by Arno Joubert
Once he had mockingly asked his father about the Thursday night ritual. “You’re too old for all this lovey-dovey crap, Dad,” he had said, trying to get some sort of reaction from the older man. Any kind of reaction would have been good.
David Cohen had looked at him for a long while and then looked away, staring at the horizon. “I guess it’s a natural law.”
“What?”
“Sons are put on this earth to trouble their fathers.”
Zach remembered it was a year later when he called his father outside. He had turned twenty-two, and he had wanted to ask his father a serious question. They settled on the porch, sipping a beer and enjoying the sunset.
“Do you remember Sarah?” he asked his father.
“The Rodberg girl? You brought her over during spring break.”
Zach nodded.
“Pretty girl. A good family,” his father said, looking at the horizon, as was his manner.
“Well, I’m finishing up with school next year, and I was thinking of doing my military service here in Israel.”
David Cohen turned to face his son. “That’s good, Zachary. You have a moral responsibility,” his father said with a faint smile, nodding approvingly.
“Sarah and I are in love, and we want to get married before I join the army,” he blurted out.
David Cohen studied the label on his beer bottle, contemplating his answer. This was the moment Zach had dreaded; he wouldn’t be able to reconcile with his dad if he didn’t give him his blessing. After a long while, David Cohen looked at him, fixing his eyes on him. “You ready to become a man, Zachary?”
“What do you mean, Dad?” Zach asked incredulously. “I am a man.”
David Cohen narrowed his eyes. “You’re a man when I say you are.” The older man stood up and placed his beer on the porch then disappeared into the house. A while later he came back holding two pairs of boxing gloves. “Here, put them on.” David pulled the gloves over his own fists and tightened the laces with his teeth.
“Why, Dad? Do you want to fight me?” Zach scoffed.
“Yes, son, I do. I want to beat the crap out of you.”
“You can try, old man.” Zach pulled the gloves on then danced around his dad, trying the fancy footsteps he had seen the boxers do on TV. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”
The punch was telegraphed and slow. David Cohen threw a whopping roundhouse right-hand that connected solidly to Zack's chin. While he had seen the punch coming from a mile away, he couldn’t believe it. His dad was the most good-natured person he knew. Zachary slumped to his knees, the earth spinning. He tried to shake the blow off.
“What was that for?” he moaned, moving his jaw.
The old man towered over him, poking his fist in his face. “For all the derogatory remarks I had to endure from a snot-nose kid like you. I’ll tell you what happens on Thursday nights,” he said, clasping his son’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “Your mom and I fall in love again. We talk about anything but kids or homework or work or you, you fucking smart aleck.”
Zach stood groggily, shaking his head.
“Look at me.” David Cohen connected with an uppercut to the solar plexus.
Zach fell down with a grunt, clutching his stomach.
“We remember what made us fall in love with each other in the first place. And now, thank God, you’ll be moving out of the house, and we can go back to the way things were.” He roughly tapped the back of Zachary’s head with a gloved hand. “We can fall in love again. Hopefully Sarah will be as good to you as your mom is to me, then you’ll understand.”
David Cohen sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, then stuck out his hand. “Stand up; I feel better.”
Zach allowed himself to be pulled up. “Geez, Dad, I didn’t know you were so upset about the things I said. Why didn’t you tell me to shut up?”
“Because you were a child. Today, you’re a man; it's different.” He pulled the glove from his hand and placed his hand on Zach’s shoulder. “Let me give you a piece of advice, boy. One day you will be old, and then you need to reach out to the only person who cares about you. Your spouse. Not kids, not family. Your wife, she is all who matters in life.”
“So I have your blessing?” Zach asked with a grimace, out of breath.
“You do. If the wedding is in Jaffa. And your mom gets to choose the dress.”
The older man then turned around, shaking his head. “Hopefully they teach you some boxing skills in the army . . .”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Zach was shaken awake from his daydream when the car swayed once more and slowed to a screeching halt. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat away. His dad had been right. It felt like his heart had been ripped out, like a part of him was gone. He didn’t feel like living anymore.
June 16, 1992
Jaffa, Israel
19:15
Zachary Cohen was tied to a chair with his head slumped down, his chin resting on his chest. His eyes were puffy and swollen shut. It felt like he had been dragged around by his hair. Fresh blood streamed from a cut on his cheekbone, down his neck, and soaked his white shirt a crimson red.
Someone sloshed a bucket of cold water over Zachary’s head. He spluttered and coughed, lifted his head, tried to focus through swollen eyes. He was in what looked like a hotel room, an old and ramshackle place. He panned around the room. No bed. Faded wallpaper hung in strips from the wall. A metal table was placed in the center of the place.
His kidnapper casually sat on the table. He had one leg off the ground, the bucket on his lap. “Wake up, little man.”
Whatever, Zachary thought. He wished they’d kill him already; he had no reason for living anymore. Zachary started to giggle. “Yes, sir, on the double, sir,” he said, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
The man strode over and punched Zachary in the stomach. “I want the name for the agent who tried to kill my partner.”
Zachary bent forward and coughed, spitting blood from his mouth. He glanced at the man with a grimace. “The only reason I’m still alive is because I know the answers to your fucking questions. Why is this so important to you? Who are—“
A man sauntered into the room. He wore a black pinstripe suit and a silky blue cravat which covered his chest and throat, tucked into a crisply-pressed, light blue shirt. “My dear, dear Captain Zachary Cohen.”
Zachary swallowed painfully. “Callahan? You—you’re alive?”
Callahan stood in front of him, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Your agent attacked me from behind with a garrote and left me for dead.” He spoke with a wheeze and stopped to swallow after every couple of sentences. Callahan nodded toward the ponytailed man. “Perreira managed to revive me. I couldn’t swallow for a month, crushed trachea, you see?” He sauntered over and stood behind Zachary. “This has become personal.” He squeezed Zachary’s shoulders. “There was a mole, you have his name.”
“Screw you.”
Callahan sauntered to Zachary’s front, then he grabbed the armrests of the chair and leaned forward, his face close to Zachary’s, their noses almost touching. “Captain, we’re counterintelligence operatives. Many people could die.” Zachary could smell the stale tobacco smoke on his breath. “If you have a mole, I need to know who it is. We’re on the same team here.”
Zachary snorted. “OK, go ahead, amuse me with your bullshit.”
Callahan stood up and fiddled with his cuff links. “All right, here is the truth. The British employ me to spy on the Cubans. I have other, let us say, less official duties, as well.” He stood up straight and shoved his hands in his pockets, pacing the room. “They compensated me well. I had an open checkbook, and we had made a bit of money on the side by siphoning some of these funds to our personal accounts.” He turned around to face Zach. “Someone must have known about this; why else would they have ordered a hit on me?”
Zach smiled. “Would you like to revise your story?”
“Wha
t?”
Zachary sighed. “Would you like to change your bullshit story, Callahan?”
Callahan frowned but said nothing.
“You’re leaving out a lot of pertinent information,” Zachary said, licking his lips.
Perreira cast a questioning glance at Callahan. “What has he left out?”
“The contraband. The tons of shit Platinum Private were shipping to Cuba on a weekly basis. Paying for it with British defense force funds,” Zachary said with a grimace, changing his position in the chair.
Perreira sniggered. “Ah, that.”
Callahan waved a hand. “Look, we need to know if the mole is on your side. And you must know. You managed to find me.”
“How do you know he didn’t order it?” Zach asked and pointed his chin at Perreira.
Perreira slammed the palm of his hand down onto the table. “We’ve had to stop our work for four months now. We cannot trust nobody. Now I’m starting to feel poor. And I don’t like to feel poor.”
Zach looked up at Callahan. “Could you please tell me who the hell this guy is?”
Callahan shrugged. “His name is Miguel Perreira. My agent in Cuba, employed by the CIA. He is my contact with Castro, and he also helps out in Southern Africa.”
Perreira frowned and sucked his teeth. “Your agent?”
Callahan smiled coldly and patted Perreira on the shoulder. “Sorry, my business partner.”
Pereirra smiled then nodded. “Better.” He strolled toward Zach and put his foot onto the chair’s edge, between Zach’s legs. He rested his arms on his knee and leaned forward. “Your pretty wife is dead. Your daughter is next.”
Zachary closed his eyes, his head slumped on his chest. Shit, Rebecca. Bruce would be close. He made up his mind. “OK, I'll tell you. Leave Rebecca out of this. This will take a while.”
Bruce had better arrive soon.
Callahan and Perreira pulled some chairs closer and sat down.
“Who was the mole?” Callahan asked for the fourth time.
June 16, 1992.
Jaffa, Israel
19:35
Zach glanced up at Callahan. “You want to know who the mole was?”
Callahan nodded, leaning forward in his chair.
Zachary smiled faintly. “You were. You had your own special agent assigned to watch over you. Bruce Bryden."
Callahan's eyes widened. “Bryden? Why?”
“To keep an eye on you, Callahan,” Zach said and licked his chafed lips. “You behaved erratically, missing check-ins and disappearing off the radar for extended periods of time.”
“So I was red-flagged by Shabak?"
Zachary nodded slowly. “No department is better equipped to root out rogue agents.”
Callahan stood up then held his back with both hands. “You sent a rookie agent after me, a greenhorn who couldn't complete the job?”
Zachary shrugged but said nothing.
“How old is Bryden anyway?”
“Twenty-eight. But he’s special.”
“Special?”
Zach leaned back in his chair. “The first time we met, I found him to be an enigma; I couldn't place him. He spoke Hebrew with a funny accent. He is big. He was gentle and laid-back, but there was a sense of danger about the man. I couldn't put my finger on it,” Zachary said and licked his lip again. “Could I have some water?”
Perreira filled a glass and held it to Zach's lips. He gulped it down, spilling some on his chest.
“Go on,” Callahan said impatiently.
“I drew his military records and found out he had been referred from the reconnaissance unit in the South African National Defence Force. He had breezed through the Mossad training, graduating at the top of his class.”
Callahan checked his watch. “Let us hurry this along. I need to know who I’m dealing with.”
"According to Bruce’s DISC profile, he is a high ‘D’ and ‘C’ personality type. Independent, dominant, and meticulous.”
Perreira whistled. “Those are bad. In Cuba they call them the accountants of death.”
Callahan cast a worried glance at Perreira. “Where do you fit in?”
Zachary leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “I was born in the States. Mom is a housewife, Dad is a doctor, Orthodox Jew. His folks passed away in the Holocaust, and he instilled a strong spirit of Jewish patriotism in me. It had always been my desire to give something back to the Jewish Nation. Graduated at Caltech with a masters in information systems. Came back to Israel to complete my military service and later recruited by Shin Bet due to my particular set of skills.”
Callahan raised an eyebrow and exchanged glances with Perreira. “Why target me?”
“Well, your GLD would go silent for hours at a time. Which meant you went underground, physically.”
“GLD?” Callahan asked.
“Yes, the beeper we issued you with. I developed the Geolocation Device. It uses multiple satellite signals to locate the person it's tracking.”
Callahan removed the device from his pocket, threw it on the ground, and stomped it to pieces with the heel of his shoe. “You made this beeper?”
“GLD,” Zach corrected him. “It cost millions of dollars to develop. The core unit is made from titanium, virtually indestructible.”
Callahan scratched through the pieces of plastic on the floor, then he picked up a silver piece of metal that looked like a small pill. “So when my signal went off the grid, as you say, some red flags were raised?”
“That and something else.”
“What?” Callahan asked, glancing from the pill to Zachary.
He shrugged. “Well, you told us.”
“Bullshit.”
Zachary closed his eyes and sucked in a raspy breath. “I fitted a larger storage unit to your GLD. It would record everything and send out the recordings in thirty minute intervals or whenever there would be satellite coverage.”
Callahan nodded. “OK, so what?”
“In one of the conversations, you mentioned a secret mission that the Israeli Defense Force was planning on the PLO Headquarters in Ramallah.”
Callahan had a blank look on his face.
“A conversation you had with the Palestinian terrorist, Salah Safouri.”
Callahan nodded slowly. “The target was Abu Musa, codename Fatah al-Intifada.”
Zachary nodded slowly. “That's the one.”
Callahan smiled slowly. “You heard that?”
Zachary said nothing.
Callahan turned to Perreira and slapped his shoulder. “How's that for implicating yourself?”
Perreira looked worried. He didn’t say anything.
June 16, 1992
Jaffa, Israel
19:40
Bruce ducked behind the black Impala. The hood was cold. Zachary’s GLD signal had pointed to this location. He surveyed the surroundings. A large two-story building stretched across a sprawling parking lot. The place was rundown: it had broken windows and dirty white paint peeled from the cracked walls. The blacktop crumbled beneath his boots. A rickety sign hung above two solid-looking wooden doors. It said, “Imperial Palace.”
A black Mercedes was parked to the side of the building. Bruce dashed to the entrance of the abandoned complex and turned the doorknob, but it didn’t budge. A thumb scanner was mounted to the side of the entrance. Bruce shrugged and placed his thumb on the pad. Nothing happened.
He removed a Zippo from his pocket then started heating the bottom of the scanner, rotating the lighter to get an even heat. After a minute, the door popped open.
Bruce peered inside. The foyer was deserted. A banged-up reception desk stood to the back, and a large marble stairwell led to the second floor. Rusted metal chandeliers hung from a stained, patterned ceiling. He heard muffled voices upstairs and silently made his way to the top.
A long hallway with a scuffed red carpet led to dozens of rooms on either side. A dim light emitted from the bottom of the first door to his left.<
br />
He kicked the door open and entered, pointing his pistol left and then right, scanning the room. Three men dressed in army uniforms sat at a table, playing cards. They looked up, startled. An Israeli officer got up from a sofa, hands held in the air.
Bruce pointed his pistol at the men. None of them were armed. They wore US military uniforms, marines. Bruce hustled over to the officer and jammed the Beretta against his temple.
“Where is he?” Bruce asked.
“Bryden, is that you? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the officer asked, bending his neck back uncomfortably. “Lower your weapon, that is an order.”
“Where is Cohen?” Bruce asked again, grabbing the man’s neck with his dinner-plate-sized hands.
The man’s face and neck flushed red. “Bryden, let’s talk about this. Who is this guy to you?”
Colonel Aaron Weinstein.
Bruce had met him a couple of months ago during his graduation ceremony. He remembered he was from the Israeli Air Force, but he didn’t recognize the men with him.
“Why are they here?” He pointed the gun at the soldiers.
“They’re guards. Captain Cohen has been arrested for treason,” Weinstein said.
Bruce shoved the gun against Weinstein’s temple, hard. “Zachary Cohen is my commanding officer. I do not know if he is a traitor. I do know Captain Cohen has been taken forcefully, against his will.” He cocked the gun. “And someone slit his wife’s throat. So you better get him out here and explain to me what the hell—”
Weinstein moved in a flash. He jerked his head back and connected solidly on Bruce’s chin. Bruce fired blindly, but the bullet whizzed over Weinstein’s head and thumped harmlessly into the wall. Weinstein turned and shoved Bruce back then rolled toward the door. Bruce fired a quick salvo of shots and Weinstein cried out, but he managed to scramble through the door.
Bruce pointed the gun at the three soldiers. They hadn’t moved.