by E. L. Pini
A troubled silence sank over the conference room.
“Why’ve you always got to ruin everything,” muttered Nora, and Albert shrugged.
“Listen up, people,” said Froyke, tapping his finger on the watch on his screen. “Fake or real, it doesn’t matter. We will find this watch and cut off the hand that’s wearing it. Get to work.”
“Bruno!” I suddenly exclaimed. “If the watch is real, Bruno can help.”
Nora and Albert looked at me curiously and Froyke nodded.
“You’re right. Nora, transfer the materials to Bruno, he probably has some debt to collect from the Swiss. I also need you to find out about any meetings the Sultan had with Iranian military and intelligence personnel. Whatever you can find, from the watch’s purchase date until now.”
He paused for a moment, sighed and continued – “Your division has a special budget for outsourced services if needed. I’ll also authorize an exception. Contact Sigma16. I’ll talk to Avi and let him know you’ll be calling. If that doesn’t work out, try Friedman over at Stratfor, but don’t explicitly mention Ehrlich’s name because they’ll slam the phone in your face.”
The old devil smiled at me, and once again I was confronted with how little I knew of what he knew of me.
When we’d settled on a course of action, Nora and Albert left. Froyke signaled me to stay with a tilt of his head. He pulled out the box of goodies from his desk and, as had become our custom since Verbin made him quit smoking, I lit the cigar and passed it to him. He drew a single, deep puff and returned it to me.
“We’ll make it short so we don’t piss off the doctor.”
“She’s already pretty pissed.”
“I can imagine,” he said. “I’d be pissed too if I were pregnant and my husband, who is still recovering from a difficult injury and has promised me to stay out of the field, blows up half of Tehran and barely makes it out of there alive.”
“You forgot, ‘while allowing the target to escape’,” I said.
He got up and went to the window, and for a moment said nothing. Eventually he turned to me and said, “I didn’t forget. You know what? If it were me… well, never mind. Listen, this isn’t something you can fix. All you can do is promise her what’ll happen from here on out. After this dumpster fire you’ll be lucky if they let you in a command center, let alone back in the field. Uzi’s down in Asmara conducting a preliminary investigation, by the way. So when you’re back, your ass goes straight into this chair, here.”
“Froyke, enough of this bullshit, okay? You’re not going anywhere.”
“Listen closely now, Ehrlich,” he said. “Somehow your Verbin keeps getting me another few months, then another, nobody knows how, the girl must have made a deal with God – but she knows that this thing has spread all the way up to here.” He placed a hand on top of his head, and said, “And I’m frankly tired of the wars in here… did I ever tell you about my friend Friedman? His father, when he was old and sick, he would say, Alte Juden sollte nicht geboren werden. Old Jews – better that they were never born.”
“I’m getting choked up, boss – violin?”
He rolled his eyes. “Listen, we’ve got plenty of trouble right here, as well. After that mess in Tehran, Hamdani went missing. According to assessments he’s the most meaningful figure to their ballistic attack capabilities, and of course Mordechai’s been going around telling anyone who’ll listen that if it weren’t for you, Hamdani would be neutralized by now.”
“The schmuck isn’t even trying to be sneaky, is he? He knows you’re one foot out the door, he knows you want me to take over and he wants this office. Can’t Moshe see through this?”
“Of course he sees through it. But Mordechai has powerful allies. Both the Prime Minister and that Professor of Oz from the NSC.”
“I could not give less of a fuck. I’ll fight alongside you however long is necessary, Froyke, but if you leave, I’m not staying another day in this shit-show. You already know about Verbin’s invitation to Johns Hopkins, and I’m sure you know that Bruno and O’Dri and Abrasha and Friedman from Stratfor are just waiting for me to leave here.”
“When does Verbin want to move?”
“As long as she can help you, we’re staying.”
Froyke looked at me, his face inexplicable, and then suddenly burst into laughter, guffawing wildly, nearly to the point of choking. He hacked into a paper tissue and I quickly poured him a glass of water.
“What’s so funny?”
“You are. You know that story, don’t you, by Mark Twain – no, Damon Runyon – about the doctor who paid people large sums of money for the right to their bodies, or specific organs, after their death; but some people took their time dying so he starts chasing them around with a knife.”
“Fascinating. So what are we doing about Hamdani?”
Froyke placed a magnified photo of Faiza Hamdani in front of me. She was sitting at the wheel of her Beetle, wrapped in a black burqa that gave her the appearance of a faceless, shrouded mummy.
“She left the next day, at five in the morning.”
“Was anyone on her?”
“Apparently not. Everyone was following the professor, who… well, vanished from the face of the earth. The kid, too. All three of them, gone.”
I looked at the photo again and this time it was my turn to start laughing. I did this for a while, and when I calmed down, I asked if he had any photos from before the fiasco. Froyke looked at me curiously and placed a stack of colorful photos on the table, dating from the beginning of the surveillance until a day before the op.
I spread them out and placed the photo with the burqa and sunglasses. I turned them around to face him. He looked at them for a moment and started laughing as well.
“How did I miss this?” He bit his lower lip, and a shrewd smile stretched across his face.
“Bella, is Moshe available? Your adopted son and I need to see him. What? Coming here? Excellent, the cigar!” he made a scissor-cutting gesture with his hand.
“This cigar?” I pointed at my dick. “I’m pretty pissed at Moshe right now, so here’s the deal – he gets me on my terms, or he gets someone else. Capisce?”
Before he could answer, Moshe opened the door without knocking. “Damn thing’s already stunk up the whole building,” he said. “Might as well take out the bottle, too.”
Froyke obediently took out the Macallan and three glasses.
“So what’s new?” Moshe asked.
Froyke spun the photos around to face him.
“What am I looking at?”
“She’s wearing a burqa in this photo, a hijab in all the rest. It should’ve been obvious to certain people who should’ve been looking out for something like this and to their very great fortune aren’t in this room right now.”
“Again with this kindergarten nonsense?” sighed Moshe.
“Here’s the thing, boss,” I said. “Mrs. Faiza Hamdani was photographed every day across three months of surveillance wearing a hijab. Bare-faced. Hijabs in every color of the rainbow. At least one light blue Nike hijab, I remember it. Faiza’s a modern woman. In fact, girl’s a full-fledged hipster, like her hubby. She’d never be caught dead in a burqa.”
“So?” asked Moshe, curious.
“So,” I said, tapping the covered figure in the photo, “This isn’t her. And if it isn’t her, it’s him. Hamdani. Fooling us damn fools and leaving the house – probably heading to the airport, boards a flight, and five minutes later his lady comes to join him with the kid.”
“Makes sense,” said Moshe. “Where would he have flown? Can we find him?”
“He’s certainly not dumb enough to fly under his own identity. And I’m sure he’s watching himself, wherever he is – and probably being watched, too.”
Moshe coughed. “Okay, you’ve shown us all that you know how to smoke,
now will you please put out that stench?”
“Absolutely not, boss,” I said, “I’m just leaving, and I’m taking my stench with me. If said someone who isn’t here fails to understand the little stunt with the burqa, I’ll explain it to him tomorrow.”
I walked toward the door when suddenly it hit me. I put out the cigar and sat down. “Epiphany time,” Froyke told Moshe. The DM looked at me, expectant.
“We’ll find him,” I said, and saw some color return to Moshe’s cheeks, “When we find the kid.”
His face fell. “You call that an epiphany?” he said, disappointed. “We know that already. And vice versa.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “The professor is in hiding, and he’s clever enough to avoid any digital traces. Little Ali, on the other hand, is a savant on the piano – a ten-year-old musical prodigy. One of the only pianists in the world capable of playing Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier without embarrassing themselves. The professor drives him to and from every concert, and he won’t have Ali stop performing, under any circumstances.”
“I see,” said Moshe. “Good job, Ehrlich. Siboni will take you home along with that disgusting cigar. By the way, why didn’t the smoke detector…” Froyke and I grinned and started laughing. Moshe looked angry, then surprised, and eventually he started laughing as well, before telling me to send his best to “Doctor Verbin, your saint of a wife.”
* * *
16Sigma and Stratfor are civilian intelligence organizations.
19.
I left the office. Siboni was indeed waiting for me, and while we were on our way to my saint of a wife, he told me that the DM never leaves the office before the sun’s on the other side, and that he doesn’t mind taking the 383, and that I can smoke my cigar as long as I open the windows, because he’s taking the car to its annual maintenance tomorrow and they’ll be changing the filters on the a/c. I offered him a cigar, and he said mine was enough.
I love you, saintly wife, I said inwardly, and sent her a link to Sting and Pavarotti’s Panis Angelicus instead of the huge bouquet of roses I had nowhere to pick.
A minute and a half later I received the link back.
As I attempted to analyze this ambiguous response, I received a video file of an ultrasound; the baby looked like a white cloud, shaped by the winds into a teddy bear.
“Pull over, Siboni.”
I showed him the video.
“Good-looking kid,” he said. “Looks just like you.”
When we got to Agur, I opened the first gate remotely, triggering a salivatory frenzy of barks from the two monsters, who ran up and stormed the car doors the second Verbin opened the inner gate.
“Jesus Christ, those are big dogs,” Siboni said, horrified. “I’m not going in there. Is it okay if you get off here?”
“I guarantee they’ve already eaten. Come up for a coffee.”
“No, thank you. I’m off. I have coffee in my thermos.”
Verbin arrived only after Garibaldi finished tongue-bathing my entire face. She took me by the hand and led me inside and into bed. I barely remember my head hitting the pillow and her lips kissing eyelids, and I was out like a light.
I was woken by the smell of coffee, rising from the cup Verbin passed under my nose, and her smiling face greeting me when I opened my eyes.
“Ten straight hours of sleep. You’re getting better at this. Now get up! I have some more patients to see, but I’ll be done in about half an hour. Go wash your face.”
“I’ll just pop over to see Eran and I’ll be right there.”
“Coffee?”
I nodded. She handed me a cup and I drank it before heading out to Eran’s plot. There wasn’t a single weed in sight – Verbin did some expert work here. The black basalt glittered and shone in the sun. I leaned my head against the gravestone and the image from the ultrasound appeared, suddenly, in my head. The baby looked like a little tadpole, trying to clear a path for itself. I liked to think that meant the kid was stubborn, steadfast. Just like Eran was.
“How was it at the office?” Verbin asked, sitting down beside me with a cup of coffee in her hand. I told her what I could, assuming she would probably hear the rest from Bella. But I could see it wasn’t enough.
“I want to make sure I understand,” she said, carefully. “Are you back for good, or just until you catch this man?”
“I don’t know yet,” I sighed, and slurped the remainder of my coffee.
Her eyes became fierce. She sat up tall, and I saw the twitch of an adamant eyebrow.
“Here!” she said, pointing at her belly. “Our child is growing here, and needs a father just as much as a mother. Two hundred and forty pounds of father.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
“Two hundred and forty pounds, including some redundancy, a bruised thigh tendon, a shot shoulder, shrapnel all over, and four lower back vertebrae with slipped discs pressing on the nerve, shall I go on?” She set her cup down. Her eyebrow continued to twitch.
“Also an analytical mind, doesn’t that count?”
“No! Inside parts don’t count. Come here, honey bear.”
We embraced, seeking solace from troubling thoughts, and then Nora called. I gave Verbin an apologetic look and answered the phone, as she got up and went to get dressed before leaving for the hospital.
“Yes, Nora,” I said, momentarily remembering the endless cleavage.
“Your buddy Bruno’s a freakin’ wizard,” she said. “He flew all the way to Geneva to meet with the CEO of Rolex and the head of –”
“Bottom line?” I cut her short.
“Bottom line is you suck and I hate you. When you’re in the car call me from the secure phone.” She hung up.
Verbin and I left together. I kissed her goodbye to the sound of barking monsters. As I slid down the road from Agur through the mollifying spring landscape, I called Nora back.
“I hope you’re calling to apologize for that shitty tone.”
“Depends on that bottom line you still haven’t given me.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes so hard it was audible before saying, “The watch that was sold to the Sultan of Brunei? That’s our watch! The head of VIP sales at Rolex recognized some micro-scrape on the left side, said the sultan insisted they knock off ten percent because of it.”
“And…?”
“And what?” She said.
“Who has the watch now?”
“Sheesh, will you chill the fuck out? We’re on it. So far here’s what we know: since the sultan bought the watch four years ago, he met with Iranian officials twenty-eight times that we know of – so on average about every two months. He met twice with President Rouhani, four times with the Minister of Foreign Affairs, six times with the Minister of Petroleum, six times with the Minister of Defense. He also met with the commanders of the IRGC, which is interesting, because he didn’t meet with the Iranian military even once. During the same period of time he met with American officials only twice, and about a dozen times with Russian officials. One of those was with the Russian Minister of Foreign Affairs and the ambassador, all the rest were with representatives from RET. There’ve also been some meetings with a Russian colonel named ‘Advisor Rasputin’ – we’re assuming that’s a codename, probably from their military intelligence, though so far we haven’t found his official record.” She paused a moment to breathe, then continued: “Bruno also said that the sales guy from Rolex offered to call the royal treasury and just ask them what we need to know, but of course he said not to.”
“And…?”
“Ugh. And… we compiled a databank of names and key phrases that we’ve been trying to intercept in the communication from Eritrea and Tehran, and from the Quds Force Unit 400 base. We’re also running it on the last two weeks of recordings.”
“You can try check for meaningful increases in t
he level of communication – any peaks in the graph, dig there.”
“Not a bad idea. Glad to see there’s still some brain nestled in all that cholesterol.”
“Even a blind chicken finds a grain sometimes,” I said, and it sounded like she warmed up slightly. I got to the highway and speeded up.
“We’ve been collecting videos and stills of the Iranians who met with the Sultan,” Nora continued. “Focusing on their left hands.”
“Smart. There’s still plenty of holes, but it feels like we’ve got a proper net brewing.”
“It’s a good thing we do, because let me tell you, you’ve been walking on extremely thin ice.”
“What? Me? what do you mean?”
“Why in the ever-living fuck would you provide Mordechai with intel? Now he has ordered us to go after Hamdani, to follow his son’s concerts, telling everyone it’s his idea, that you were against it. He’s also saying that you initially rejected the possibility that the figure in the burqa was Hamdani. He’s just lying his ass off, and when we do catch Hamdani, he’ll be getting the credit. Weren’t you the one who told me you never stroke a prick? Well, you stroked him, and look at him swell.”
“Are you serious? He’s actually saying that?”
“Yes. He is.”
“Interesting.”
I was genuinely surprised. I knew Mordechai was a putz and that he was trying to undermine me, but I had no idea he’d go to such lengths. I decided that at the first opportunity, I would ask Kahanov to check why he was dismissed from the Service.
In the meantime, I’d let him keep climbing. The fall would be all the worse for it. They say that the higher a monkey climbs, the better you can see its butt.
The secure phone rang again, distracting me from the somewhat soothing image of a monkey’s butt. Bella was on the line.
“Bubinke?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“A tie. Wear a tie.”
“You want me to strangle someone?”
Bella crackled out a coughing, cigarette-infused laugh. “If I would make you a list… hah! Just please dress like a grown-up, no sweatpants and no jeans and Che Guevara t-shirt, okay, bubinke? So at least you look like a serious man.”