by E. L. Pini
Nora shrugged and picked up the pace: “The gorilla is Yuri Bogdanov, ex-Spetsnaz. Where the kid goes, Yuri goes. Faiza and Ali have been staying at Bolshoy Palashevskiy Alley, not far from the university – fairly similar to their neighborhood back in Tehran. Faiza works as the head pharmacist of a chain of pharmacies owned by an oligarch named Chomsky. Ali is studying mathematics at Moscow University.”
“Motti, from what I hear there’s no sign of the professor himself. Could you please elaborate on your search pattern and methods?” asked Moshe, who had apparently also decided to torture Mordechai a bit.
“Our methods?”
“Yes. Your methods.”
“I didn’t really handle the details,” Mordechai squirmed. “Perhaps Nora’d better –”
Nora interjected and began to list the myriad concerts and recitals they’d sifted through before finally reaching the week-long Bach festival in Ansbach. At some point I politely stopped her and turned to Moshe. “Boss, I suggest we watch the clip again.”
Moshe gave a nod of agreement and Nora ran it again. I asked her to skip to the applause. As the camera swept across the ecstatic audience, I told her to pause, and go a bit back.
Bingo. The camera was paused on none other than the professor. Not Hamdani, or Hamdanov – but the smiling and amiable Professor Yisrael Be’er, special advisor to the Prime Minister and upcoming head of the National Security Council.
“What? What’s he doing there?” asked Nahum.
“He’s a music lover,” Mordechai quickly said. “He has a subscription to the Philharmonic here, too – I met him there more than once.”
“And what were you doing there, Motti?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Me? I also… uh…”
“Irrelevant!” Moshe interjected. “Congratulations on this accomplishment, but let’s remember that locating the boy was a tactical objective, and has no significance unless we use it to find his father.”
“The father’s disappeared,” Mordechai stated flatly. “The whole find-him-through-his-son thing was not as successful as we’d hoped.”
“Tell me, Motti, have you checked all the burqa-wearing men? I hear it’s become quite popular,” I said. Nora and Nahum sniggered. Froyke and Moshe rolled their eyes and obviously tried not to encourage me.
“This coming from the man who considers a missile launcher appropriate gear for a covert op,” Mordechai retorted.
Froyke looked pensive, as if the conversation had nothing to do with him. Suddenly a spark came into his eyes, and he said, “This is starting to remind me of Kim Philby and the Cambridge Five22.”
“Chin up, Smiley,” I blurted. If anyone in real life could possibly be mistaken for John Le Carre’s Smiley, it was certainly none other than Froyke. He shot me an amused glance.
“Go ahead, Ehrlich,” he said.
“Wherever Ali is, that’s where you’ll find the professor.”
“What’s he got to do in Ansbach?” Mordechai contributed.
“If the kid’s living in Moscow,” I said slowly, “So’s his father. He wouldn’t leave his side.”
“Ehrlich, you’re on the Russian,” Moshe ordered. “We can’t let that murderer run loose. Mordechai, you’re on the professor. And please, will everyone get a damn move on?”
“Whoever finds one of them will find the other one,” I said. Mordechai waved his hand dismissively, but Nora and Froyke seemed to understand what I was thinking.
“Explain, please,” said Moshe, and then Bella came into the conference room, holding out my phone.
“Bubinke,” she said quietly, “It’s Dr. Limor Michaeli, the – ”
“Yeah, sure, I know who Limor is. What’s up?”
“Here. Talk to her.”
I had a bad feeling. Nora and Froyke looked worried.
“Hi, Limor, everything okay? I’m at… What? Isn’t there anything you can do?! I’m on my way. Call you from the car.”
It was 7 pm and the traffic was heavy on Highway 1. I put up the strobe light and turned on my siren, and cut through the shoulders where I could. My phone rang – it was Kahanov. I didn’t pick up, same when Nora rang. I answered only when Limor called again. She tried to calm me down, said that Verbin was fine, and that the pregnancy had about a 25% risk to begin with. I raised my foot a fraction off the gas pedal.
“Why? Is it an age thing?”
“Among other things. Also a thyroid thing,” Limor said, just as I pulled up at the entrance to the hospital and saw her standing out front, raising her hand like a traffic cop. I jumped out of the car and practically ran to her.
“Where is she?”
“Calm down, Avner. Her physical condition is excellent and she’s sound asleep. You’re not waking her up,” she said, and started walking. I followed.
“What happened?”
“She’s fine. We won’t know the exact reason for the miscarriage until we get the labs back. But the most important thing is that she is fine.” She stopped walking. “Look, she’s not a twenty-year-old. At her age, at our age, the risk is already around 25% of women. And before you even ask, I am almost certain that the answer is, yes, I see no reason why she can’t get pregnant again. But you…”
“But me?”
“You have to be there more for her.”
I quietly attempted to absorb this information. She hurried to grab my hand.
“I didn’t mean it like that, nothing like that. Only that when something happens – like this did – she shouldn’t be alone.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back,” I said, and ran to the restroom.
As I stood over the sink, washing my face, I looked up into the mirror and saw an overgrown loser who had just lost his second child.
“You okay in there, Avner?” Limor called in through the door.
I took a deep breath and came out. She gave me an inquisitive look but said nothing.
We went into the room together. Verbin was lying on her side, her hair strewn across the pillow and covering her cheek, emphasizing the paleness of her face. Her breathing was shallow, nearly unnoticeable. Her beauty never failed to move me. I brought my face close to hers, nearly close enough to touch the long lashes. I suddenly remembered the first time we met: Froyke had collapsed, and was taken to the hospital. I had never driven so fast in my life. The security guard at the door to the ward came to stop me from rushing in. I sat him back down with a look and went into Froyke’s room, and a pleasant voice piped up behind me, saying, “Excuse me.”
I turned to face a beautiful, smiling young woman in a white lab coat. As I attempted to guess if she was a student or a girl-scout volunteer, she held out her hand. “Verbin.”
“And how is this information relevant to me?” I replied, fully intending to get out of there as soon as possible. But something about her kept me there.
“Are you his son?” she asked, with a glint of hope.
“Negative,” I said. “A friend. I’ll be on my way. Good morning, Miss…” I read the nametag on her chest. “Doctor Verbin? Really? A doctor already?”
“Negative,” she smiled. “This is actually a leftover Purim costume.”
I was fascinated. On my visit the following day we’d exchanged slightly more words, and on the next I met her in the hospital parking lot, getting into her red Beetle which had parked right next to me. I asked, “Do you need a ride?” trying very hard to look solemn.
She turned around, smiling.
“Not really,” she said, jiggling her keychain. “But I think you might need a passenger.”
“Come on,” I told her. She held out her hand, and I helped her climb into my Cherokee.
“Here I am. Where are we going?”
“Agur, to park the jeep.”
We’d been inseparable ever since.
I lay down beside her on the
hospital bed. Without saying a word, she raised herself up on her forearms and came to lie on top of me.
“I’m sorry, I’m… I’m so sorry.”
“What? What are you sorry about, you haven’t done anything wrong… How’re you feeling –?”
She placed a finger on my lips. “I could’ve… not…”
Before I could respond she fell to sleep on top of me. I managed to push off my Blundstones and cover us with the blanket without waking her. Around us everything was silent, the steady hum of machines the only exception. I closed my eyes and for some of the time I slept. For the rest of it I remembered the day Eran was killed.
It was just before sunset. The kid was out with his squad in Facility 500 down in Tze’elim. Urban terrain combat training. After that he was supposed to get a week of R&R, and we’d decided that – barring any intervention on Murphy’s behalf – we’d take the bikes and finish the southern stretch of the Israel National Trail.
I was sitting under the pergola, barefoot and free. Ya’ara was performing a pipe organ recital at the Abu-Gosh church, and I was supposed to pick her up at midnight, when it was over. I was listening to Pavarotti and Friends – James Brown was singing that it’s a man world, but it wouldn’t be nothing, nothing, nothing without a woman. Nulla ha più senso te si vive solo per sè, agreed Pavarotti – nothing makes sense when you live only for yourself. Mom would probably say it was an opera for soccer players. I leaned back, and took a long draw from my cigar, expelled blue, fragrant smoke rings at the reddening sky, and then I heard steps coming up the driveway.
“W…what? What is this?”
Kahanov was in the lead, followed by ‘Colonel’ Mizrahi in dress greens, and Froyke and Bella bringing up the rear. A surprise party? I wracked my brains and could find no meaningful dates, nothing. More people were coming up the path. Dovik, who back then was commander of the Unit, in his usual battered fatigues, along with Dr. Agranat, who was the Unit’s chief medical officer back in my day. He was discharged from the military years ago, what’s he doing here? I wondered. Probably reserve duty23. And Leibowitz, our own staff physician. What’s going on? Eran? I gasped. Something has happened to Eran. That has to be it. It’s the only possible explanation. No, I won’t have it. God, make it be something else – not Eran. God, no. What the hell does he have to do with anything?
Kahanov leapt past the steps leading to the terrace. I tried to hand him my glass of Macallan, he placed it on the floor and hugged me fiercely. The rest of the group stopped in their tracks. Mizrahi took off his red beret and wiped the sweat from his brow. I tried to wriggle loose, but Kahanov held me there.
“Eran?” I let out an odd, strangled grunt.
Kahanov nodded.
Bella broke into tears.
“Sit him down,” ordered Dr. Agranat. Froyke and Kahanov lowered me gently into the chair, as if I were an infant.
“RP,” Agranat pulled out a syringe, “I’m going to give you something to calm you down.” He fiddled around with a small bottle.
“No!” I said. Agranat retreated with the syringe.
“What happened to Eran? Will someone fucking say something?”
Dovik approached me, knelt, brought his head next to mine and whispered, “Eran jumped on a grenade, Avner. A Mills 26. He saved his team.”
It sounded like an apology. Dovik’s forehead pressed against mine. “His father’s son.”
Bella couldn’t stop crying. She occasionally managed to pause briefly, take some deep breaths, and then a new wave would hit. Froyke was rubbing her shoulder, avoiding my gaze. She referred to herself as “Grandma Bella” whenever Eran was around. They had this adorable grandma-grandson thing, despite the lack of any blood relationship.
“Where’s Eran? I want to see him!”
Mizrahi shook his head, crossing his arms in an “emergency stop” gesture, as if to say, there’s nothing to see. You know what the aftermath of a grenade looks like. I sank into the chair. Agranat took the opportunity to jam his needle into my arm. I either fell asleep or blacked out. When I came to, Kahanov was sitting on the floor next to me. He waved a nearly-empty bottle of Macallan in front of me and shoved a glass into my hands.
“Drink, drink now.” I did, and blacked out again. Eran came into my head. Something pricked my arm and I fell into a hazy abyss.
***
“You were dreaming,” Verbin said, and nuzzled against me.
“Good morning, sleeping beauties,” said Limor, coming into the room with a couple of cafeteria espressos. “You’re checking out today, Professor Gorni saw the tests and gave you two weeks’ off from work, honey, and don’t even ask if I’m jealous, because of course I am. Move over, Avner, let me look at her.”
She handed me a key and a little shower bag and pressed a stethoscope to Verbin’s chest. “Good,” she said. “You,” she glanced at me, “Go to the staff bathroom and wash up. Someone named Ami Kahanov called to say he’s on the way.”
I got up to wash my face and brush my teeth. When I got back, Verbin was waiting for me, already dressed. I sat down beside her.
“What are we waiting for?”
“Limor with the discharge papers, summary and all that.” She placed her head on my shoulder. “What do we do now, honey bear?” She asked, brokenly.
“Whatever you decide.”
“Whatever I decide? Am I on my own here?”
“I don’t… I don’t know if it’s dangerous to you… or what.”
“It’s not. We can start over, take it from the top.”
“You wanna go through that whole spiel again? Ass up, ass down, to the beat of your eggs?”
“Lately you’ve been saving yourself the trouble.”
I kissed the top of her head. “Honestly… I was afraid.”
“I know, honey bear, my big old thug, I know.” She caressed my closed eyes with her fingers. “So how’s it been? Are you okay?”
I told her about my arm acting weird during the connection in Frankfurt, and how it suddenly worked again like nothing had happened, and I told her my father’s story from the Chinese Farm and the burn that wasn’t. She responded calmly, with a simple shrug.
“We know how to mend bones and how to replace corneas and how to transplant hearts, but among the things we still kind of suck at is fixing head trauma. The impact is usually far more severe and unexpected than people tend to think. Your head’s all banged up, honey bear, banged up and messed up. But I’ll do everything I can to fix it.”
Suddenly there was a sharp rap at the door.
“Mr. Verbin!” came the roar from outside. Kahanov waited for no reply, came inside and smothered Verbin in a hug.
“Careful, Ami, careful not to damage the goods.”
“You should tighten his leash, you know he’s not right in the head,” Ami complained, nodding in my direction. Verbin and I burst into laughter.
“I brought you some material to go over. Is that okay? You’re not gonna believe this, man, you will not believe your eyes.” He looked back at Verbin. “Eshtanur falafel or Machneyuda?”
“No Eshtanur, no Machneyuda,” said Limor, who had just come in with the discharge forms. “Dr. Verbin will be going straight home, to bed!”
Kahanov looked at me questioningly.
“This is Limor.”
He took her hand and kissed it like a Polish lieutenant.
“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he said, and I thought I saw some color flush her cheeks.
“Okay, okay,” said Verbin, and stood up. “I’ll go with Limor, you two go together.”
We barely made it to the parking lot before Kahanov handed me his phone with a clip already playing. “Look. This is the restroom at the National Opera last night. Lucia di Lammermoor in the hall and Inglourious Basterds in the restroom. The schmuck holding his schmuck at the urinal is tovarish Sokolov, t
he head of the local SVR station. We put up the cameras and mics and everything just for the professor, that guy Kalinchevski from the Nes Ziona Institute, and guess who didn’t even show?”
“The professor from Nez Ziona?”
“And people say your head’s all fucked. And who did show?”
“Our Mordechai?”
“Hah, you wish. Look.”
Professor Yisrael Be’er stepped into the frame and began pissing right next to Sokolov, who looked around and actually started whistling a tune. Be’er finished, shook, said something inaudible, washed his hands, smiled and left.
“And…? Is that it?”
“That’s it for tonight,” he said, shrugging. “To be concluded.”
“Couple of Russians at the opera. Not exactly a rare sighting,” I said.
“Can two piss together, except they be agreed? And in the middle of Lucia di Lammermoor? I think not. Now, some intel on that lovely doctora, if you please!”
“Limor? She’s great. Close friend of Verbin, ob-gyn, vegetarian.”
“Vegetarian ob-gyn. Just what I need. You think she’d be…?”
“In a moment of weakness? Anything’s possible.”
We got into his car and left. I thought to myself that while Professor Be’er seemed deceptive, spineless, and fame-hungry, the possibility of him being in direct contact with the head of the Russians’ Tel Aviv station seemed ludicrous. The head of our own NSC is responsible for the leak? Inconceivable.
* * *
22A group of British spies who were working as double agents for the Soviet Union during WWII
23In reserve duty, Israeli residents who have completed military service are assigned to the IDF’s military reserve force to provide reinforcements, both during emergencies and as a matter of routine (e.g. for training or reinforcement). -TK
25.
When we got home, Ami and I went to Eran’s grave and pulled out some weeds that had popped up around it. Verbin and Limor arrived a few minutes after us and headed straight to the house. After a moment, Limor came back out and let us know that “She’s asleep, so don’t bother her, I’ll come by to see her tomorrow after my shift.” She turned to Kahanov. “I suggest we let her rest. You coming?”