by E. L. Pini
Rasputin, I assumed, would attempt to exhibit composure, smile, tell me how dreadfully dull my methods were, brag about all of the times he’d experienced them at Spetsnaz captivity training. He would tell me how “a little cockroach can never hope to defeat a mighty bear.”
I briefly considered administering a poison injection, like he’d done to Professor Be’er, and telling him he has thirty minutes until he dies in excruciating pain, or he can give me the code and receive the antidote. But I knew there was no time. At any moment one of them or one of us could crack under the pressure and deliver the “preventative strike” that’d destroy the other side’s infrastructure and force them into a second-strike response.
I had to get the code, now – and if I wanted the code to be worth something, I needed control of the sub, as well. How the hell was I supposed to do that?
I looked at Rasputin, who was smiling arrogantly, and suddenly an idea came to me.
“Albert, can you arrange a Plague of Darkness in Moscow?”
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“I need a total blackout – computer systems, trains, traffic lights, all down. No elevators, no heating, no nothing. A blackout that the everyone in the city will remember till the day they die.” I reconsidered, thinking of the chaos something like that would entail, the terror. “I don’t suppose you could bring down only the traffic lights?”
“I don’t have access to that system. But if we take out the power…”
“No choice, then.”
“Are you serious?” He asked, again.
“I am,” I said, and briefly explained. He promised to notify me when everything was ready.
“All right. Bring him in,” I told Gonni. He wheeled Rasputin into the room. A huge smile was plastered across his face. “We just keep running in to each other, don’t we?” he said.
“They treating you well, Yuri?”
“Not bad, actually. More than I’d expect from a bunch of zhyds.”
“Well, one can always do better. Alright, Yuri. I need the code and I suggest you snap to it. There are three Shin-Bet interrogators on the way who are a great deal meaner than I am.”
“What’ll you give me for the code?” he asked, putting on a virtuous expression.
“The DM’s on the line,” said Albert. I quickly went outside and answered the phone.
“You alright, Ehrlich?” asked Moshe.
“Affirmative, boss. Yourself?”
“You can imagine. How’s Rasputin? Talking yet, or is he waiting for the boys from the Service? You know there’s not much they can do these days, with all those limitations.”
“We’ve actually got an even bigger problem.”
“Oh?”
“Look, I’ll get the code from him. I’ll cut off ball after ball until I do. And he’ll give it to me, but then what? We need a way into the ship, which currently is in Russian possession, in one of their military ports, and to top it off, probably dripping with radiation. We’ll never get authorization to act within Russian territory.”
Moshe fell silent for a few moments.
“Albert, is the line up?”
“I’m here, Ehrlich,” Moshe said. “Listen, you get the code, we’ll see what we can do with it from here. We’ll have no choice but to involve the Russians. Oh, Froyke and his doctor say hi. She’s doing well and he seems to be getting better.”
“Thank you, boss.”
“He also wanted me to remind you that you don’t grab a snake by the tail. What does he mean?”
“Nothing, an inside joke. Okay, boss. I’ll keep you posted.”
I hung up and inwardly completed the phrase – you grab it by the head. And I knew then exactly what I had to do.
I asked Gonni to bring in Rasputin’s smartphone, a large butcher knife, a hammer, pliers and some 6-inch nails. When I laid them out on the table, the haughty smile was gone.
“Close your eyes,” I told Rasputin. “Close them and consider the myriad possible interactions between you and these helpful tools.”
He didn’t close his eyes, nor did he respond.
“Need help? Here’s one such interaction, albeit a banal one – your little pecker on the table and…” I raised the butcher knife and brought it down on the table in a chopping motion.
“Can you guess the end result I’m going for?”
I slowly shook his head from side to side.
“Let me give you a hint.”
I brought up Gigi’s photo. All the color drained from Rasputin’s face.
“This is just one option. There are plenty of others,” I brought up photos of the beheaded prostitute from Asmara, holding the phone in front of him. I followed it with the video showing him in the high school gym in Grozny, raping those girls along with Naryshkin and another officer.
“So you have that,” he said. “You took it from Cyprus.”
“Yeah. Remember waving goodbye at me from your chopper? Good times. By the way, I’m sure you recognize him,” I paused the video, pointing at Naryshkin.
“That’s Sergei Naryshkin. He’s head of the FSB now.”
“Friends, are you?”
He nodded.
“Wonderful,” I said, and handed him his phone. “Call your friend!” I pressed the butcher knife to his balls. “Call him and tell him exactly where you are and what your status is. Tell him I’ve shown you that little clip from Grozni – we also have part two, by the way, in which those girls are executed and dropped into a pit. Also starring you and Naryshkin and another friend of yours. I have a fairly educated guess about the identity of that third officer, but we’ll save that for a later date.”
He stared at me for a moment, looking stunned, then asked, “Don’t you want the code?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. What is it?”
“95825439,” he quickly blurted out.
“Repeat that.”
He did, and looked up at me pleadingly.
“Make the call. Put it on speaker.”
He sighed and did as I said. A few seconds later Naryshkin picked up.
“This is Rasputin,” Rasputin said in English.
“Yuri!” Naryshkin’s voice rang from the speaker. “Where did you run off to, then?”
Rasputin looked at me again. I signaled him to move it along. He began to describe his situation to Naryshkin. Meanwhile I told Albert he was go. Thirty seconds later, Naryshkin started cursing the “fucking power company.”
“Tell him there’ll be another blackout two minutes from now,” I quietly told Rasputin.
He squirmed uncomfortably, then did as I said.
“What? Are they kidding?”
“See for yourself,” I said loudly, finally joining the conversation.
“You’re pushing it, Mr. Ehrlich,” Naryshkin said. “Put an end to these games, now!”
“I’ll happily do so, if you’ll listen.”
“I’m listening.”
I explained that his fleet was in control of a submarine containing the biggest bomb in the world, currently docked near Tartus, 130 aerial miles from Israel. I also explained that the bomb was leaking and might go off at any time.
“What’s that got to do with us? Both the bomb and the submarine belong to the Iranians!”
“Both were manufactured by you. The sub is in your military port, and you still haven’t received full payment from the Iranians, legally making it your property – both the sub and the bomb it contains.”
Gonni slid me a note reading, “They’re keeping the bomb here so that if it goes off it’ll happen here rather than in their back yard.” I repeated the message to Naryshkin verbatim.
“Listen,” he said, “The sale was unauthorized and not permitted, and Rasputin was declared a fugitive from justice. And either way, the submarine is now in Syrian terri
tory and under Syrian control.”
“Perfect,” I muttered, then raised my voice again to say, “You listen! Fucking take responsibility and tow that sub out of here!”
He promised to bring the request up to the President and the Minister of Defense.
“They know. Our Prime Minister’s been chasing your president around for weeks.”
“Listen, Ehrlich,” he tried again. “Our navy and defense officials have invested hundreds of man hours testing this dumpster fire of a bomb, and have reached the conclusion that it is too dangerous to handle. Every unnecessary movement is too much of a risk. I’m truly sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
Time to change gears, I thought.
I cleared my throat and glanced at the newly-appointed “fugitive from justice.” Rasputin looked shattered. Betrayal is at its most unbearable when received from those you consider friends.
“By now you know we can cut your power whenever we feel like it.”
“Yes. And I’m sure you know that one word from my president is all it takes to cut your everything.”
“I’m aware. That’s actually what I wanted to talk about. You recall the number of launch-ready nuclear warheads we have. Professor Be’er reported fifty or sixty hydrogen bombs. That was the number we’d ordered him to report.”
The sound of anxious breathing came through the phone despite what I’m sure were Naryshkin’s best efforts. Rasputin was staring at me too, looking confused.
“Well, my dear Sergei, the truth is that we have about twice that number, just over a hundred. And due to this clusterfuck you’ve dragged us into, all of them are armed and ready to fly your way on a second’s notice. I’d like you to visualize the impact of all one hundred bombs, should they land together on a fairly small chunk of Moscow, near Lubyanka.”
“What do you want?”
“Surely you realize,” I said, absently adopting Froyke’s vernacular, “that no defense system in the world is capable of stopping a hundred missiles launched at it simultaneously; you also know how well we know our way around your aerial defense systems in particular. In other words, at least fifty of those bombs will hit the mark. You with me, Sergei?”
“I’m with you. what do you want?” he yelled. “What do you want?!”
“What I want is simple. I want you to take back what is yours. You have three Akula subs in Latakia, in facility 720. You have a floating shipyard at Tartus. Admiral Musayev has an entire fleet at his disposal and he knows exactly what it’ll take to get that sub out of here.”
“I’ll call you back,” he said, “In less than an hour.”
It took him twenty-three minutes. He told me that around noon tomorrow they would start towing. His conditions were an embargo on all Israeli tools or knowledge having to do with neutralization of the S-400, as well as a waiver on any accusation or lawsuit regarding the submarine, and extradition of the fugitive Yuri Rasputin, dead or alive.
Dead or alive, I thought to myself, really only ever means dead. This made me happy, but I was surprised to find that I also felt some odd empathy for this psychopathic killer. I suddenly knew with total certainty that I could not neutralize a hostage. Even if he was a serial killer. Even if he slaughtered, Gigi, his wife and his child.
“It’s loaded,” I said, and chucked the gun at Rasputin, who caught it and without a second’s hesitation aimed it at me and pulled the trigger.
“I should’ve known,” he said, disappointed.
“Now!” I said, and tossed him a 9 mm bullet. He looked at me with what seemed like gratitude. I looked away. The gun fired before I had even locked the door behind me. I turned to see his head lying in a pool of blood.
“The dreck shoots hostages,” I muttered.
The next morning Naryshkin called me, sounding remarkably friendly.
“I’d like you to know that I cannot be harmed by that video you have. Up here, the government rules the media, not the other way around.”
“I’m sure it does,” I said. “But I have a feeling that with some mild effort I can prove who that third officer was.”
“Goodbye,” he sighed, and hung up.
A moment later Albert put Bella through.
“Are you alright, bubinke? She rasped with a voice sawed through by countless Sheraton cigarettes.
“Good as new.”
“You did good work… Boris… such a tragedy, disaster…” she broke into sobs. I didn’t know what to say.
“It’s Efrayim, and Doctor Verbin,” she suddenly said, sniffling.
“What?” I cried, alarmed, “What about Efrayim and Doctor Verbin?”
“They’re fine, bubinke, calm down. Efrayim is doing better on the experimental meds and he’s flying to Johns Hopkins tomorrow to continue there. Verbin said she’s optimistic, and also –” her voice lowered – “Oh, I’m not supposed to tell you – oh, but I have to. Verbin is positive. She took a pregnancy test and it’s positive!”
I suddenly lost any words I had in queue. My pulse quickened.
“What? Are you sure?”
“Bella!” I suddenly heard Moshe’s voice scolding her.
“Oh, I forgot about you,” she said. “Here, he’s all yours.”
“What’s up, Ehrlich?”
I composed myself, and told him the circumstances of Boris’ death. He invited me to raise a toast along with the PM and the command staff. I told him I’d prefer to see Verbin first.
“She’ll be waiting for you at the docks and accompany you to the ceremony.”
“What ceremony?”
He hung up without saying.
I was about to call Verbin, but hesitated. Should I ruin the surprise for her? Implicate Bella? Maybe I should just ask about Froyke, I thought. As I deliberated, the phone rang, momentarily startling me. Gonni was on the line.
“We need you here.”
At 15:00 a fleet of battleships and surfaced submarines surrounded the Tartus harbor. Three huge harbor cranes lifted the sub out of the water without incident, and placed it in the floating shipyard, which was then towed by three large battleships. We released the Polish captain and his crew and sailed south. On the way we saw some other IDF missile ships that “saluted” us by blasting their horns and spraying water from their fire hoses. Following Naryshkin’s suggestion, we threw Rasputin’s weighted-down corpse into the sea.
“Boris,” Gonni said, “From what I hear, he had no family.”
“Yeah.” I said. “He was an only child, and both parents are long dead. I suppose I was his family.”
“Would it be okay if I took him back with me to the kibbutz? We have a beautiful civilian cemetery.”
“Yes. I’m sure that’s what he would’ve wanted.”
“What music did he enjoy? Do you know?”
Of course I knew. “Boris knew by heart every note Stravinsky ever wrote. And like all mathematicians, loved Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier.”
“Okay. We’ll play him that, then, and The Soldier’s Tale,” Gonni said, and wiped his eyes. We stood there silently for a moment, and then he told me that according to the Russian communications intercepted by Flotilla 7, Admiral Musayev intended to sink the cursed sub in a deep-sea trench next to Crete, about 2.5 miles deep.
“Thanks for the update,” I said. Normally, I’d let the Greeks know about something like this. This time I preferred to keep quiet. He nodded and went back to the command deck. I looked at the waves, and as I tried to fathom how this kibbutznik knew his classical music so well, the flotilla soldiers came onto the main deck and at Gonni’s command fired three coordinated rounds.
And then the ship’s PA system blasted The Soldier’s Tale.
The End?
Acknowledgments
So this is it, the best chapter in the book, and not only because it puts an end to my endless ruminations and their ac
companying anxieties, but also because it breathes new life into those moments in which I shared the hardship of a writer’s solitude – pompous, but true – with good friends. Their suffering reduced my own, and for that I thank them.
Dr. Moshe Ben Eliezer and Rabbi Shlomo (Gingi) Friedman have been there for Ehrlich since his very conception, providing fairly wise comments and criticism. I sincerely hope that they aren’t wishing for his death by now, seeing as Avner has decided to live through at least one more chapter of his life, thus entering the respectable pantheon of trilogy heroes, and I suppose I should respect that decision. Ami Moran, who in his dark past worked at the Prime Minister’s office, has also done his share of reading, responding, fixing errors and all around making the book better.
Unlike the plot of “The Rage and Power of Avner Ehrlich,” which took place in cities and loci I knew well, this time we were in Tehran, of which I know very little – as well as describing marine combat, taking place in or near the sea. Lieutenant Colonel (res.) Idon Shavit of the Israeli Navy, and ex-Flotilla soldier R.P. helped me navigate the wet bits.
Parissa Daniel and Kamran (Kami) Aviv from Israel Pars TV helped me immensely with all things related to Iran and its defense forces. John Doe (as we agreed he would appear) similarly helped me find my way around the streets of Moscow, and around the Russian intelligence community, the successors of the KGB.
If it weren’t for Amichai Shalev, my patient, talented editor, you would have suffered a great deal more, and certainly for longer.
I must also mention Tal Keren, my fantastic translator, whose supreme stubbornness has made the English version better, I think, than the Hebrew one.
And finally, as true as it is banal, my core support structure: Zazzi, my wife and mythological girlfriend, an atomic bomb in her own right; and Yoav, my eldest, my middle son, and most of all my youngest, who have both wrestled countless versions and contemplations with courage, dignity, and commendable determination. Without you, as the song goes, I am but half a man.