Mrs. Klein stared, horrified, and nodded. Hans released his grip, straightened, and ripped the cord out of the wall. He slung the phone across the room.
“Call your husband. Wake him up. Get him in here”
Hans yanked her to her feet. He wrapped his right arm around her and stood in front of the door she indicated. Sticking the tip of the dagger at her throat, he whispered in her ear. “Call him in here.”
“Simon. Simon, please come into the living room. I need you” she called.
Louder,” Hans said. “You wouldn’t want me to go in after him, would you?”
From some hidden recess inside the woman came a primordial scream that split the tense air.
“Simon Come into the living room. For God’s sake, help me.”
A disheveled man burst through the door and stumbled into the living room.
“Good God, Adi, what happened? You scared me.” He focused on Hans holding his wife. “Who is this man?”
Hans watched as the reality of the situation registered in Simon’s sleep-filled brain. He sank to his knees and stared at his wife. A moan rumbled out of his throat. He rocked slowly on his knees, his eyes tightly closed, his hands clasped in prayer. The moan changed to Hebrew, “Hear oh Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one”
“Shut up, old man” Hans shouted. “Your stupid God won’t save you this time. Listen carefully, for I’m only going to tell you once. If I do not get what I want, your sweetheart dies a very slow and painful death. I’ll cut her neck from ear to ear. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Simon opened his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks and seeped into his white whiskers. He nodded. “Yes, yes. Anything you say. Please don’t hurt Adi.”
Hans laughed. “Where is the Whittelsbach Emerald?”
Simon cast a furtive glance at his wife. She shook her head and closed her eyes.
Hans picked up on the slight signal and swore.
“I am not a patient man,” Hans said. “Let’s see if a little pain will loosen your tongue.”
Keeping his attention on Simon, Hans moved the dagger from Adi’s throat and sliced a portion off her ear. She let loose a piercing scream. A red ribbon of blood ran down Adi’s neck. Simon slumped to the floor.
“If you so much as move, woman, I’ll slice off your other ear.”
He turned her loose, lifted the man to his feet, and dragged him to a wooden chair in the corner of the room. Taking the roll of duct tape from his pocket, he forced Simon’s arms around his back, bound his wrists together, and secured them to the chair. He taped Simon’s ankles to the chair legs, turned back to Adi cringing with fear and trying to staunch the flow of blood from her ear.
“We’ll never tell you where the emerald is.” She spat the words indignantly. “You can torture and kill us, but you don’t deserve to have that emerald.”
Hans walked over to her. His whole body stiffened. He glanced at the ceiling, spun around as quickly as a lightening bolt and threw the dagger at Simon.
Simon stared at the hilt of the knife protruding from his chest. He looked up at his wife, smiled, and closed his eyes.
Adi’s scream cut short. A deep moan pulled life out of her. She closed her eyes and slumped.
Hans whispered in her ear, “Now little lady, do you want to tell me where you keep my emerald?”
Adi looked up through pain-filled eyes. She spat into his face.
Hans wiped the spittle with the back of his hand. “That’s the way it’s to be? I’ll find it if I have to tear this house apart board by board and burn it to the ground.” He grasped a handful of her hair, and roughly lifted her to her feet.
Her scream so piercing, was almost pretty. A high, sweet sound. As the scream left her throat, Hans gripped her head, twisted it, and broke her neck. He closed his eyes at the satisfying crunch of vertebrae as they snapped. He dropped her limp body to the floor.
For an hour, he searched the farmhouse. He swore under his breath and stalked back into the living room to Simon’s slumped body. He placed his boot on the old man’s chest and withdrew his knife. With the bloody blade, he slashed open Simon’s nightshirt sleeve, carved two jagged lightening flashes in the man’s bicep, and did the same to Adi.
Hans carefully wiped blood from his knife on Simon’s nightshirt. He inserted his dagger back into its leather scabbard nestled between his shoulder blades.
He stomped toward the front door, kicking papers he had knocked off a desk during his search. He gave a final glance around the room, caught the glitter of gold in the letterhead on a piece of paper that read Christy’s of Geneva. He snatched it up and read the typing. It was a receipt for the Whittelsbach Emerald that would be sold at auction in just a few days. He left the farmhouse, slamming the door behind him. Under no circumstances would anyone get that emerald. It was his emerald.
Back in his car, Hans tossed the tam in the back seat, put on a black baseball cap, carefully applied a fake nose, and stuck a hairy wart near his chin. He started the engine, swung the Mercedes around, and sped toward Geneva.
CHAPTER 3
Switzerland
Crushing the letter from Christies in his fist, he stood by the front door surveying the carnage he had just created. He reveled in the adrenalin surge that made his heart race and his lungs pound. His emerald wasn’t here. Turning angrily, Hans quickly left the farmhouse, the dangling cowbell over the door ringing in his ear. As he ran toward his car the country breeze across his face was suddenly sweet, the air pungent, reminding him of death.
He settled in the soft leather seat but with trembling fingers could hardly get the key into the ignition. He loved this feeling, his heart pumping, mind reeling, hair standing up on forearms, if it could only last forever.
Back out on the highway, he had to force himself to drive close to the speed limit, and he calmed noticed that the sky was slowly changing from bright blue to a lovely, muted purple. After a short drive, with Geneva hours away, he pulled in beside a small Gesthof with a lighted vacancy sign.
He pulled out his small overnight bag from the car trunk and out of habit felt to make sure his stiletto was in its sheaf behind his neck. Pushing open the heavy, scarred front door he entered a dingy bar smelling of spilled beer, cigarettes and supper cooking in a distant kitchen.
From behind the bar came, “Welcome Sir, would you like a drink, supper, a room or maybe more?”
Han’s eyes adjusted to the gloom as he walked up to the bar, sat and replied, “A large Cognac would do me well.”
“Oh, sir, I’m terribly sorry. We are a small, poor establishment, and all we serve is beer on tap. How’ bout a nice dark Bavarian lager?”
“If that’s all you have I guess it’ll have to do.”
The hefty barmaid took a stein from the back wall, and pulled a large porcelain handle filling the stein with an amber liquid to the brim and overflowing. Placing it on the polished bar in front of Hans, she smiled and asked, “What else would you like?”
“I’m afraid it’s been a long and tiring day and all the energy I have left is to climb the stairs to a room, if you have one, and fall asleep.”
With a nod of her pigtailed head and a disappointed voice she said, “We do have rooms available, keys are over there on the wall. Just take your pick, and sleep well,” and walked out of the bar into a back room.
The old uneven floor creaked as Hans walked down the dimly lighted hall, pushed open a door marked 3 with his overnight bag and tossed it on the bed. Being careful not to spill his second stein of beer he eased into the floral, sagging over-stuffed chair, pushed off his shoes, put his feet on the edge of the bed and drank from the stein he had been allowed to take to his room. Sipping the tepid amber liquid he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The warm buzz he felt was not so much from the two steins of beer as from the killing adrenalin still pumping through his veins. He knew this feeling didn’t come from the actual killing, but started during the remembered connection to his father as he c
arved the lightning flashes into each victim. He closed his eyes and as after each killing, his memory flashed back to the contorted face of his father dying on the street in Buenos Aires.
He walked proudly beside his tall father as they left the compound on Garibaldi Street and headed towards the bus stop in the next block. Crossing the street just before the green and yellow bus pulled to a stop, they waited as several people exited the bus, two women and a young man, neighbors of theirs. His father’s head turned left and right looking for anything out of the ordinary. He felt very proud that his father had been chosen to protect Herr Klement. Someday he wanted to do the same. Suddenly, a white haired, stooped shouldered man came down the bus steps, looked at him, and smiled. Hans waved excitedly, as he always did when he saw Herr Klement. The man walked toward them and gave a slight wave. The bus door closed and pulled back onto Garibaldi Street to continue its late afternoon journey through the streets of Buenos Aires. He and his father walked toward the man, who seemed older than he really was, shook hands, turned and started back to the Klement compound. It was then that he noticed a large black limousine parked beside the curb, its engine hood up and a man leaning over the engine. Father grabbed his hand quickly and pushed Herr Klement to quickly cross the street. The black doors opened on both sides of the car, men came piling out, guns drawn, shouting for us to stop. Father dropped his hand, reached for the Luger he always carried, but before he could get it out of his holster several of the men shot him. He was shouting as his father fell and crumpled to the pavement. Hans tried to get to the pistol that had fallen beside his father. His father covered it with his hand and shook his head. Hans knelt down beside him, gently touched his face, called his name, and knew he was dead. Then he felt bullets burning into his body. He fell back on the street, screaming for Herr Klement to run, run, run, but they grabbed him and shoved him into the car, and Hans couldn’t do anything to help him. The terrified young man looked up and saw a man, not more than two feet away pointing his gun at His head. Through his pain he saw the trigger finger begin to squeeze and then relax. His eyes closed to block out the searing pain. The people in the car were shouting, “Finish him, finish him”. Car doors slam and opening his eyes he saw the big, black car speed off, tires screaming, down Garibaldi Street. The last thing he saw was the man who almost shot him again, looking at him through the back window of the car, and he passed out beside his father.
Hans opened his eyes, trying to focus where he was, outside of his remembered past. Shaking his head, he got up, staggered to the bed and flopped on it fully dressed.
CHAPTER 4
Tel Aviv
The sun-toasted, long-legged blond, jogged toward him on the beach, her feet kicking up the white wash zone. Her skin tight swimsuit twisted back and forth struggling to cover her inviting body. He was running to meet her on the warm sand, their arms reaching out to enfold each other. Just as they were about to embrace his hopeful dream was shattered by the ringing of his bedside phone. The clock’s red digits showed five a.m. Who would be calling at this ungodly hour? Angrily He fumbled for the phone.
“Yes! Do you know what time it is?”
A voice full of gravel erased any further hopes of beaches and blonds.
“Get here as soon as possible. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Click! The voice was gone.
Sitting on the edge of the bed he tried rubbing the dream and last night’s single malt scotch out of his head. But when Levi said jump, he jumped.
Levi was a revered and legendary case officer, or katsa, within the Kidon, a highly secretive department of the Israel’s foreign intelligence service. It had a devious name that had little to do with its real mission. Those employed there only referred to it as the Office. In their training her agents were made to promise never to speak of its real name. David’s new katsa had the job of handling the agents or combatants, who carry out covert actions abroad against whoever was considered to be a threat to Israeli. David had only met Levi once, at his graduation from Kidon training in the Negev desert last year, however, the stories of this man’s exploits for Israel filled what little free time there was during that training. He had been the mastermind behind the tracking and killing of Ali Hassan Salameh, known as “The Red Prince”, the man responsible for the Munich Olympic massacre of Israeli athletes in 1972, and even today, 1994, Levi was still motivated by that shedding of young Jewish blood.
David’s feet hit the floor; he groped for the switch on the lamp by the phone before aiming for the shower. Minutes later, awakened by the stinging cold water, he pulled on chinos, slipped a tee shirt over his uncombed black hair, jammed feet into cowboy boots, grabbed his NY Yankee baseball cap and slammed his apartment door.
Taking the elevator down to the underground parking garage, the Israeli ex-paratrooper ran toward his beat-up jeep, climbed in and fired the engine. The roar of AMC-401 under the hood killed the early morning silence and echoed through the cavernous garage. Pushing the remote button the wrought iron gate began its slow retreat across the exit. Jabbing the gas peddle, the jeep chased the echo of its engine up the slope from the garage onto the street in front of his apartment building.
No one else was crazy enough to be up at this time of the morning and he cruised quickly through the familiar streets of Tel Aviv heading toward King Saul Boulevard. The glisten of last night’s rain on deserted streets added to the mystery of the urgency. David flashed around the dog park at He Be’Lyar Circle on two wheels, and headed down Weizmann Street, wishing he could stop and get a cup of his favorite Turkish coffee at the corner café, as he cut a fast right onto King Saul Boulevard. Just past the Israeli Opera House he honked two long and one short. Jacob, in The Office parking kiosk, looked up from the paperback he was reading, recognized the Jeep careening down King Saul toward him and quickly pushed a red button and the concrete crash barriers slid down into the pavement.
David, screeching to a stop, grinned at Jacob, “One of these days I’m going to sneak up and surprise you.”
“Yeah right! I could hear you coming a block away. No way could you sneak up on anyone in that pile of junk. No one’s snuck past me into the Office yet,” Jacob fired back.
David smiled back and rolled into the parking garage. The building under which he parked his Jeep housed the headquarters of the Mossad, officially known as The Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations. However, David and the others who work for this agency call it just - - - The Office.
This semi-secret agency is responsible for intelligence collection and covert operations which are suspected to include targeted killings and paramilitary activities beyond Israel’s borders, and protecting Jewish communities worldwide. It is one of the main entities in the Israeli Intelligence Community, along with Aman (military intelligence) and Shin Bet (internal security), and its director reports directly to the Prime Minister.
After parking close to the elevator door in the mostly deserted garage, he got out and pressed a remote in his pocket that shut off the gas flow to the engine - - - a safety check he had installed since it was virtually impossible to lock a Jeep with canvas side curtains. His pass card slipped quietly through the building’s magnetic slot, the door opened, and he took the stairs three at a time without pausing to the fourth floor. His boot heels clicked as he walked down the deserted corridor knowing that the only others in the building at this time in the morning were probably a few in the communications room in the basement level. He finally stopped in front of an unmarked door of the corner office. The incense-like aroma of Latakia tobacco seeping under the door told David that the person in the office had gotten up even earlier that he had. Standing a little over six feet tall he took a deep breath, turned the bill of his NY Yankee cap around to the front and knocked.
The gravely voice bid him enter and as he shut the door he saw Levi in his typical, often washed but never ironed, campaign shirt, shoulder epaulets unbuttoned, stoking his ever present, yellowed meerschaum pipe. Howev
er, there was another person in the room. A slender, black haired, attractive female, in army fatigues, back to David, was staring out the window.
“Took you long enough getting here.”
“Good morning to you too, Levi.”
“I want you to meet Lieutenant Miriam Wagner.”
David was startled. As she turned he remembered her well from training at the Henzelia pistol range, near Tel Aviv. He’d seen her scores. She was an exceptional shot and the image of her, eyes focused and intense, beneath the yellow-lensed glasses, her short hair puffed out comically around the thick ear protectors, flashed into his brain. Then his mind flew to the final proficiency exam with the Galil sniper rifle when she graduated with the best score in his battalion. His ego suffered a hit that day as she replaced him as top shot in their training class. He remembered hearing that she credited her high scores to the times she spent hunting in Africa with her father. They had also been together when sent to a special camp in the Negev where they had learned to kill in a dozen ways. In the midst of the heat and dirt of the desert their competiveness seemed to grow and fester.
She had always been an exciting and frustrating challenge for David.
Moving with graceful economy of the leopards she hunted with her father, she sat on Levi’s battered leather sofa, curling up her long legs under her. Giving David a quick, denying glance, her fine silky eyebrows rose a little and she drew her lips in a tight smile.
“Hello Lieutenant, remember me?”
He stopped, trying not to look at her legs. “How can I forget? How have you been, Miriam?”
“Oh, you remember my name?”
“Sure, none of the guys in my outfit would let me forget it. Where did you learn to shoot so well?”
“Growing up, my father taught me to use an old Syrian AK-47 that he captured during the 6-Day War. It was easy to convert that training to the Galili and Uzi.”
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