by Nir Hezroni
I make my way down Ibn Gvirol, turn left onto Jabotinsky, and walk to Kikar Hamedina. I sit down there at a café and order a double espresso. The jetlag is taking its toll on me, but I want to hold out until the evening and sleep through the night so that I don’t get stuck on U.S. time. I use my time at the café to charge my laptop and look for a van for sale. I find an ad for an old GMC Savana, a 1997 model, and agree on a price of NIS 8,500 with Reuven, its owner. The photographs on the Yad2 website show large stickers reading MASHANI—CARPET CLEANERS on both sides of the van. The stickers cover the vehicle’s side windows, too. Excellent. I ask Reuven if he can pick me up in 2 hours on the corner of Ibn Gvirol outside building number 203, and then we can go together to the nearest post office to transfer the title of the vehicle. No problem, he says.
Still using the café’s Wi-Fi I search through Yad2’s property listings for a long-term rental, a stand-alone residence, in the Sharon region. I find a suitable house, a fair distance from its nearest neighbors, on Moshav Yanuv. I call the number listed in the ad and speak to Shlomit. She tells me her husband’s been relocated for work and that they’re looking for a long-term tenant. I tell her I’ve just returned from an extended stay abroad in the service of the state and am looking for a quiet place. I ask her if it’s okay for me to pay them upfront in cash for a year and a half. “Absolutely,” she says, “and you’ll see it’s very quiet here. When can you come see the house?” I make an arrangement with her for the following morning.
I close the laptop and put it back in its case, along with the charger. I leave the café and wander around the nearby shops for a while, looking for someone who resembles me both in appearance and age. After an hour or so I see someone who fits the bill; he’s walking around one of the stores with his wife and I bump into him seemingly by chance, knocking him into a clothes rack and apologizing profusely for not paying attention to where I was going. The man’s eyes narrow and he growls something at me. I turn and walk away in the direction of 203 Ibn Gvirol Street with his wallet.
Reuven picks me up on the street corner and we complete the transfer of ownership for the vehicle at the post office on Dizengoff Street. There’s a post office branch at 107 Ibn Gvirol, too, but there’s no parking there—and 107 doesn’t divide by 3 without a remainder. I pay the fee and the car is registered under the name that appears on my ID card, which is the one I produce from the wallet of Roman Morozov that I stole about an hour earlier. The wallet also contains a number of credit cards, a driver’s license, a supermarket Customer Club card, and several family photos. The clerk at the post office tells me I look thinner in person than in the photographs. “Cameras don’t flatter me,” I respond.
Reuven asks me if I can drop him back at his office and I do so. I ask him on the way if he has a few old carpets he no longer needs and can sell to me for a nominal price. He says yes and I buy several shabby rugs from him and put them in the back of the van. I part ways with Reuven and drive to the beach in Herzliya, where I go for a swim in the sea and then take a shower in the municipal changing rooms. I dine later at a restaurant on the beach, surfing the Web while I eat and looking into Roman Morozov. His Facebook page tells me where he works and what he enjoys doing. It’s useful information. I park later that night on one of the streets near the beach and carefully modify the ID card. I separate the pieces of plastic with the box cutter and replace Roman Morozov’s photograph with one of me, using the fine-tipped purple marker afterward to complete the Interior Ministry seal over my image. I stick the card together again when I’m done and go to sleep in the back of my van.
December 12, 2016
“Listen up, friends. It’s more than nine years down the line and we have some new information.”
The group was seated around the same heavy table in Toronto. It was snowing outside and white flakes swirled in the wind on the other side of the window. Central heat warmed the offices and conference room.
“Our emissaries in Israel found Shariri there.”
“And did he know about the bomb? Were the twins able to get the information out of him?”
“They got him to give up the names of three of the members of one of the squads that was looking for the bomb. Three scientists who were working with the Iranians for financial gain or ideological reasons, or both. We have yet to run background checks on each of them.”
“Let’s bring them here!” one of the individuals around the table blurted out.
“Too late. All three are dead. Yasmin Li-Ang was killed in her home in Switzerland, Federico Lopez was killed while running through the park in Bariloche, and Bernard Strauss was killed in his apartment here in Canada.”
“Who killed them?”
“I don’t know. The Americans maybe. Or the Russians. Or maybe the Israelis. There’s no shortage of entities that wanted to prevent the bomb’s location from falling into the hands of anyone at all.”
“And can that person in Israel provide more details? Can they press him a little harder in their interrogation?”
“They did press him a little harder during the interrogation—and now he’s dead.”
“WHAT?” everyone around the table exclaimed at once.
“I didn’t ask them to keep him alive after he gave them the details about the bomb. He saw their faces. In any event, I think they got all they could out of him. I don’t think he left anything out.”
“It’s slipped through our fingers again.”
“Not necessarily,” Herr Schmidt continued. “We know exactly when the three were killed. Let’s try to find out who killed them and we’ll get to those responsible. Get your networks in Switzerland, Argentina, and Canada on it, and let’s see if there was a group of people that entered those countries in the weeks before each assassination and then left. Use facial-recognition only; they may have used different passports every time. If we cross-reference the images, we should be able to ascertain who took them out and then we can track them down and take it from there.”
“What about the location of the bomb? Did Shariri know its location?”
“He gave up the name of a place. Bolivia, Uyuni. I’ve instructed the twins to go there immediately. They’re already on their way, but I’m not sure they’ll find anything. I’m assuming the Iranians have already gone through the place with a fine-tooth comb and found nothing. One of the scientists may have spoken and the bomb may not be there any longer. We’ll wait to see what the twins come up with in Bolivia, and we’ll try meanwhile to find out who killed the scientists who were working with Iran. And from there, we can track the bomb until we get our hands on it.”
One of the men around the table stroked his short beard. “If Shariri was aware of the location of the bomb before the Israelis abducted him,” he said, “then why shouldn’t the Iranians be in possession of it already?”
“The location is very general,” Herr Schmidt said, linking his fingers. “The town of Uyuni in Bolivia is a small place surrounded by a vast desert and close to a salt lake. They may have dug and searched until they simply gave up; and now, many years later, they’ve decided to try again.”
“They’ve decided to try again?”
“I have a strong feeling that the VAJA are the ones who made sure that this envelope with Shariri’s address ended up in our hands. Someone there may be aware of our capabilities, and could be watching us now, following our every movement and waiting for the moment we get our hands on the bomb so they can take it from us. We have to act with extreme caution. I think that one of the scientists who was killed nine years ago knew something more precise about the location of the bomb. Something they decided only one of them should know before passing it on to the Iranians. Something that would keep the location of the bomb safe if the people involved were ever caught. All Shariri knew was the name of a country and the name of a town. That’s not enough, and it probably wasn’t enough for the Iranians either. I think that the team that tried to stop the bomb from getting to Iran and killed all those sci
entists nine years ago secured additional information but chose, for some reason, not to act on it until now. Perhaps the additional information itself wasn’t enough to reveal the location. In any case, we must try. The twins are there; and if there’s anyone who can find out what happened to that bomb, it’s those two lunatics. As soon as we have the whereabouts of the bomb, we’ll smuggle it to Moscow and detonate it near the Kremlin, with regards from the United States.”
The transformation ends long before I wake up on the stone bench. My head aches and my throat is dry. I retrieve a bottle of warm water from my bag and drink.
I notice that I’m no longer alone. He’s standing next to the fountain. Bone-dry earlier, the fountain is now filled with water.
I’m still hooked up to the transformation equipment. As I disconnect myself, I sit up on the bench and notice that he’s looking into the water. I continue to repack the equipment in my bag, sitting on the warm stone bench.
“It’s cold here,” he says.
His voice makes me jump. He sits on the bench next to me.
“It’s very hot,” I consent.
We talk, and then he stands up and leaves. “We’ll meet again,” he says as he walks away.
I go over to the fountain that starts working again and fills with water. I peer in and see a blurred image. A boy is lying in bed with electrodes attached to his head and glasses over his eyes. A woman is on the carpet near the bed. She’s looking at a computer screen. It’s hard to see what’s on the screen. The image is blurred and indistinct.
The bed is big and the boy is small. I keep my eyes on the water and the image comes to life. The woman stands up, strokes the boy’s forehead, and says something to him. She disconnects the electrodes and removes the glasses from the boy’s face. She also removes a set of earphones from his ears. His eyes are open but he doesn’t respond. She bends over him and blocks my line of sight, and when she straightens up again the boy’s eyes are closed. She puts everything into a backpack and leaves. I don’t see where she goes. The image remains focused on the sleeping boy and then fades a few seconds later.
I notice that I’m aware of the fact that I’m dreaming. It happens to me sometimes in a dream. I know we will meet again in a dream. He attracts and repels me at the same time, like two magnets whose attraction and repulsion fields exist in parallel. I feel it when he walks by me and moves farther away.
I feel like I’m going to throw up.
I sit down on the warm stone bench again and close my eyes for a moment, waiting for the sensation to pass.
I look up to see that he’s far away now, a mere speck on the dusty horizon.
I get up and follow him.
December 13, 2016
Carmit checked the time on the screen on the back of the seat in front of her. It was good that she’d managed to fall asleep again for another three hours or so. The plane was nearing Tel Aviv and the flight crew had turned on the cabin lights and was busy with its preparations for landing. Carmit retrieved her passport from the seat pocket in front of her and put it in her own pocket.
The hotel reservation she displayed for the Border Control officials was for The Scots Hotel in Tiberias, but she wasn’t really going there. Instead, she asked the taxi driver to take her to the David InterContinental Hotel in Tel Aviv. It felt weird to be speaking Hebrew again after so many years. She’d even picked up a British accent.
It felt so strange to be seeing the sights and breathing in the odors of the country. She’d left Guy and the children in London, telling them it was just another business trip. Her last perhaps. Guy made that face that seemed to say: “Yes, yes, we’ve heard that one before,” and Emily and Taylor asked her what she was going to bring them from China. “Maybe a Samurai sword?” Taylor asked excitedly. And she explained to him that the Samurais were from Japan not China. “But I promise to bring you something nice from China,” she said. Taylor insisted on a sword and Carmit explained that getting on an airplane with a sword would be a problem.
She smiled now as she recalled the conversation.
Perhaps she should simply go to the Organization’s home base and knock on the door. Now that would be a big surprise. But it’s too dangerous. The things she knows are a threat to the Organization. Even though they’re using—or used to use—her services abroad. She was sure they’d like to get their hands on her just to make sure that her knowledge and history with the Organization never gets out. They obviously trust her; but what if someone were to exploit her family in an effort to get her to divulge secrets? Would she sell out the Organization in return for the lives of her children?
Of course she would.
She needs to contact them securely. Only after ensuring that everything she knows will be made public if they don’t allow her to leave.
Maybe she doesn’t need them at all. Maybe she can find him on her own? That agent on whom she performed the three transformations. The agent who killed so many people in three different countries. If he’s alive, she needs to speak to him; and if he’s dead, she’ll visit his grave.
She hoped he was still alive. She had more than enough dead people on her conscience. Now she was trying to fix whatever she could. The Organization used her to get him to do terrible things, and it’s time for them to settle the bill.
The taxi reached the hotel after a long drive through the Tel Aviv traffic. “Fucking light rail,” the cab driver cursed. “They all took bribes and now we’re going to have to eat shit with these traffic jams for the next ten years. Country of thieves.” And all of a sudden, Carmit felt at home. She smiled at the driver. “Too true, they’re all thieves,” she said.
She went up to her hotel room, put down her small suitcase, undressed quickly, and got into the bath. She filled it to the brim with hot water and a fragrant bubble bath and lay submerged in the tub with her eyes closed, allowing the surrounding warmth and silence to soothe her. She was alone again. Whenever she was away from her family, her dormant instincts as a field agent would come back to her. Every sound and sight sparked suspicion; everyone around her was a potential threat.
Carmit stepped out of the bath and dried herself. She tossed the towel onto the bathroom floor and walked into the bedroom and opened the curtains. Sunlight burst in and warmed her skin. The Mediterranean Sea lay stretched out before her, and she could see individuals and couples walking and jogging along the strip of beach below. It was a partly cloudy December day and the sun had just peeked through a gap in the layer of clouds above. She went over to the closet and removed two of its shelves, placing them upright on the floor of the wardrobe. She had another quick look at the closet from the outside. It looked good.
She dressed quickly, took her backpack, and left the hotel. She always felt naked without a weapon. Uneasy. A prickly sensation of sorts. She took a taxi to the Tel Aviv Port and wandered around the shops a little before stepping into a kitchenware store in the market.
“I need a knife,” she said. “But a very sturdy and sharp one. With a ten-centimeter blade. Something that can easily cut through pumpkin, steaks, kohlrabi, yams, coconut.…”
“I got you,” the store assistant interjected. “You need the very best in my arsenal. Take a look at this one.” The assistant reached into a drawer behind him and pulled out a sharp knife, removing it from its protective sheath. “Be careful,” he said as he handed the knife to Carmit. “It’s sharp as hell.”
She looked over the knife, gauged its weight in her hand, carefully ran her fingernail along the edge of the blade. Very sharp. A balanced handle-to-blade weight ratio. Carmit gripped the knife with both her thumbs pressed against the middle of the side of the blade and tried to bend it. It didn’t budge. Very good.
“Are you a professional chef?”
“Not really, it’s more of a hobby, but I’ve made it through now to the second round of auditions for Master Chef and I need a good knife. Do you know the show?”
“Of course I do. Good luck to you. Anything else?”
“No problem.”
“Do you keep superglue, too, perhaps? I guess I may as well get some now that I’m out.”
“No, we don’t. But go to Hangar 14 across the way there; there’s a store there that sells it.”
“Thanks.”
Carmit went into the bathroom of the restaurant on the second floor of the market and took the knives out of their boxes, leaving only the protective plastic sheaths over the blades. She slipped them into her belt so that the blades in their plastic sheaths were in the front pockets of her jeans, with her long T-shirt covering them. With her backpack in its rightful place on her back again, she stepped outside and headed toward Hangar 14.
The sun was hiding now behind some thick clouds and a cool breeze was coming in from the sea. She could hear the clinking of wineglasses and the rattling of dishes from the open-air restaurants with their tables set out on the long stretch of deck that ran the entire length of the side of the port facing the sea. Someone was laughing. A baby was babbling. Carmit took a deep breath of sea air.
She felt great.
That prickly sensation was gone.
03/30/2016–15 weeks and 5 days since waking
“Nice to meet you—Roman.”
I shake hands with Shlomit and Zvika. Shlomit smells pleasantly of perfume and Zvika gives off a faint odor of sweat. They live in a secluded house on Moshav Yanuv. The house has a large basement and there are no neighbors nearby, so no one will hear the renovations I’m planning. I tell them about my stint in Argentina on behalf of Israel Aerospace Industries. My family is still there and I’m visiting the company’s offices in Israel, and I’m using the time to sort out the housing issue ahead of our return.
“After Buenos Aires, all we want is a quiet place,” I tell them, showing them the photographs of the woman and children that I found in Roman Morozov’s wallet. Zvika knows some Spanish from his trip to South America after the army and he’s eager to practice the language a little. We speak some Spanish and he tells me he’s been relocated to the United States for 3 years. I tell them that since I don’t want to get involved with endless payments, I’ll cover the rent for the full 3 years in 2 installments—half the money when we sign the contract and the other half in 18 months’ time. I ask them how soon they can vacate the home and Shlomit says they’re leaving in 3 months. I ask Zvika if he minds if I pay in dollars, which will probably suit them if they’re heading to the United States. “I received a portion of my wages in cash and I converted it into dollars before coming to Israel,” I explain.