Good and Dead (An Avner Ehrlich Thriller Book 2)

by E. L. Pini

  “I’m arresting him!” Kahanov alerted the head of the Service.

  “Calm down, Kahanov. This is a Russian diplomat, not some poor shmuck from Micronesia. You’re not touching him. And what the fuck are you doing out in the field? You’re a division head, let your people do their jobs.”

  “Understood, boss, but he’s heading towards the Allenby border crossing in a crappy Chevy Malibu with an engine that’s easily gotten it to 120 mph. He left the ballet during the recess, and there was no drop-off – he took the material and he’s personally taking it where it needs to go.”

  “Everything you’re saying is correct. But without the Prime Minister’s say-so, we’re not arresting a Russian diplomat. Continue tracking him. I’ll let you know if there’s a change.”

  At 23:30 Sokolov arrived at the border crossing. An agent from Shai district, ordered by Kahanov to replace the shift sergeant, checked the diplomatic credentials of both the car and the driver as slowly as humanly possible, and eventually let him through to Jordan, but not before planting a tiny GPS tracker above the wheel.

  Kahanov again called the head of the Service, who called the GOC Central Command, who called his office administrator, who promised that the drone would be on its way in just under five mikes.

  When Sokolov reached the Damascus-Amman Highway, the drone was already on him. After passing into Syrian territory, around the Nasib border crossing, Sokolov pulled over to the side of the road, went out of the car, took a piss, and then took out an electronic scanner and started thoroughly going over the car, bumper to bumper.

  “Blyat, piece of shit motherfucker, if you touch that tracker I will fucking end you,” Kahanov hissed furiously, watching the drone footage from the operations room at Hakirya in Tel Aviv.

  “Wow,” the young second lieutenant holding the joystick blurted out. “You’re from the department, right?”

  “I am,” said Kahanov.

  Sokolov’s scan was uneventful, and he seemed relaxed as he lit a cigarette and went back into the car. Kahanov exhaled with a sigh of relief. A moment later two military jeeps arrived at the meeting point and they took off together, one jeep driving ahead of Sokolov and the other behind him. The three vehicles went into a large, abandoned structure, previously the packing house of a Syrian village which had also been abandoned ever since the government started dropping barrels of burning oil on the citizens suspected of disloyalty.

  Thus, the vehicles were out of the drone’s range.

  Kahanov swore again, realizing where this was going, and indeed, a moment later, both jeeps came out of the structure. One turned to the road heading north and the other turned toward Beirut.

  “Can you tell which jeep he’s in?”

  “Either way, he’s in Russian territory now. I have to bring the drone back.”

  “The fuck are you talking about, Russian territory?” Kahanov howled in frustration.

  “A Russian military vehicle is technically Russian territory. I’m sorry, I have to break contact. Them’s the rules.”

  “Kusemeq, fuck.” Kahanov sighed. “Next show I’ll grab them by the swans.”

  “Take it easy, guy,” the second lieutenant attempted some encouragement. “You’ll get him next time.”

  “Yeah… hey, how did you guess I was from the department?”

  “Oh,” she smiled, “That much cussing usually indicates someone from the department – not that I have a problem with that. You kinda look like a detective, too.”

  “That’s because I look like Harry Hole.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  The next show was two days later. The tracking teams were properly debriefed and the technical gear double-checked. The Opera parking lot was closed down for two hours “for maintenance,” so Kahanov’s team could run obstruction drills on all entrances and exits.

  The shenanigans from last time meant that it was necessary to put surveillance in the women’s restroom, as well, and Kahanov decided to preemptively equip himself with the company of Superintendent Chiko from Yarkon Precinct.

  “Now what?” The Opera director inquired with barely contained rage when they appeared. “Perhaps you’d like to place cameras on stage?”

  “No,” muttered Kahanov. “Might put ‘em up your ass.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. Just silently praying you won’t make me put you under administrative detention,” he said, nodding his head toward the threateningly uniformed Chiko, “because you don’t seem like that type to enjoy a prison cell. Then again, who knows?”

  “You are a… a shameless thug, who takes advantage of his authori –”

  “That sounds about right. We’re going to put cameras in the women’s bathroom now. Thank you for your cooperation. And hey, if you ever want to be chosen to light one of those nice torches during the Independence Day ceremony, you be sure to let me know.”

  The director turned his back toward them and wordlessly sashayed away.

  17:00 - Radio checks, video checks, audio checks. All green. Shabi, the agent sent to arrange a truck for obstruction, reports that he is in possession of “the heavy.”

  18:30 – Ninety seconds to H. Kahanov’s teams fan out around the perimeter of the Golda Center for Performing Arts, the Opera.

  18:45 – Kahanov orders two espressos to go, and sits beside Henry Moore’s reclining figure. Yuval, the head of the Service, sits next to him, helps himself to the second espresso, and together they go over possible scenarios. They part with a handshake and mutual wishes of good luck.

  “Don’t forget he’s a diplomat,” said Yuval. “Velvet gloves.”

  “Velvet gloves,” Kahanov promises. “Velvet gloves… and Vaseline,” he adds when Yuval is out of earshot.

  19:55 – Sokolov, Be’er and their dates sit down in row 9, in the same order they sat last time.

  20:00 – The lights slowly dim and the stage lights come up. The Opera spokesperson welcomes everyone in the name of the Opera administration and the Israel Ballet, thanks them for choosing to attend the world premiere of this innovative double-feature, and reminds the audience that tonight there will be no recess.

  Kahanov swears quietly and puts the teams on high alert. “They’ll probably go to the restroom some time during the show, or right after.”

  20:02 – The last people to arrive take their seats. Suddenly Be’er stands up. The local teams tense up in preparation, but he’s only changing seats with Dr. Lipschitz, who sits down next to Natasha. Kahanov, equipped with an usher badge and a tiny flashlight, looks them over – quickly enough to appear random – and continues to walk down the rows.

  20:09 – Dr. Lipschitz takes a small cylindrical object from her purse which could be lipstick, and holds Natasha’s hand for several seconds. Natasha takes Sokolov’s hand. Kahanov turns off his usher flashlight, pushes through the heavy back door, and orders all teams to get ready, and Shabi to get his “heavy” in position.

  21:30 – An elderly couple in row 8 gets up to leave early. Orit and Big Gabi from the tracking team quickly stand up and let them pass, but Big Gabi is too big for his swanky jacket, and when he stands up, Sokolov notices the glint as the gun in his hip holster catches the light.

  When Sokolov looks around, he clocks two more agents in row 8. He grabs Natasha’s hand and they hurry to get up and leave.

  21:32 – Kahanov goes after them, keeping his distance as he orders the teams to get moving. Natasha and Sokolov exit the Opera building and quickly head down to the parking lot. Sokolov skips down the escalator, but Natasha trips; he hurries on without her. The teams in the obstruction vehicles take their positions, blocking the exits.

  21:35 – Sokolov’s Chevrolet tears out of its parking space, tires squealing like slaughtered animals across the smooth rubber of the parking lot floor. The tracking vehicles charge afte
r him towards the exit to da Vinci St.

  21:37 – Sokolov sees the car blocking the exit and breaks left toward the other exit, where Kahanov has just arrived. He crouches on the floor and fires at Sokolov’s tires. Sokolov passes him, passes the obstructing vehicle, and takes a sharp right into the parking lot driveway, pressing the gas pedal as far down as it will go, and smashes into the bumper of the cooling truck that came down the driveway to meet him.

  “Shit. He has a diplomatic passport,” says Kahanov.

  “So?” says Shabi, climbing out of the truck. “Me, I don’t have any goddamn passport.”

  He hurries over to Sokolov’s car and pulls his crushed, limp body out from under the airbags. Kahanov tells Shabi to get out of there before the police show up, and orders the tracking teams to block the entrance to the parking lot. After a quick search, the memory card is retrieved from Sokolov’s pocket, still in the lipstick case.

  A few seconds later the air is pierced by sirens. Chiko’s police cars arrive. The cops quickly shut down the performance and evacuate the audience through the back entrances.

  “This total loss, that your boy?” asks Chiko.

  Kahanov nods.

  “And the shooting?”

  “Shooting? I don’t think anyone’s been shooting. Maybe a car backfired.”

  “I see. And the driver of the cooling truck?” asks Chiko, scribbling in his notebook.

  Kahanov shrugs and turns to ask, “Hey, anyone here see who drove the truck?”

  37.

  That night Grisha Kaskov felt like a love-struck teenager whose amygdala was flooded by the best kind of hormone. After a night of passionate lovemaking he informed Gigolo that as far as he was concerned, they could “up and leave for Napa Valley tomorrow – and Rasputin can go fuck and chop up his whores all he likes.”

  Gigolo quickly contacted Boris with the news. The moment of truth was fast approaching. Boris felt it deep in his bones, the pressure, and knew that the tiniest slip-up would mean it all spiraling to shit. He decided he had to see Ehrlich. If there was anyone who could see outside the rulebook and the rigid combat doctrine it was Ehrlich. He decided to expedite matters, and managed to board a last-minute flight to Tel Aviv.

  In Russia, spontaneously flying out of the country is still considered suspicious behavior which calls for a closer look – or at the very least, must be documented. Not to mention that the spontaneously flying Boris Grigorovich appears in the records as a born Russian who emigrated to US, and returned years later as a representative of the Italian company GES.

  ***

  First Lieutenant Vlad (Vladimir) from the RET security division, an auxiliary unit of the FSB, remembered recently encountering the name Boris Grigorovich somewhere else, but couldn’t remember the exact context.

  Vlad, a skinny, ever-slouching young man of 6’6’’, was easily the most sought-after player in the FSB junior officers end-of-the-week basketball game – while he wasn’t particularly proficient at throwing or jumping, he did know how to stand next to the basket and drop balls into it when they came his way.

  And since every point for the winning team translated to a sto gramov (one hundred grams) of vodka, paid for by the losing team, he was expected always to be there on time despite the terrible traffic this time of day. He closed his computer and stuck a yellow little note on it reading: “Boris Grigorovich – check event. Not urgent.” And headed out into the grueling traffic.

  ***

  Six hours later, Boris was sitting with me and Nora in Froyke’s office.

  “What I’m about to say to you is a direct quote,” he said, overjoyed: “As far as I care, we can up and leave for Napa Valley tomorrow, and Rasputin can go fuck and chop up his whores all he likes.”

  “Why Napa Valley?” asked Nora.

  “We built a vineyard there,” I said.

  “Interesting… living the dream, are we?”

  “Only on paper. A small, but specialized ecological vineyard, looking for an active partner with an investment.” I glanced sideways at Froyke.

  “Not really paper. They built it in Facebook,” Froyke obligingly explained. “Luft Gesheft.”

  “Who, Albert? He didn’t tell me anything,” said Nora.

  “No, I built it myself,” said Boris, and shrugged. “There was no time for some big project.”

  Nora still seemed incredulous, and Boris had to tell her that one night, Gigolo called him and whispered, “Now! He’s like butter, what do I do with him?”

  “Find out what his dream is,” Boris told him. “the one thing he truly wants and knows he can never have.”

  So Gigolo went back in and asked Grisha, “If you could do anything you want, anything in the world, what would you do? Right now?”

  “I’d fuck you again, you homo,” said Grisha.

  “What else?”

  “What else? I’d like to have a vineyard in Napa Valley.”

  “Oh, is that all?” asked Boris later, and Gigolo said, “No – it has to be a boutique, ecological vineyard, and it has to grow only one variety: Chenin blanc. He’s fucking crazy for Chenin blanc, says it’s the only truly noble grape.”

  “After that, the ball started rolling,” Boris told us. “Gigolo kept fanning the California fantasy. Every night they took virtual tours, went sightseeing on Google, until they knew the area like their own back yard. They practically lived there together, each evening. They found a house for sale overlooking a vineyard and placed a virtual sign on it. The owner went a bit crazy – he kept taking down their Chateau Grisha sign and putting up his For Sale, and they kept taking it down and putting theirs back up. They got familiar with local businesses and planned which restaurants they would go to, and even found a Boxer kennel nearby – Grisha’s favorite breed.

  “So, I built the vineyard. Avner is the partner who already invested a quarter million dollars, and his pierced-eared, Allen-Ginsberg-bearded alter ego spoke to Grisha about their Chenin blanc twice a day.”

  “Finally something Ehrlich is knowledgeable about,” said Nora.

  “I think Grisha’s fallen for him a bit, too.”

  “Huh. Must be an elderly father-figure thing.”

  “Anyway,” said Boris, “now all Grisha needs to make his dream come true is a quarter of a million dollars – or the bitcoin equivalent – to join.”

  Boris looked at Froyke and Nora. Nora nodded, and Boris continued. “Now, Gigolo transferred the first quarter mil to an account we opened for Grisha in Jersey , the only bank we found that works with biometric identification. When he saw the money in the account, he didn’t even hesitate before sending them his retinal print. From that moment, he has our money, but we have his balls, with biometric proof. Now he’s like a bug on a hot plate, dying to leave for California as soon as possible.”

  “Slow down, children,” said Froyke. “Surely you realize that the real question is: what to do with said balls now that we have them? Consider, if you will, the moment he finds out; realizes that what Gigolo really wants isn’t him, and then maybe doesn’t want to sell out Rasputin anymore. Maybe he even goes to him for help.”

  Froyke frowned and looked at me. “You do realize that we don’t have a patent on taking the enemy down with you, especially when someone is head over heels in love,” Froyke raised his hand above his head in demonstration, “and then realizes he’s been made a fool of. Have you considered this, Ehrlich?”

  “Not only that,” added Nora. “Even if he’s been cooperative all this time, we never know when he’ll decide that Rasputin scares him more than we do, and then Grisha has Gigolo’s balls, and yours.” She looked at Boris. “All four balls.”

  “That’s where you come in,” I told Froyke.

  “Instead of Gigolo?” he said, smiling.

  “Instead of a wallet,” I said. “Another quarter mil we can transfer to Grisha – b
ut this time there’ll be stipulations.”

  I saw Froyke doing some mental calculus, probably relating to the division’s budget.

  “Right now he’s in love and hopeful. His life’s dream is in reach,” I said. “Think about it. How often does that happen? Having your greatest dreams in reach? When Gigolo reveals the truth, Grisha will have a broken heart on the one hand, and on the other, an immense opportunity… and an equally immense threat. He knows what’ll happen if we reveal his new bank account to Rasputin, with the undeniable proof of his retina scan. Against that threat he’ll have the hope for a new life in Napa Valley, without Gigolo, but with a vineyard and a lovely partner, and another quarter of a million dollars we’ll transfer to him under the condition of his continued cooperation. The money will shield him from Rasputin, and buy him a new life after he buys into the vineyard. Really, it’s the best he can hope for.”

  “A hundred thousand. That’s all I have,” said Froyke.

  “One more question,” said Nora. “What do you plan on doing with him after the whole thing’s over? Assuming he does cooperate?”

  “Not many options here,” said Boris, and slid a finger across his throat.

  “Well, that sucks,” she said, miserably. “Jesus.”

  “Just getting him out of Russia would be impossibly complex,” said Froyke. “And after that, what? We put him in a kibbutz?”

  “What else do we know about his relationship with Rasputin?” she asked, looking at Boris.

  “Grisha’s father was a Spetsnaz officer, Rasputin’s commander and mentor. He recently died of cancer, but he’s been sick for years, and so Rasputin’s taken Grisha under his wing.”

  “Will that change anything?”

  “Sure, it means Rasputin will take his time cutting his dick off.”

  “Any chance of Rasputin doubling him? Or trying to double him?” asked Froyke.

  “I don’t think so, honestly. Not only because of Grisha’s paper-thin skin, but also because I don’t think Rasputin will manage to control himself after finding out Grisha betrayed him.”