The man followed at a discrete distance afraid she might recognize his car from yesterday. He wished he’d thought to switch cars that morning so he wouldn’t have to worry about being made. He hoped she wouldn’t take too long to get where she was going because he really had to pee. Suck it up, he told himself as he made a sharp left and shadowed the Civic along Chicago’s Dwight D Eisenhower Expressway toward Lake Michigan. He was right behind her as she zipped into the parking lot on Museum Campus Drive and hurried toward the delivery entrance of The Field Museum. He drew a short grey wig on over his limp brown hair, stuck on a pair of sunglasses and hurried after her.
From his place behind a dumpster, he spotted a 3 inch black boot heel as she ducked through a small metal door with a sign that read NO ADMISSION EMPLOYEES ONLY. Her voice musical and lilting floated past him on the breeze. She was calling to someone. What is she up to? Ten minutes passed when he decided to follow her inside. In fits and stops, he crept up to the loading bay. Huge metal doors gapped open, two 16 wheelers sat side by side while uniformed men driving forklifts unloaded crates. Duck-walking beside a forklift, he crept into an enormous concrete space filled with gigantic crates, shelving units and work stations equipped with computers and clipboards of paperwork. There was no sign of her.
Weaving through the space he found his way to a hallway, mounted cameras swiveled back and forth and beside each metal door was a square metal keypad. Extracting his iPhone, he snapped off several shots until he heard footsteps approaching. Her scarf wrapped as a hijab, she entered with a distinguished-looking man; grey haired with a thin moustache, he wore black rimmed glasses and a well-tailored suit. He spoke with a clipped German accent. The woman seemed relaxed, smiling as she reached out to accept the Field Museum Gift Shop bag he held out to her. Peeking out the top of the bag was an oblong cardboard box. He could just make out a few letters ‘D...NG...R’ scrolled across the top.
- 3 -
PASTA PUTTANESCA
She parked on S. Oakley and carried her Field Museum Gift Shop bag into one of several homey Italian restaurants oozing mouth-watering aromas into the air. He followed her into the restaurant intending to use the facilities and return to his car, but his timing was off by 10 seconds. He ran smack into her exiting the Ladies Room as he was entering the corridor to the Men’s Room. The both muttered ‘excuse me.’ He looked quickly away and she looked directly into his face. She didn’t recognize him, but etched his features into her mind. She’d recognize him the next time she saw him. She had an eidetic memory. He knew he’d been made and his usefulness on this case was no doubt over. He’d just lost his job all because he had to pee. Miserably, he purchased 2 slices of pizza and returned to his car to wait.
She was ravenous. It seemed days since she’d eaten and the smells emanating from the kitchen started her stomach growling. She ordered her favorite pasta, a house salad and a glass of Chianti, slightly chilled. Seated at a table for two by the window, she studied the mid-afternoon traffic. She was intensely beautiful with delicate features and a chestnut complexion.
While she waited, she enjoyed her wine and some freshly baked bread. It had been nearly a week since she heard from him and she was on pins and needles until she got his text this morning, proposing this meeting. At this hour, the restaurant was nearly empty, so after a quick check of the wait staff and a table of three businessmen enjoying coffee and cannelloni, she turned her attention to the street. She watched as the man she’d bumped into bit into his second piece of pizza and stared off into space. Not far from him, sat a dark van with tinted windows. The window on the passenger side was open a tad and a tiny curl of smoke drifted out. She watched the passing traffic, noticed an old blue SUV pass her window for the second time in the last few minutes. There were parking spaces available, but the SUV passed each one of them.
Warning signals were going off in her head. Still she waited for him. Her loosened hijab slid loosely to her shoulders. Nearly 7 minutes had passed and still Camry man sat there. She didn’t like it. It was odd and in her line of work odd meant trouble. People were generally predictable and transparent. They bought their pizza, they ate it and they drove away. They didn’t sit aimlessly in their car doing nothing. This man was doing nothing. He wasn’t reading or talking on his phone or even napping. Something was definitely off. The black van still sat, more cigarette smoke curling from the crack in the window. She made mental notes of the license plate numbers and car details, like the small dent on the left front fender and rust around the van’s wheel well. The SUV was no longer in sight. That was curious.
She was pondering this, dipping bread in seasoned olive oil when a large, broad man with a face like a bulldog pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. “Hello, Darling,” he said with a smile, leaning forward and blowing her a kiss.
“Sweetheart,” she breathed, staring at the stranger, “it is so wonderful to see you again.” She leaned forward blowing a kiss in return and said, “The pasta puttanesca is excellent here you should try it…” As the waiter took his order, she extracted a .38 special Smith and Wesson from her purse and tucked it under her napkin.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” the stranger told the waiter then nodding toward the napkin said, “That won’t be necessary Samira, Ari sent me.”
Instantly, the woman’s stunning green eyes turned predatory, “Who are you?” she whispered harshly, “How do you know my name?”
“Your brother sent me, my name is Gil McCray. Let’s have a nice quiet lunch and I’ll fill you in on everything I know. Okay?”
“Why didn’t he come himself?” she hissed. “What have you done to him?”
“Nothing. Really, I’m one of the good guys,” he said with a grin.
“Why I should believe you,” she hissed again, “anyone could say he is good guy!”
“Let me show you,” he said. “Do you see that guy across the street in the maroon Camry? Well he’s been tailing you.”
I know that,” she snapped, “I nearly knocked him over coming out of the ladies’ rest room.”
“Okay, well do you know who he’s working for?” he asked with one raised eyebrow.
That got her interest. She eyed him like a hawk zeroing in on its prey.
“And,” he continued, “Do you know he was outside your apartment this morning, and he followed you to the museum?”
She gawked at him, “And how do you know such a thing?”
“And,” he continued, ignoring her question, “do you know that there’s someone else tailing you”
He flicked his eyes toward a parking space on the other side of the intersection, where the black van sat.
“Also I saw these people. And do you know who in the hell are they?” she spat…
“They, my dear, are the CIA,” the man replied, smiling as the waiter sat his drink on the table.
“How do I know you are not with them?” she challenged, “You could think I’m some dumb woman who knows nothing at all.”
“I could, my dear, but I don’t,” Gil said handing over a small folded note. It was written in Hebrew and said ‘…dearest sister, trust me and trust him… soon our paths will cross.’ She read the note twice. Nodding briskly, she slipped the note along with her gun into her handbag. She breathed deeply allowing the tension to leave her body, but her eyes remained frozen in a hostile squint.
“Relax, my dear” said the man, “un-squint those beautiful eyes and have some wine, I’m a friend you haven’t gotten to know yet.”
“What if I do not want a friend,” she said lips pursed.
“Oh, I think you’ll change your mind soon enough, dear,” he said pleasantly, nodding in the direction of the waiter approaching the table with a large tray on which sat two pasta bowls filled to over-flowing.
Just wait till you taste this, Darling,” she smiled demurely glancing at the waiter, “It is, how you say, delicious.”
- 4 -
SNAKE CHARMERS
Heat emanated fro
m the colored tin roofs as tanners spread freshly dyed hides out to dry. Irregular rooftops were outlined against the early morning skyline. Scattered palm trees emerged as the sun rose and in the distance a caravan of camels loaded with merchandise appeared trudging across the sand. Marrakesh the jewel of the desert was the trading place where people from all over the country gathered to buy and sell. Stepping out of the shadows, the young man was bombarded by countless sights and sounds and smells of this ancient place. Hundreds of brightly colored handmade carpets hung side by side; tents displayed everything from traditional djellabas and gandoras to long ropes of dried figs, stands held racks of hand-made sandals and baskets overflowing with spices.
Under faded umbrellas, women covered by their long clothing sat selling colorful scarves, stacks of hats, pretty woven baskets or brightly painted bowls. Children scampered about begging tourists for money while men unloaded their donkeys or sat smoking and talking together. The air was dusty, hot and heavy with the mingled smells of cooking meats, human sweat, exotic spices, frying bread and animal dung. The combined sounds of hundreds of people milling about displaying their wares, bartering, arguing, laughing or chatting was deafening within the narrow tented alleys of the marketplace.
Although he’d been here before, Rafi was overwhelmed. Slender, yet muscular, he was broad shouldered with a thick shock of black wavy hair and a café au lait complexion. Strikingly handsome, he looked the part of a native, but he didn’t feel like one. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He was worried about many things, but the fear of dust getting under his tinted contact lenses, was high on the list. That would be a deal breaker. He walked slowly along in his long tan djellaba, his tarboush on his head, hands quiet at his sides. “Rafi, check in,” the voice tinny and clear sounded in his ear. He was glad the team was with him. He was nervous and was glad for their support. Moshe, the team leader, had been his best friend since they joined Mossad three years ago. Using the pre-arranged signal Rafi raised his right hand to his neck and scratched an imaginary itch.
“Mosquitoes are bad this time of year,” teased the voice. Rafi scratched again, teasing back. Laugh now, fella, he thought to himself, you may not be laughing later. On reflex, he checked to make sure his weapons were securely in place. As he wandered toward the tiled courtyard, he saw a large group of people, old and young Moroccans and tourists in a circle watching three men sitting on a rug. The men wore loose fitting djellabas with long sleeves and a hood. On their heads they each wore a colorful tarbauch; they were seated in front of several round flat baskets. One of the men was playing a crude wooden flute while another man lifted the basket lid exposing the lean head of a cobra snaking its way up, skin flaps swelling. The man played as the serpent danced slowly in front of his face, seemingly entranced by the music of the flute. Another man holding a snake in his hands walked around the circle displaying it. The snake could be seen moving through the man’s hands, the awed watchers backed away as he approached them. Caught in the rapture of the moment, Rafi was unaware that four men, similarly dressed in belted caftans and fez hats encircled him. “Come with us,” one of the men said, poking Rafi in the back with a hard object. Wordlessly, Rafi turned and walked off with them. The sound of the crowd clapping and the flute playing faded behind him.
The car ride seemed eternal. Sitting blindfolded between two bulky guards, Rafi used his skills to help orient himself. He had gone willingly, yet they blindfolded him, so they didn’t want him to be able to retrace his steps. That meant there was something permanent about this location. The guards had not been rough with him, so they weren’t under orders to harm or intimidate him. That was good news. And yet, they were not talking to him or offering him any water. So he was more like a prisoner than an invited guest. Two men were in the front, one was the boss and two guards were in the back with him. The man on his right had a bad cough. The man on his left smelled bad. The boss had a harsh voice and spoke with a Tunisian accent. The driver was silent; Rafi sensed that he was afraid. Four men had come to pick him up. It was interesting that so many had been sent. Had they been expecting a fight? He had agreed to meet and had come willingly, so why the muscle? Sending a message about their power?
The men spoke rarely, only to each other and only in Darija, the Moroccan Arabic dialect commonly used throughout the country. No one spoke to him and he spoke to no one. It was a quiet trip. He heard no traffic on the road and hoped that his ‘friends’ had been able to keep up with him. He wore two GPS transmitters one in his sandal and one had been sewn into his underwear. He listened carefully, but could hear no other cars on the road. He concluded they were driving through the desert and that his friends were staying far out of sight so as not to arouse suspicion. At one point, the car stopped amid some bleating and he decided that a herd of sheep were crossing the road. Ten minutes ticked by, during which he heard what sounded like a helicopter hovering close by. The men in the car seemed to hear it, too, because after a flurry of words they picked up speed. They stopped briefly once to refresh themselves.
It was dark when they arrived. The guards led him into a tent lit only by a small fire around which a dozen men sat. All were covered from head to toe except for their eyes and hands. No one spoke. Rafi was shoved down into a spot in the circle, his blindfold was removed and he was handed a cup of water. Still no one spoke. The air smelled of camels, hashish and unwashed bodies. Wind whistled outside, picking up speed, breezes wafted through the tent. Someone waved a hand and the tent flaps were closed and lashed tightly together. Inside the tent there was silence as Rafi drank his water and the men puffed on their pipes.
“Thank you for coming, my young friend,” the leader finally said.
Rafi raised his head and returned the greeting in Arabic, “I am honored to be of service, my revered leader.”
“First we will eat, then, we will talk,” the leader announced as servants arrived with trays of food and a large brass samovar filled with mint tea.
They arranged the trays in the center of the circle and left. As the men began to eat, several musicians carrying ghitas and lotars, entered the tent and began to play. In his ear Rafi, heard Moshe’s voice muttering, “At least you get to eat!” Rafi smiled and scooped up baba ghanoush with his pita.
- 5 -
MENARA
She stared at the computer screen watching images moving on the maps in front of her. Her eyes were weary and her anxiety mounting, but she had no recourse. It had been days since a report had come through and all she could do was watch and pray. Over and over again, she chanted prayers, praying to the only G-d she believed in, in the only language she truly felt was hers. From her window, she could see the Houla Valley and beyond it the lush mountains of Lebanon. This well-established kibbutz had been her home since the early 1960’s. She had been born in Menara, a child full of hope and enthusiasm for the land and its people. She was older now and wiser. Hope and enthusiasm had been replaced by reality and determination. When she looked out the window, she no longer marveled at the progress her people had made cultivating this once barren desert. Neatly planted rows and rectangles that supplied her country with freshly grown food stretched out before her. People worked in those fields, worked and sweated and grew old in those fields, and for what? The simple satisfaction of doing G-d’s work? All that energy spent on survival knowing that in a moment’s notice it could be obliterated. Their crops grew yes, but so did their enemies.
Their enemies, Yes, she thought. It was all muddled after a while. Enemies, friends, lovers…. She knew how those lines could blur, she knew better than most. She rubbed her eyes and looked again at the screen. There was movement now. She thought she could track them. Hands on the keyboard she began to type. In seconds, words appeared and she typed her response. Then picking up her cell phone, she spoke a few words, “One hour from now, get everything ready…. as we discussed. I’ll meet you there.” She rose turned off her equipment and walked down the steps onto the driveway, pushing buttons and setting
alarm systems as she went. She was excited now, but not in a good way. They had been planning this day for years and it was almost here, an important day in more ways than one. Climbing into her jeep, she checked her rearview mirror catching her reflection for a moment. She was a handsome woman, grey-green eyes with a chestnut complexion and strong features. Her long dark hair, streaked with grey, was tied loosely at her neck creating a reckless look that belied her true nature. Hadara Eiliat was not reckless. She was highly organized, having worked for Mossad as a covert operative along the Lebanese border for more than a decade, she was focused and intelligent.
She had served as Division Chief for the last decade, she was a born leader. But she was stepping out of her comfort zone on this op; she had more than success or failure riding on this, much more. As her jeep bumped along dry rutted roads, she listened to the lines of chatter streaming across her com unit. There were four distinct conversations going on in different languages, but Hadara was able to keep track of each one. She would be ready with her report when the time came. She hoped everyone would be on time. Time was of the essence in an op like this. Time and a little help from above! She whispered a prayer in her native tongue begging G-d for help and mercy in this most urgent time of need. She prayed that they would all be safe.
Seeing Double: An Elisabeth Reinhardt Novel Page 2