The remains of Rosemarie Landwer had been scraped from these walls.
Dozens of photos of grinning diners were pinned to a large corkboard, some of them obviously drunk, their nostrils flared. They had all been caught in the merciless glare of a camera flash. The pictures had been taken here, in the restaurant. Including one of Oskar Schlaff, Gunter Erlichmann, and his son, Justus. The old man seemed detached from his surroundings.
Where was Schlaff?
Alex climbed the stairs and exited the building. The white Porsche was still in the parking lot. He hid behind a row of cypress trees and examined the restaurant roof.
His heart stopped.
Smoke was billowing from the tall chimney.
PRIME MINISTER’S OFFICE, TEL AVIV | 02:55
The prime minister was buttoning his jacket, although the heat in his office was on high. He didn’t offer Reuven a seat.
Reuven closed flaps and steeled himself.
“I have been informed by a member of your organization that you received one million, two hundred thousand euros from Justus Erlichmann. Unless you can provide a satisfactory explanation, you are officially under suspicion of accepting a bribe,” the PM said, pausing meaningfully before continuing the attack. “Mr. Hetz, do you understand the gravity of your situation?”
Reuven didn’t respond.
“The man from whom you took the money is a traitor whose actions have had catastrophic implications, on both the intelligence and operational levels.”
Reuven didn’t respond.
“Your silence is an admission of guilt?”
That was transparent. Reuven didn’t respond.
A green vase with an enormous bouquet of red roses stood on a side table. The perks of power were so seductive.
“Since this crisis began, we have lost more agents than in the whole history of the country. We have lost the protective shield around Mossad, and Israel itself,” the PM said, keeping up the assault.
Reuven didn’t respond.
“I know you, Reuven. You’re a cold fish. But you’re not a traitor.” Retreating behind his desk, he added, “Considering your fantasies of a career in politics, I tend to believe that the money was meant to fund your political campaign. I assume that you set up Dopo Domani Holdings to funnel questionable donations. Am I wrong?”
Reuven didn’t respond.
“As head of Mossad, you are forbidden to accept gifts of any sort, anything that could be construed as a gift, or any sum of money from anyone who is not a member of your immediate family.”
The motherfucker had spoken with his legal advisers.
“In view of the timing of the payment, it appears to be related to the Ring crisis. Perhaps you smelled a rat, and Erlichmann bought your silence? Perhaps he heard that you were hoping to occupy this office in the near future—and he pushed the button? Justus was a man who knew what buttons to push. He could always put his finger on the motive driving the person he was dealing with. He’d find it and use it to his advantage.”
Reuven didn’t respond.
He gazed at the photo of the F-16s flying over Masada and remembered the words of Eleazar ben Yair, the leader of the Sicarii rebels, during the first-century siege on the fortress: “Let us die unenslaved by our enemies and leave this world as free men.”
Then, in a pragmatic frame of mind, he decided he would choose different pictures: high-tech, solar energy. Something green, up to date.
“If you wish to preserve what remains of your honor and ensure that your dirty laundry is not aired in the media, you must resign immediately; naturally, I will accept your resignation. You will be forbidden to enter politics, or to return to your office. Agreed?”
“Or else?”
The PM looked surprised. “Or else you will be held on suspicion of treason and will most likely face charges for compromising tens of Mossad operatives during a time of war, in exchange for money. If I am not mistaken, that alone is enough for several consecutive life sentences. I trust that you used the time it took you to get here to hire a good defense attorney?”
“I can see that you’re scared to run against me in the next elections,” Reuven said.
“Reuven, there is a neck under the guillotine and it isn’t mine. For your own sake, you have to start thinking realistically.”
Reuven remained silent.
The PM gave him the sort of look you give a rebellious teenager. “Okay, Reuven. Go wait outside. Think about it for two minutes and come back with your answer.”
Reuven didn’t nod. Instead, he moved closer to the PM and stood facing him, straight on.
The PM sniffed the air.
Maybe he smelled the whiskey on his breath. Who cared. It was his turn to talk.
“Mr. Prime Minister, you bear sole authority for the Nibelung Ring. It says so in the Nibelung charter. I presume you’ve never read it. I suggest that you use the two minutes you have left in this office to do it. I’ll be outside.”
The PM’s face went red. His eyes narrowed with the wariness of a snake eyeing a mongoose.
Reuven smiled. “Either you deny the item about corruption and stand behind me before the press, the attorney general, and the police, or I go to the media with the story of how you screwed over the Nibelungs. And that’s without even mentioning how your incompetence enabled the Hochstadt-Lancet virus to fall into enemy hands, exposing Israel to the threat of another Holocaust. Do you think two minutes will be enough, Mr. Prime Minister?”
WANNSEE, BERLIN | 01:37
Leaving the safety of his hiding place, Alex made his way to the meat locker. He stuck the pair of screwdrivers into the lock. His heart was racing, his fingers were stiff, and the lock was stubborn. Time dripped by, burning his skin like hot wax.
Where was the smoke coming from?
A silent delivery vehicle was parked in the back—a white truck. He remembered his fruitless search of the white truck outside Girona. He should have stripped them all down—the truck, and the albino driver, and the idiot sitting next to him—and then fired a flare at the two motherfuckers and watched them burn. They had been hiding her somewhere in the truck. He might have been able to save her.
The wind whipped at his face. Lightning flashed from behind ominous clouds, and his fingers refused to do his bidding. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down, or, at the very least, to stop his hands from shaking.
There was a loud rumble of thunder, and a car alarm somewhere began blaring. Finally the lock gave way. He opened the heavy stainless-steel door. A neon light flickered on automatically. Inside, the sickening smell of dead flesh hung in the air. Dozens of headless half carcasses of pigs were hanging from steel hooks in the ceiling. He checked between the cold slabs of meat and scanned the floor the whole length of the meat locker. No one there.
Two sealed cartons were standing at the far end. He opened one, and the light sparkled over shiny, dark calf livers. The other contained pale pig toes.
On the floor beside them, barely visible, was a trapdoor the size of a suitcase, with a ring embedded in it. He pulled on it. The trapdoor opened.
He thrust his Glock into the opening, followed by the flashlight: a flight of stairs.
His body heavy from exhaustion, he lifted the trapdoor until it was leaning on the wall. Shining his flashlight into the hole, he saw a short corridor at the bottom of the steps. It led to a closed door.
There was a lump of ice in his chest. He could still leave and call Brussels for backup. And then wait for hours for the team to arrive? No. Every minute was precious.
Alex descended the stairs, hugging the wall, and aimed the Glock at the door in front of him. He pressed down on the handle. It resisted for a moment before opening. A light came on automatically, and he almost let off a round.
Another fucking corridor, about ten feet long. The walls were covered with white tile.
The door behind him suddenly swung closed, and bolts slid into place. Alex tugged at the handle. It was locked
.
In front of him was another door with a protected peephole in the center. Something moved behind it.
He leaped at the door. Too late. He was locked in. A fucking trap!
He heard a hiss, and something slightly sweet sprayed on his face.
Then everything went black.
PRIME MINISTER’S OFFICE, TEL AVIV | 03:19
He hadn’t been knocked out. It was a tight loss. But it was just the first round.
Even if he was ultimately forced to resign, he’d made it clear to the PM that he’d be going down with him.
“Get me a glass of ice water,” Reuven ordered the secretary without a glance in her direction. He settled himself in the anteroom.
He had only one goal—to save his political career.
He used the couple of minutes he had to play a familiar game: actions and responses.
Then he went back into the PM’s office.
“What’s your decision, Reuven?” The PM’s jacket was off now, relegated to a hanger together with his officialdom. He was looking for a political solution, and that was no actions and responses. It was haggling.
“I’m not resigning. You will not fire me but will ask me to stay on until the end of the year. You’re going to promise Alex Bartal the directorship, but you and I are going to handpick his second-in-command, someone we can control. Nobody holds that post at the moment. Naturally, when the press asks for your comment, you deny everything.
“In return, I won’t run against you in the next elections. That way, you’ll have a fighting chance of keeping your job. Do you need time to consider it, or do you agree that this is the perfect solution?”
The PM’s lips moved, but no sound came out. His face went red and he raised his shoulders threateningly. “How dare you!”
Reuven pulled the tiny recorder from his pocket. “Remember our last meeting, Mr. Prime Minister? You confirmed your responsibility for the Ring and ordered the insertion of two of our people into Damascus. Would you like to hear it again?”
The PM’s face dripped with loathing. “You’re filthy, Reuven.”
“And you’re the one who invented bleach.”
“The public isn’t sophisticated. They can only digest simple messages. If the media tells them there was a fuckup involving Mossad, they’ll want the head of Mossad, not the prime minister. That’s Mass Media 101.”
“The judges who sit on the High Court of Justice are no fools,” Reuven said.
“We both know that it will never reach the court,” the PM cut in. He turned to look at the pictures on the wall. After a lengthy pause he said in a quieter voice, “What about the inhalers?”
Reuven’s face broke into one of his rare, cold smiles.
“What inhalers?”
WANNSEE, BERLIN | 03:01
His cheek was pressed up against something cold. His stomach was cramping, and there was a sickeningly sweet taste in his mouth. He couldn’t seem to open his eyes. Where was he?
Voices above him spoke in German. The words were spit out like sharp metal shards.
Stairs; a narrow corridor; trapped; gas—his memory was coming back.
They might be waiting for him to open his eyes. One of them was very close. His shoes smelled of damp earth. The other was farther away, barking orders.
He managed to crack his eyes open: muddy, rough work shoes and the bottom of dirty jeans; a black floor; the blurred reflection of something moving continuously; a black-and-white image; a huge screen; a large space. The barking one was wearing black moccasins polished to a high shine. A vague odor of sewage. His hand was lying on a cold metal lattice—a drain.
Where the hell was he?
A hand pulled at his hair, lifting his head until the vertebrae in his neck were stretched taut. A groan escaped his lips.
“Stand up, you piece of garbage!”
He opened his eyes and saw silvery walls covered with aluminum.
Oskar Schlaff had an evil smirk on his face. His long blond hair undulated like a swarm of worms.
From the other end of the room, he heard someone stifle a giggle. A third man. Short, almost dwarflike, he was leaning against the large screen. He couldn’t be more than five feet tall, and he had piggy eyes. His ruddy bald pate was encircled by a brush of brown hair. The dwarf was rooting around in his ear with a finger. He brought what he found up to his nose and sniffed at it. He was holding an old-fashioned black leather medical bag between his feet, and he was clad in a shabby brown suit and pink shirt.
He must have gotten dressed in the dark.
He giggled again, an oink followed by a snort. His shoes were protected by stained white overshoes.
“Have you two met, Jew-boy?” Schlaff asked, like a convivial host at a cocktail party. “This is Dr. Rauch. Herr Dr. Rauch.”
The dwarf snorted.
“Let me guess,” Alex said. “His parents are siblings?”
“It would be worth your while to stay on his good side. The man is ruthless.”
“It’s always good to have a doctor around,” Alex said.
“He is not a doctor,” Schlaff chuckled. “He is a veterinarian.”
Schlaff was wearing a custom-tailored gray blazer over a black turtleneck sweater. His face looked baked from excessive tanning, and the cold look in his eyes was as welcoming as liquid nitrogen. “Do you recognize this one?”
Alex turned his head.
Bald, no eyebrows. It was the other Stasi twin.
“Say hello to Sepp Mauser.”
The twin’s eyes were blazing with fury. He raised his upper lip, revealing the fangs of a predator.
“Sepp is mad at you,” Schlaff said. “You killed his brother, Bruno. I promised him he could spend some time with you before we started the ceremony.”
A harsh kick hit the side of Alex’s face, sending his head flying.
Something was crushed; bones were shattered—his eye socket. Blood flowed from his nose and forehead. Pressure throbbed behind his eye as if a spike had pierced his skull. He remained flat on the floor, buying time, but the pain intensified. Forced to protect his head with his hands, he felt a sharp kick to his exposed abdomen.
He moaned out loud. Snakes of pain twisted through his torso. He coughed and gagged, his head throbbing with pain. A bucket of cold water was thrown over him, making his teeth chatter.
He had to get away, get away and stand up.
He could hear a bucket being quickly filled with water in the far end of the room. A hand grabbed his hair and banged his head on the floor over and over again. The room was growing hazy, spinning around him.
Water landed heavily on his head. His clothes were drenched and he was shivering. Drawing in painful breaths, he turned on his side and held his stomach. A harsh kick to the back. He cried out in pain.
Schlaff rasped a short order in German, as if issuing a command to a trained dog.
Come on, you neo-Nazi Stasi twin, show your face . . .
He rolled away in an effort to evade another kick, and managed to catch a glimpse of Sepp Mauser’s face. His eyes were protruding from their sockets and his lips were dripping with spittle.
A sharp kick to the kidneys. His whole upper body was a mass of searing pain. He coughed and spit out something salty.
“Mauser,” Alex called out, struggling to produce a smile, “your brother begged me not to kill him.” He grasped his stomach. “He pleaded like a little girl . . .”
A savage kick to the liver. Immediately, his body turned cold and everything went black.
Icy water landed on his face like a barbell. He groaned out loud. His injured cheek was burning. He remained on the floor, not moving. The room fell silent. The sound of his own breathing echoed in his head.
Schlaff issued an order. Sepp bent down and slapped him on his injured cheek. A wave of pain surged through his head, but he managed to stay still. Sepp held his short fingers to Alex’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
Alex let out a deep sigh. Taken by surprise, Se
pp started to straighten up. With his last ounce of strength, Alex aimed a short, sharp kick at his Adam’s apple.
Grunting, the Stasi twin grabbed his injured neck. His face turned red and he sank to his knees. His head hit the floor with a thud. Schlaff ran to him, barking in German and calling out his name again and again. Mauser’s rough work shoes twitched against the black floor. A dark stain began spreading over the front of his jeans.
On the huge screen across the room, the Führer shrieked in rage.
Dr. Rauch hurried to Mauser and felt his neck. His eyes glistened like the entrails of a slaughtered animal. He turned to Schlaff and shook his head.
Alex got his first chance to study the cellar. No chairs. The performances put on here were enjoyed by a standing audience.
“Filthy Jew-boy!” Schlaff screamed. “You killed him!”
“You’re next, Oskar,” Alex said calmly.
Pulling something from his pocket, Schlaff launched himself furiously at Alex. The Taser emitted a debilitating electric shock. He lost control of his muscles and slumped to the floor, his eyes closed. He felt like he had been detached from his body.
A prick—something injected into his neck.
He opened his eyes.
Dr. Rauch was retreating as if Alex were a tranquilized rhino that was just coming to. The start of an erection was visible in the doctor’s pants. His heels clicked faintly through his bloodstained overshoes.
“That will tenderize your flesh, Jew-boy,” Schlaff yelled from afar.
WANNSEE, BERLIN | 03:24
Alex tried to wiggle his fingers, but they wouldn’t move. His feet, either. Nothing moved.
Schlaff’s black moccasins were now covered in overshoes, and he had put on a white plastic coverall to protect his expensive clothes. Latex gloves made his hands look like prostheses.
He threw Alex’s limp body over his shoulder with surprising ease. Alex’s neck refused to obey him, leaving his head hanging loosely. Where was the sick neo-Nazi taking him?
Ring of Lies Page 30