"Look! It worked! You’ve stopped sobbing and you're already back on your feet. That's my sweet, strong Yakiri. We have to talk. Enough self-pity - you have no time for seven days of mourning. The spear survived."
"That name, it's like child's play. You and your bloody codes. This is real. I can still smell death on my skin. I need a hot shower. Then I want some espresso, and a cognac," said Kefira, somehow overcoming some of the pain from her loss.
The stepdaughter broke away from Yochana's cuddle, stood up and walked towards the ten-foot high, tinted patio doors. As she crossed the air-conditioned threshold into the sunroom, she heard the pulse of Yochana's phone. It had a distinctive whale-sound ring tone.
Kefira walked through her childhood home and found her way to the shower room. Her silk tank top and shorts slipped to the floor. The cold marble caressed the bottoms of her feet. Hot water sprang from all three sides of the cabinet and sluiced from above in the form of a waterfall, cascading from the Italian marble walls. She scrubbed repeatedly with a sea sponge and her favorite oatmeal soap. Tears welled up once more in her eyes.
Get a grip, she demanded of herself as she switched the water to cold in the shower. The chilly water startled her and helped her overcome the feelings of accumulating angst. Her training helped, but did not erase the events of the last few days.
Kefira came back out onto the rooftop garden and Yochana was no longer alone. A roly-poly, red-faced, fifty-ish year old man in a crisp yellow dress shirt and mufti pants was laughing at his own joke. Both Yochana and he turned towards the sunroom door as Kefira came out. Sam jumped to his feet, betraying a day when he was in better shape, and thrust a soft hand into Kefira's already extended right hand.
"Finally, we meet. Though you seem almost like a daughter to me," he said as he used their handshake to propel her into his bear hug.
His obvious warmth and meeting him with Yochana left Kefira at a loss. Unlike her usual self, she acquiesced, playing the type of charade that was her life, pretending she had never met him. He nodded his head near her shoulder and exhaled deeply, sighing painfully.
"Words cannot cover your loss, our loss," he said as he stepped back, changing to an all-business personality. "I commend your timely report and agree one hundred percent with your conclusions. Only have one small enquiry, if I may?"
"I report to my control. How exactly did you get my report so fast?"
Yochana intervened. "Sam and I have always worked closely. After all these years, you are in front of the partner I always said was not in your 'need to know'. He has always seen all of your reports promptly."
"What can I help you with?" said Kefira.
"How did you manage to get back into Israel? There was a hole in your timeline."
"Trade secret–"
"Kefira," said Yochana, raising her tone, implying that the younger woman should answer the question.
"Feminine mystique at the casino in Taba – I crossed on a Canadian passport that I always carry with me. If I give it to you, it's blown."
"Was it Anna Chapman?"
"There goes a great cover. You do your homework," she said, but she did not give up the passport that she always carried with her in case of emergency.
"Did you know that the guy you drove over with has ties to the Russian mafia? Did you arrange to meet him there in advance?"
"As I said earlier, I report to my control. Perhaps you should address your questions to her."
"Where exactly are you going with this, Sam? I can't say I like the tone or the tack you're taking," said Yochana.
"I'll drop it. I think I see what happened. Thinking on your feet'll keep you alive. But that doesn't help me much. I got no end of shit about that helicopter in the desert. It's not easy to explain away a dead pilot and co-pilot, not to mention fourteen highly trained insert commandos who have no known existence. Our clean-up people managed to sanitize the site before any Bedouin got to it. It was tight, though. Once again, your communication gave us a much needed heads up. By the way, you showed uncanny foresight using untagged clothing and storing the uniforms in your 'copter," said Sam, a little skepticism leaking into his voice.
"That was–"
"That's enough, both of you," interrupted Yochana. "You're a bad boy today, Sam."
"You can't imagine the grief I am getting from the old man himself. Anyway, you're covered. The bodies of the Captain and co-pilot will be laid out in state today. The story is that they died in a training accident."
"That's what I thought you'd arrange," said Yochana.
"As both of you know, the rest of the team does not exist on paper. Their families are all deceased," added Sam.
Kefira glared at the two of them as they did their bureaucratic dance. She thought that there was more than meets the eye transpiring here, and she catalogued it away for future reference.
"Might I be so foolish as to enquire as to why you were training in Egypt? If I remember correctly, we gave that land back after the Camp David Accords in 1979," said Sam.
"You're not treading very softly here, Sam," said Yochana, her tone insistent.
"Yochana, the Prime Minister's foot is on my neck right now, in case you haven't noticed."
"Kefira dear, there is 'need to know' here. Could you give us a minute?"
"I'll get myself another cognac. Want one Sam, Yochana?"
Sam's face reddened. A vein on his temple was twitching visibly and he was rubbing it absentmindedly. Yochana had known him a long time. She knew that he was highly distracted.
"I think an espresso is what I need," said Sam.
"You know my favorite, a double, I think," said Yochana.
Kefira walked purposefully towards the patio doors, and then stopped half way. "I'd better get that ashtray again. You've managed to fill it up for a second time." Her radar was up, hoping to catch a stray word of this uncharacteristic display of anger by Yochana. There was no such luck as Sam fumed and Yochana adjusted the pleats in her silk garment. Once inside the sunroom, Kefira went to the liquor cabinet, put the ashtray down and poured two doubles of Camus Cognac into fresh snifters. The odor of liquor filled the air near her. She bent over and breathed in the bouquet. The drinks remained on the cabinet.
Then Kefira picked up the ashtray and walked towards the ash tin. She crinkled her nose at the reek of tobacco rot as she opened the top. After emptying the ashtray in the metal can positioned explicitly for that purpose in the sunroom, she sat down in one of the plush, cotton covered sun chairs of Scandinavian design. Sitting, she focused on Yochana's lips, and found that Yochana was more expressive than usual. She was gesticulating with her hands in front of her face more than she customarily did, perhaps with a view to blocking Kefira's lip-reading skills.
Kefira's special training did pay off somewhat. She caught the names, Shafiq and then Mukhabarat, on the lips of her 'control' before Yochana motioned for her to come. She rose from the chair and cataloged the information. An Egyptian man's name and the Egyptian secret police.
Kefira picked up the alcohol and walked back out onto the roof garden. Bo called out, "Kefira, Kefira," as she strolled by his enclosure. As Yochana and Sam talked, Sam had made himself busy preparing his espresso on an outdoor coffee maker situated on the same table as a small stainless steel Weber barbecue grill. Kefira handed a snifter to Yochana and raised her own to her nose, savoring the aroma. When Sam turned and came back to them, the ritual of making coffee had put him much more in control of himself.
"Let's get back to today's planned agenda, shall we?" suggested Yochana.
"I rest my case," said Sam, half-heartedly accepting Yochana's stonewalling tactics.
"I'm all ears. Such high-level squabbling. Rarified air here. I always wondered how controllers solved their differences."
"Don't you start now, too," said Yochana.
Sam accidently dropped his empty espresso cup and it shattered on the marble floor.
"Masel Tov," blurted all three of them.
; They looked at one another, shrugged and burst into laughter, breaking the tension.
"For a goy, you got that pretty quick," jousted Sam.
"In the Mossad, at that. L'chaim," added Kefira.
Sam reached into his shirt pocket and produced a small stack of pictures that looked as though they had come out of someone's family album. He turned them over in his hands before reaching over the green marble coffee table.
"These are photos of someone you can trust with your life. He'll meet you either in Paris or in Great Britain, whichever you choose."
"Sam and I have both agreed that this problem needs concerted action. It needs a team to solve it," said Yochana.
"You know I normally work alone."
"We have to insist. There may be more here than meets the eye. That RPG was from our own stock of Russian weapons. This has deep national security issues attached to it," added Sam.
"Who is he?" asked Kefira, feigning real interest.
Yochana stood up and came to sit beside Kefira. A mother's care and sensitivity was once again melting her demeanor. She held Kefira's hands. Sam seemed to be wilting as well.
"You two are 'creeping me out'," she said, returning unconsciously to adolescent usage. "Who's he, my prodigal brother or something?"
"Almost Yakiri, my sweet – do you remember when you came to me?"
"What kind of a question is that?" asked Kefira.
"You know you gave my life meaning. In many ways you completed me," said Yochana.
"Boy, get to the point."
The three of them were dancing around something, so Sam intervened. He cleared his throat and turned over another picture in his hands.
"Look at this," said Sam as he handed Kefira the picture in his hand.
"That's me, and who is the young boy?"
"He lost his parents, just like you. He is a bit younger than you, but he came to me at almost the same time as you came to Yochana. Yochana and I acted as your parents, despite the fact that neither of you knew explicitly about the other parent."
"In a way, he's my half-brother. What's his name?"
"Zak. There's no blood connection, but without knowing it, you two had the same adoptive parents," said Yochana.
"You two even talk like an old couple, finishing each other's ideas."
The three of them took the time to look over the pictures in front of them. Kefira appeared to warm to Sam too easily for Yochana. But then, thought Yochana, her personality always opens up when it is necessary in real life. Kefira moved around the coffee table and motioned for Sam to stand. Her hug warmed him to the core.
"Somehow I always knew," she said, wiping a tear from her eye.
Kefira uttered a Hebrew expression meaning great or amazing, "Sababa." She continued, ″This week, life took something away, but arranged to give something back, too."
Sam and Yochana went on to explain that, as their adoptive parents, they had groomed the two of them, Zak, and Kefira, for what they were to become from childhood. Sam also said that Zak had followed a more traditional path in the Mossad. He was an experienced field officer who might one day run the organization.
"We want you to work with his team," said both Sam and Yochana in unison. "Your mission is first to catch MacAuley. Second, you must be constantly aware of other intrigues that your search uncovers and follow them up as well. There is a great deal of 'chatter' in the air recently."
"Do I let on regarding this little revelation concerning him and me?"
"That's your call. You're the ranking officer on this mission. Zak's a Captain. Technically, you're a politically appointed Colonel, but he has years of experience in the field. Try to tread lightly."
They all looked at each other. Sam reached under the table, produced a half bottle of Duval-Leroy's Cuvée Femme, and popped the cork. They once drank from the bottle, savoring the sensation of bubbles pouring down their throats and flowing over their lips before Sam got up and looked in the outdoor cabinet for some glasses. He returned with three wine glasses in his hands and said, "It's a new beginning."
The conversation turned back to the mission. Yochana explained that Zak and his team would meet Kefira either in Paris or a small town near Birmingham, England, in a few days. Sam made his apologies and left, as he had a meeting in the early hours the next day with the Prime Minister. After he left, the two women looked at each other; tears moistened both of their eyes.
"Hold me, please," asked Kefira.
"Are you holding up?"
"It's an awful lot for three days. I'll go to Great Britain. Now I need to sleep."
"Just to be clear, your mission is to neutralize those responsible for this nightmare. Try to get information from this MacAuley before you terminate him. I'll arrange a military flight for you at noon. Sweet dreams."
MEETING IN REDDITCH
February 10, 2012
On Love Lane, outside Redditch, England, Kefira's driver accelerated abruptly. Untrimmed sections of hedgerow clattered against the body of their racing green Austin Mini. Laneway entrances and exits flashed by as Kefira glanced again at the young woman driving. She down shifted yet another time, spurring the car's engine into a leopard-like whine.
"I never would've guessed you could drive like this!"
"Aren't you the one who lectures on appearances being deceiving?"
"Touché … someone's been talking about me."
"You got it. Anyway, driving is like putting on a glove for me. It was second nature from the first time I drove my father's car at 14 years old," added Sarah, downshifting once more.
"Is it necessary to drive so fast now?"
"Never know when you'll be havin' to run from the 'Old Bill'," replied the driver, using an Irish lilt.
"Forgive my ignorance, but who's the 'Old Bill'?" asked Kefira.
"It's possibly a reference to a popular World War I cartoon character, or maybe Sir Robert Peel, one of the founders of modern policing. Nobody really knows for sure," said Sarah.
Sarah used the handbrake to lock the rear wheels. Immediately after, she released the handbrake and accelerated into a perpendicular laneway directly on her right. The car stopped and Kefira raised her hands to protect herself from bending into the dash. Her belt snapped hard enough against her chest to bruise.
"Really nothing to it – just car rally stuff. This car has what they call a fly-off handbrake, specially made for doing that turn. I just couldn't resist."
"Spare me the details. I am sure your skills will come in handy. It was great feeling your positive energy behind the wheel," replied Kefira as she stepped out of the low-lying Austin, rubbing her collar bone.
The red brick, Tudor-style, country manor in front of Kefira and Sarah displayed stability and security. Hardwood smoke curled from the hearth inside before an isolated temperature inversion swept the smoke back towards the ground. It smelled divine.
Kefira reacted to the odor as though it was comfort food, sparking memories of off-season visits to her family's island home on Paros, near the small ferry landing to Antiparos, in the Cyclades Islands of Greece. Kefira sighed. Wood smoke always brings out the nostalgia in me. The smoke made her think of her father's penchant for building fires in every room to keep the wintery dampness out of their home. The home had a nickname. It was called the Pirate's Den, after an old story of pirates plying the Cyclades Straits in that part of the Mediterranean. Swells near Paros have been recorded between three and ten meters in height, seriously endangering sailors who did not seek refuge before these afternoon winds picked up. What were those winds called again, miltemi, in Greek.
Kefira remembered her father's pirate stories at bedtime. These memories surprisingly triggered her biological clock, tugging at her heartstrings.
The front door of the manor opened, and the inside lighting cast a glow of warmth and welcome while outlining the large frame of their host, inadvertently reminding her of her life choices. How could he let the inside light leave him outlined like that, making himsel
f a target in the doorway?
"We thought you'd never get here, girl. Yar driver's 'barmy'," Doctor John blurted in a pronounced Brummie, the dialect of Birmingham, England. "I saw that turn. Come on up here," he added again in dialect, laughing at Kefira's confusion.
"Is that what they call the King's English? If it is, I'll be a monkey's uncle," she retorted.
"Yar a sassy wench.″ The Doctor overwhelmed her with welcome, gave her a beery hug, despite it being their first meeting, and then whispered into her ear.
"You'll have to excuse my exaggerated accent. Your friend's in the billiard room. I'll say he's got less spunk than you. Takes all kinds, doesn't it?" he added, pointing the way towards a wainscoted hallway that led to an oak stairwell.
The scene was only missing a lamplighter preceding her up the stairs. Launching Kefira back into this century, motion sensors lit the passageway and the stairs, and then the sound of billiard balls, clattering on a large table, led her on up.
The door to the game room was open. Cigar smoke filled the air. Overhead lamps cast shadows around the only table in use. Darkness between the tables obscured the players from Kefira's line of sight. A cue stick rolled onto the table and a serious looking, completely bald, young man about Kefira's age stepped into the light he had activated with a switch near the table.
"Kefira, I'm Zak. I've been looking forward to meeting you," he said taking her in, slowly scanning her from top to bottom, just his eyes roaming. His speech halted as she got close to him and her musky, oiled scent rose up to his nostrils. Noticing her reaction, he added, ″Your file picture didn't do you justice."
"Shouldn't we be talking business?" said Kefira.
"Maybe we can start over again and–"
"And get it right this time," Kefira jousted.
"Ok. Ok. Please come out on the balcony and I'll give you my assessment of our situation. Yochana sends her regards through Sam.″ He opened the balcony door for her and the evening air gave her a shiver. "I saw you give that martial arts demonstration. You were astounding," said Zak, trying to change the tone of his shredded opening gambit.
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