by E. L. Pini
“Of course, sir. Immediately.”
“And after that, wake Hamdani and make arrangements for a flight to Novorossiysk.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rasputin poured the vodka down his throat, then barked, “Well, go on! What’re you waiting for?”
Grisha quickly left the room, trying to remove the image of the broken woman from his mind. She was far from the first he’d seen, but it was still difficult to get used to. Sometimes it would haunt him for days.
He dragged the body out of the room, wrapped it in a large black plastic bag and hoisted it into the trunk of one of the cars he had available for precisely this reason. He then called maintenance up to clean the room.
After arranging an immediate flight with the help of the government air travel director, he summoned the driver and Rasputin’s security team, and finally woke up Hamdani and let him know about the flight. When he was done he reported back to Rasputin, who, sounding very inebriated, told Grisha that after the Kusinka mat takes care of the zhyds, the world will be much better place.
***
The helicopter was tossed about among the clouds of black smoke and flame rising from the factory chimneys, along with the fierce winds swirling up from the roiling sea. Grisha was curled up in his corner in a fetal position, promising himself that if he made it back to the ground alive, he and Yefim would be leaving for California tomorrow. The chances of getting caught grew higher every day, and he knew exactly what his end would look like, under “uncle” Rasputin’s knife. “Act like a whore, die like a whore,” would be the oh-so-obvious words that would seal his fate. Grisha felt the bile rising into his throat.
“You look like a fucking American professor. All you need is a pierced ear,” Rasputin shouted at Hamdani, who wore in a UNIQLO jumper over his red Che Guevara t-shirt, and offered him a flask of vodka. Hamdani rejected the offering with a scowl of disgust.
“I see,” said Rasputin. “An infidel’s drink. Coffee, then?”
Hamdani said nothing. Rasputin shrugged and sipped the vodka.
“Forget everything you’ve seen so far,” he continued. “Five megatons, ten megatons a head. Rubbish. I’m about to show you the fulcrum.”
Hamdani looked up at him questioningly.
“Give me a fulcrum and I can move the world. Remember?”
The flares marking the landing zone burned below them and the pilot eased them to the ground. The driver of the military jeep that picked them up saluted Rasputin.
“The usual?” he asked.
“Negative,” said Rasputin. “Take us to the Kusinka.”
The driver looked at him for a moment, befuddled, but quickly composed himself and said, “Yes, sir. To the Kusinka, sir.”
Heavy iron gates squealed open to admit them and clanked shut behind them. Armed teams stood at tense attention.
“And here is the madam herself,” Rasputin said, pointing at the black cylinder laying there like some huge mythological serpent. “A pure hydrogen bomb, one hundred megatons. Quite the fulcrum, if one is looking to move the world – hell, you can tip the zhyds right off the edge.” Hamdani nodded and stroked the massive cylinder in the belly of the submarine, gently, as if afraid the serpent would suddenly bare its teeth and lunge. “You’ll sign a twenty-year extension on our exclusive rights to the crude oil, under the existing terms, and she’ll be yours, along with the sub.”
“Sounds about right,” muttered Hamdani. “I still need final confirmation…”
“You’ll get it. I’m giving you a hundred megaton bomb. The biggest in the world. Do you realize what that means? You’ll hold half the world by the balls. Its effective range –”
“I know what its effective range is!” spat Hamdani. “This is your so-called Tsar bomb, the Kusinka mat. It’s outdated and leaking. And detonation at sea level severely lowers its efficacy.”
“Chjernozhopyje,” Rasputin muttered angrily, then snapped, “Allow me to correct you, professor. This is a stealth sub, undetectable by any system. This here is the Rostov-on-Don’s prototype.”
“Are you sure the bomb is even functional?”
“You wanna try it?”
“No, but I would like to check.”
“Check whatever you need to. Make all the calculations you need. Locate it properly and you can burn the entire state of Israel off the map, along with bits of Egypt and Jordan – the Jews and the Sunni in one fell swoop. If Allah smiles on you, the fallout will make it all the way to Riyadh. Go run your tests, professor.”
“Not now. I need equipment,” said Hamdani.
“You’ll get whatever you want.”
“I’m sure I will, but I need to bring more of our scientists here, I won’t have your –”
“You’re afraid. Chjernozhopyje, you are simply afraid!” Rasputin chuckled.
Hamdani leveled his eyes at him. “Yes, I am afraid. Do you know what I am afraid of? You. You are a dangerous man. My father warned me about… overzealous salesmen.”
Rasputin, reddening with fury, suddenly reached for Hamdani - his hand closed around his throat, and he squeezed.
“Listen closely, you stupid fucking Arab. Right now you and I have a common goal. After that, who knows. Maybe you kill me; maybe I kill you. But right now you and I are committed to the same goal – sacred both to Islam and to Mother Russia’s pocket.” He released Hamdani, who looked at him with disgust.
“Here,” said Rasputin, handing him a memory card, “this is the test report written by your mentor, Professor Yuli Khariton. Go talk to him.”
“I’m familiar with the report, but I need this bomb working in Tel Aviv. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He retired to a corner, where he took a little prayer rug out of his bag, went down to his knees and began praying fervently. After finishing his prayer, he went into a lengthy dialog with someone who was not there. With the conversation apparently concluded, he rolled up his rug and said, “I’ll make the call.”
“The Major General already gave his approval. The bomb is yours.”
“Excellent, now he needs to fly in my weapons group and a team to operate the submarine. I just need the code. Give me the code, colonel.”
“Give me the money and I’ll give you the code,” said Rasputin, and a twisted smile parted his lips. “Just kidding. There’s no note with a numeric code.” He laughed and, tapping his forehead with a finger, added, “The code’s in here. Grisha will tie up the rest of the loose ends.”
When they returned to Moscow, Grisha hurried down to the underground parking lot. His red little Suzuki Jimny was the only car still there at this hour. He deflated the spare tire and from within it, fished out the little burner phone that Gigolo had given him.
43.
It had been something of an odd workday. After Froyke gave me the gold necklace, he and Moshe left to meet the PM in Jerusalem. Nora was busy running MAD, her new steering committee, and I found myself checking out the facilities of our new, state-of-the-art gym. At lunch I went down to the cafeteria with Bella, which was long overdue, and she gave me a list of tasks to maintain Froyke’s health, seeing as “You’re to blame for him smoking those damn cigars again.”
She kissed me goodbye and I headed home, trying to imagine how things had unfolded between her and Froyke, the Mossad’s immortal love affair.
“You have a guest,” Verbin told me on the phone, just after I took a right from Azeka Junction toward 38 South.
“Ami isn’t a guest, he’s the groundskeeper.”
“Ehrlich says Ami isn’t a guest, he’s the groundskeeper,” Verbin echoed loudly towards the room, adding an explanation, “I assume he’s referring to Ami looking after the dogs while we were in Italy.”
“Want me to pick something up on the way?” I asked, hoping that whatever she asks for will reveal the identity of guest number two.
“A healthy dinner? For me and Ami? Are we being punished?”
“Absolutely, but I didn’t say it was Ami. You did.”
“What did you make?”
“Grilled vegetables on your Argentinian barbeque. He actually enjoyed the change of pace. Said it was refreshing.”
In that case, I surmised, it definitely wasn’t Ami, who avoided eating vegetables almost entirely “due to corrosion.”
“Well? Any guesses?” she teased.
“Limor, right? She’s vegetarian. Like Hitler.”
“Negative.”
“Verbin, I don’t like surprises I haven’t been informed about.”
“Me neither. So let’s agree, no more surprises, okay?”
I speeded up until I got to the driveway, went past the monsters and headed straight to the door. Neither knocking nor ringing, I went inside to see none other than Froyke.
“Froyke,” I hugged him even though I saw him just that morning. “What kind wind blew you our way?”
“Probiotic wind.”
“Huh?”
“We had an introductory meeting with Dr. Friedman,” Verbin walked into the room, smiling.
“That horrible dietician?”
“She’s not horrible in the slightest.”
“Yes she is. And the schnitzels you’re frying back there, are those probiotic schnitzels?”
“No, it’s my last meal before the diet,” Froyke gravely explained.
“I see. Do we have any probiotic wine?”
“Here. Open it and pour – gently!” she said, and handed me a bottle and three glasses.
“Froyke still needs to drive home,” I said, and got to uncorking.
“Let me worry about Froyke,” she said.
I sat in the porch and breathed in fragments of spring. Citrus flowers and Rangoon creeper and a hint of ocean breeze.
“Listen, kiddo,” Froyke turned to me, “your assignment’s been approved. From now on you’re deputy head of division. I was just telling our doctor.”
“You haven’t even told me, yet.”
“Well, I needed to check with her, first, didn’t I? Nothing’s going to change, really, apart from the fact that when I retire you automatically assume my post. Moshe already made the arrangements with the PM’s office.”
Verbin made no effort to hide her joy over the prospect of a comfy desk job. I felt no joy.
“Cheers!” she raised her wine glass. “Schnitzels in five minutes.”
Froyke either knew and didn’t believe, or didn’t want to believe, that I’d be gone as soon as he was. But right now I had a bomb to deal with. The world’s largest hydrogen bomb, the target of which, according to Grisha, was Tel Aviv. I took advantage of Verbin’s schnitzel-related absence to lean closer to Froyke and say, “We can still sink that sub, right there in the Novorossiysk port. Your marine commando buddies can probably handle it.”
Froyke gave me an odd look. “Sure they can. But do you honestly think we’re going to declare war on Russia? Sink one of their subs in their own home port? Surely you understand that’s never going to happen.”
“I understand that every day that goes by, that bomb inches closer to us, in an undetectable nuclear sub. I understand that a nuclear explosion in their home port will be much better for us than one in ours.”
Froyke sipped his wine and raised his eyebrows at me.
“Besides,” I added, sipping as well, “what am I supposed to do with our people there? They’re also threatening to explode. Grisha is getting frantic about California. He’s afraid, and rightfully so.”
Froyke nodded and closed his eyes. “There are no drop-offs, no triples, no cellular, computer, or radio communication. They meet every night in the most direct possible way, and all their communication is face-to-face. Nothing over the air.”
“Yes.”
“And still, you fear exposure?”
“Not that kind of exposure, but people, you know, people crack, people break – and always when you least expect it.”
“And the stuff from Boris?”
“He has a big solar project in Azerbaijan that requires his presence once a week. That’s when Shaul collects the material and gets it to us through the diplomatic channel.”
“Okay, good,” Froyke nodded approvingly. “Seems like a fine setup. So what’re you worried about?”
“I’m worried that it’s going too well. Never worked out for me.” I finished the remainder of my wine and added, “And I’m worried about Boris.”
“About Boris?!”
“He’s crazier than I am.”
Froyke placed his glass on the table and sighed. Suddenly he looked over my shoulder and cried, “And here come the famous schnitzels! Smells like heaven.”
Verbin came outside carrying a platter and placed it on the table. He was right; they smelled wonderful. She sat down, and they began torturing their schnitzels with cutlery.
“Look at this primate,” she said, fondly. “Still can’t manage a knife and fork.”
“This primate,” said Froyke, “had just reached the prime of his cognitive capacity. Even Professor Be’er had some nice things to say. But in life, there is a balance – when the cognitive abilities peak, physical capability drops…” he made a gesture with his hand like an airplane plunging toward the ground. “Just the way it is – isn’t that right, doc?”
“You got the nosedive right, I’ll give you that.”
“Don’t look so miserable, Ehrlich,” Froyke chuckled. “We have enough fighters – younger than you, lighter, faster…”
“Prettier,” Verbin contributed.
We finished an impressive percentage of the schnitzel platter and most of the bottle. Verbin went into the kitchen and brought out another plate. Froyke sighed and said he had to go.
“Why don’t you sleep here? Tomorrow you two can drive to work together.” Verbin suggested.
“Thank you, doc. But my bed needs me – can’t sleep without me, poor thing.”
The behemoths arrived to receive their share of the leftovers. Garibaldi nuzzled his large head against Froyke’s right leg, eliciting a delighted bout of laughter, while Adolf went off to the side to eat.
“He knows there’s no leg here,” smiled Froyke, tapping the prosthesis on his left.
“Don’t forget this,” Verbin handed him the tome of dietary instructions.
“You expect him to eat that?” I said, aghast. “Too much cellulose isn’t good for you either, you know.”
Froyke shrugged miserably.
“Bon appetite,” I said.
“Good night.”
“Ever the smartass. I’m gonna walk Froyke to his car, okay?”
As Verbin and Froyke walked down the driveway I cleared the table, taking the opportunity to examine another schnitzel and check that it was up to par before giving the rest of them to the dogs. I threw one into the air, hoping for the usual show – namely, the two monsters jumping up to get it and collide in a glorious midair headbutt – but only Garibaldi did me the favor of jumping. Adolf, the evil villain, went over and quietly cleared the rest of the plate.
Verbin came back and looked appreciatively at the empty plates.
“Well done.”
“I always do well.”
“Didn’t you leave anything to the poor doggies?”
The monsters stood innocently nearby and admitted nothing.
“Come here. The dishes can wait.” I hugged her gently. She pressed herself against me and said, “You can hug better than that.”
“Oh, hang on,” I suddenly remembered, untangled from the hug and went to bring the box with the gold necklace.
“Wow!” She wrapped it around her neck and kissed the tip of my nose. “You remembe
red? I’m impressed! When you proposed you tried to seduce me with a mussel casserole.”
“Me?! You deviously tricked me into marriage, woman!”
“Yeah, that’s right,” she said with a sort of muffled tone, like someone eating a hot potato. “I stole your seed and then miscarried out of spite, hah.”
“Don’t, love.”
“I’m sorry. Put on the Panis Angelicus. We’ll get married again, like back then. Matrimony by consummation.”
***
Pavarotti and Sting were wonderful, as always. We embraced, we kissed, we took our clothes off. I wanted her as much as I did the first time, maybe more, but couldn’t.
“You’re still afraid to break me,” she kissed my eyelids. “I’m okay. I’m healed. I told you – nature made us strong, and you? Cry and whine and go fuck someone else just to calm your nerves. Fine, fine, I’m sure you’re not, but are you gonna tell me that all this time you never missed casual sex?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “What… does that mean?”
“It means you’re healthy. Nora? She’s hot.”
“Yes, and also a subordinate.”
“Not anymore.”
“You have a point,” I laughed. “I keep forgetting. Well, she is hot, but there are others.”
“Like… Dr. Anna von Stroop?”
“Her, too. But I was thinking more along the lines of Juliette Binoche.”
“Good, excellent taste. Who else?”
“Jennifer Garner. And Peta Wilson from Nikita.”
“Another goddess. And look at that – all these hot women, and you go for me.”
“Blessed are the meek, for they shall something something,” I grinned.
“Finally found Jesus, I see?”
“The old and feeble often do.”
“It’ll get better,” she said, kissing me. “It’s all in your head. worse come to worst, I’ll prescribe you some Sildenafil.”
“What’s that?”
“Viagra.”
As I stroked her hair something came loose inside of me. Maybe it was the wine, or my general drowsiness, but I suddenly found myself saying, “I have no idea what I’m feeling or what I’m supposed to be feeling, except that both you and I feel like shit and there aren’t any words that’ll help. You said you were sorry, and you felt guilty. You don’t have anything to feel guilty about.”