Three Envelopes

by Nir Hezroni

  My suspicions appear justified.

  I turn away without entering and go back down to the lobby, exit the hotel through a back door, and never return.

  I find a small hotel outside the city and reserve a room.

  December 4th 2016

  A knock at a quarter to five in the morning diverted Avner’s eyes away from the notebook. He rose quickly to open the door.

  Standing before him was Grandpa.

  After a brief handshake and exchange of niceties they both sat at the round table in the kitchenette. Avner quickly brought Grandpa up to speed with what he’d learned from the notebook until now. He spoke in a soft tone and remained focused, trying not to leave out any important details.

  Avner went over the principal details that shed additional light on the failures concerning the recruitment of 10483, the operation he carried out in the Netherlands, the killing of the agent in the subway, the operation involving the destruction of the building in Switzerland, his basement and murder of two agents there, the hit in Bariloche.

  Grandpa’s eyes grew ever darker as Avner continued, and when he got to the connection between The Organization and the incident in Montreal, Grandpa rested his chin on his right hand and sighed.

  “I wasn’t aware until now that he was behind the mega-attack in Canada. That we were behind it. I was sure it had nothing at all to do with our objective there—that the hypnosis broadcast in Montreal was the work of some local psychopath. We thought that all 10483 had done in Canada was push Bernard Strauss out the window of his room. This can never get out.”

  Grandpa fixed Avner with a tired stare.

  “Twelve people were supposed to die, not eleven thousand. And of those twelve, eleven were innocent.”

  Grandpa went silent for a moment and then continued in a low voice.

  “Eleven innocent individuals to save half a million.”

  February 28th 2006

  The empty wine bottle fell off the table and shattered on the floor, and fragments of red glass flew everywhere.

  Bernard Strauss rose wearily from his chair and walked over to the window, treading barefoot on the shards of glass on the floor and leaving behind a trail of blood. He appeared to be oblivious to the pain.

  For months now his mind had been plagued and stifled by depression. He’d been functioning on automatic, lecturing at the university in the mornings, working apathetically on his research in the evenings, and sitting for hours in front of the TV at night.

  Alone.

  There was a time when he used to enjoy talking to people or going out and returning home with a woman he happened to meet at one of Montreal’s numerous pubs and clubs; but he’d lost all interest. His senses dulled.

  He found himself thinking more and more about the futility of it all.

  He shouldn’t have made that deal with the devil. Agree to help them just for greed. For money. Where will they detonate that bomb? How many innocent people will die because of him? He felt trapped.

  That night, after downing far more glasses of alcohol than his body could absorb, he opened the large window and jumped.

  December 4th 2016

  “Eleven innocent individuals?”

  “I’ll tell you.” Grandpa rested his coffee cup on the table. “Let’s move to one of the rooms.”

  “When the Soviet Union fell apart, Kazakhstan was left in possession of one thousand four hundred nuclear warheads on missiles and armaments for aircraft. Kazakhstan made a decision to sign the Non-Proliferation Treaty and become a country free of nuclear arms. By the end of 1993, the Kazakhs had returned all this weaponry to Russia. According to intelligence assessments, ours and the Americans, several fifty-kiloton bombs ‘disappeared’ on the way and were hidden somewhere in Kazakhstan by military officials who planned to wait a few years and then sell them for a tidy sum. It had nothing to do with ideology; it was all about greed. You have to understand, fifty kilotons is about 1.8 grams of enriched Uranium-235—or put plainly, Hiroshima three times over for each of the bombs that were stolen.

  “Intense yet quiet efforts to locate the bombs have been underway since 1993—on the part of the Russians in particular, but the Americans have also been involved and so have we. The Russians were afraid they’d fall into the hands of the Chechens or Georgia; the Americans were worried about them getting to Bin Laden; and Israel feared they could end up, with the help of Iranian funding, in the hands of a thousand different elements. I think it was the first time in history that agents from the three countries worked together on the same project. It hasn’t happened again. We were under the impression that all the bombs were found and that all those involved were eliminated.

  “Then, about twelve years ago, we received information from Military Intelligence Unit 8200 that opened everything up again. They picked up an encrypted online correspondence between Kazakhstan and Denmark that appeared to be part of an arms deal negotiation. It happens all the time—arms deal negotiations, that is—but the system highlighted this particular correspondence due to the unusually high sums of money involved and the fact that they were discussing ‘one barrel of material.’”

  “What kind of money are you talking about?”

  “They were discussing a sum of two and a half billion dollars for this one ‘barrel.’ In other words, a state was clearly behind the efforts to make the purchase. This prompted immediate monitoring of the group in Kazakhstan that was trying to push the deal through. They weren’t fools, however, and managed somehow to transfer the bomb to Mongolia, and that’s where we lost track of the people who were holding it. And then they all disappeared as if the earth had swallowed them up. The Strategic Threats Department slaved over the matter for months before picking up another phone call from Kazakhstan to Brussels.

  “Brussels at the time was hosting a scientific conference for physicists, and the call came in to one of the conference rooms in which the discussions were taking place. The conference was at the Hotel Metropole. We managed to catch the call in real time and immediately dispatched an agent to the scene; she opened the conference room door and peeked inside as though she had entered the wrong room but the call had ended by the time she got there. She did manage to take a look at everyone in the room though, so we could verify the faces with the list of participants in the discussion that was affixed to the door of that conference room. The agent photographed the list after she closed the door.

  “There were twelve scientists. One of them took the call from Kazakhstan.”

  Grandpa logged into the Orion system and opened a document displaying the transcript of a phone call:

  * * *

  - THE DEVICE HAS ARRIVED AND IS IN A SECURE LOCATION, AS WE AGREED.

  - IN THE CEMETERY?

  - YES.

  - THE REMAINDER OF THE SUM WILL BE TRANSFERRED TO YOU IN FULL THROUGH THE AGREED ACCOUNTS WITHIN A MONTH, FOLLOWING AN INSPECTION OF THE DEVICE.

  - WE’RE PULLING OUT OF THERE. DOES ANYONE APART FROM YOU KNOW THE LOCATION?

  - NO. I WILL INSPECT THE DEVICE PERSONALLY, AND I’M THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS THE LOCATION.

  * * *

  “And then they haggled over the timetable, and eventually came to an agreement.”

  “He or she? You said you were listening to the call, so why not simply use voice-recognition software to identify the person?”

  “There were no voices. The entire conversation was conducted by means of the phones’ touch-tone keypad buttons. A Morse code of sorts that they’d devised based on ten different tones. The phone at the hotel wasn’t encrypted and they had no alternative. They must have been afraid of someone recognizing the person on the Brussels end of the line in the event the phone was tapped. We cracked the code in seconds. It was a pretty primitive one as it didn’t involve any real encryption and was something performed manually, but we didn’t know who in Brussels had taken the call and we came up with nothing from Kazakhstan, too.”

  “Fingerprints on the phone?”

  �
�The agent checked for those too when everyone left the room. Nothing. It had been wiped clean. I made the decision. I gave the order to assassinate all twelve.”

  The room went quiet for a moment, and then Grandpa continued:

  “I instructed the Operations Wing to kill them all, even though eleven had done nothing wrong. The plan was for twelve different agents to go after the targets and take them out one by one. One agent for each target. I didn’t think we’d have any trouble with that madman we sent there. Based on the information you’ve just now given me, the price paid by the innocent has been high. Too high.”

  Grandpa sighed again. He sat slumped in his chair, as if a heavy load was resting on his shoulders. For a moment he looked very old.

  “Look, if the bomb had fallen into the wrong hands, it would have made its way to Africa, to Egypt, and from there to Gaza through a tunnel; and they would have found a way to get it to Tel Aviv somehow. Half a million fatalities is a conservative estimate. And where would we seek retribution? It wouldn’t be Iran; because they know all too well that they’d be sealing their own fate if they were to send a bomb here. I was left with no choice.”

  “You had no choice. I would have done the same.”

  “I read up on all twelve. Brilliant individuals. I tried in every way I could to find something that would point unequivocally to one of them. Nothing. Did the possibility that the device in question was one of the missing bombs warrant killing all of them? None of the intelligence we had made mention of a bomb, but the evidence seemed to indicate that it was one. I guess we’ll never know whether Bernoulli was justified or not. But the fact is that ten years have gone by since then and we’re all still here.

  “I thought I’d sleep well at night. I don’t sleep well. And it’s only going to get worse now. Everyone’s blood is on my conscience. We made a horrendous mistake with that agent. I still don’t understand how he came to be in possession of the details of three targets and not only one. I was sure he had obtained them himself, or that he was a double agent or a plant or any possible theory. And still now—are you sure that what it says in the notebook about how he received the envelopes is really true? It could simply be a ploy on his part, or on the part of whoever is behind him.”

  “What happened in the end with 10483 anyway?” Avner asked. “I recall reading a report that his body was found. I tried to find it now, but it’s no longer in the system—just like the rest of the material on the Bernoulli Project—it seems to have disappeared from the computer.”

  “Yes, they upped the classification level of Bernoulli to include only the inner circle. That’s why you’ll only find details about it in partially censored indirectly related documents. In any event, his body was discovered in his apartment following his return from Canada. I gave the order for him to be followed from the moment he landed and not be allowed to disappear. The surveillance team saw smoke coming from his apartment that night and broke inside. He had poured a jerrycan of gasoline over himself and his bed, laid down and set himself on fire. He was already burned to the crisp by the time the agents called the fire department and rushed inside. Absolute madness.”

  “How did they know it was him?”

  “Dental records—the fillings in his teeth. Fingerprints were out of the question and his DNA sample wasn’t in the system. Another screw-up. The fire consumed almost the entire apartment. His parents were already elderly at the time. They sold the apartment after the fire. We searched it beforehand, but we overlooked the basement. Are you sending a team there this morning?”

  “Yes,” Avner replied, and then he remembered something else. “Tell me, did they find the tooth of a young girl on his body?”

  “A girl’s tooth?”

  “Yes, he writes in the notebook that the tooth was in a plastic bottle around his neck.”

  “No, they found nothing of the kind. And they examined that body with a fine-tooth comb. What was left of it at least. Had they found such a tooth, it would certainly have appeared in the pathology report.”

  “Do you mind waiting here for a short while?” Avner said. “I have two pages of the notebook left to read; perhaps there’s something interesting in them.”

  “No problem. I’ll make some more coffee. You look like you could do with some too.” Grandpa allowed himself a smile and headed to the kitchenette.

  Avner picked up the notebook again.

  MORNING. MARCH 2006

  I make a list.

  1. Rat poison—large package

  2. Material for unclogging drains—3 cartons

  3. Flexible air-conditioning pipe—20 meters

  4. Large roll of cling wrap

  5. 3 10-liter plastic buckets

  6. Baking soda—1 carton

  7. Vinegar—5 cartons

  I buy the vinegar and baking soda at Walmart. The substance for unclogging drains and the rest of the equipment I pick up wholesale directly from the factory store. And I acquire the rat poison at the Great Farmer’s Market about a half-hour drive from Montreal.

  After loading all the materials into the car, I drive to the university.

  When I get to the university my target’s car isn’t there. I drive to the target’s residence. He isn’t there. There’s no guard outside either. I enter the building and take the elevator to my target’s floor. Police crime-scene tape is stretched across the door to the target’s apartment. Someone beat me to it. My target no longer exists. I can go home.

  I dump the car and materials I purchased and buy a ticket back to Israel online. There’s a tail on me from the moment I arrive at the airport in Montreal ahead of my departure. The tail stays with me in Tel Aviv, too.

  I go home, walk inside, and open the windows to air out the apartment. I go down to the basement to check on my displays. I add more nutrient solution to the large container for the IVs. It’s almost empty. The 2 people at the table watch me. Their eyes are wide open. Their breathing is heavy. There’s a stench in the basement.

  I remove the man from the aquarium. I shouldn’t have to destroy my artwork like this, but I have no choice. I lay the body on the floor and open the man’s mouth. I insert a teaspoon into his mouth so that it doesn’t close.

  Some of the oil in which he was suspended spills onto the floor around him, and I’m careful not to slip on it.

  I have equipment I purchased from a dentist in the storage cupboard in the basement, along with my own dental X-rays. I get to work.

  I carry the body upstairs to the bedroom when I’m done and lay it down on the bed. I wash the house thoroughly and remove all the oil that dripped on the floor.

  I write a suicide note.

  I write that I’m now a danger to The Organization because the enemy knows my identity, so it’s best I kill myself. I leave the note in the refrigerator.

  I glance out the window. The vehicle with the team sent to keep track of me is parked outside. This time there aren’t just 2 of them. There are 4.

  I pour a jerrycan of gasoline over the man in the bed, set him on fire and go back down to the basement. I shut the basement door well to prevent smoke from drifting in from above. The basement is well sealed and there’s enough food and water down here for a 6-month stay, but I have no intentions of being here for that long. I’ll leave in a few weeks with enough cash in hand to set myself up in a new apartment and make my plans.

  I eat matzo with chocolate spread and begin my last entry in the notebook.

  December 4th 2016

  “Just as I suspected.”

  Avner closed the notebook.

  “That wasn’t his body they found there. He was hiding in the basement.”

  Grandpa tapped his fingers on the table.

  “It’s too simple, Avner. I don’t buy it.”

  “I’m willing to bet you that three hours from now we’ll be standing in that basement,” Avner responded. “What’s too simple about it? He hid down there while his bedroom burned upstairs, and our team didn’t find the trapdoor lea
ding down to the basement. He must have hidden it well. A few days or weeks later, after everything had blown over, he emerged and disappeared. He probably had enough food in there for months, just as he wrote. All I’m missing is the last page of the notebook. He says he’s writing one, but there isn’t another page.”

  “I agree with everything you say. But just think for a moment. Why would he want you to know that the body we found wasn’t his? And why now? He’s the one who wrote the story about the tooth. He’s the one who sent the notebook to Amiram because he knew Amiram would run to you with it. He wanted you to know what you now know. That’s not what bothers me. The damage is already done and there’s nothing we can do about it. What bothers me is this: Why does he want you to know about it now? He knows you’ll be sending a team to the basement this morning. He knows that after reading through just a few pages of the notebook, you must have gone to one of The Organization’s branches to log in to the computer system. He’s surely aware of it all. He may have followed Amiram and now he knows where you live, too. He may have followed you and is now waiting outside for you. And if so, why? You have no direct connection to him. You weren’t his operator.”

  “And why wait ten years?” Avner added. “I don’t get it.”

  “Everything in the notebook could be the absolute truth or simply dry facts mixed in with misleading information that he chose to insert. Don’t take it all for granted. And Avner, do me a favor, warn the team that’s going there today. The place could be rigged with an explosive device if that part of the notebook is true; they shouldn’t take any chances and they mustn’t touch a single thing there. Do you plan to send the Counter-Terrorism Unit, too?”

  “No. I was thinking the police, firefighters, one of our teams and paramedics on standby.”

  “You should coordinate with the Counter-Terrorism Unit. One of their sappers should be on the team that goes in to the apartment.”