He wasn’t quite sure if he believed his own excuse.
She removed her watch and set it on the end table.
“What about this Dov Elon? You said he’s not the main reason you come to Damascus but that means he must be connected to some secondary reason. Is there anything I can do to help while I’m at al-Mazza?”
He nodded; he was about to bring up the subject himself. “If you find Dov and can manage to get rid of your guide for a few moments, just tell him the Colonel needs to know if Sarraj forced him to talk.”
“But will he trust me? Won’t he think I’m a Syrian agent trying to trick him? Isn’t there a password or something?”
She was right. He’d already anticipated her question and realized there was only one thing she could tell him that would guarantee his trust.
“There’s no password,” he said painfully. “Just tell Dov you know Ari was responsible for his capture. There’s no way a Syrian could have that information.”
Kim looked up at him, her eyes wide. But she said nothing.
16.
SEPTEMBER 19
From atop the minarets wailing voices pierced the morning, waking the somnolent city, calling the followers of Muhammad to prayer. After a few minutes the undulating chant ceased and Damascus fell silent again. Inside the towers the guardians of the faith turned their record players off and reset the needles in preparation for the next appointed hour of prayer. Worship of the cult of civilization had struck even here. The cries beckoning believers to Syria’s mosques were prerecorded by professional muezzins in Mecca.
Ari lay awake. Noises had kept him up most of the night—noises he knew were not there. He looked over at Kim, wanting to stroke her soft skin, yet not wanting to wake her. Curled on the far edge of the bed, she was sleeping peacefully. He flipped over on his back and stared up at the ceiling. It would be selfish to disturb her, he decided. So, moving closer to the wall, he let his thoughts turn to the absent Shaul Barkai.
The phone rang and he snatched at it. A call so early might be the contact he was waiting for.
“Hans Hoffmann?”
“Yes.” Ari sat up excitedly. The voice was familiar. This could be it. Finally.
“Sorry to disturb you so early, it’s Franz Ludin.”
Disappointment.
“Good morning,” Ari said, forcing cheerfulness into his tone.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
He glanced at Kim; she was still sleeping. “No, I’ve been up for a while.”
“Good. Listen, if you have nothing planned for this morning let me make you an offer. Ludwig Streicher and I are meeting for breakfast in a restaurant next to the Ministry of Justice. Why don’t you join us?”
“I don’t know,” Ari hedged. He wanted to decline the invitation. Streicher was suspicious of him and another meeting might afford the Wehrmacht colonel the opportunity to penetrate his cover.
“We are going to discuss a topic I’m sure will be of great interest to you. Colonel Streicher specifically suggested I ask you to come along.”
He had lost his chance to decline graciously. “In that case I would be delighted to join you.”
“Excellent. We will expect you at the Safar Pacha Restaurant in about an hour. It’s right next to the government buildings in Marjeh Square. You can’t miss it.”
“I’ll be there.”
He bid Ludin good-bye and hung up.
Kim was still sleeping. He touched her gently on the shoulder and whispered her name. She stirred, opened her eyes briefly, then retreated back into her dreams.
“I’m going out for the morning,” he said.
She turned toward the wall.
As he climbed out of the bed and headed for the shower he realized she hadn’t heard him.
◆◆◆
Ari walked into the Safar Pacha Restaurant and moved immediately toward a corner table where Ludin and Streicher were waiting. The restaurant was clean but by no means elegant. Plain wooden tables were arranged along the four walls as well as in the center of the room. Arabs, wearing dark suits, sat around them eating hurriedly. From their dress and manner Ari assumed the Safar Pacha was a meeting place for low-ranking government officials.
“Please sit down,” Ludin said, as he approached the two Nazis. Ari smiled and chose the empty chair across from Streicher. He wanted to face his adversary squarely.
“Are you enjoying your stay in Damascus?” Streicher asked.
“Very much so.”
“Your purchase of merchandise is proceeding satisfactorily?”
Ari nodded. “I have already sent several shipments to Europe. All indications are that olive wood articles will sell in large quantities, particularly hand-carved backgammon sets. There seems to be an almost limitless market for them. Although the quality of Damascene textiles turned out to be somewhat disappointing, I would have to say that overall my stay here has been quite productive.”
“And not only from the business aspect,” Ludin added, smiling.
Ari’s face reddened; little pinpoints of heat pricked his cheeks.
“Franz tells me you are especially fond of, shall I say…kosher meat.”
“What are you driving at?” Ari pushed his water glass across the table, watching a damp trail form in its wake. “Franz knows what I want from the Jews. I told him so myself.”
“It just seems unusual that after spending so much time with an attractive American, you still find it necessary to drag the dirt from the gutter into your bed.”
“I cannot see how my sexual proclivities are of any concern to you gentlemen.”
Ludin drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “Why did you go to see Rachael Khatib?”
“Because I wanted to fuck her,” Ari said angrily. “I get a thrill out of screwing Jewesses. I don’t understand why. I wish I could feel the same way about other women, about Miss Johnson, but I don’t.” He looked into Ludin’s eyes. “You think I like it this way? You think I’m happy that in order to find sexual relief I have to haunt the Jewish ghettos of every city I visit, searching out the dregs of humanity? How do you think I feel afterward? Like some conquering hero? Like a wild stallion? No! I feel like on ostrich who has to bury his head underground. I want to smash the bitch’s face, relight the crematoria and throw her in. But that feeling soon fades. After a while the hunger returns, gnawing at my guts until I have to go out and satisfy it again.”
Ari was breathing heavily. Hate burned in his eyes; hate directed not at the Nazis sitting across from him, but at the Jews. For a brief moment his real self submerged into the void and he became Hans Hoffmann. He saw the Jews as the assassins of Christ, as murderers who stealthily stole up behind Christian children, slit their throats, then drained the blood for use in the baking of Passover matzoth. For a sickening second he saw the Jews through the eyes of the rest of the world: invading aliens, more cunning than clever—different, dangerous, and deserving destruction.
“How long have you felt like this?” Streicher asked.
The sound of the Nazi’s voice snapped Ari back into his cover story. “Ever since I was a teenager in Stuttgart,” he said, head bowed. “There was this Jewish girl, Eva Gruener, who lived next door to my family. She kept flaunting her body at me. I followed her home from school every day begging that she let me make love to her. Finally she said yes. I brought a blanket to the park and we undressed in the middle of a dense clump of trees. When it was time I couldn’t do anything. She started laughing. I was so embarrassed I picked up my clothes and ran. Later she told all my friends I was impotent.”
“So then you really do understand your obsession with the Jews,” Streicher said.
Ari nodded. “Sometimes when I’m screwing one of the bitches I see Gruener’s face. But she isn’t laughing any more.” Ari looked at both Ludin and Streicher. He couldn’t tell if they believed him.
Suddenly Ludin laughed and turned to his companion. “Now that he has explained himself, his behavior makes s
ense. I think your suspicions are unwarranted, Ludwig. I must admit I find no reason to doubt that Herr Hoffmann is who he says he is.”
Streicher grunted. “In that case I’m sure he would not object if I contacted a member of the ODESSA underground in Stuttgart and had his identity verified.”
“Of course not,” Ari said.
Before Streicher could continue the waiter arrived carrying a metal tray loaded with dishes. Effortlessly he lowered the plates of eggs, rice, fresh figs, and sweet al-Juban cheese to the table. Then he hurried back to the kitchen, promising to personally brew their coffee. The three men ate in silence punctuated only by the sound of their forks scraping the heavy plates. The espresso arrived and they began talking about Hafez Assad’s liberalizing reforms and the effect they’d had on the Baath Arab Social Renaissance Party. Finishing his breakfast, Streicher abruptly put down his silverware and excused himself, claiming that he was late for an appointment. Ari sensed that he was lying, that he had wanted to begin checking his credentials. Immediately.
“You must try and understand my colleague,” Ludin said, after Streicher had left. “Ever since Soviet military personnel moved into Syria the Wehrmacht advisers here have been relegated to such tasks as supervising the clean-up of latrines and the laundering of enlisted men’s uniforms. The Communists refuse to have anything to do with us—it seems the twenty million Russians we killed during the war is a little difficult for them to forget. Ludwig is bitter; in the late 1940s he helped forge a bunch of Bedouin, camel breeders, and frightened city boys into the fighting force now known as the Syrian army. But one of the conditions the Soviet Union set before they began supplying Syria with sophisticated weaponry was that all Wehrmacht personnel be purged from positions of authority. In 1957, in the aftermath of the Suez War, President al-Kuwatli dismissed scores of German military advisers to make way for the Russian and Czech missions. Streicher was decorated for outstanding services to the Syrian nation, then promptly relieved of active duty. That’s one of the reasons why he’s so suspicious of you and everybody else. Questioning your credentials gives him something to do. It swells his head with memories of the power he once wielded.”
“I see,” Ari said quietly. Streicher, the twice-deposed, twice-frustrated Nazi was on the verge of exposing him because he had nothing better to do than chase after faint scents in the wind. This time, however, Streicher had edged his nose too close to a flower, without first checking to see if a bee wasn’t waiting there, poised ready to explode in his face.
“But how do you stay in favor with the Syrians if the Russian influence is so strong?” Ari asked.
“I maintain a privileged position because the Syrians consider Brunner, Wolff, myself, and the other SS officers far superior to the Russians in dealing with the Jews. They compare our concentration camp statistics to the Soviets sending tens of thousands of their Jews to Israel each year. Need I say the Arabs prefer our solution to the Jewish problem.”
Ari nodded understandingly, but something Ludin had said stuck to the edge of his thoughts. He was beginning to see a way to steer the conversation around to a discussion of Dov.
“You said one of the reasons Streicher is suspicious of me is because questioning my credentials makes him feel like he’s engaged in important work. But I sense there is more to it than that. He seems ill at ease, as if he’s worried about something.”
“You are quite right, my friend. Something has all of us worried. It started with that Eli Cohen business in 1965, with the shock that we are vulnerable, even here. Then, earlier this year, two former German officers, Captain Rainer Kriebel and SS Standartenführer Walter Remmer, were found murdered in their apartments. It appears there is another Israeli agent operating in Damascus.”
“But at the dinner party you said the Second Bureau had caught the Israeli spy.”
“An Israeli, but not the Israeli. We are certain that this Dov Elon was not in the country when Remmer and Kriebel were killed.”
“Interesting. Then there were two of them, and you think one is still in Damascus.” Ari sipped from his glass of water. “But where does Streicher fit in? I remember Wolff saying that Ludwig knew the captured spy.”
“That is a slight understatement. Streicher and Elon became fast friends. Elon claimed to be an associate of Streicher’s dead brother. He knew everything about him. Ludwig was highly embarrassed when he discovered he had been unburdening his soul to an Israeli agent.”
“So that’s really why he’s so suspicious of me. He doesn’t want to get burned again.”
Ludin nodded.
“But what about Elon, can’t he be made to divulge the identity of the other Israeli?”
“He is in the hands of the Second Bureau. The Syrians are most brutal and Suleiman Sarraj is one of the worst. Only Yussaf Fuad, chief of the General Security Service, has outdone his excesses. Between the two of them they should be able to persuade the Israeli to talk.”
“Then you don’t know if they’ve succeeded yet?”
“No.”
“Is there any possibility the Israeli is dead? That could explain the Second Bureau’s silence.”
Ludin shifted position in the uncomfortable chair. “Sarraj is a very careful man. He would not let Elon die until he had the information he wanted. If the Israeli has not talked, he is still alive.”
“Some of those bastards are unusually stubborn. He might hold out indefinitely.”
“I doubt it. Every man can be broken—can be pushed to the point where his mind refuses to endure more pain. When this happens he’ll betray his country, his lover, or his family. Some resist for days, others for months. But George Orwell was right—under a skilled interrogator in the end they all submit.”
“Or lose their sanity.”
“Yes,” Ludin agreed. “Unfortunately sometimes that is the case.”
Ari realized it was pointless to press Ludin for details about Dov. The German knew little. The Second Bureau, undoubtedly furious at Dov’s successful penetration of the German colony, had probably decided to keep the Nazis in the dark about the interrogation. He would gain no information from his current maneuver. His only hope of finding anything out lay with Kim.
Ari took the cloth napkin from his lap and placed it on the table. “Franz, you really will have to excuse me, but I promised al-Husseini’s assistant I would meet him a half-hour ago. He has been tremendously generous with his time and I don’t want to keep him waiting any longer.”
“Of course,” Ludin said, rising. “but we must get together again soon. I will speak to Ludwig about you, I’m sure that he can be reasoned with.”
“That’s not necessary, I have nothing to hide.” He snapped to attention and reached for Ludin’s outstretched hand, which felt warm and clammy.
As Ari left the restaurant he looked at the green, white, and black Syrian tricolor floating limply over the Ministry of Justice, and thought about the plan the Colonel had devised to ensure the children were safely smuggled out of Syria. But where was Lieutenant Barkai? Why hadn’t he shown up? The timing of Operation Goshen was critical. The Colonel had honed the movements of the two Israeli agents with the precision of a Swiss watch. Nothing should have gone wrong, yet obviously something had. With the transmitter lost, and time chewing away at the days, Ari knew there were few alternatives open to him. He could claim he needed to check on his European outlets, fly to Frankfurt, and phone Jerusalem directly from there. But that would consume precious time he didn’t have; the children were scheduled to be taken out of Syria in seventy-two hours. It would look suspicious if he remained in Europe for only a day or two. Otherwise he could wait for Barkai and continue to ignore the Colonel’s orders—which had been explicit: if there was serious reason to believe that the Second Bureau was onto him, he was to abort Operation Goshen.
◆◆◆
Back in his hotel suite Ari bolted the door, drew the curtains, then went into the bathroom. Removing a fresh bar of soap from the medicine cabinet, he
peeled off the Yardley wrapper, thankful for the Mossad training that taught him never to carry all his equipment in one case. Though he had lost the Rhinehart bar of soap that contained the material he really needed, the substance embedded in the Yardley would serve as an adequate substitute. With a pocket knife he cut through the soap approximately four centimeters in from the right edge. He tossed the carved-off piece into the wastebasket, returned to the bedroom, and sat at his desk.
The yellow soap had been dyed to blend with the color of the explosive concealed inside it. Ari measured another five centimeters and cut through the bar, this time carefully placing the segment of camouflaged chemical into the ashtray. He measured off another two centimeters and sent his knife slicing through the soft soap again. Discarding the useless sliver, he held the remaining section of the bar up to the desk light and gingerly picked at the center with the tip of his knife. In a few seconds he extracted a small metal firing pin. Placing it on the blotter, he took the tetryl out of the ashtray and scraped off the outer layer of soap, leaving a small quantity of malleable, claylike plastique.
From the desk drawer he withdrew a ballpoint pen with the advertisement Banque de l’Unite Arabe printed on it in French and Arabic. Removing the ink cartridge, he put the tetryl in its place and set the firing pin, held under pressure created by the pen’s spring, above the charge. Along with a business card he’d picked up from the bank manager’s office on Maawia Street, he slipped the lethal weapon into an envelope. He would have preferred to make a conventional letter bomb that would explode upon opening, but the potassium nitrate and stabilizing ammonium oxalate he’d need had been lost in the toiletry case. However, there was little cause for concern. The recipient would inevitably snap the plunger at the end of the pen, sending the firing pin into the tetryl—detonating the fatal charge.
The Damascus Cover Page 15