Good and Dead (An Avner Ehrlich Thriller Book 2)

by E. L. Pini

  “What do you know about this joke?” His voice was tense.

  “What the rest of the world knows – the Tsar Bomba, the biggest hydrogen bomb in the world. Khrushchev built it to scare off the Americans, and to this day it is the foremost basis of the Russian Madness Strategy.”

  “The Russian Madness Strategy?”

  “This Kusinka is so massive that the muzhiks can’t even mobilize it. They’re keeping it in a leaky old sub in Novosibirsk.”

  “Novorossiysk,” Be’er corrected. “Novorossiysk. Novosibirsk is somewhere else.”

  “Whatever,” I said. I sniffed my cigar and glanced at him. The dreck was well-informed. “What’s important is that at some point this Kus-inka-mat will go off, and it’ll put Hiroshima, Nagasaki and Chernobyl to shame – and I do mean all of them combined.”

  Be’er spread out his arms helplessly.

  “I understand,” he said. “We’ll treat this with the utmost seriousness. Anyway, thank you for your time – I won’t take any more of it. Just – one small personal question, if I may?”

  I shrugged.

  “You and Mordechai seem to be constantly – how do you say – at odds?”

  “I understand you two are friendly?”

  “I believe ‘acquaintances’ would be more accurate. We meet occasionally at the opera and at the Philharmonic’s concerts.”

  “We engage in fairly standard professional arguments,” I said, recalling how that lying putz had taken credit at my expense, and more infuriatingly, at Froyke’s expense.

  “That’s all? Professional disagreements?”

  “More or less,” I said. “See you around, Professor.”

  After he vanished down the hall, I stopped the recording and hurried down to Moshe’s office, to play our conversation back to him and Froyke, and Kahanov, whom I’d summoned ASAP.

  35.

  “This Kuzinka mat, did you just pull that out of your ass?” Kahanov asked, while I transferred the recording to Nora.

  “It’s Kusinka mat,” said Nora. “Sort of a Russian version to our poetic ‘Kusemeq.’ A big old ‘Fuck You’ that Khrushchev promised the Americans after the Bay of Pigs. If you ask me, it’s another piece of the great Russian megalomania puzzle; but it’s also the biggest operational hydrogen bomb in the world. In October 1961 they conducted a partial test in Novaya Zemlya. The explosion measured in at over fifty megatons of TNT, which is only, oh, about 3,300 times the Hiroshima explosion. That’s right, gentlemen: 3,300. According to the original design, the bomb should be able to completely destroy New York. And I don’t just mean the city.”

  “Got it,” said Kahanov. “Just wanted to be sure Ehrlich isn’t making shit up.”

  “Let her finish, please, Mr. Kahanov,” said Moshe. “At some point we might need to know much more about this toy than we currently do. Nora?”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have much more – we know the bomb exists, we know that its full power is supposed to be one hundred megatons – which means, if it ever finds itself around these parts, it could annihilate us along with chunks of Jordan, Syria, or Lebanon, depending on the site of the initial explosion. We know the bomb itself is so big that they needed to build a special version of the Antonov just to bring the smaller model over to the test site. Our Ukrainian colleagues estimate that it is currently housed in a special submarine that was more or less built around it, in the Soviet fleet shipyard in Sevastopol. What else? Well, the Americans claim that they’re suffering radiation leaks due to inadequate shielding, and navy officers who became sick from these radiation leaks were killed to stop potential info leaks. That’s pretty much it, Mr. Kahanov. As much as I wish it was something Ehrlich pulled out of his ass, the Kusinka mat is very much real.”

  “Oh, you’re only saying that because you haven’t seen what comes out of his ass. And I’m speaking from experience.”

  “Can anything be deduced at this point from their meeting at the opera? Or do you need to pass the material along for further analysis?” asked Froyke.

  “Both,” said Kahanov.

  “Then, please,” said Moshe, his hand beckoning in invitation.

  “Look,” said Kahanov. “Obviously the professor is making considerable efforts to befriend Ehrlich, first and foremost because he believes that his impressive analytical skills – his words, not mine – make his opinion extremely valuable to his colleagues… apprentice or not.”

  No one reacted, and Kahanov cleared his throat and continued. “At this point it’s crucial to remember that the professor himself is an atypical man, and that he was an atypical child, too, constantly shunned by society. Kind of like Ehrlich. And he might’ve found a soulmate in him, too, if he had found his way into this line of work.” Kahanov made air quotes for that last part – a gesture I despised nearly as much as the pinky-thumb thing people use to signify a phone call.

  “If he was sent here on duty,” Kahanov continued, “he is lonely, anxious, and in need of friends who understand him, and he considers our merciful Ehrlich a prime candidate. This could also explain his questions about Ehrlich’s relationship with Mordechai.”

  Silence filled the room. I shoved my hand in my pants, poked my finger out of my zipper, and with my other hand signaled to Kahanov where to look.

  “He did ask Ehrlich about his feelings toward Mordechai,” said Froyke. “You see this as something more than just curious gossip?”

  Kahanov forced his eyes away from me and, looking at Nora, said, “This is, of course, only an intuitive estimation at this point, but I believe he mentioned Mordechai for two reasons: one, to strengthen the impression that he had met Mordechai at the opera by chance, and two, to find a way to connect Ehrlich –” Kahanov looked back at me. I wiggled my finger. He couldn’t take it anymore and burst into laughter.

  “I’m sorry… I…”

  “What have you done, now?” asked Froyke and also burst into laughter when he noticed my finger.

  “What’s the matter with you people?” said Moshe, also laughing.

  Nora rolled her eyes.

  “Have you seen Robert Altman’s California Split?” I asked, and Kahanov started laughing again, and took a deep breath to calm himself.

  “I apologize,” he said. “That was… never mind. I’ll continue, it that’s alright,” he looked at Moshe, who nodded.

  “Mordechai is also an atypical man, and he is also a friend of the professor’s, who would love it if Ehrlich joined his atypical coalition.”

  “I have to say, that’s a fascinating analysis,” said Nora. “How certain are you of all this?”

  “I’m not certain of anything until I have proof – all I can do is make intuitive estimations, and test their likelihood however I can. Their meeting in the kid’s concert in Ansbach indicates opportunity, nothing more. The same should be said regarding their – granted, quite frequent – meetings in the opera.”

  “Thank you for your insights,” said Moshe, “And for the impressively straight face. In conclusion, I’d like to ask – what is your opinion of Mordechai?”

  “Are you asking seriously?”

  Moshe nodded.

  “Spineless and incompetent,” said Kahanov, a bit too quickly. “Sorry.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes,” I said.

  Froyke shook his head, while Moshe opted for selective deafness. Nora smiled broadly and asked, “What was that whole Robert Altman thing?”

  “Classified,” I said. “Above your pay grade.”

  “Which is higher than yours.”

  “Really? Didn’t you know women make thirty percent less?”

  “And yet… still higher,” she grinned. “Ami, do you really think that Mordechai and the professor are…”

  “I try not to think. I prefer checking. But if they are, it wouldn’t be the first time something like this happens. Our gue
ss is that if the professor really is under Russian orders, he’s mostly directed to gauge and report the dispositions of the PM and the commanders and cabinet members. And possibly, create the dispositions that suit whoever sent him.”

  “And Mordechai?”

  Kahanov waved his hand dismissively, and looked around before whispering, “Worm. A mediocre nothing with a big mouth. The kind of person who accumulates confidence and status by making shit up. If you peel off the ego and idiocy, there is nothing left. Air. Growing up he was an out-kid in Ein Shemer30, where Arian kibbutznik fucks called him Der Araber and bossed him around like a goddamn servant. One time, when he insisted on joining their bonfire, they put a pork steak on his plate and told him it was veal, and only after he’d finished eating told him that he’d eaten swine, and he puked his guts out. But that hardly excuses the shit he pulled in the Service, where he submitted imaginary reports that came from a mysterious source he never let anyone else see – not to mention the payments he received for that imaginary agent.”

  “So someone made all of this just go away?” I asked. “Why?”

  “The Service can’t afford something like this getting out,” said Kahanov. “Plus, powers-that-be interfered on his behalf. Buried the whole thing.”

  “Alright, friends.” said Moshe. “I need to go see the PM again. Are we finished here?”

  He glanced at me, made sure my hand was out of my pants, then got up and left.

  After the meeting we went back to Froyke’s office. Nora stopped on the way to talk to Bella. Froyke looked around, made sure the coast was clear, and then quickly shoved his hand down his pants and poked his finger out of his fly.

  “That was Elliot Gould, right?”

  I nodded and pushed my entire hand out through my own fly.

  “Size doesn’t matter,” said Froyke.

  “It does when there’s a hundred megatons. And unless you get me authorization to act on Hamdani and Rasputin, this is what we’ll be getting,” I said, and slid my finger across the length of my whole arm.

  “You think?”

  “I don’t really think. Just an intuitive estimation by an apprentice.”

  “Delivery from Bella,” Nora said, placing the tray of sandwiches on Froyke’s desk, and then poured a drop of milk into the espresso Froyke made her. She checked the sandwiches and discovered they all had meat in them, exhaling in disappointment from her strictly vegetarian mouth.

  “All she cares about is her darling boy. By the way, I checked about the paychecks, apparently any difference is supposed to be attributed to seniority and child allowance.”

  “So…?”

  “So what?”

  “Get some seniority and make a couple of kids, obviously. Also, don’t believe whatever they tell you around here.”

  She looked at me inquisitively for a moment, then shrugged and laughed. “You’re a terrible person, Ehrlich,” she said. “By the way, Bella said to tell you that those issues with your own paycheck were corrected to her satisfaction.”

  “Excellent. Shall we begin?” said Froyke, and his face instantly grew somber. He looked at Nora, saying, “Do you remember –? Well, no of course not, how could you? Anyway, talk to Bella and have her give you the MAD file. An old steering committee, mostly dormant these days, designated M.A.D.”

  “Mad, like crazy?”

  “Yes. Representatives from all over the intelligence community, including Naval Intelligence. The forum needs to be dusted off. Some are no longer with us, others are retired – You’ll need to do your thing, reestablish it, get it moving again.”

  Nora nodded. Froyke glanced at me and asked, “Why MAD, by the way?”

  “Mutually Assured Destruction,” I said.

  “Hmm. How’s your Boris doing?” he asked. “Any progress with the muzhiks?”

  “You mind if I get some oxygen?” I asked Nora.

  “Not in the least, as long as I get to –”

  “Look what you did, Ehrlich. Now the children get to dictate conditions?” said Froyke, taking out a cigar, just as I was about to bring out Be’er’s Cohiba, which was still stashed in my pocket.

  “This is where we keep the goodies,” he explained to Nora, winking.

  “Christ, no wonder he’s such a brat! You, Bella, Moshe – not one of you ever fails to spoil this overgrown child rotten. Even the Professor wants to spoil him,” Nora said, smiling as she lit a thin, elongated cigarette. Then, suddenly, she remembered the smoke detector and pointed up at the ceiling.

  “Nothing to worry about up there,” said Froyke.

  Nora raised an eyebrow at me, then blew a puff of smoke directly into the detector.

  “Took it apart, huh? Classic Ehrlich. Well done. Tell me, do you find it at all hard to maintain this way of life? This constant swinging between crazy and infantile?”

  “It’s pretty hard, yeah,” I said, and handed Froyke the cigar.

  Nora shook her head. “Please, Froyke, please be careful.”

  “I’m careful. Don’t worry. So what’s going on with your Rasputnik?” He took a shallow puff from the cigar, leaving me to marvel at the triple combo of Putin, Rasputin and Sputnik before handing it back to me.

  “Boris has his foot in Grisha’s door.”

  “Grisha who?” Nora inquired.

  “Grisha Kaskov,” I said, “Personal assistant to Rasputin, who is the personal assistant of Putin, who is God’s boss. Boris sent the Gigolo, and from what I hear, Grisha is madly in love already – or, possibly, just addicted to that ass. Anyway, Grisha volunteered the fact that he serves as Rasputin’s eyes and ears, described what it is they do, even snuck him into Rasputin’s office in the middle of the night to show off his watch collection, which according to him is worth around ten million dollars. Including… Gigi’s Rolex, with the scratch. He said that’s Rasputin’s favorite. This is the strongest evidence we have that links him to the murders. We got lucky. And the Gigolo’s been laying it on thick – Grisha’s little brother was in a small “accident” with a very slow moving car – nothing serious, we’re not monsters, but it did fracture his leg in several places. He got a crappy Soviet wheelchair, and the Gigolo was more than happy to buy him a brand new, immensely fancier, American chair. Grisha was beside himself.”

  Froyke nodded contentedly, signaled me to pass him the cigar, noticed Nora’s menacing gaze and thought better of it.

  “Boris thinks that in less than two weeks he’ll have access to Grisha’s bank account,” I added.

  “Excellent. Are you planning to invest in it?”

  “Oh, yeah. Absolutely. The two things Grisha loves even more than Gigolo’s ass are money and America, so that’s an unqualified yes. Get ready. We’re going to be investing quite a bit.”

  * * *

  30A child who wasn’t born in the kibbutz but moved there. Out-kids were notoriously bullied and excluded by their kibbutz-born peers.

  36.

  “SWAN LAKE, by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, performed by the Israel Ballet and choreographed by Lev Ivanov,” said the poster.

  “We’re sold out,” said the director, as if that would stop Kahanov from barging into his office. The cameras tracking the urinals and washbasins in the restrooms were still there, ever since Lucia di Lammermoor. And Kahanov was certain that any true opera lover wouldn’t miss the opportunity to see Swan Lake, especially since the project, titled “White Lake,” included an additional performance – a more modern interpretation of the piece. However, the director of the Opera was extremely averse to the notion of the cameras covering the stalls as well, invoking every single cliché he could think of regarding privacy and decency, concluding the matter with the idea that if nothing had happened so far, he very much doubted that something was going to happen now.

  Kahanov felt his hand clenching slowly into a fist, counted to nine, and with sch
olarly poise quoted Sun Tzu’s Art of War, saying: “Only he who sits patiently by the river will see the corpses of his enemies floating past.”

  “I hardly see what that has to do with anything,” said the director.

  Kahanov gave a wide, toothy grin, and slid his finger across his neck. The director seemed to understand, this time.

  “At least you’re not putting cameras in the ladies’ too,” he said and skulked away, his head tilted down and his lips pursed in deep loathing.

  The Russian elite of Tel Aviv filed languidly into the concert hall, dressed in the finest fashions of New York and Paris. In the center of the ninth row was Sokolov, head of the Tel Aviv SVR station, accompanied by a tall and attractive young woman named Natasha, who worked at the embassy. To his right was Professor Yisrael Be’er, who had also come with a date, identified as Doctor Ilana Lipschitz, the geriatric specialist who treated his mother. In rows 8 and 10 were Kahanov’s people. When the lights came on for the recess, Sokolov and Be’er went to the men’s room, followed by one of Kahanov’s men. Their dates also went to the ladies’ room, followed by no one. In the restroom, Natasha and Dr. Lipschitz switched their handbags, free of surveillance and their privacy intact. When the lights dimmed again to signal the end of the recess, Natasha and Sokolov left, and made their way to the Russian Embassy building on Rothschild Boulevard, where they were captured by a camera placed in a nearby van. Sokolov pulled Natasha in for a hungry kiss. She recoiled, and after managing to break free from his grasp, took a tube of lipstick out of her purse and gave it to Sokolov, who quickly pulled out the tiny memory card hidden inside, and gave her back the empty tube, grabbing her wrist and again pulling her toward him. This time she did not struggle, having apparently given up. Afterwards he gave her the keys of the car they arrived in, while he got into the Chevrolet Malibu which was parked nearby.

  At 21:00 he turned onto Highway 1, heading toward Jerusalem at such a high speed that the tracking vehicle had to call the second tracking vehicle sooner than planned. Near Almog Junction he turned north, surprising his trackers by speeding up to 120 mph, and managed to lose them.