by E. L. Pini
“Maybe we should alert Mordechai the Jew? He knows all about burqas.”
“That’s enough, Nora,” Froyke suddenly snapped. “We’ve exhausted our leads on Hamdani, at least until you find new ones – and you’d better find some soon, and by soon I mean yesterday.”
Nora, momentarily embarrassed, sipped her milk less decaf in silence. Albert fiddled with his earpiece, eventually succeeding in shoving it deeper into his skull.
“Okay,” I broke the awkward silence. “Any progress on the Rolex-toting psychopath?”
Bella came in, wheeling a cart with a little jug of milk, and a tray laden with sandwiches; just behind her was Anne-Marie, the profiler. I waved at her affectionately and she nodded and smiled back.
“You all need to stop your jabbering for two seconds and eat something,” Bella scolded. “Here’s your milk, Nora dear. Froyke, I mean it, you need to eat before you take your meds.”
“You got this room tapped, Bella?”
“No, but my, what big ears I have… and my, what big teeth, too!” she grinned, and pointed at me. “You, step into my office before you go.”
Froyke briefly apologized and started gulping down a series of pills from a little blue pillbox, arranged by the time of day, and Nora declared that Bella was literally a witch and we were lucky she’s on our side.
I couldn’t help but agree as I bit into the double sandwich she made for me – a pile of roast beef and Swiss cheese between two properly thin slices of white bread. I chewed as I waited for Froyke to finish swallowing his pills, and then again brought up the fucker with the Rolex.
“Advisor Rasputin,” said Froyke. “That’s how he’s listed in the of the Sultanate’s treasury registry, and it turns out it isn’t a codename or call-sign like we originally thought – it’s his actual name. His father, Gregory Rasputin, was a Red Army General.”
“Did the sultan give the watch to the father or the son?” I asked, still chewing.
“The son, obviously,” Nora said with mild pedagogical annoyance, “since it was a year ago and the father killed himself back in ’82.”
“Rasputin Sr. committed suicide?”
“It’s more likely that it was committed for him,” said Nora. “He was in charge of their anti-air systems in ’82. He left a letter taking full responsibility for their failure.”
“Vysshaya Mera Nakazaniya. Classic KGB move,” said Froyke.
I finished the sandwich, which alleviated some of my hunger but not all of it.
Meanwhile, Anne-Marie gave her report: “He exhibits clear psychopathic tendencies,” she said in her strong American accent. “He’s in his fifties, has an extensive military background – probably Spetsnaz and/or KGB. Highly intelligent, and most likely holds a senior position in his place of employment, and demands nothing short of total obedience from his subordinates.” Anne-Marie, who made us all very happy by deciding to convert to Judaism two years ago and leave the FBI to come work for us, was probably the best criminal profiler in the world, especially when it came to psychopaths and serial killers.
“We still don’t know who this Rasputin is and what he does,” said Froyke.
“We’re on it, full capacity,” Nora promised. “Boris has also been buying a bunch of relevant intel, it should start bearing fruit pretty soon. But so far, it’s been like finding Hamdani all over again – he leaves hardly any digital footprint.”
“Anything else, children?” asked Froyke.
Nora shrugged and stood up, humming Boney-M’s Ra Rasputin. “Just FYI,” she tossed over her shoulder, “the Museum of Erotica in St. Petersburg has Rasputin’s original dick on display – thirty centimeters, no less – no wonder he was the ‘lover of the Russian queen’.”
“Shoo, Nora. I need Ehrlich,” said Froyke.
“Who doesn’t?” she said, rolling her eyes, and dragged Anne-Marie out with her.
Once we were alone, Froyke took out my box of goodies, lit a cigar, took one puff and passed it to me before telling me that Uzi had combed Tehran with Mordechai’s team, and then Gaza and the Hezbollah hideouts in Lebanon and Syria with Kahanov and the AMAN guys, to no avail.
“No trace of Hamdani,” he sighed. “All of our antennas and satellites, and our cyber departments, and our Pegasus on their cellphones, and our contractors, at the end of all that sits some snurowadel with round glasses and a nose ring and thirty pounds of brains and finds… nothing.”
“Snurowadel? I take it we’re just making words up now?”
Froyke smiled. “My uncle,” he said with a note of nostalgia, “my father’s brother, he was as tall as you but with ears like an elephant and thin as a shoelace, so my mother used to call him snurowadel – shoelace, in Polish.
I let out a puff of smoke and offered him another. He waved his hand.
“What we really need,” he said, “is another Anna von Stroop25 with steel ovaries, sitting right in the heart of darkness and reporting back to us.”
“Anna von Stroop,” I sighed, lost momentarily in memory, “What an extraordinary woman.” I sucked on the cigar, smoke filling the cavities of my mouth.
“You did good by sending her over to the marshals, where no one can reach her,”
“Mostly us,” I said, and didn’t tell him of the dozens of times I nearly tried to locate her.
“You did good,” he said again. “A bit more Anna and you wouldn’t have Verbin. Speaking of which, I hope you’re not planning anything with Nora again. It’s getting difficult not to notice her throwing herself at you. It’d be a shame, because she’s a brilliant woman, and probably the most highly skilled Head of Intelligence we’ve ever had.”
Suddenly, like a kick in the gut, came the image of life with Anna, life as it could’ve been: a wooden cabin on some snowy plain, maybe in New Hampshire, Anna breaking the icy crust with her fist, pulling a wriggling fish out of the frozen water, “eat this, Schatzi.”
“So when do you plan on locating the professor?” Froyke inquired, pulling me out of my pleasant haze.
“I’m sure he’s right under our noses,” I said. “We’ve been walking on eggshells because we have to. Any sudden movements and we risk tipping him off. I have a feeling that when we find him, we’ll be holding two birds, not one.”
“The other bird being this Rasputin? You’ve said so before. Do you really think they’re somehow related?”
“Through motive, at the very least, I think. It looks like only the Iranians have motive here, but he’s a Russian working with Iranian assistance, and there’s only one line tying the Russians to the Iranians: money. Crude oil and weapon systems equals money. They have no trouble marketing the oil, but serious competition when it comes to the weapon systems. Four hundred million dollars per battery. We can’t let the Ostashinski murder slide, they know this. We respond and then the Iranians respond and then we respond, and they buy S-400 batteries to defend themselves and we buy more stealth planes and attack, and then they buy yet more S-400s.”
“And?”
“And that’s just the beginning. Because their moves and our moves will absolutely be televised, and of course linked to the surveillance station and our second-strike subs which our learned Professor Be’er blurted to the media about.”
Froyke leaned his head against the backrest and closed his eyes.
“If this is only the beginning,” he said, addressing the ceiling, “What’s the next step?” He reached for the cigar.
I took a long goodbye puff and put it out in the ashtray. He looked at me disappointedly.
“Look,” I said, “if you take just a few of the professor’s quotes – who is of course perceived as representing the PM – add two or three deliberate leaks, through WikiLeaks or whatever, and push this cocktail out into the world using a few thousand Moscow rent-a-bots… you’ve basically guaranteed a series of investigations and in-depth journali
sm that’ll blaze through the media, not to mention the blogosphere. And the greater the focus on our nuclear capabilities, the easier it is to legitimize Iran’s. Why should the Israelis get to have nuclear weapons and not the Iranians, who are literally under attack? Overall, this is a finely calculated moved. Not only that, but extremely viral.”
“It’s only calculated if they’re as calculating as you.”
“Oh, they are. And with what Nora just told us about Rasputin’s father, he probably has good reason to detest Israel.”
“So you’re saying that Rasputin killed Gigi and his family so that eventually, way down the line, the Russians get to sell more anti-air systems to the Iranians and the Syrians, and Professor Hamdani’s in Russia to purchase warheads for their missiles.”
“Yup,” I said, eyeing the dead cigar in the ashtray.
“And you’re saying this is the same guy, the one pushing the sale of the anti-air systems and the warheads, the same Rasputin who’s also serving as a fighter out in the field? Bit much, don’t you think?”
“To be a bit much is human. Remember Anne-Marie’s profile. The lady’s never been wrong.”
“Surely you realize why this worries me,” said Froyke. “You haven’t been wrong much, yourself. I assume you’ve spoken to Abrasha. Did he have any news?”
“He said he was sure this Rasputin was some sort of urban legend the KGB made up to scare their young – a boogeyman. He’s trying to locate some Russian geezer living in Cyprus who tried to sell him material on Rasputin a while back – at the time, he wasn’t buying.”
I picked the dead cigar out of the ashtray. Froyke’s eyes widened expectantly and I lit it, took a drag and passed it to him.
“What about you?” I asked.
“What about me?” he puffed on the cigar and swallowed a small cough.
“You don’t think he’s related to Hamdani?”
“I do. Already told Ran to help Boris and push Rasputin to the top of his EEI.”
Always two steps ahead of me, I thought.
“When the hell did you do that?”
“When the rest of you were comparing notes on Che Guevara. I’m old, but I can still text, dammit.”
“And what made you think they’re related?”
“You did. Mostly,” he said, and placed a folded document in front of me.
“What’s this?”
“Read it,” he said, grinning mischievously. “It’s a decoded transmission from Bruno.”
The transmission confirmed that the Sultan of Brunei gave the Rolex to “Advisor Rasputin,” and the next day transferred an advance payment of 380 million dollars to RET. A month later the Sultanate received the first of two S-400 anti-air systems.
“Also this,” he placed another decoded transmission in front of me, this time from Nora. I plucked the cigar from his hand and read it – it said that the day after the Sultan transferred his advance, they found the body of a high-class escort from Moscow, handcuffed and exhibiting signs of heavy abuse. Her jugular artery was apparently cut with a military-issue tactical knife, which used to serve as a detachable bayonet on the Kalashnikov with the collapsible stock that they gave to special combat units.
“And why are you only showing me this now?”
“And ruin the elaborate theoretical construction you’ve concocted entirely without evidence?”
“You sneaky bastard. So you found Rasputin’s pattern? He rewards himself with a nice evening with a hooker and a knife whenever he closes a deal, is that it? Fits Anne-Marie’s profile, that’s for sure.”
Froyke got up and limped over to place a hand on my shoulder. He suddenly looked, in the moment, older and more ill than I’d ever seen him, even during chemo. He closed his eyes briefly.
“Tell me,” he asked, “why do you need to fly all the way to Vienna and meet Boris face-to-face?”
I preferred not to tell him that the guys out in the field have not been feeling overly safe these days.
“I miss him,” I said.
“You’re back in twenty-four, you hear? No putzing around. The Doctor and I are watching,” he said, and weakly added, “she needs you with her. And I need you here with me. Nathan, Boris and Uzi are managing the fieldwork and they’re good men, you should know better than anyone that they’re good, and they are younger and more fit than you, and they had a good mentor. So be back here in twenty-four.”
There was no one in this entire organization, or in any other intelligence agency in the world, who had a better mentor than I did. I wanted to tell him, but didn’t. I expect to regret that someday.
“Sure, boss,” I said instead, and got up.
“Now go home before I change my mind.”
* * *
25In “The Rage and Power of Avner Ehrlich,” Anna von Stroop was an agent serving in the Al-Qaeda base in Yemen, who was central in the capture of Imad Akbariyeh. Avner was her handler, and also in love with her.
29.
The monsters were jumping madly at the front gate, and ran up to the car the moment I opened it. This was suspicious – even since Verbin was here, they preferred clinging to her and mostly ignored me.
When I got out of the car, submitting to Garibaldi’s overjoyed tongue-bath while Adolf stood to the side and examined me with his usual skepticism, I noticed Verbin’s Beetle wasn’t in the driveway. She was supposed to be home, resting. Where was she? A pang of concern shot through me. I called her, and mostly calmed down when I heard her voice.
“I’m at the wing.”
“What wing?” I asked, and felt the cold sweat crawling down the back of my neck.
“Mine. Oncology, I mean.”
“Shouldn’t you be home? Resting and recuperating?”
“Well, I’m not. And before you ask why – don’t. I’m learning from the best. I’ll be home in thirty mikes. Make something nice and light, and… you know what else I’m feeling like? Rosé, a bottle of rosé.”
“Excellent,” I said.
The lady was definitely feeling better, and I needed to figure out a bottle of rosé and something nice and light and a bit capricious. A steak would be nice and quick, but not light; same went for a dish of hummus and tahini; sushi and poke needed fresh fish, and I had none. I decided on an upgraded prosciutto Caesar salad and a lovely pappardelle that Bruno had brought us from Rome.
To this I needed to add a sauce of fresh tomatoes, basil, orange juice, salt and pepper, a pinch of sugar and dried chili, crush it all up, put it back on heat, add cream, remove from heat, and finally – a quarter cup of vodka. Now I only needed to stir till the vodka evaporated, scatter some parmesan and chopped parsley, and bob’s your uncle.
I couldn’t find a rosé so I took Sphera winery’s excellent sauvignon blanc and mixed it with a bit of Suson Yam’s 2012 Antoine to create a nice, light, sort-of rosé. I opened the window. The end of spring brought a pleasant western breeze, and a long sunset that dyed the whole sky a pale red.
I finished cooking and sat down beneath the pergola until I heard the dogs take off again. I heard her park her car and give each of them the proper attention before coming into the house and marveling at the table I’d set as per her instructions.
“The pasta is wonderful,” she said once she’d tried it. I went into the kitchen and poured her a glass of “rosé.”
She sipped and leaned her head against my shoulder. I closed my eyes.
“This is some good rosé. Which is it?”
“Confidential.”
She shrugged and kept drinking.
“You’re going tomorrow?”
“Twenty-four, then I’m right back.”
“I was kind of unfair earlier, huh?” she said, pressing her fingers to my lips to keep me from answering, and quietly added, “I want us to get pregnant again.” The image from the ultrasound floated into
my head, the kid that looked like a white cloud, shaped by the wind into a headless teddy bear.
“Don’t you think we should maybe wait a bit?”
“Sure, let’s wait. We’ll wait for you to come home safely. Wait for my uterus to heal and for you to stop being afraid of coming into me, wait till I’m who-knows-how-old and our chance to conceive drops to zero. Let’s just wait and everything’ll be fine.”
I reached out to stroke her face and she stopped me. Garibaldi ambled over and placed his huge head on her knees, and with a soft whine demanded his daily petting quota, and received none. Adolf sat next to me and looked distant.
“Are you sure you even want to?” she asked, and placed the empty wine glass on the table.
“Want to what?”
“Have a child.”
“I am. I do, but… I’m afraid.”
“You? Two hundred and thirty pounds of rage and power? I thought you weren’t afraid of anything!”
I shrugged.
“Okay. Thanks for dinner. I’m exhausted, I’m going to bed.”
“Alright. I’ll tidy up and be right there.”
I started stacking the dishwasher, but her words got stuck in my head. I left the dishes and went out to Eran’s grave. I’m sure, but I’m afraid, I heard myself say. Afraid of what? I asked myself. Afraid of losing? I felt my eyes grow heavy. At some point I woke up into total darkness. Everything around me was dark, and I somehow crawled inside and got into bed. Verbin got up before I did and left to the hospital, neglecting to leave so much as a note, or coffee.
I left to the airport feeling like shit. Bella used her usual witchcraft to upgrade Dr. Schultz to business class, for none of the additional fee which Moshe probably wouldn’t have authorized these days.
I stretched out my legs to their full length and toed off my Blundstones. Boris was also supposed to be landing in Vienna incognito, and we agreed not to alert the local branch unless absolutely necessary – an extra precaution after we’d been surprised by the RET gorillas in Asmara. If it were up to me, I’d expose myself as much as possible, hoping to draw the gorillas out of their holes, to make contact as quickly and painfully as possible; but Froyke stressed these precautions so much that I couldn’t help but comply. And so, while the branch had a little operational apartment not far from the center of town, Bella also complied with Froyke’s instruction and arranged two adjoining rooms for me and Boris on the sixth floor of the Vienna Hilton, with a door between them so we could work together without leaving the room.