Good and Dead (An Avner Ehrlich Thriller Book 2)

by E. L. Pini

  She looked at me, surprised but also somewhat sedated by the wine.

  “Alright, honey bear, no need to talk your head off. Come on, put your head here.”

  I leaned my head on her, and in my mind’s eye saw Eran, and then the fetus, and it looked just like him, in fact they were identical, and they began to mix and swim together.

  “Who is that? I asked Eran, and he burst into laughter.

  “That’s me, when I was little, that’s my alter ego.”

  “You’re sweating, honey bear,” Verbin woke me gently. “Do you need me to get you anything?”

  “No. Just hold me.”

  BOOK 3

  44.

  “Organic Chenin blanc – single vineyard – the absolute best,” said Grisha, turning the bottle. “You uncork, I’ll get the Champagne bucket and the ice.”

  The box of wine, the huge bouquet of flowers, and the additional 10,000 dollars given to support his disabled brother had brought Grisha back on speaking terms with Gigolo, just as Boris anticipated.

  “They signed today. Extension on the oil contract and an additional 500 million dollars. The bomb, including that rusty deathtrap of a submarine. You know, they recruited a dozen new engineers just to enhance the sub’s stealth capability; after they did, poof! All of them, gone,” Grisha said as he put the wine on ice, adding, “I suppose soon we’ll read about whatever natural disaster they all perished in.”

  Count to ten, Gigolo said to himself.

  Grisha poured, brought the wine to his nose and swirled it around. “Freshly cut grass, apples… no, pears. Wonderful.”

  “500 million dollars?” asked Gigolo.

  “Yes, that’s right. An Iranian naval team is about to finish the expedited training needed to pilot the thing. The Kusinka mat is built in. They plan to aim it at Tel Aviv, by the way.”

  Gigolo sputtered and dropped his wine glass. Grisha hurried to clean up the mess.

  “This is a Baccarat crystal glass!” he scolded Gigolo, and held the glass up against the light. “You break it, you buy it,” he added, dryly. “And why are you getting so flustered about a bomb in zhydland? It’s a long way from California,” he asked, and refilled the glass.

  Gigolo said nothing, but quietly thanked the heavens for Boris’ decision to pose as a company employed by the American government.

  “What type of sub is it?” he asked, after a moment.

  “The first prototype they made of the Rostov. You heard about that sub that took out the ISIS bases with missiles fired from the Mediterranean?”

  “The stealth submarine?”

  “Yes, the silent killer,” he chuckled. “Well, he bought the prototype. As far as I know, the main difference is in the payload. The rest of the specs should be about the same.”

  “What’s the difference in payload?”

  “They took out the missiles.”

  “What? All of them? All the missiles?”

  “They emptied it of missiles, but they put in the Status-6.”

  “Which is?”

  “Long story.”

  “Better talk fast, then.”

  “The Status-6 is the biggest, most powerful torpedo in the world,” said Grisha, with unbridled pride. “Capable of carrying a one hundred megaton warhead. They didn’t manage to diminish the noise it makes, but it’s so fast that it really makes no difference.”

  “Okay,” said Gigolo, standing up, “I gotta go. Don’t forget the activation code.”

  He placed his still-full wine glass on the table.

  “Where are you off to? You still haven’t said what’s the big deal about blowing up some Jews in the middle of the desert,” said Grisha, surprised, and already slightly drunk.

  “Do you understand that the Israelis will completely lose it over a bomb like that? They’ll fire their own nuclear bombs at Tehran. The Iranians will respond by attacking the Saudis. Do you have any idea how many Americans – both soldiers and civilians – are in the range of the explosion and fallout? In Israel, in Iraq, in Saudi Arabia? You’re talking about World War III. Of course it’ll reach California, and it’ll probably reach us here in Moscow even sooner!”

  “I… hadn’t thought about it quite that way.”

  “Then you’d better start!” Gigolo took Grisha’s face in his hands, speaking urgently. “We are talking about a world-wide catastrophe. You need to get routes, schedules, names. Activation code. Everything.”

  He kissed Grisha and said, “I love you, but I have to run, see you tomorrow.” He left, but a few seconds later popped his head back in and asked, “Hey, if we neutralize Rasputin, would that throw a wrench into things?”

  “Come inside, you maniac!” Grisha hissed. “Rasputin? You wouldn’t try something like that on Russian soil, the man is guarded by three layers of protection. Even the Chechens tried, and were killed – anyone who tries will be killed. You need him and the bomb far away, out of Russia.”

  “Do you have the activation code?”

  “I have the activation code for your ass.”

  “Grisha, we’re powerless without that code. I’m begging you, get it for me!”

  Grisha stroked his head and said, “All I know is that the fuse, the detonator and the activation mechanism are brand new, installed just this week. Only two people have the code: the president and Rasputin. Maybe Hamdani does, too, I’m not sure.”

  “You have to try and find it!”

  “That’s quite the risk. What do I get out of it?”

  “What we’ve agreed upon.”

  “Empty promises. We’re here, not in California. Listen carefully. I’ll get the code, and I’ll give it to you… at the vineyard in California.”

  “That might be too late.”

  “Tough,” he said, then cupped Gigolo’s balls, smiling pointedly. “You up for it?”

  “Extremely. But I have to run.”

  Grisha huffed with mock indignation. “Then fuck off, you goddamn homo.”

  45.

  “Fuck the rules,” Gigolo muttered as he took his own car and, in blatant disregard of every single rule and regulation, sped toward Boris’ apartment, repeating the details he’d just heard again and again to make sure he had forgotten nothing. Halfway there he decided to go to the office, instead. When he got there he summoned Boris for “an urgent phone call to New York, where it’s the middle of the workday.”

  Boris arrived in minutes.

  “What is it? what’s so urgent?” he asked.

  Gigolo sighed and whispered something in his ear. Boris’ expression changed at once. He raised a finger, signaling Gigolo to keep quiet, then activated the scanner and combed the room corner to corner.

  “Clean,” he determined, then set up a small digital camera in front of Gigolo.

  “Shoot,” he said. “Everything you remember, no stopping.”

  Gigolo took a deep breath, leaned back and recounted the whole encounter, beginning to end, including leaving and coming back to the apartment, finishing with Grisha’s promise to deliver the code only when he was safely in California.

  Boris tore out the sheet of paper he had drawn X’s and squares on, and slid it into the shredder.

  “Now once again, all of it. Close your eyes.”

  Gigolo closed his eyes.

  “From the top, please,” said Boris.

  “The target is Tel Aviv. The sub is a prototype of the Rostov-on-Don. Every bit as stealthy as the Rostov. Five years ago the sub underwent a mid-life maintenance treatment, during which they placed the bomb inside it, sealed the pressure hull, verified neutral buoyancy, and tested its diving capability. It contains the world’s largest hydrogen bomb, which can supposedly produce a one hundred megaton explosion. The miniaturized version in Novaya Zemlya generated fifty megatons. The head planner, Yuli Khariton, was Hamdani’s PhD advis
er, and that’s it, I’m done. Unless you want me to sing it now.”

  “Calm down,” said Boris, and again drew a large X over the page he had scribbled on during the confession.

  “Now take a pen and paper and listen to the recording. If you forgot something, write it down.”

  “What, again?”

  “Again!”

  Gigolo went over everything again, when suddenly it hit him – “Wait, I remembered something important, it was armed with a Status-6, a Status-6!”

  “Status-6? Are you sure?” Boris collected the pages with the scribbles, and after shredding them, pulled the memory card out of the camera.

  “Yes, positive, he said that the Status-6 can launch with a hundred megaton bomb, designed to destroy all of New York in case of all-out war. That sound real to you?”

  “I don’t know. I need to go. You make sure Grisha gets that code, and check what’s going on with our fucking imam, Hamdani. Where’d he vanish to? Talk to Ismailov, I have to go. Come here, give papa a hug,” Boris embraced him in a hug, taking him by surprise.

  “Are you okay, Boris?”

  “I’m okay. Well done, excellent work. I’m afraid I have to run, got a flight to catch.”

  ***

  The third time Lieutenant Vlad called the GES offices was no different than the first two – straight to voicemail. He tracked down Boris Grigorovich’s direct line and called him, only to go to voicemail yet again. He decided to leave a message:

  “Hello, this is First Lieutenant Vladimir Nikolayev from Russia Export Technologies. I heard of the fascinating project you have proposed in Novaya Zemlya, and I would like to meet at the earliest convenience. My phone number is… 7953977889.”

  He then returned to browse the company file. Something about it still troubled him, something, perhaps, that he had seen but discarded. His eyes lingered on the name Yefim Vasilyevich, the company’s technical draftsman, which again surprised him. Why would a draftsman of an Italian Energy company need Russian security clearance? Perhaps he is one of ours, he thought to himself – a plant.

  He meticulously went over every available detail – his security clearance was new, high, and was received easily and without scrutiny. No wonder – he came recommended by no other than Yuri Rasputin himself. Also, apparently Yefim was the son of Colonel Vasilyevich, Soviet hero.

  The pecking order that began to take shape in Vlad’s mind began with Grisha Kaskov, who was engaged in a close social relationship with Yefim Vasilyevich, who works for Boris Grigorovich, who flew suddenly to Tel Aviv, and flies once a week to Baku where he manages a project on the Iranian border, and who currently isn’t answering his phone. Is the connection coincidental? Vlad wondered.

  A coincidence is only that, until proven otherwise, he recalled the mantra from his security officer training.

  Vlad left the casefile open, leaned the chair back against the wall, lit a cigarette and thought to himself, this could be the move that propels me forward… or the one that buries me, and he could do nothing. That would be safest.

  But his curiosity got the better of him, and he phoned his friend Ivanovich who served in the Asia-Africa Division of the GRU and asked for anything he could give him on the time the Israeli Air Force bombed Hadramaut.

  Ivanovich, true to form, didn’t ask for explanations, but simply sent Vlad the summary report submitted by military intelligence. The writer of the report confirmed the bombing and the destruction of the Hadramaut camp, but claimed that it was carried out by the Saudi Royal Air Force, as a retaliation against Al-Qaeda for the attack on the Ministry of Public Security in Riyadh. “Any additional speculation on the subject amounts to nothing but cheap conspiracy theories,” wrote the head of the Asia-Africa Division in conclusion.

  ***

  Boris sat in the Russian plane on his way to Baku and listened to First Lieutenant Vlad’s message twice, back-to-back. After his initial panic, he composed himself and began to plan appropriate responses for this turn of events. He snapped the SIM and flushed it down the airplane toilet. He was certain that whoever talked, lied, and this only made him more anxious.

  Shaul, head of the Baku station, was supposed to pick him up from the airport with weapons for both of them; but if the Russians should be waiting, they’d most likely arrive in force, with the numbers to give them the advantage. He popped in a new SIM and called Shaul to bring him up to speed.

  Shaul promised they would find a solution by the time he landed.

  46.

  Nora was just talking about moving up the weekly staff meeting as I came into the conference room. She lightly waved me in, barely looking up from the thick file which lay open in front of her.

  “Coffee’s on the table,” she said, and indeed, there was a large thermos on a tray in the center of the conference table, next to little packets of instant coffee, Turkish coffee and sugar.

  “Oh? No more what’s-everyone-having lists?”

  “I don’t have time for nonsense,” she said, and indeed, the second Moshe sat down she stood up and began, without allowing the traditional chatter to commence.

  “Good morning, everyone. I asked that we move up the meeting because the Russians and Iranians began their joint naval exercise last night. It wasn’t supposed to begin for another 62 days. And even the original date surprised us. This sort of maneuver is usually many months in the making.”

  “Surprised ‘us’?” Moshe interjected.

  “Yes, the MAD steering committee you’ve asked me to jumpstart. As we speak, members of the committee are at the headquarters of AMAN, as well as naval intelligence and Air Force intelligence, debriefing them on the finalized summary report of the committee.” She gestured to the hefty file before her and added, “When you convene for follow-up discussions, we’ll all be sharing one database.”

  Nahum gave a low whistle of admiration. “You’re the first one who managed to get this committee to work. Kudos.”

  “Thank you. I –”

  “But your new coffee policy leaves much to be desired,” I grumbled, having failed to extract water from the new thermos.

  “He’s got to have his coffee or the analytical wheels won’t turn,” said Nahum with feigned benevolence.

  “On top of the thermos, right in the middle, there’s a brightly-colored button. Exert moderate physical pressure, Ehrlich – moderate, I said! – and you’ll have hot water. You can manage from there, I think,” said Nora, and got back to business. “So here’s what we have so far. On April 29th, in an interview with an Iranian news agency, the commander of the Iranian navy announced that they had signed the agreements preparing for the joint exercise. This means one of two things: either the exercise has been in the works for a while and only revealed at the last minute to increase the pressure on the American president – probably regarding the sanctions he’s been planning; or – considerably more problematic – that the exercise was pushed up because it urgently needed to be.” She took a deep breath and added, “But why, we don’t yet know. We do know of an ORBAT of nine submarines. Four of them Kilo-class carrying ICBMs, and the other five Akula assault subs from the Black Sea Fleet, escorted by an aircraft carrier, a destroyer, a submarine detection vessel, and some intelligence and logistics ships coming from the fleet port in the Black Sea toward the Strait of Hormuz, where the exercise will take place – apparently meant to show the Americans and the Gulf countries who’s boss. The day after tomorrow they’re planning a defense drill against submarine attacks, a refueling drill carried out by Iranian tankers, and a planned stop in international waters very close to Jeddah port. I assume this choice is also aimed at Americans. This is the main shared part as far as we’re aware. After that, the fleet will disperse, some of it will dock to be serviced at Bandar Abbas at the Port of Hormuz, and the rest will continue toward the ports at Bushehr and Chabahar.”

  “Recommendations?” a
sked Moshe.

  “Continued surveillance,” said Nora. “Doesn’t seem like an immediate threat, but there are definite makings of a strategic upheaval. The Americans are moving out, the Russians are moving in, and this could bode very badly for us. Research is working on up-to-date assessments. I’ll provide updates as they come. Until then, if there are no further questions, thank you all,” she took the steering committee file, smiled broadly at the room, and left.

  “That was goddamn masterful,” said Nahum, agog. “No coffee, no small talk, fifteen minutes and we’re done. She’ll leave us all out of a job yet.”

  Moshe nodded, looking pleased.

  When I left and headed toward Bella’s office to pick up my phone, she handed me a ristretto. “Here, ingale, don’t let your sugar drop.”

  I looked at her lovingly and nearly hugged her, but decided to keep it civil.

  “Froyke’s in Jerusalem,” she added. “In good hands.”

  “Thank you. Any news from Boris, maybe?”

  “No.”

  “Trouble?” I asked.

  “Always,” she said. “What else from a bunch of troublemakers.”

  47.

  “The weather in Baku is a mild 26 degrees Celsius,” the captain announced, and the stewardess who approached Boris introduced herself and said that the captain had personally asked that he be escorted to the VIP lounge, where the ambassador was waiting for him.

  Quick thinking on Shaul’s part, thought Boris. The ambassador would be escorted by personal security and local police, and so the landing would hopefully go by without a hitch, and this nightmare would finally end. The nightmare that was about to start in Tel Aviv, however… he did not envy them. On his way to the VIP lounge Boris checked to see if he was being followed – if he had a tail, he couldn’t find it.