by E. L. Pini
I held it up to his lips and drew it away after the briefest of instants. Froyke held the smoke inside, then blew it out, following the gentle blue ringlets with his gaze.
“What’s important is that you take over things as soon as possible. I won’t last much longer.”
“Don’t say that. Verbin said the new treatment is working.”
“It is. But the leg with its phantom, and the age – you think it’s given me anything but hämorrhoiden?
“What’s that?”
“Hemorrhoids?” he laughed, then added, “Old Jews – better that they were never born. I tell you that already?”
“You did. Too late, you were born – now suffer quietly like the rest of us. Listen, I’m getting nowhere with Boyes’ people, bureaucracy down there’s like death by a thousand cuts. Model simulation runs, authorizations from AMAN, from the Matkal, from the Minister of Defense…”
“As it should be,” said Froyke pointedly.
“Yes, especially if you ignore the fact that we live in a neighborhood of psychos and this is a street fight. Froyke, the guy who lands the first punch usually wins. At least Boyes just told me that he’s been authorized to take your buddies from the Flotilla and take over a ship called Spartacus, flying a Panama flag, that’s about to set sail from Egypt to deliver a large number of Shahab missiles to be unloaded in the Beirut port.”
“From Egypt? You sure?”
“Nora’s sure, naval intelligence are sure, so yeah, Egypt.”
“They’re getting sneakier. Anything solid about the cargo?”
“All circumstantial. Nora and the navy guy did impressive work putting those pieces together.”
I blew out a smoke ring and glanced at the blue square of sea, which seemed for some reason to have shrunk. “A convoy of trucks leaves the new Volkswagen factory in Izmir and drives all the way to Bandar Abbas port, where the vehicles are loaded onto the Spartacus, which then sets sail and unloads them at Damietta Port – all this while they could just ship the vehicles straight from Izmir to Damietta Port in a third of the time. That’s one. While they’re unloading, another ship enters Damietta Port – the Rosemary, hauling refrigerators. The containers on the Rosemary are unloaded and immediately loaded directly onto the Spartacus. The refrigerators are loaded into a 40-foot container, which is pretty rare around here, but necessary if you’re trying to ship, say, a bunch of 30-foot-long Shahab missiles. That’s two,” I concluded, and rolled out another smoke ring. It vanished, as if sucked up into some passing black hole.
“That is sneaky,” said Froyke, nodding appreciatively. “Egypt is in the same anti-Iran coalition as us. No one would expect Iranian missiles in an Egyptian port. What did Boyes have to say about this?”
I blew another smoke ring in lieu of a reply.
Froyke leaned closer to me and said, “So here’s a little secret for you.” His eyes twinkled. I offered him the cigar; he refused.
“A small team of beautiful young men, surfer types with six-pack abs just like these,” he patted his belly, “will emerge from the ink-black sea in the dead of night. They will be immersed in total electronic silence. They will take control of the ship, and those missiles will never make it to Beirut – or, then again, maybe they will. That would be up to you.”
I wanted to ask, what about all the authorizations? But quickly thought better of it. In my mind a plan of action was taking shape. A knowing little smile set Froyke’s face alight.
“I suppose you would like to take the ship into Beirut, dock it there and just let them unload the missiles,” he said. By now I was used to the old man reading me like a children’s book, though I still felt a small burst of amazement every time he did. “Boyes came to visit me back in the hospital,” he said, grinning slyly.
“So why’d you make me tell you this whole story?”
“Well, now I feel like I actually deserve an extra puff,” he pointed at the cigar.
“Little one,” I said, passing it to him.
He inhaled and closed his mouth around the smoke, allowing it to saturate his head before rolling it out of his nose. The spark was back in his eyes.
“Listen,” he said, “I had to hear it from you, clean. The way you see it. I needed to be sure we’re thinking the same thing. It wasn’t easy to convince them that we’d be giving the missiles back to Hamas with our own hands. Especially the PM.”
“How did you?”
“I have my ways.”
I looked at the old bastard and shook my head. He smiled broadly, smoothing away the lines etched into his face by pain.
“After Dovik and Ben David explained once again that this bomb was intended to destroy New York or Washington, the Powers That Be finally internalized the fact that a sacrificial strategy was our only viable option. A street fight in a neighborhood of psychos, as you so aptly put it.”
I took the cigar back. He sighed, and said, “You don’t grab a snake by the tail; you cut off its head. So go, kiddo. Grab these bastards by the head.”
55.
Captain Mark Vishnya tossed back his shot of Cuervo and turned over the bottle, lightly tapping its bottom. When he was convinced that nothing else good would come from it, he tossed it into the bin in the corner in a nice, high arc. He got up and grabbed the painting that hung on the wall – a nymph glistening darkly in the moonlight. He glanced at the bed on the other side of the cabin, then entered the numeric code for the little safe in the wall, and listened for the slight click of the electronic lock. There was no click.
“Kurwa cholera jasna,” he hissed, and punched in the code a second time, taking care to push each little number in turn. This time the safe clicked open. He took out a thick yellow envelope and counted the dollars within. Nine thousand nine hundred dollars in hundred-dollar bills. He counted again – the sum did not change.
The captain cursed the name of every single Arab and Muslim and eventually tore the envelope apart, at which point the half of the one-hundredth hundred-dollar bill gently fluttered to the floor. He calmed down upon seeing it, placed the money back in the safe, and took out a small pillbox made of hammered silver. He tapped out a white line onto the blade of his thumb and snorted it, closing his eyes. He thought of the Arab who, about a month ago, had scooped him out of a jailhouse at Dammam Port in Saudi Arabia, after he had been caught pissing in public with a bottle of tequila on his person. It was the night after he had been fired in disgrace and his Master Mariner license had been revoked.
“I don’t need you to be licensed, just to do as you’re told and keep your mouth shut. When you deliver the goods in Beirut you’ll get another thirty. And there’ll be more envelopes. Fuck up or talk…” the Arab concluded, sliding a finger across his throat.
“God bless him and every other fucking Arab,” the captain muttered.
The heroin was kicking in. He felt his penis jerk to life in his pants and pulled the sheet off the Black prostitute who lay in his bed, snoring softly. He came to stand over her and cupped her breast, squeezing hard. She awoke with a cry of pain, and smacked his hand away.
“Lie down just like this little slut here,” he told her, pointing at the nymph in the painting. “Excellent. Now pour the oil over your tits.”
She silently obliged. He placed the painting beside her and took some pictures.
“Excellent,” he said again, shoving his penis into her mouth. “Now suck till it’s nice and hard. Chjernya kurwa… if my wife looked like you… oh… what a waste.” He grabbed her by the hair and thrust into her mouth until she gagged.
“Excellent. Hang on,” he said, bending toward the dresser to pick up his phone. “Let’s take a selfie.”
“Captain Mark Vishnya! Captain Mark Vishnya! Come to the bridge and stop your engines at once!”
The captain wasn’t sure where the mighty voice was coming from.
“Did you hear t
hat?” he whispered to the girl, “or am I dreaming?”
“God is calling for you,” she pointed upwards. “You’d better run.”
“Captain Mark Vishnya. Come to the bridge and stop your engines.”
The captain zipped up his pants and ran toward the command deck. On the way he slammed into the panicked radio technician.
“Captain, radio’s down. Radar’s down, GPS is down, it’s all dead!”
Ignoring him, the captain ran on, but a moment later felt himself rising into the air, lifted by some unfathomable force. An iron grip had taken hold of him. A gun was pressed against his head.
“Calm down, captain, everything is fine,” said the masked man holding the gun. “Nice and easy.”
“What? What do you want? Who are you?”
“Israel Defense Forces.”
The main deck was flooded by harsh spotlight. One helicopter was hovering above the ship, providing illumination; armed fighters were rappelling down from another. The last man down waved his hand in a broad arc, signaling the helicopter to take off. It lifted from the deck and hovered at a steady distance around the ship, providing backup for two other squadrons that had climbed on board from a couple of Zodiacs which had attached themselves to the hull.
The soldiers moved around the ship, scanning every inch of it with the efficiency and familiarity of people who’d been living on it for a while. They then herded the stunned crew members into the mess, where they took their passports and mariner licenses and attached thick electronic bracelets to their ankles. Another bracelet was attached to the heavy table leg, and the crew was told to watch as the explosive charge in the little bracelet shattered the thick wooden leg to splinters.
“Every one of you will return home safely. As long as you don’t force us to activate your personal charge.”
The same message was conveyed to the men on the command deck, where the soldiers attached bracelets to the captain and his officers, following a demonstration that blew up a section of the railing. The soldiers also explained that the ship would continue to Beirut to unload the missiles, just as it was intended to.
“We have the goods. Ready for Uncle Albert,” transmitted Captain Gonni, the commander of the force that had taken the ship, and now its new captain.
Another inflatable ship clung to the hull, and Digital Albert, with his crippling fear of heights, slowly and gingerly climbed the ladder. One leg warily followed the other, step by step. Finally stepping onto the deck, he wiped the sweat from his glistening face and took a deep breath.
“Piece of cake,” he said. “Where’s my gear?”
Gonni shook his hand and gave him a bottle of water and an energy bar.
“That’s your gear there,” he said, indicating three wooden crates wrapped in life jackets. “My guys’ll unpack them. You can rest a bit in the meanwhile.”
Gonni looked up at the sky and, noticing the approach of the command helicopter, brought the helmet mic up to his mouth.
“Bird, bird from pirate crown”
“This is bird crown, over,” said the commander of the flotilla.
“This is pirate crown. 1 is complete. Prepared for 2.”
“This is bird crown. 2 is go. Repeat: 2 is go.”
56.
“What do you say, RP?” the commander of the flotilla asked with unbridled pride.
“I say it’s as good a time as any,” I said, pulling out the bottle of wine I’d confiscated. “Cheers.”
“Cheers, and good luck,” he said, then pressed a finger to his ear and apologetically added, “All right, I’m back to the cockpit.”
“I’m… are you really RP?” asked a tall, young lieutenant.
“He’s not just any RP, he is the RP, he and no other!” declared Boyes, coming out of the cockpit with an open laptop in his hand. “I know, I know – so much smaller and uglier than the legends say, isn’t he? Gimme a sip, you biscuit-wetter,” he said, taking the bottle from my hand.
“I’m Danny,” said the young lieutenant, offering his hand. I shook it. He had good eyes. Assertive, yet with no sign of aggression. Just like Eran’s.
“You’re never washing that hand, I hope,” Boyes said, nodding at him.
“Never,” Danny smiled. “What do you think of my guys’ performance?” he asked, pointing down at the sea.
“Ridiculous,” I said.
“Ridiculous?” he repeated, his eyes momentarily unsure.
“Ridiculous. Out of this world. Outstanding.”
He quickly recovered, and smiled again, saying, “I wanted to ask you… are you sure this is the right move? Handing over the missiles?”
“Of course. I mean, they are their missiles.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“You ever play chess?”
“My dad taught me when I was a kid. But mostly checkers, here and there.”
“I assume you’d still know to sacrifice a pawn for a queen.”
He considered this briefly. “Sure, when I know the queen’s going down. If she doesn’t, I just lost a pawn for nothing.”
“That’s pretty much where we are. Listen, does the Captain down there know how to still the engines so they –”
“Oh, absolutely. Shut down at least six of them in simulation training. If he so much as walks past a working engine, the thing shuts itself down spontaneously.”
“How about fixing it later?”
“We ran sims for that, too – and we also have their chief engineer. And apart from the Captain, I also have an ex-naval officer down there, two Arabic-speakers and one ex-intelligence officer who specializes in infiltration.”
“Your uncle Albert is ready and standing by with his equipment,” the commander of the flotilla informed us, returning from the cockpit. He leveled his eyes at me. “RP, you have to succeed. There is no other option. Whatever you need, just say the word, and you’ll have it.”
“Careful with those promises. You have no idea the sort of list RP can cook up. Bottle of twenty-four Macallans, a box of Cohibas, a Wagyu ribeye steak, and at least one RPG,” Boyes said.
“You got it,” said the commander. “It’s on me.”
“Plague of Darkness, have you run the experiment?” I asked.
“Yeah. Your Albert’s a goddamn wizard.”
I sat down next to Boyes, whose massive sausage-like fingers flitted like ballerinas over the thin MacBook keyboard.
“What’re you running, there?”
“Working on your escape routes.”
After we landed back in Israel I said goodbye to Boyes and the men from the flotilla, who continued on to the base at Tel-Nof. Siboni, who was there to pick me up, opened the car door with something of a flourish. Froyke was sitting in the back, looking pale but overall functional. As I scooted in beside him, he told me that there were only a few hours left before my check-in, and this time I’ll have to go through the whole passport and security gauntlet just like every other passenger – no shortcuts. This was part of the combat doctrine I had written myself, as well as a clear preference for a flight to a hostile destination from another hostile airport – this required me to take a flight to Vienna, another one to Riyadh, then another to Beirut.
Froyke went over every phase of the plan with me, mentioning at least twice per phase that “If something goes awry, no improv, you hear? Straight to extraction.” When we were done he sighed in conclusion and made to exit the car.
“Where are you going, Froyke?”
“Home. On foot,” he laughed, and started walking away, and for a moment he looked like the tramp in the final shot of Modern Times, heading off towards the horizon.
Siboni took me to the hotel in Kfar Habad, near the airport, and handed me my briefcase and the flight tickets.
“Three hours till check-in. Try and get some rest, boss,” he smiled, and o
pened the door to the suite.
“Verbin?”
“Excellent diagnosis,” she said, then locked me in an embrace, letting go only when we’d exhausted our oxygen supply.
“You’re getting better, honey bear,” she said. “And don’t worry, your suitcase is here, with everything Bella said you’d need. How’s your back?”
“Fairly attractive, I think, like my ass.”
“Any pain?”
“If there was, I’ve forgotten it by now. I’m fine.”
“Get naked. Everything but your shorts.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Saida. Saida!” she called out, and waddling from the bathroom came an Arab woman, about 200 years old. The lady was deeply wrinkled, slouched over like the hunchback of Notre Dame, and sported an aquiline nose, a thin black moustache, and huge, sinewy, gnarled hands. Her face was painted in black and blue smudges that made her look like an old Hollywood Native American chief who had accidentally been left in an overly aggressive rain machine.
“Go on bed!” the Saida commanded, in a voice dried by a thousand cigarettes.
“Lie,” Verbin corrected. “Just lie on the bed and calm down. Let your whole body loosen. Come on, love, she’ll make you all better. Saida’s the best masseuse in the Middle East. I guarantee it.”
“I was hoping for a ménage a trois.”
“Not a bad idea,” Verbin grinned. “Next time, I think. Now lie down, you big baby.”
“What have I done to deserve this?”
“Your discs aren’t going to unslip themselves.”
“It’s not so bad that I –”
“But when it is, you moan like a virgin. The paresthesia, the pain in your arms, the limp that comes and goes as it pleases, all that isn’t so bad?”
“I’ve tried it all, love, all of your wiseass chiropractors, osteopaths, shiatsu and tuina and shmuina, people jumping on my back – it’s a waste of time.”
“Enough whining. She charges by the hour,” Verbin laughed, “And we really shouldn’t keep her waiting. She’s eighty-seven.”