The Great Deception

by davidberko

  launching in. "Are you as concerned as I am over..."

  "Hang on one sec," Wendel interrupted her.

  Alfonso keyed in on the sound of a plastic device clunking against the wooden surface: the device he had counted on them using. This made him feel all the more smug. Their scant precautions against eavesdroppers left something to be desired. Their mistake.

  "Like I was saying," she picked it right up once again, "with us being so close to, you know," she let him fill in the blanks, "we can't afford to take the chance of allowing the Israelis or anyone else to learn of our plans."

  No, I don't know, Alfonso thought, disappointed in the woman's cryptic language. Whatever she didn't say he figured it had to be big.

  Wendel gave his nonverbal agreement with a low tone in his throat. "I concur. We're still not out in the clear on this one though. Still plenty of time for the infidels to screw everything up."

  "We can't pussyfoot around with that shifty character in Barcelona." She was referring to the governor, Carlos Castell.

  Again, her partner followed her perfectly.

  "He knows too much."

  "I've got Sofia's ear on the matter."

  "Oh really?" Wendel sounded surprised. He made a slurping noise with the steaming little china cup held close to his lips. Amalia hadn't even touched her coffee the whole time. "I've convinced her to cut to the chase and just expedite the process with Spain. But I'm afraid there are other Spains out there. We just don't know it yet." "The sooner we know the better." For a moment neither one spoke.

  "How do you feel about a new world order?" the low, formal female voice inquired.

  "I think it certainly can be for the greater good. Think of what could have been accomplished at Babel....When we're (the human race) united, there's nothing too far above us."

  So that's what this is about. Nothing to do with nationalism...the other -ism.

  Globalism.

  As interesting as the conversation was, Alfonso still waited for any actionable Intel that could be useful to the agency. If Mossad and the rest of the good guys were dealing with a ticking time bomb, they needed to get at the bomb makers, make them talk. There were several issues though. Right off the bat, Agent Marcello had no idea what the conspirators' plans were, but he was pretty sure Wendel and Amalia were players. Just how much they knew and how deep their involvement? Only one way to know. He could bring them in for interrogation. No doubt the option crossed his mind. However, being the smart agent he is, he decided to wait on any hasty plans and just hear if the two had anything more to say.

  Then the tone of the talk took a sudden excursion. A rather intimate one at that. "With all the work lately, you ever get out much?" Wendel wasn't shy about making a move.

  Amalia's previously taught face smoothed out, brightening. "I catch a few winks of sleep here and there, maybe a girl's night out, a few cocktails and a terrace view of Berlin." Although Alfonso didn't know their ages, he would put the German male at five years Amalia's senior. His guess: forty-five.

  "Sounds like you beat me in that department. Some would consider my life to

  be rather dull."

  She chuckled. "Dull can be good sometimes."

  "I don't see how," he admitted. He secretly wondered if his drag of a lifestyle made him ineligible.

  "What's say we change that."

  "Change what?" his voice rose with expectation building. Just a moment ago he was having a professional conversation with a state secretary of the Interior Ministry. How quickly things could flip-flop. A mischievous look played across the secretary's face. "You know...." Her foot traveled underneath the table into his territory. It hit the mark.

  Wendel's lips turned into a squiggly line. He involuntarily shuddered.

  Alfonso rolled his eyes. Cut the crap and get back to business, he thought.

  "You wanna grab a drink tonight?" the commissioner sounded surprised those were even his own words. He didn't ask women out on dates very often, much less agency power women. There was always a first for everything though.

  "I'd like that," she confirmed, trying not to sound overly excited at the prospect. The German really quick went to work to pen his number on stationary.

  "Here's how to contact me," he awkwardly handed her the note.

  "Great! We'll get in touch before then," she said rising from the table.

  Well this conversation is over.

  He reached across to gently shake her hand and for a moment the two locked eyes. "See you tonight," he told her while holding the coffee shop door open like a gentleman. Amalia left first, with lover boy Wendel in close pursuit.

  Alfonso sat at his table for a little longer than necessary to nurse his latte. To him, the glass was half full on his prospects. He'd get in touch with the agency, then order a team to pick the love birds up on their date and take them in for interrogation.

  It will be a night to remember for you two.

  The wicked thought pleased him very much.

  --

  Chapter 6

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  The next class didn't rock his boat. Pre-cal. He didn't have a phobia to the subject unlike many of his fellow classmates. It bored him, more precisely. Not much of a challenge.

  The teacher took attendance at the beginning of the hour. Not to his surprise four kids were absent. Three knocks on three separate occasions interrupted the lesson

  flow...tardies.

  "Get out your textbooks," he said with his back turned to the students while he wrote something up on the board.

  Azriel didn't turn anywhere. Instead he watched the man's loopy cursive spell out the words, Pop Quiz. Ordinarily it might have given him the jitters to read that.

  Certainly he'd be exempt from today's quiz though--no need to worry.

  A few more heads in the room also noticed the message on the board. "If you've found your spot, than we can go over any questions you may have from last night's homework. Yes, there's a quiz following that." It gave him great pleasure to say those words.

  Many dug out three ring binders or spiral bound notebooks with their homework from the previous night. Most of the students hurriedly flipped through pages as if a timer ticked down to the start of the quiz.

  "Show of hands, how many actually did their assignment from yesterday?" A look around the room revealed most everyone chose not to slack off and do the coursework this time. A rarity.

  "Good!" the teacher praised his class. "Then you should have no problem with the quiz over polynomial functions then, am I right?" The faces that stared back looked less than certain. Finally a girl who sat in the front opened it up for questions on the homework. Azriel didn't pay any attention to the back and forth student teacher interaction. It didn't concern him all that much. When the same girl that asked the first question became a repeat offender with another one, Azriel impatiently piped up with the answer.

  The teacher looked down in the answer guide.

  "Why, that's correct Mr. Markov."

  "Of course it is," the boy quipped.

  "Is there something you'd like to tell me right now young man that you haven't before?" "Meaning what, exactly?"

  "Why you're here?"

  His quick tongue didn't have a speedy reply for everything. This caught him off balance. The math teacher continued, "Today is the first day I ever see your face, you walk into my class, having taken no pre-requisites to this class to my knowledge, and you're answering questions to the homework that you've never even done?" "So?"

  "So?" The remark sounded even more stupid than before being parroted back by the teacher. "In all my years of teaching, I've never witnessed a case like today." "Then what are we gonna do about it?" The Jewish boy defiantly stated, ready for anything.

  "You'll be taking that quiz, just like the rest of the class," came the ultimatum. Followed up by,

  "Now close your books and let's get started."

  Several faces turned to glare at Azriel for cutting short their last-minu
te preparation before taking the impromptu quiz.

  He pretended not to notice. He was good at that.

  --

  Moldova

  Psychological warfare. No one knew much about it. Each of the five guys at the safe house had always dealt with real enemies, real bullets...death. Not chasing ghosts.

  …

  The sound of an idling engine being cut aroused the sleepy, nonetheless alert agent. "Are we expecting visitors?" Seth asked anybody listening.

  A short stocky man with a body builder's frame joined Seth. His face had sharp features, high cheek bones, and a small pointed noise. The guys called him Baruch. Whether that was his real name or not, no one knew.

  Baruch ignored the question and drew his gun. If there were prowlers traipsing around the premises of a Mossad safe house at midnight, they would pay for it. He motioned Seth to take up a spot by the entrance into the house while he snuck around to the back.

  Seth stuck his toe out and halfway pivoted around the doorframe using his right shoulder to push the screen open a little. Straining his ears to hear, light footfalls treading the blades of grass came through loud and clear. Just one person.

  Enough time had gone by he figured Baruch had to be in position.

  Then he heard the safety click off and the firm words, "Put your hands behind your head." Seth moved across the threshold to where the switches on the wall were. He flipped the one that activated a flood. Now the front yard was awash in the yellow glow. What he saw greatly surprised him.

  An African-American dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket stood erect, with his hands out, a gun in the non-offensive position pointing to the sky in the palm of his right hand. "Drop the weapon!" Baruch said a little louder than before.

  The man with a gun pointed at his head did as he was told. The pistol landed a couple feet away. "Now put your hands behind your head and interlock your fingers!"

  When he complied the Israeli agent rushed up from behind and patted him down. After he decided there were no more weapons he asked the obvious, "What are you doing here?"

  "That man right there can identify me," the stranger pointed straight at Seth who now stepped off the porch.

  Agent Markov instantly recognized the raspy smoker's voice. It hadn't changed much all these years later from the night at the bar.

  "Put your weapon away Baruch, he's no threat."

  But he didn't react. His pistol's line of sight aimed to kill if the intruder made a move. "We can make this quick," Seth said. He walked the rest of the distance to where the black man stood. "Lift up your shirt."

  The man unzipped his coat. Looked Seth in the eye and raised the fabric of his tshirt just enough to reveal a Star of David tat on his left hip. Agent Markov raced forward to embrace the man. "Tyrone Banks!"

  "Seth Markov!" Tyrone thumped his old friend on the back.

  "God, where have you been old man?" he stared into the stubble complexion of an agency man worn thin like an overused eraser from years of service.

  "I'm not with Mossad anymore, Seth. These days, I'm non-government. But pro- Israel! Make no mistake about that."

  Seth holstered his gun and put his hands on his hips. "So what brings you here?

  Moldova isn't exactly your backyard."

  "And how did you know we were here?" Baruch still had an edge to his tone. "I have my sources," his non-committal answer hung in the air. No one questioned so he continued.

  "Others left with me because they had the same conviction."

  Seth full of curiosity asked, "Same conviction about what?"

  "You got any coffee? You know me, I won't do much talkin' without a good roast and my cigs." "I have half a pot," Seth answered. "It'll need to be heated up though."

  "That'll do," Tyrone said in a husky voice.

  "What about the rest of your crew?"

  "What?"

  "Aren't there five of you?" Tyrone asked.

  "The rest are sleeping. We're on watch," Baruch replied.

  "Yeah, they needed some rest after that intense game of blackjack earlier tonight," Seth cracked.

  He looked over at Baruch as they headed back to the house to see if he'd react at all. But he didn’t show much.

  Tyrone pulled out a pack and lit one up. Three rings of smoke left his mouth, dissipating into the night air.

  Seth's eyes followed the glowing red stick of tobacco and carcinogens go from the mouth to a slack, relaxed position down at Tyrone's side. "I thought you quit that habit."

  The African American licked his lips and said with a straight face, "Giving up smoking is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I've done it thousands of times." "Mark Twain."

  "Are you gonna fix me a cup of coffee or what?" he demanded with a wink.

  "Coming right up, boss," Seth said shaking his head and smiling.

  Tyrone followed him into the house, taking a few more puffs as he went which prompted Seth to turn around and say, "Oh no, you're gonna have to extinguish that if you wanna join me in the kitchen. You're walking into a smoke-free environment."

  Tyrone curled his upper lip in disgust. There were no ashtrays around so he dropped the joint where he felt like it and stamped it out. The shifty character did something unexpected by reaching in his rear pocket for something. Tyrone’s guilty eyes darted around making sure no one was watching. In a stealthy move the man placed a note where it’d eventually be seen, just not in the moment by Baruch or Seth.

  He retraced his steps back to the porch. Tyrone then looked up at the heavens, casting a suspicious long look. Because of what he knew he couldn't look at the sky the same.

  Tyrone stuck his hands in his pockets and turned towards the house. He noticed a low plank set on stilts underneath a window with a face brick wall as the backdrop. A small resigned sigh proceeded him as he lowered his weight onto the bench.

  His dark eyes traveled the free range. There were nothing but low hills and fields between them and Ukraine's southern border. Heavy footsteps from behind made the plank boards of the porch creek. Seth had returned with Baruch.

  The latter man held a flask in one hand and a sour expression on his face. There was little wonder as to what the contents were. Seth meanwhile carried two short white mugs with thick handles.

  He handed the steaming beverage to Tyrone and watched the thankless man sip and contemplate.

  "We have less than five days, boys," he said at last.

  Baruch's drink dripped from his beard. "Till what?"

  "The end of the world."

  --

  Barcelona, Spain

  By mid-afternoon his case officer felt the need to check in.

  "What are your plans tonight, agent?"

  "I'm going on a date, actually."

  It was unclear whether or not the impersonal voice on the other end appreciated the facetiousness. The fact is, these guys learned to go through life without much of a sense of humor. "The German state secretary and commissioner?"

  "Yes."

  "Need backup?"

  "It could be dangerous..." Alfonso joked.

  "Do you plan on bringing them in?"

  "I plan on enjoying this."

  "Agent Marcelo, are you going to be an asset or a liability to us?"

  "Send a tag team to pick us up. Don't keep me waiting."

  "What have you learned from them so far?"

  "Not over the phone. I'll brief you when I come in tonight."

  "I expect to be read in first thing, agent."

  There was more the case officer had to say, but Alfonso wouldn’t let him finish.

  "Gotta go."

  In truth, he had a couple of hours to kill.

  Alfonso didn’t like working with his handler very much. The man didn't know how to separate work from personal affairs and as a result the breakdown interfered in how he managed assets. On more than one occasion Alfonso had to bluff his way out of hot spots his handler created for him. The mistakes needed to be stopped before they jeopardized M
arcelo's life for the last time.

  Since he played the role of street bum during the day, it's not like he had any particular place he could go to and wait.

  Life was one big adventure.

  Alfonso of course did better on his evening rotation than the survival of the fittest drama on the streets of Barcelona the better part of the day. Of any part in the city, the Eixample district became home to Alfonso Marcelo. The neighborhood is anchored by the beautiful Sagrada Familia Roman Catholic cathedral with its towering spires. It also has a high-speed subway line running all the way to France.

  ...

  A big street clock indicated the time dragged: a shade past three. With the agency instant meal already wearing off this wasn't good news. Alfonso wandered the streets because that's what he did. He felt gratitude for the fact that policemen weren't sniffing around asking pedestrians on his whereabouts. Grateful, also, that he didn't have to endure any more of the awkward shenanigans between two German officials who had a thing for each other.