by Ran Weber
“Just so you’d know, Yoav,” said Binyamin, “that I’m not the only one who cares.”
“What?”
“Hashem cares about you very much, and you can talk to Him, tell him all your troubles, your pain,” he paused, “even the things you can’t tell me or anyone else. Just like…” he looked at me, “a father,” he sighed, “a father who loves you unconditionally,” he said and placed his hand on my shoulder with confidence. I was not deterred by his touch.
77
“Know how to scan things into the computer?” asked Binyamin after a quick knock on the semi-open door of my unit.
“What?” I asked.
He brought in a paper napkin framed by a glass shield and pointed at it. “I need to scan this thing into the computer. Know anything about these things?”
I rose from my seat and placed my laptop on the small table next to the gray armchair. I took the framed napkin and looked at it. “Handwritten Beatles lyrics? Yes. You just need a simple scanner for such things.”
He looked at me with a smile and said, “It’s not mine, it’s a client’s… So a simple scanner… something you could buy at Best Buy and other such electronics stores?”
“Yes. You need help picking one up?”
“You’re probably busy right now.”
“Binyamin, I’m never too busy for you,” I said with a smile. “Get into the jeep, we’ll go and buy you a scanner.”
We drove to the nearest Best Buy store and I found him a Canon scanner. Not the best scanner on the market, but he said he needed it just for a few simple tasks. When we got back, Binyamin wanted to know how to use it. I rummaged through the scanner box and found a limited version of Photoshop. It looked adequate enough. “Do you even have a laptop?” I asked.
“It broke down,” he apologized. “Maybe I’ll buy a new one soon. Could you show me on your laptop for now?”
I installed the software on my laptop to demonstrate to him.
“I understand that there’s something called PDF?” he said.
I explained that there were a few formats available for saving a scanned picture. “You can also determine the resolution, 300 dots per inch, for example, or 600 dots per inch.
He thanked me and said he needed to know how to save the scanned picture in a specific image quality. “Say,” he asked, is it possible to save it with 450 dots per inch?”
“I’ll show you,” I answered.
We connected the scanner to my computer and Binyamin carefully took out the glass with the napkin framed in it from a handbag.
“Quality?” I asked him.
“Maximal,” he answered and looked at the screen.
I scanned the song and chose 1,2000 DPI as the image quality. The song appeared on the screen:
You say you want a revolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it’s evolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
But when you talk about destruction
Don’t you know that you can count me out
Don’t you know it’s gonna be
All right, all right, all right
Binyamin cheerfully sang the song while I adjusted some parameters and prepared to save the image. He wasn’t the best singer I’ve heard, but his cheerfulness was sweet. “You said you wanted to save it at 450 DPI, right?”
“’Yes,” he said, “know this song?”
“Yes.”
“There’s nothing like The Beatles, and this is the original.”
“What do you mean?”
“This client of mine bought it at a public auction. This the paper napkin on which John Lennon had written the first stanza of the song. I need to frame it for him, but he also wanted him to scan it.”
“Fun work, eh?”
“Yes,” he answered and looked at the screen. “But I also have a lot of responsibility, it’s not as simple as it seems.” He took out a disk-on-key from his pocket and asked me to save the scanned image on it.
78
Someone was knocking on the door. I looked through the peephole and saw a man wearing a suit. FBI? It wasn’t likely that they’d use more agents other than Nash and Jim, and even using two agents seemed like an overkill to me. Perhaps it was another agency. I planned a quick escape route through the back porch when I heard a call from outside the door, “Yoav? Yoav Sharff?” the caller sounded Israeli. I slowly opened the door. “Yes?”
“Hi,” said a guy in a suit and extended his hand, “the Israeli consul wants to see you. Got a few minutes for a quick visit?”
“Is that an order or an invitation?”
“Invitation,” the guy in the suit tensed-up, then artificially loosened his shoulders. “Of course it’s an invitation.”
I thought about the invitation. Every piece of information might be crucial. “Tell the consul I’ll be there.”
The guy in the suit looked pleased. “Wilshire 11766, yes?”
“Yes, yes,” I said. “405, then Santa Monica and up north to Barrington, right?”
“Something like that,” muttered the guy while drifting away, “you have a GPS system, don’t you?”
I didn’t bother to answer.
***
I found myself in a spacious bureau. Two security guards came in after me and stood next to the door. They wore gray cargo pants and black short-sleeve polo shirts that emphasized their bulging arm muscles. They were armed with pistols and each had an earpiece attached to a coiling cord. I had to deposit my own weapon at the entrance.
I took a look at the picture-hung wall. It had pictures of various sizes depicting the Consul General embraced with politicians and entertainment industry celebs.
“Are you into photography?” I heard a voice from behind me.
I turned back to look at him. “I assume you are the Consul General,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied, “I guess it was the pictures that turned me in. Please have a seat.”
I sat in a comfortable leather armchair, the consul sat as well. The security guards moved a little. I took another look at them. They seemed a little too tense than I’d expect them to be at a meeting with an Israeli guy from the Valley.
“I’ll make it brief,” the consul said. “This is a sensitive and really uncomfortable situation for me. In brief, you too were turned in by the pictures.”
“Excuse me?”
“Or perhaps I should say that they will be turning you in. We are in the process of attempting to extradite Avi Schetritt to Israel, under charges of spying for an enemy state. Mossad agents have taken pictures of you working for Avi, apparently on a project involving handing state-secrets to the Iranians. Don’t bother denying it, we already have the information and are in the final stages of confirming it. There’s not much we can do before we get the extradition papers.”
“There’s a misunderstanding here,” I became anxious. “Mr. Consul, I think someone has mixed-up your facts.” I drew a little closer to him. “I’m one of the good guys.”
“We all think we are, Yoav. I’m sure Schetritt also thinks he’s on the side of the good guys, and the Iranian, Farhan, thinks so too.”
“You don’t understand,” I tried again. “I’m a plant there, I’m working for the organization undercover.”
“Who planted you?”
“The Israeli government.”
The consul smiled.
“What?”
“We figured that’s what you’d say. I personally checked with the Mossad and directly with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. And before you say anything about the Prime Minister’s Office – I’ve checked there too. No one knows you. Yoav Sharff is an unknown mystery.”
I considered his words. Rami had warned me in ad
vance that no one would risk himself for my benefit while dealing with the Americans, but with the Israeli embassy? That was going too far. “I’m telling you, Mr. Consul, you are making a very big mistake right now. Asking for my extradition would ruin the operation.”
The door opened and Ehud walked into the room. He didn’t look me in the eye.
“Hello Ehud,” said the consul, “do you know this guy?”
“Yes, I know him,” said Ehud and turned his eyes to the consul. “I know him.”
“Is there anything you could tell me about him?”
“He is the spy I saw with Avi Schetritt. This is the guy from your pictures, beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
He exited the room quickly. I rose from the armchair and turned to leave. The security guards blocked my way and rested their hands on their pistols.
“Mr. Sharff,” said the consul, “I think you should sit for a moment longer. I’d really hate to waste your time.”
“I think you’ve said enough, consul,” I said, “I’m tired of this insanity. When you have something solid, get back to me. I suggest that you be very careful about your extradition request. You are ruining a covert operation right now, exposing layers you weren’t supposed to deal with. If I were you, I’d concentrate on trying to improve the miserable Independence Day celebrations you’ve arranged here.”
I pushed the security guards aside and quickly left the room.
They didn’t follow me, probably by the consul’s orders. The hourglass was running out of sand, I had to get things going while keeping a low profile. If the consul had arranged an extradition agreement for me, my time was getting even shorter.
79
Santa Monica Boulevard, Los Angeles
I looked at Jim’s Clark’s calling card placed on the small, round table in front of me, illuminated by bright sunlight coming in through the large coffeehouse windows. I turned the card over and realized there wasn’t any other choice, I had to infiltrate the place in order to obtain information. I looked through the window at the building on the other end of the road. I returned the card to my pocket, took out my federal ID and looked at it. A man who had my face but was called David Peterson looked at me from it. It’s a suicide mission, I summed up to myself, but I have no choice. Every lead might help.
“More coffee?” the waitress asked me politely.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I think I have enough caffeine in my blood already.”
I looked around at the coffeehouse. Light jazz music played in the background and sharp scents of Columbian coffee filled the air. The coffeehouse’s name appeared in white on a black canvas sign above the entrance. The employee uniforms were black as well and bore the white logo of the coffeehouse chain. The coffeehouse took pride in its high standards of service and efficiency, which both appealed to me, but the coffeehouse’s main advantage, at least as far as I was concerned, was its location, or the location of the building situated in front of it.
One of the FBI buildings was located on the other end of the street. It was a low office building the FBI rented in LA for its agents to conduct appointments in. It was covered with red bricks and had white-framed, semi-transparent, mirror-glass windows. Jim had a permanent office there and I could get the information I needed only from there. An armed security guard wearing dark sunglasses and an earpiece stood alert at the entrance. The building facade had a bank sign and signs of various other financial organizations beneath it. There wasn’t even a single bank employee in the entire building. A four-story backdrop for the federal offices. Actually, the entire area was a backdrop. Everything was seemingly pleasant, available, yet detached at the same time. I turned my eyes up at the sky, it looked blue and perfect. Was the sky a backdrop in LA too?
I paid the bill and comfortably crossed the road. I approached the guard and purposely ignored him. I walked past him straight into the lobby.
He lunged at me. “Excuse me! Excuse me, sir,” he was polite, but firm.
I wore a surprised expression on my face. “David Peterson, FBI Department of Internal Affairs,” I said sharply. “I have an appointment with agent Clark and you’re delaying me.” I gave him an angry stare and shoved my ID straight in his face.
He motioned for me to stop. Then gave my ID a quick look and took out his list. I wasn’t on the list. Not surprising. I knew the ID wouldn’t be enough for me to get inside the building, or even internal investigations. I needed something else that would connect me to this specific building at this specific time.
“What do you mean I’m not on the list?” I asked and snatched it from his hand. I quickly looked at it and while he came to his senses, I handed him back the list with contempt. “Call Judy, quickly, I haven’t got time.”
He called Judy. Yes, I had an appointment with Jim. No, she doesn’t understand why she hadn’t updated him. He’s right. Yes, yes. Quickly. I was late. He gave me a tough look and said, “You can get in.”
I got inside the building. It was a little dark, I had to guess what floor Jim’s office was at. I quickly got into the elevator, I didn’t want the guard to get suspicious. Once inside the elevator, I send an SMS to Judy, telling her I was stuck between the first and second floor. I got up to the third floor, then got back to the second. Someone with a red ponytail and glasses was waiting for me. “I see that things worked out with the elevator,” she said, “you’re David I assume?”
“Yes,” I answered “Yes,” I answered carefully, trying out my best American accent, “You really need to do something about these elevators.”
She apologized and asked me to follow her. We made our way to the fourth floor up the stairs. “I don’t want you to get stuck again,” she said with an embarrassed smile.
On the way up, I told her my cellphone battery had died and asked if I could use hers. She handed it to me and continued to show me the way. I took her cellphone and quickly accessed the contact list, Jim Clark, I changed the number. I faked a brief call and returned it to her. “Thank you.”
Jim’s office was locked; she looked at me with panic.
“He didn’t show up again?” I said angrily. “I can’t believe it.”
“Maybe he just forgot… or…”
“Forgot?” I roared. “Ma’am, I’m in the middle of an investigation,” I lowered my voice, “an internal affairs investigation. Right now, Agent Jim’s situation doesn’t look too bright.”
She opened her eyes wide. “An investigation against Jim?”
“Among others.” I took out my ID and instructed her to quickly open the office door. “With your permission, seeing as Jim’s not here, I’ll use the time to go over a few files. I’m pretty sure he’s going to pay the price for not showing up, it would be a shame for you to get dragged into this mess too.”
She looked at me suspiciously. “Hold on, I’ll check with him,” she said.
“No problem,” I turned my back to her and looked outside through the semi-transparent corridor windows.
“Hold on,” I heard her from behind me, “I don’t understand what’s going on, I can’t get hold of him.”
I turned around and faced her angrily. “Are you going to delay me and get into trouble with internal affairs, or are you going to open the office?”
“Sorry, sorry, you’re right,” she said and opened the office door with trembling hands. “I’m sure Jim will be here any minute, this whole story must be some terrible mistake… would you like me to bring you coffee?”
“No, thanks,” I said curtly, “already had one.”
Jim’s office was neat and tidy. There were two keyboards and two thin plasma screens on the table. It turned out I had been right, there were two computers. One was connected to the outer world, while the other was connected only to the federal network. I quickly sat in the chair; this whole charade might blow in my face any moment. I logged into the computer connected only to the
federal network. The information in the End-Time Foretellers files was fascinating. The name Norman Watts appeared many times, he was one of those who had created the Pillar of Fire system. It looked as if he had been suspended and his current location was unknown, on the other hand, there were records of money being wired to his account. I looked at my watch, too much time, I had to get out of there quickly.
I was about to get up and leave when a folder on the desktop caught my eye. It was named “Jim-Private.” I tried to get inside, but it was password protected. I had a little USB flash drive with some hacking software, one did the trick and the folder opened.
It contained a sub-folder called “N. Watts.” Bingo.
I discovered that he was being kept in a federal facility north of San Francisco. I managed to break into the Federal Facility’s system through Jim’s computer. Turned out they had arranged the best conditions for him. He was imprisoned in a secure villa inside a federal complex. I reminded myself that prison is prison, even if you get five-star hotel conditions. It didn’t look like he was about to get out of there anytime soon.
Anyway, they moved him from place to place to conduct examinations, or for some other purposes not mentioned in his file. I found his entry and exit movements and added an exit line. Tuesday morning, I was going to get there and take Norman out. Excuse me, Agent David Peterson was going to get there and take him out.
I continued reading about him. Turned out they gave him a lethal cocktail of medications every single day. I didn’t have enough knowledge about the medication, but it was obvious they kept him drugged to the verge of sleep, or apathy. I added an instruction to stop giving him his medication on Tuesday morning, it wouldn’t do me any good to rescue the zombie if I won’t be able to communicate with him. I thought that as I had no idea what they were giving him, I’d better have the drugs with me in case of severe side effects. I added a remark that the drugs shouldn’t be given to him on Tuesday, but should be kept in a small container he would be able to take with him. My visit now felt very efficient. I looked at my watch with concern, I had really overdone it.