by E. L. Pini
Odd, he thought. Maybe I never put it up after all. Or maybe the cleaners threw it away. Eventually he decided it didn’t matter what had become of the note – he put out the cigarette, lodged his behind firmly into the chair, and entered the “pending further examination” database.
When he ran the generic query and the name ‘Boris Grigorovich’ came up, he remembered that he’d seen that name before, taking a spontaneous flight to Tel Aviv. This man apparently ran the Moscow branch of the Italian energy company GES. According to his intel, Grigorovich met with the Technology Ministry and presented them with an idea that was either brilliant or insane – building a photovoltaic energy farm in the Novaya Zemlya archipelago in the Arctic Ocean, based on a complex of giant mirrors meant to reflect the snowy glare directly into the solar panels.
Who lives there, in the winter desert of Novaya Zemlya? What happens there, apart from the occasional nuclear test? Furthermore, why does the GES technical draftsman, Yefim Vasilyevich, require such a high security clearance? Vlad wondered.
He lit another cigarette and looked deeper. He found that this Boris flies to Azerbaijan on a nearly weekly basis, where he is apparently setting up a huge photovoltaic farm in the desert for the Azeris, very close to the Azerbaijan-Iran border, after his company won a tender by the UN and the World Bank.
This guy has a fascinating life, thought Vlad. I bet he doesn’t sit in a stuffy office all day, checking security clearances for ship engineers who’ve already been approved for months.
He closed his computer and for a while, just sat there, immersed in thought.
After some time, he opened the computer again and started surfing the internet in search of photovoltaic farms. On the third page of a book chapter elaborating on the technology, he found a link to an article describing another UN contract won by GES, to build a large photovoltaic farm in Shabwa, Hadhramaut, in the Yemenite desert.
The article mentioned that the company had won because they had guaranteed free quarterly maintenance to the farm. Vlad rechecked the info on the tender in Azerbaijan, and found that the company used the same trick – providing free maintenance services – just like in the Hadhramaut contract.
The CEO of the company, said the article, was a German by the name of Dr. King Schultz. Vlad did some more digging and found an article from Al Jazeera, Google-translated to inform him that two years ago, the Israeli Air Force bombed the Italian company’s solar farm in Yemen, destroying it completely.
At the end of the article, the author, one Dr. Hamdani from the IRGC, hypothesized that the farm somehow served the Israeli Intelligence community, and once it was revealed, they decided to demolish it. Vlad, however, was not the sort of man to believe in conspiratorial guesswork. Must be the overactive imagination of some black-ass, he decided, and closed the computer again.
But then, on second thought, decided that this might call for further examination. At some point. He shrugged and wrote himself another yellow note to remind him to look into it.
Afterwards he went over to the metal cabinet behind him and looked over some of GES’ pending documents, where he was surprised to encounter once again a request to expedite the security clearance of the company’s technical draftsman, Yefim Vasilyevich.
Especially noteworthy was the fact that the request to perform the inquiry in the first place came from the presidential advisor and all-powerful corporate exec, Yuri Rasputin.
Vlad put the folder away and made to leave the office, when he felt something off in the friction of his shoe against the green linoleum floor. He bent over and picked the old yellow sticky note reminding him to check out Boris Grigorovich from the bottom of his sole. He smoothed it out as much as he could and stuck it onto the new one.
41.
We landed at Ben Gurion Airport. Ran left to find a flight back to London, and I got into the car with Siboni, who had come to pick me up. When we turned onto Highway 1 and I finally pushed the Blundstones off my feet, he handed me a formal envelope that had a lovely Cohiba inside, with its head already burnt. He quickly explained that it was Froyke’s single puff. I asked him if I could light up, and he said nothing would make him happier than replacing the odor of my socks with that of the cigar.
At the junction going right to Highway 38 he kept straight on towards Jerusalem.
“You missed the turn,” I noted.
“Negative,” he said. “We’re going to Hadassah. Doctor’s orders. She’s waiting for you.”
I quickly put out the cigar.
Twenty minutes later we were at Hadassah Hospital and I went straight up to her ward. She had her nose in a report given to her by one of the nurses, and with a small nod signaled me to wait in room 15.
I did as I was told. Stretching out on the narrow bed, I felt my eyelids growing heavy.
Suddenly I heard the door open, then the click of the lock. I tensed up, in spite of myself.
“Hello to you, too,”
She placed the folder she was holding on the table and walked over to me, examining my face and body with a frown.
“What happened?”
“You don’t look good.”
“Thanks.”
“Now sit up, shirt off, pants off,” she commanded.
“What if someone comes in?”
“Door’s locked.”
I again performed as bidden. She scrutinized the injuries to my shoulder and leg.
“As I suspected,” she said. “More luck than brains.”
She helped me into a wheelchair and we left the room so she could wheel me to the X-ray room, where she waited for me to go through the brief yet exhausting ordeal, and looked fairly pleased when she went over the results.
“Either someone up there has some weird crush on you, or you’re just as regenerative as an earthworm, like I’ve told you before. That body of yours… heals like goddamn Wolverine.” She looked at me with something like wonder, then said, “Wait here a couple of minutes. I’ll finish up and we can go home.”
“What about Siboni?”
“I dismissed him,” she said, smiling.
When we got home, I uncorked a bottle of organic Chardonnay from Napa Valley. Verbin brought three glasses and we went down to Eran’s grave. I swirled the wine around in my glass. It was a deep gold, and smelled of some white fruit, pears maybe, and some citrus, and lavender. I saw why our Grisha Kaskov was so captivated by it.
Half a bottle later we found ourselves in bed. We made love slowly and carefully, like porcupines.
“Relax your muscles a bit,” she asked. “You’re like a bowstring.”
“You sure I can rest two hundred and forty extra-heavy pounds on top of you?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Most of it’s water, anyway. Especially with your muscle tone… it’s fine if you’ve some soft padding over the muscles, here and there – it’s better that way. I don’t need the whole Chippendale show. You look really good.”
I smiled gratefully.
“Really good for your age, I mean,” she added, grinning.
I stroked her hair and started moving down her body, across her hips and thighs, then made my way back up. Verbin stooped over me, kissing my mouth before lightly biting my nipples. I opened my eyes for a moment to gaze at her. She looked like a sweet little rabbit; her quivering nostrils seemed slanted back somehow. I flipped us over and laid her on her back. I kissed her knees and her thighs. She grabbed my head. “Come in.”
I went on kissing and licking, but she insisted, “Come in, come into me, come on!”
I carefully slid inside her. She held me tightly to her. “Harder, my darling, I won’t break.” Her breathing became short and shaky. I went as deep as I could. Tears fell from her eyes. We came together; as I picked her up and laid her on top of me, her eyes still glinted with tears. For a moment I thought mine were, too.
“What is it,
love? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m just content.” She rested her head on the pillow, and her breathing slowly deepened as she fell asleep. I stayed there for a few minutes, looking at her. She looked like a fairy Botticelli would paint.
After she rolled over on her belly, I went into shower. It was near midnight. At 5 am I woke up again, unable to continue sleeping. I thought about Michael Kohlhaas, thought about yesterday, on the plane, then left the bed and sleeping Verbin, and went for a walk with the dogs. When I came back I swallowed a sandwich and some coffee, and by the time the sun started stretching its way into the sky I was in my car, sliding out of Agur through a blossoming vernal landscape.
6 am found me in Froyke’s office. He wasn’t in yet. I made myself another coffee, and called Boris on the secure line so he could fill me in on what I’d missed.
“He received the extra hundred thousand into his account,” Boris told me. “We managed to convince him that we’re a private company working for the American government, and he’s willing to do pretty much anything for his new homeland.”
“Are you saying you met him in person?”
“Affirmative, boss. I did. There was no other choice.”
“Tell me, Boris, are you fucking insane?”
I used to think Boris might be more fucked up than I was. Now I knew he was.
“Possibly. He won’t see Gigolo anymore, I had to go myself.”
“I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I, boss. But it is what it is.”
“So now what?”
“Now? Grisha’s at the port in Novorossiysk along with Rasputin, who returned from London just yesterday, and Hamdani. They fly back tomorrow evening. I set up a meeting.”
“A meeting… in bed?”
“Funny, boss. By the way, on the topic of Hamdani’s ever-increasing piety, you should know – he’s been going to the mosque every day, twice a day, with the kid. FYI. Talk more tomorrow,” he concluded, and hung up.
A moment later the door opened and Froyke came in.
“What are you doing here so early? Come to steal my cigars?” he sighed. “And I take it you’ve already had coffee?”
I nodded and brought him up to speed. Out of respect for his good mood, I neglected to mention the fact the Boris had met Grisha face to face. He sat in his usual chair, rocked a bit back and forth, then pulled something out from under the table.
“This is from Bella.” He handed me a little wooden jewelry box and a huge bouquet of flowers. “Open it.”
In the box lay a thin, unreasonably long gold necklace.
“What does this do?”
“You wrap it several times around the neck. There’s a gift receipt in there, too.”
“What… is this? You sure this is for me?”
“Idiot. Your anniversary. Bella knew that if you remembered it, God forbid, you’d run off to buy more orchids. Don’t forget to pay her back. Now, get the hell out of my office,” he said, and started laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“There used to be an office manager here, name of Hedva. I was out of the country for two weeks, between the 9th and 22nd of May. The 12th was Abigail’s birthday, my first wife; the 14th was Tirza’s, may she rest in peace. I left Hedva money and asked her to send a necklace to the first and flowers to the latter. She got it the other way around.”
“Is that when you and Bella hit it off?”
“Go on, you damn nuisance. And look after Verbin. She’s your once-in-a-lifetime.”
“I will. How’s the leg, Froyke?”
“Good riddance,” he gave his usual reply. “But let me tell you, phantom pain’s no picnic.”
“I know,” I said, and for a moment visualized Eran, with perfect clarity.
Froyke looked at me solemnly. He knew what I meant.
“You remember,” he said, quietly, “That Eran called me grandad? That’s what he called us, Bella and I. Grandma and Grandad.”
He sighed sadly and I didn’t know how to reply.
After a moment he collected himself and sat up straight, saying, “It’s very likely they’ll attack today.” He gestured behind him with his thumb, northward.
“And are we ready?”
“We’re ready. Happy anniversary.”
42.
“Are you ready, Major General?” ask Rasputin, then held the phone away from his ear and powered down the treadmill. “There’s nothing wrong with our systems, Major General,” he added, slowly and pointedly. “The problem is with your incompetent operators. We’ve discussed their training level in the past. I’m not telling what to do, but I will tell you what I think, okay? I think you cannot call this off. You must retaliate, now. A painful, but not overly destructive retaliation. Get through this safely, as well as repairing the wounded Arab dignity.”
“We’re not Arabs, colonel, we’re Aryans. It is high time you realize that.”
“Fine, fine, but you are also the leaders of the Muslim world. It’s humiliating, taking a beating and not retaliating. And an overly zealous reaction will drag you into who knows what… these zhyds are still living their holocaust, cherishing it like a treasure, so you can’t push them into a corner. Just keep the ball in the air, keep playing this little game, you win one round, they win the next. A bit of bloodletting is good for the health, keeps you fit. The English, you know, they had to fly five thousand kilometers, all the way to the Falkland Islands, just for some basic live-fire training. Be grateful. It’s fine. It’s your turn now.
"Yeah, yeah… I can only give you my usual guarantee. If you’ve trained your men properly, there won’t be any trouble. Good night.”
Rasputin hung up, shoved a cigar into his mouth and took out a bottle of vodka.
“Did you hear that black monkey, Grisha?” he spoke into the intercom. “I hope you’ve got a girl lined up for me.”
“Of course. Would you like her now, sir?”
“After the vodka,” he said, and poured himself a Stoli Black.
“I’m off to get her, then.”
“Come in first, have drink with your… uncle,” said Rasputin, chuckling.
“Coming.”
Grisha got up and went into the office, where Rasputin immediately filled both their glasses, finished his and poured himself another, while Grisha struggled with the first.
“I should go get her,” said Grisha.
“You go when I tell you to go. The whore can wait. Let her live a bit longer,” Rasputin laughed, and refilled the glasses. Grisha downed his glass as quickly as he could and made a face despite of himself. Rasputin noticed, and poured himself another, this time leaving Grisha’s empty.
“Fine, go get her already,” he said, sipping his vodka and finally lighting the cigar.
After some more vodka he glanced at his Rolex, turned on the TV, and waited for the reports to pour in. It was 2 am when Fox News reported that an Iranian UAV carrying high explosives and twenty Fajr and Grad missiles had been launched from Syria toward IDF outposts in the Golan Heights. The reporter added that both the UAV and fourteen of the missiles were taken out by the Iron Dome defense system, and the IDF’s electronic warfare array. Enraged, Rasputin spat out the cigar, and swore furiously.
“Those fucking Arabs,” he muttered, and looked for another channel. CBS reported that the Israeli Air Force, having apparently been waiting for an opportunity such as this, launched attacks at fifty other IRGC targets and facilities at Damascus, Qunaitra, Homs and other locations.
He tried Al Jazeera, who also covered the event, where the reporter went so far as to say, “The S-400 system failed once again in the face of the Israeli Air Force.” The Al Jazeera commentator reported a high number of Quds Force and Hezbollah casualties, mentioning that the Zionists only began their assault after having assure
d their capability – apparently with American cooperation – to overcome the Russian system. He concluded with a report on “second thoughts” among other nations and militaries who have placed orders for the S-400, which until now was considered the only system capable of stopping the F-35 stealth planes.
“Stupid fucking Arabs!” Rasputin bellowed, and changed the channel to the American Evangelical God TV, which was also discussing the growing tensions in the Middle East. Their military commentator claimed that an Israeli commando unit had infiltrated the Russian military base in Khmeimim and stolen the S-400 computers, just as their predecessors had done in the daring 1969 operation in Ras Gharib in the Gulf of Suez, when they tied the entire Soviet radar station to a helicopter and flew it to Israel.
“Again with those fucking zhyds,” he seethed, and shattered his vodka glass against the wall. When he turned around, he saw Grisha entering the room, along with a tall woman in black leather.
“To the ground, slave,” she said, smiling slightly, not knowing they would be her last words.
Grisha quickly left the room and slunk back to his own small office.
Rasputin said nothing. He gagged the woman’s mouth with a red ball gag and handcuffed her to the treadmill. When he turned it on her long legs slipped to the sides and her head bashed against the handlebar. She managed to get her legs back onto the treadmill and tried to say something. Rasputin turned up the speed to maximum but was still unsatisfied with what he saw. He turned off the machine and removed the ball gag. She screamed. He reached for his serrated dagger and started cutting long gashes into her white flesh. The woman screamed and Rasputin sliced, but still was not satisfied. He climbed on the treadmill behind her and pulled her flush against him. After a moment he grabbed her head and twisted it forcefully, breaking her neck.
“Grisha!” Rasputin hoarsely yelled.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get in here!”
When Grisha walked in the room, Rasputin tilted his head toward the dead woman.
“Usual drill,” he snapped, and poured himself another vodka. “And do me a favor, send someone to clean up this mess.”