by E. L. Pini
“Still, it’s possible he will. Anne-Marie said he was a psychopath. As far as I know, psychopaths can be extremely calculating when need be.”
“Ehrlich is a first-hand expert on psychopaths. What do you think?” said Nora, addressing me.
“I think Rasputin is capable of patience, in the short term, but not Grisha. He couldn’t handle being a double-agent. Not only will he lose all hope, he’ll be constantly terrified, threatened by both sides. He won’t be able to handle the pressure.”
“And if Grisha refuses to cooperate, the only option is to neutralize him and get out of there?” asked Nora, quietly.
Froyke nodded.
“Rasputin, too,” I added.
“What are you talking about, ‘Rasputin, too’?” asked Froyke.
“I’m neutralizing him, too.”
Froyke’s frown deepened. He looked apprehensive.
I decided to go for the jugular.
“Gigi,” I said, and nothing more.
He gave me a look laden with meaning.
“Ehrlich is right,” said Boris. “Rasputin is the target. Grisha is only the means.”
“Hamdani, too,” I added.
Froyke got up and said, “Both Hamdani and Rasputin are untouchable in Russian territory. Don’t forget that.”
“And Grisha?” asked Boris.
Froyke looked at me and said, “Only if you’re completely out of options.”
“Kahanov needs you, urgent,” Bella’s voice suddenly rose from the intercom. “I’m putting him through.”
“Ding-dong – the bitch is dead!” came Kahanov’s sing-song voice from the landline. “We have the memory card, and it is chock-full of goodies. All of Be’er’s speeches about the duty of self-defense and all that? Written for him. He was basically reading their notes aloud. There’s stuff in there about Ehrlich, too – including his fingerprints, which he apparently got off a cigar case.”
Nora raised her eyebrow at me, like a teacher scolding a failing pupil. Froyke drummed his fingers on the table.
“What else is there on Ehrlich?” he asked.
“Mostly sketchy gossip. The professor claims he’s intelligent, somewhat creative, and mainly has considerable clout in the intelligence community – somewhat to be closely watched, and hopefully recruited. There’s a bunch of other nonsense about advancement potential. Oh, and the talk that Ehrlich recorded – he did, too, on his phone.”
“Pass the material to my department,” said Nora.
Kahanov made no acknowledgement, and added, “He writes – and I quote – ‘The idiots think they have an answer to our S-400.’ As far as he’s concerned, it’s nothing but Israelis being cocky, as Israelis are wont to do. He also writes that he’s waiting for some data on the S-400’s achievements that he needs for his Ted Talk in the US. The talk is titled: ‘Is World War III Already Here?’
“According to our analysts, he’s done some intelligence gathering, but his main role is to shape public opinion in a way that’ll lead to aggression aimed at Iran and Syria. That’s all. Aside from that, I’ve found myself in a bit of a diplomatic pickle. The Russians are demanding to conduct their own investigation. Among other things, they want to see whether any cooling trucks entered that parking lot, and when. Oh – and there’s some stuff about your man Mordechai. The Head of the Service contacted Moshe directly on the matter. You can breathe easy – he’s more of a moron than a traitor.”
“We could’ve told you that.” I said. “So what’s Be’er up to, now? Where is he?”
“Good question – afraid I don’t have an answer to match. Meanwhile he’s officially missing. We’re conducting a search. The two ladies who were at the opera with them have also gone missing.”
“You’re telling me he pissed off and left his mother alone in the hospital?” Froyke asked, sounding dubious.
“Oh, nothing that crude. He killed her first, then disappeared.”
“What?! Say again!”
“I know, right? The nurse coming into the morning shift found her taken off life support, and not in a good way.”
“What makes you think he would be responsible?”
“I don’t think, as you know. His sorry ass starred in the surveillance video. He was the only person to go in her room. He did it in the middle of the night, dressed as a doctor – maybe he took Lipschitz’s lab coat – kissed her, cried a bit, then apparently unhooked her. It’s being looked over as we speak. Anyway, the full transcript’s on its way to you, Shabi’s bringing it himself.”
“Well, I hope it’s not the first cooling truck ever to enter that parking lot,” I said,
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. The truck was stolen several hours before the accident, by the way. And the guy driving it got away.”
“That sounds like a problem for the boys in blue,” Froyke hurried to wrap up the topic. I had a brief, pleasant vision of Shabi chasing Kahanov for his signature on the fine reimbursement.
“Wait, hang on, there’s more. As far as we know, Be’er crossed the border at Allenby Bridge with his Russian passport, and made it all the way to the Russian embassy in Amman.”
“What?” Nora literally jumped from her seat and stormed out of the room, not bothering to even close the door behind her.
“That’s my cue, as well,” said Boris. “Rasputin, Hamdani and Grisha are waiting.”
“Go. You’re green-lit. Just don’t take a direct flight,” said Froyke. “Thank you, Kahanov. We’ll be in touch,” he added, and hung up.
Boris left, as well; Froyke and I remained.
“When Nora eventually finds the professor,” I wondered, “what are we doing with him?”
“I can tell all you care about is your Cohiba,” he said, and pulled out the goodies. “Here, light one for us.”
I slid the cigar’s length under my nose. The smell was intoxicating. I bit the tip off with my teeth, impatiently, to which Froyke responded with light disapproval. I passed it to him, and he puffed on it ponderously and gave it back to me.
“Time for you to head home,” he said. “No point in going after Be’er yet. I’m fairly certain the Russians will neutralize him for us.”
“The work of the righteous is done by others,” I quoted.
Froyke started to say something, but was overtaken by Bella’s voice coming once again from the intercom: “Hello, children. Moshe for Efrayim.”
“Yes, Moshe,” said Froyke.
“The material from the counterparts is here,” Moshe declared.
“I’m here with the apprentice.”
“Excellent. Bring him. Maybe he can learn something.”
“Can’t even smoke a cigar in peace,” I muttered, put out the Cohiba and followed Froyke out of the room.
When we entered Moshe’s office, we were surprised to see Kalman ‘the Hardass’ disconnecting a little mic from a deathly pale Mordechai’s lapel. The Hardass, a specialist of Bella’s generation, had volunteered to supervise the analog and digital recording equipment during his retirement. He carefully put away the mic and proceeded to pack up a video camera, a tripod and some lighting equipment. When he was finished, he popped the memory card out of the camera and handed it to Shosh, Moshe’s legal adviser, who filed it into a yellow folder, signed it, and gave it to Moshe along with a sheet of paper.
Moshe finished going over the brief form, and handed it to Mordechai, whose hands shook as he took it.
“I’m… resigning?”
“Yes. A decision you made independently, for personal reasons. You’ll receive your compensation after signing a standard NDA as well as a confidentiality addendum relating to the circumstances of your resignation, and hopefully realize that irresponsible jabbering – specifically when there are enemy agents present, but also in general – is just as dangerous as knowingly providing them with
information.”
This corroborated what Kahanov suspected and I’d known for some time – the little dreck truly was more of an idiot than a traitor. He only talked to Be’er in the hopes of accruing some status. A Hochstapler, mother would say.
Mordechai seemed like he was about to say something, but a single look toward Moshe’s icy gaze changed his mind. He was smart enough to avoid looking at Froyke and me.
He signed his resignation. Shosh went over it and handed it to Moshe. After that, she and Kalman the Hardass left the room, and Moshe placed the yellow folder into a safe beneath his desk.
“You realize this affidavit implicates you and Professor Yisrael Be’er in generating threats to national security. Only a breach of trust, in your case, but I believe you already have a prior conviction – corporate documents, tax evasion, something like that?”
Mordechai nodded infinitesimally. Moshe, after contemplating this a moment, turned to Froyke and said, “Do you realize that you, me, and the PM are all now potentially liable for hiring this… man… in the first place.” Before Froyke could reply, Nora stormed into the room.
“Professor Be’er is in London. Albert found him!” she paused a moment to catch her breath and continued. “He left from the Russian embassy in Amman to the embassy in Damascus, then took another car with diplomatic plates to Ankara, where he boarded a direct Turkish Airlines flight to California. He RSVP’d his appearance tomorrow –” she glanced at her watch, and corrected, “today – at a TED Talk in Palm Springs. An hour later, still on the plane, he suffered a cardiac arrest. A Russian doctor who was on the flight performed CPR and demanded to get him to a hospital as soon as possible. The pilot asked permission for an emergency landing in London. He was taken by ambulance to St Bartholomew’s Hospital, where he is now. A team from the London branch is already on its way to him.”
“Good work, Nora,” said Moshe. “Cardiac assert. Russian doctor. Interesting.”
He looked at Froyke and me. “What are you waiting for?” He asked. “And… Ehrlich.”
“Yeah, boss.”
“I need this professor alive. And in one piece.”
38.
Six hours later I landed in London. Ran, who was currently heading the local branch, picked me up from the airport. He was one of my more successful “children” – I had mentored him along with Luigi RIP, Boris and Uzi. I was extremely happy to see him.
“The Waldorf Hilton, room 556. He was just discharged from the hospital, ordered to rest and return in two days’ time for a check-up. Not exactly textbook behavior for a fugitive. Do you think you can get him to board a plane with you?” he asked, starting the car.
“The professor’s a piece of work,” I said, “but he’s no fool – and yet, right now it seems he chose the worst possible option. Back home he’ll be charged with a dozen counts of espionage and treason, as well as the murder of his mother. It makes no sense. The man’s no fool,” I repeated, pensive.
“Doesn’t he prefer imprisonment in Israel to assassination in Russia?”
“That doesn’t make sense, either. They could’ve neutralized him in Syria easily. Why go through all this mess to get him to London? No, it doesn’t add up. As far as they’re concerned, he did everything he was supposed to, and then Sokolov messed up – Sokolov, not Be’er. All he had to do was stay with them, and he’d have gotten a nice little apartment in Moscow, a pension, a respectable teaching position at the university, and at some point they’d have made some agreement with us allowing him to go lecture at Ted Talks and what not.”
We left the airport and turned onto a gray asphalt road with trees growing on both sides, when suddenly it hit me.
“Do you understand what this means, Ran?”
He glanced at me and shook his head, adding, “But I suppose I’m about to.”
“It wasn’t his decision. Someone made it for him. The same someone who put him on the plane with the Russian doctor, who probably caused the cardiac arrest in the first place. The same someone who put him in this hotel for us to meet.”
Ran nodded. “That someone has also positioned an entire platoon of Spetsnaz gorillas at the hotel.”
When we turned onto Aldwych, Ran brought two fingers up to his eyes. “Black van on your one-fifteen. What do you think?”
“We won’t know unless we check. Pull over.”
He pulled over. We got out of the car and quickly walked toward the van, which screeched away in a sudden lurch, leaving us suffused in a foul black cloud of gasoline fumes.
“Scheisse. Did you get a look at the driver?”
He shook his head. We went back to the car and wiped the soot from our faces.
“Here’s your extra arm, boss,” Ran said, tossing me a little bag. “A Glock 17 and your room key. How many of them should we expect, do you think?”
Unless the recent redesign of the KGB brand had included a change in combat doctrine, they’d have two teams waiting for us, at the very least. “Two outside, two in the lobby, one covering the employee entrance and at least five more on the fifth floor. How many are we?”
Ran raised his hand, fingers spread. “You’re the sixth. I couldn’t get the room right next to his, but I got the one at the end of the hall. 1,200 a night. By the time you get up there you’ll have a key to his room, and… we’re at a disadvantage.”
“Anything you can do to change those numbers?”
He shook his head, disheartened.
“Then we’ll go von Clausewitz on their ass.”
There was no need for further explanations. “Shall I gather everyone on the fifth floor, then?”
“Pull over here,” I said a moment later. “I need to stretch my legs. I’ll see you in the lobby in fifteen.”
I got out of the car and made the rest of the way at a brisk walk, a sad replacement for the swim I needed to truly get my vertebrae in order. Looking around I saw Black women with purple hair, pale men in dark suits, a wealth of colorful hair and red cars. The myriad colors shattered the gray. London’s luck. Fifteen minutes later I was at the hotel.
***
10:20 – “Welcome, Doctor Schultz!” The clerk at the reception hands me my room key. From this moment on, the name of the game is Patience. Thirty minutes in the lobby. The bar is on my left; the posh reception counter is to my right.
“Ristretto,” I order.
“Double or short?” the barbarian asks.
I have no patience left for explanations. I order two short espressos and browse the tabloids laid across the bar.
The front page of the Bild discusses the Chancellor’s “Mysterious illness” and various plans regarding the effect of Brexit on the German economy. The bartender and the reception staff seem to ignore me after the initial nod and smile. The German, American and Chinese tourists also look completely authentic.
Ran sits in front of me and gently nods his head to let me know about each of his people as they pass us at more-or-less regular intervals. They are new and improved, all four sharply dressed in suits and ties, and if their Israeli-ness was not so clearly evident in their eyes and their spirited gait in anticipation of contact, I could easily have mistaken them for locals.
10:50 – I signal to Ran that I’m going up. He nods and lingers by the bar to see if I am followed.
10:55 – Fifth floor. the Glock is safely nestled in my inner jacket pocket. The tiny earbud is in place. I knock on the door of room 556. Ran comes out of the room at the end of the hall and slowly walked towards me, thoroughly immersed in the Financial Times. I knock again; there is no response.
I slide in the key-card. Green light. The door clicks open. I push it with my left hand and go inside, led by the barrel of the Glock. Ran is outside, securing the entrance. I scan the room, and stop in my tracks. The professor is sitting on a couch, his back facing me, next to a heavy coffee table and a large floor lam
p. His head is limp. His pulse is nonexistent.
I check again. Dried white foam on his chin. Obvious signs of poisoning.
I make a quick scan of the room: at the bottom of the wastebasket I find a wrapper of a medical nature and an empty syringe. Who was it? Russians? Bulgarians providing the Russian with a proxy? Professionals, undoubtedly – but then, why leave all this evidence? Obviously, it was intentional. Why? What’s in it for them?
Comprehension strikes me like lightning – they left the wrapper and the syringe for me to find, so that I can call a doctor and tell him what antidote to use. That way we have Be’er back in our custody – at which point we double him. Or, really, we think we double him, and they then easily triple him, assigning a new handler we don’t know. We’ll be certain we’ve gained an asset, and they reap the rewards.
10:56 – “Police. Get lost. Trying to delay them,” Ran hisses into his mic. I quickly return the syringe and wrapper to the bottom of the basket, after a fairly pathetic attempt at wiping my fingerprints off, and try to fathom how much excuses and negotiations and groveling it’ll take before they release me, assuming some BDS jackass doesn’t decide to try me for war crimes.
“Police, open the door, please.” Someone sharply bangs on the door. What the hell do I do with the gun?
“Police, open up please! Now!”
I place the Glock out in the open, on the coffee table next to Be’er. Fingerprints? Yes, of course – I hurried over to try and help him when I saw his condition. I have nothing to hide.
I open the door to a Scotland Yard badge, wielded by one Inspector O’Keefe, a small, sturdy, amiable young man in a brown tweed jacket and a little moustache perched atop his lip. As British as they get.
“Professor Be’er?” he inquires.
Ran passes through the hall behind him and looks at me questioningly. O’Keefe comes in and closes the door in his face.
“Professor?” he repeats.
“This is the professor,” I point at the couch. “He’s dead.”