didn’t hurt him.”

  “Didn’t hurt who? What’re you talking about?”

  “The little boy. I love you, honey bear, just the way you are, and not hurting him – that is quintessentially the way you are.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, sure you don’t,” she said, smiling mysteriously. I decided I would have to make an inquiry with Bella about this. I looked at Verbin, at her wonderful eyes and her sharp features that had softened somewhat since the pregnancy, imbuing her with warm, captivating femininity, and realized that during all this time in Italy, my demons had never visited, not once, not Eran and Luigi and ‘loco’ Moshiko from my time in the IDF, nor the horrified face of Ali Hamdani. Verbin was my own personal exorcist, I realized, and stroked her hair.

  Siboni, Moshe’s driver, was waiting for us when we got out of the plane.

  “Who died?” I asked, with a mixture of happiness and feigned annoyance, and for a moment my heart skipped a beat. I suddenly thought about Froyke, and felt the smile vanishing from my face and my whole body start shaking.

  Siboni shrugged. “Nobody died, but Froyke needs you.”

  Verbin looked at me questioningly. I shrugged as well and said “Only death cures a fool.”

  Siboni hurried us through passports and luggage and said that he was taking “Mrs. Doctor Ehrlich” home to Agur, while the other driver who was already waiting outside would take me directly to a meeting with Froyke and Moshe.

  “Do we have to?” asked Verbin, and raised large eyes to me. “I’m still on the payroll for six months,” I said.

  “Five months, two weeks,” she corrected me.

  When I kissed her goodbye, she menacingly slid her finger across her throat in a slicing motion. “Five months and two weeks, honey bear!”

  * * *

  13The Kishon is an extremely polluted river which was used extensively by the IDF for diving and swimming training. Many ex-Flotilla 13 (Navy special forces) soldiers later blamed this training for causing their cancer.

  16.

  Froyke was paler and more solemn than I’d even seen him.

  “Sit down,” he said, and turned the screen around to face me. I glanced at a desktop full of familiar shortcuts, and spun the screen back towards him.

  “What?” he asked, and realizing I had no idea what to look for, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, came to sit beside me and wordlessly pulled up a minimized window from the taskbar at the bottom of the screen and played the video.

  “What? Jihadi John? Isn’t that dreck already…?” I remembered that the redhead from MI6, Major K, had located him at ar-Raqqah and O’Driscoll had sent a Predator UAV that neutralized the little shit the moment he got inside his car.

  Froyke bit his lip. “It’s a different dreck.” I took a closer look; the man was medium height, dressed in black, masked. He made a gesture to the cameraman, who zoomed in. A bald, unshaven man was crouching in front of him, dressed in an orange overall. The man in orange looked vaguely familiar – I had the feeling I’d seen him around.

  Froyke brought up another file – an officer’s diploma, one of ours, with a photo of the guy, shaven, smiling, his eyes amiable and intelligent. “Major Giora – Gigi – Ostashinski. Unit 8200. An electronics engineer, in charge among other things of the operation of our Emba Soira station. He was on leave – took the wife and daughter to see Africa. This is his wife, Alina, a music teacher. And his daughter, Ofra, 12-years-old, she dances ballet.”

  He stopped for a moment, drew in a breath.

  “Used to dance ballet,” he said, and hurried to remove their pictures from the screen. He wiped the sweat from his brow. I poured him some tea from his teapot, and he sipped it slowly, leaning back into the armrest of his chair.

  “What’s the Emba Soira station?” I asked.

  Froyke sighed. “Emba Soira is the highest mountain in Eritrea. We have a surveillance station there, it covers the entire Red Sea and the Persian Gulf. We also have a submarine harbor not far from there, in Dahlak. And just like you had no idea, and neither did I until this came in, no one was supposed to know. Certainly not these Iranian schmucks.”

  “Iranians?” I asked. Froyke said that the killers left a letter, initially meant to be read by Gigi – who refused, saying that this was only the first of a thousand retributions that will avenge the deaths of the shahids Imad and Mustafa Mughniyeh and Qasem Soleimani, and he added that according to the pathologist at Asmara, the wife and daughter were handcuffed by the wrists and ankles and brutally raped. “There’s also signs of strangulation on their necks. Whoever killed them was a sadist. A madman,�
� he said. He finished the tea in his cup and said, “You keep watching. I can’t look at this anymore.”

  The masked man grabbed Giora’s neck, wrenching up his chin to expose the throat, then signaled the cameraman to come closer. A quick zoom-in followed, Giora’s face filled the screen. His blue eyes were expressionless.

  The masked man squeezed tighter, then slit his throat. He sliced around, deepening the cut, until he eventually yanked the entire head off.

  “You’ve about seven minutes of oxygen left. Make good use of them,” he said, and tossed the head to the floor. He had good English, with a slight accent I couldn’t quite place. “Scheisse,” I said, and closed my eyes.

  “It’s not over,” said Froyke when I stood up. I sat back down, apprehensive. A close up of Giora’s head rose on the screen. His penis was shoved inside his mouth. I felt blood filling my head. Froyke pulled out the bottle of Macallan he kept stashed for me. “Drink,” he said, then handed me a glass and filled it up to the brim. I downed it like cheap tequila.

  “Now it’s over,” he sighed.

  The Fedayeen used to do this to our soldiers, back in the ‘50s. Froyke, who as usual read me like an open book, said the Russians did it too, in Chechnya. “More than once, I’d venture,” he characteristically understated. But neither the Palestinians nor the Russians had any reason to invest so many intelligence and operational resources on a surveillance station, especially one located on some godforsaken mountain in Eritrea, and pointing pretty much entirely at Iran. Neither did ISIS. I briefly considered Hezbollah working for Iran, thought I didn’t honestly think this had anything to do with Mughniyeh and Soleimani. We’ve been pounding them into the dirt on a daily basis, fucking up their convoys, their bases, their scientists, going into Iran, into Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Yemen, Khurramshahr, and there’s been no response. Froyke froze the screen on the hand holding the knife. The hand was lily-white, pigment less enough to seem albino. “Voice analysis indicates an Iranian accent. Tehran area. Urban, educated.”