“Very poetic,” scoffed Haim. He was far more concerned with the respect those dead deserve, the peace of those souls, with honoring the dead and not letting anyone inflict the ultimate desecration to all he “and [his] Biblical people” had already suffered. “Guess if some day I can finally tell my congregation I played some role in stopping this monstrosity, it will be a fine, happy day. So yes, let’s continue until we stop whoever is behind this,” he said, “and let’s hope that day shall come soon.”
Next day, Deb and Becky were treated to some out-of-the-ordinary news.
The one thing that broke the ice was Deborah, laughing uncontrollably, when David mentioned, in passing, he had to apologize for his jealousy, now realizing it was true Deb’s personal trainer was more interested in him than in her—and clarified he had no interest at all in reciprocating. Severian was never mentioned, but the next night Tony couldn’t help but tell the vampire: “Now you have become marriage counselor…” which he, after centuries being a widower, found rather amusing.
That brief moment of joy ended when Tony’s hacking police reports led them to discover that the lovely house in Palos Verdes, the one where Izsák’s son was supposedly living, was now empty, following reports of unexplained violence that left the place trashed and smeared in blood. Aside from those signs of violence, the symbol Tony had been chasing all this time, was there as well—painted, not only on the house garden’s stonework, but also in many a boulder in neighboring gardens. Following this finding, Tony worked his magic, infiltrating databases, to see if members of the family had been reported dead or wounded. Bafflingly enough, there were no hits—not even hits with the most frequent typos in their Americanized names.
Since that neighborhood loves security cameras, keeping watch on site, even discretely, would be inviting private police to ask too many questions. So, once again, Tony did some more hacking, only to discover that the security records of the house—and the surrounding ones as well—have been wiped clean for several days, their contents amateurishly replaced by some older local footage. When Haim wondered how could he be so sure, pointing at David, Tony replied: “The weather report. Marvel of marvels, it has rained for two days non-stop—and all these footage has clear skies and a blazing SoCal sun. Realtors might stage even gardens—but cameras don’t.”
“You’ve got a point. So…what do we do now?” asked Haim.
“We have to keep watch, somehow. I am quite good at gardening. One of their neighbors has this gardening company promotional sticker. Tomorrow they will send ‘Antonio’ to trim the foliage and manicure the lawn. There is a coffee shop on Hawthorne. See, here, David?” Tony said pointing to a point in the map. “From that place, you can pretend to be a geek and survey the house with a camera stuck to you headphones, can’t you?” he asked. David nodded.
Next day, after much waiting, Tony—going by Antonio that day—was asked where in Mexico he had come from, replied Guadalajara while faking an accent that sounded from Mexico City, and had to endure being told by the owners they didn’t mind if his papers were in order, each time they came to give him tacos, because it was taco Tuesday. In the end, though, he got a nice tip for a job well done—but also indigestion, bloating, and excruciating flatulence. In truth, from mid-morning until the sun was almost setting, he had done really nothing but spy, chitchat, eat tacos, drink beer, and trim a little hedge. Finally, by sunset, David texted him: he had a positive match. A car speeding up on Hawthorne, had passed suspiciously slowly in front of Izsák’s son’s house; and the driver, David was sure, was the —until then—disappeared house owner.
Since the sun was now almost totally gone, David left the coffee shop and took his van, trying to follow Izsák’s son at a reasonable distance, while Tony tried to catch up. At some point, afraid he might be discovered Tony tapped on the panel behind his seat. “Knock, knock, sunshine. Are we awake?”
“Yes. We are. And we read from your mind I should be chasing that car,” replied a deep if somnolent voice, as Tony opened the car’s windows. “So, I shall. See you later, sunshine,” said the voice.
“I’m so glad you’re on our side, sunshine,” chuckled Tony.
“The name is Severian, and I’m on my side—don’t forget. Farts aside, nice job, ‘chamaco’! Bye for now.”
Still chuckling, Tony keep rolling until he finally caught up with David, with Severian long gone. “He’s going after the car,” Tony told David. “That man, if our images from the net are correct, is indeed, as you said, Izsák’s son.”
“Seems to me he was rather panicky. In any case, now we will have to wait for news from Severian,” sighed David.
“We can go get Haim now,” suggested Tony, “if he’s done at the temple, or, at least, tell him the news.”
“He might not be done. His ladies are cooking ‘burekas’ to raise money for more energy efficient improvements at the synagogue,” David replied, as he kept driving.
“Well, let’s see. Maybe we should buy some of those Turkish patties—for you. No more tacos for me for a few centuries now,” chuckled Tony. “A Venezuelan stuffed with tacos and Mexican beer is now the new Vatican ambassador, and he’s going to sample Sephardic Turkish patties baked by older environmentalist ladies in California…”
“A drunk, and rather flatulent Venezuelan, also…” chuckled David, opening the van’s windows. “I think it might be better you stay in the van, windows open, until I go and see if Haim is free. How’s that?” David said, parking the car near Haim’s synagogue, and ambling his way inside the temple. All along the way, he kept greeting a number of familiar faces, but never stopped long to chat with anyone.
After a little while, having left Becky in charge of the cookout, Haim and David emerged from a side door, carrying a little basket with hot ‘burekas’. Seeing someone they at first didn’t recognize standing in the dark, by the van’s open passenger window, they stopped talking and approached him cautiously.
The stranger turned out to be Severian. He was back, wiping his mouth with a couple of paper towels Tony had just passed him. “Hello, gentlemen. Sorry to meet you like this, but there were a few thugs in the neighborhood, attracted by the old ladies and the cookout. Four of them, when they saw Tony sleeping his eight Mexican beers in an open van, could not resist the temptation. Now they won’t bother us anymore.”
“The odor wasn’t deterrent enough, huh?” chuckled David.
Haim shook his head. “Hello, Severian. So…any news of Izsák’s son?”
“Yes. I followed him into a nice condominium in Long Beach, one with plenty of security, guards, close-circuit cameras, and even spike-collared dogs.
Sadly, I’m not sure if here our pizza delivery trick would work. On my way back, I checked those signs of violence at the abandoned home, once again. The imprint is very subtle; but, if the same non-human killer who stopped some of the people who tried to attack us Romania—someone you didn’t even notice while we were there—is protecting Izsák’s son and his family, they have positively nothing to fear. Unless I am mistaken, seems She was the one who exterminated Izsák’s son’s house attackers. ”
“She…?” asked David.
“She and I don’t ‘personally’ know each other; but all of us, all of ‘my kind’, are, in a sense, Her children. However, this, for now, is nothing more than conjecture, an educated guess. From that nest of killers in Plaine-Monceau I also got a small coffer, one I’d have to study in detail someday—possibly, sooner than I expected. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. By the way, one of those thugs has a van parked two blocks from here, loaded with machine guns, plastic explosives, hand-grenades, lots of Glocks, military-grade daggers, and all sort of other items more in tune with a tour of duty in Afghanistan. And, since, he now has no more use for any of that, here are his car keys,” added Severian, handing Tony the keys. Tony’s face changed drastically when he noticed the key chain, in the shape of three interlocked triangles.
“This is the Valknut, the symb
ol of Heathenry, one of the forms of which is Wotanism,” he said, suddenly sobering up.
“This three arm swastika is the symbol of the AWB, the white supremacists in South Africa as well, isn’t it?” Haim asked David.
“Close enough,” sighed David. “I have seen the Valknut before,” he added sighing and shaking his head.
“Do you know what he wanted to do…here…?” stuttered Haim, almost afraid of asking Severian.
“Do you have to ask?” he replied dryly.
“No, I really don’t. But since you read minds… I gather you should know?” Haim almost snarled.
“…And I had him for dinner, you mean. Indeed when we feed we see more than a simple mind, ‘memories’ that some say come from the blood. That dates from the days of Ancient Egypt when the mind was believed to reside in the heart. In any case, we see much of their last acts, their thoughts, unfiltered. This bozo had been sent to supervise a spy. Indeed, there is a mole in your synagogue…”
“In my congregation…” scoffed Haim.
“Yes. In you c-o-n-g-r-e-ga-shon, indeed,” sneered Severian. “He’s blonde, curly haired, blue eyes, young, a surfer dude so to speak, allergic to cats…”
Immediately after Haim heard this, the now almost empty tray with a few surviving ‘burekas’ fell on the floor with an ugly clang, in a scatter of crumbs and three exploded burekas. Haim knew exactly who that was: “Yaron…”
“Not his real name. His name is Heinrich...” explained Severian.
“Oh, shit. What do I do? Can you hypnotize him, force him to tell you all he knows?” Haim said nervously.
Tony put his hand on Haim shoulder and then interjected: “If I know a thing or two about these underground groups, to survive they have to operate on a need-to-know basis. He might not know much. Probably soon, he will have to be somewhere, likely close to this guy’s van, looking for him, his handler. So, if he doesn’t find him, he might bolt. Can you recognize him and convince him he did his job or something like this?”
“And then…I suppose, I should refrain from feeding on him?” Severian asked, slightly raising his eyebrows.
“Of course you shouldn’t. He should continue his life normally, and, every time he can, come to Haim and tell him what his bosses are up to, maybe? Can hypnosis last that long?” asked Tony.
“We can try that. But if that backfires, instead of deeming it a ‘soft target’, his bosses might decide to reclassify your congre-gashon as a dangerous threat, and then blow it to high heaven…” replied Severian, matter-of-factly.
“And if we let him escape knowing his contact didn’t show up, he might go to his alternative contact, the congre-gashon be definitely classified as dangerous, and then blown up…” snarled Tony.
“Fine. Decide what to do. ‘Yaron’ is not going to be guzzling ‘burekas’ all night long…” said Severian.
“Try hypnotizing him and making him give me regular updates…” exhaled more than said Haim. “I will tell Becky to take precautions, and we shall deal with him accordingly.”
“Long-lasting hypnosis is problematic with people that do certain drugs. This one does quite a bit of meth, here and there. I can give no guarantees, but will try. I’ll be back,” spat Severian in almost one long word, and vanished like a wisp of smoke in the wind.
Minutes later, he was back. “You got your informer. He’s also secretly in love with Becky. That is why he had delayed a few acts of sabotage on your solar panels and such.
The rationale for the planned sabotage apparently was: more damage, more money required for repairs, larger funds collection events, bigger carnage opportunity.
He had been trying to protect Becky and hatching a plan to kill you, to get you out of his way. Now that he’s going to be visiting you regularly, he won’t—for as long as the hypnosis holds. If he smokes too much, or injects meth, then you better remember your IDF combat training, black belt and such, Haim.”
“Maybe you should kill him…or denounce him to the police?” hinted David.
“Sure. I’ll tell them that a vampire from Transylvania, who came with us after several massacres in Europe, read his mind and told me ‘Yaron’ is going to kill me because he’s horny for my wife. What do they put in coconut milk lattes lately?” replied Haim, shaking his head.
“Alright! All right! Let’s leave things at this for now. Going back to our house-stalking mission, if we know where exactly Izsák’s son is hiding now, maybe we should go visit him, somehow?” retorted David.
“Sure reconnoitering would do no harm,” said Tony approvingly. “Are you flying or driving with us, Severian?”
“Since I was flown as a bodyguard, I guess I should keep protecting you ladies,” he chuckled. “Shouldn’t you at least phone your wife, tell her you’re going for a spin, thank her for the burekas, Haim?”
“I think you’re taking your marriage counselor job too seriously, Severian. But I will do better: I will go back and tell her to take precautions, and then be back here in a few minutes so we can go check Izsák’s son’s hideout.”
11—Spying In Long Beach
For some reason Tony obstinately refused to discuss, his bosses didn’t want him to infiltrate the security of the building where Izsák’s son had found shelter. When David asked Severian if he knew why, the latter simply replied: “To prove that I could read minds, I chose to only tell the group mildly embarrassing facts about each of you. I could have been far less discrete, couldn’t I? Tony is a good person, a good client, and a loyal supporter of things that are dear to me. Since it doesn’t directly have something to do with the mission at hand, out of loyalty to him, I won’t discuss that matter. Is that enough?”
Like a naughty child caught wearing a mirror on the tip of his shoe at a Scottish bagpipe festival, David turned beet red and nodded. Hence, since hacking the building was not in the cards, they’d try a different ruse. Pretending to be tourists confusing Long Beach and Laguna Beach, Haim and Severian went to ask a few absurd questions to the security personnel at the building’s entry desk. At first, the guard chuckled—but once hypnotized by Severian, he looked up and told the ‘tourists’ what suite Izsák’s son was staying at, and who the registered owners of the suite were. Per David’s search after Severian texted him the owner of record, the suite belonged to a cousin of Izsák’s son’s wife.
Then the Haim and Severian pretended to fumble yet again on a sign pad. After recording fake names and having the guard log a fake acknowledgment by the unit occupants, they also got an assistant guard to escort them to the suite. From the corridor, Severian made the person opening the door believe the one knocking had come to deliver the food they had ordered. Unfortunately, someone else, eager to pay the bill, rushed ahead of the glamorized target and opened the door—and, seeing a security assistant but no delivery boy, then attempted to close the door and call security downstairs.
Fortunately, since the guard at main desk remained hypnotized, he cancelled the alarm. By then, Haim, persuasive as always, had convinced the suite’s residents he wasn’t there to harm anyone, but, instead, to help Itzák’s son.
Next Severian and he had a brief exchange mixing Romanian, Hungarian and Yiddish. When things calmed down, Haim picked up on the Yiddish and Hebrew. The suite occupants then allowed both of them in and, convinced he got a most generous tip, the security assistant left.
With everyone involved a bit calmer, they all sat to have a chat, now mostly in English.
Hardly had they exchanged two words when the intercom rang. Security, now more permissive than usual, was simply notified the suite occupants that “the delivery people are on their way”.
“Delivery people…?” asked Itzák’s son. “We ordered from just one restaurant. It is a lot of food, but hardly enough for more than one delivery person.”
“I know,” says Severian. “You are lucky we got here first. You all—you too, Haim—get as far away from the entry door as you can. I will take delivery.”
To Ha
im this felt eerily like “déjà Bu-charest”.
For the next ten minutes or so, the hallway became the scene of a bloodbath. After that, three outsiders—rather ‘hench’ men—but also a ‘cleaner’ and another ‘security assistant’, armed with katanas, military-grade daggers, tasers and semi-automatic pistols fitted with silencers, were laying there, strewn, their gory parts in a scatter of pieces, one of them impaled in a katana, two headless, one eviscerated, wearing his own small intestines like a T-shirt; all of them, handless; and the other two, pale as candlewax, with two massive holes on the side of their necks, their heads horribly twisted—as if they had been trying all too hard to watch their own buttocks from above the right shoulder.
Seeing that, Izsák’s son, instinctively, somewhere between relieved and terrified, asked: “What are you…?”
“Chiar trebuie să întrebi?” replied Severian, cleaning his mouth with the cloth in the sleeve of a severed human arm.
“Stri…gói! Strigói…mort!” the man mumbled.
“In English please!” asks Haim, by now thoroughly nonchalant, although he had understood perfectly fine.
“He has realized what I am. Thankfully for you, as David says, ‘I’m on your side’,” chuckled Severian. “If I wasn’t what I am, you would all probably be dead by now, wouldn’t you?”
“I… suppose,” mumbled the man, visibly shaken, hugging his wife and covering the eyes of his terrified children. Behind them, his wife’s cousin’s entire family daintily emerged to take a peek, obviously terrified. Her cousin barely managed to softly put two trembling fingers over her own child’s mouth to make him stop crying. The children clearly didn’t understand much Romanian. “They will live. That’s what matters,” said Severian, in Rumanian. The adults nodded.
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