The Nylon Hand of God

by Steven Hartov

Itzik stopped pacing and looked at Baum. He almost commented, Or you just wanted her back in your bed. But seeing Baum’s haggard expression, he stifled the remark.

  “I managed to get a coded contact to her,” Baum continued. “It was early in ’82. We were in Germany. Remember?”

  Itzik rubbed his brow above closed eyes.

  “Joint venture with the BKA,” Eytan prodded. “Rolling up a Jabril network?” The general nodded, and Benni went on.

  “It was very difficult. We had to track her and do it on the street. It took a long time, but Zvi Pearlman pulled it off.” Benni paused. Pearlman was dead, and they all missed him. “It was one long fucking week, but she answered with a flag.”

  “I don’t know if you remember,” Eckstein said to Ben-Zion, “but she was captured by GSG-9 in Bad Reichenhall. That was our setup, with the BKA. The rest of it—the trial, the sentence, the transfer to Bruchsal—was all cover.”

  “Really? So who was so damned cooperative in Wiesbaden?” Itzik asked, trying to keep abreast of the German counterintelligence connection.

  “Lokojewski.”

  “Huh,” Itzik grunted. “Another renegade. His father was an SS colonel, you know.”

  “The son has more than made up for it,” said Benni.

  “And her escape?” Itzik pressed. “That I remember.”

  Benni sighed, his shoulders sagging as he lit up another Marlboro.

  “I fucked it up. They had her in the subbasement at Bruchsal, the psychiatric holding cells. No one even knew she was there.” He saw her again, the hollow eyes, shoulders shivering in her burlap bag. “I hadn’t made contact throughout the trial phase, so she didn’t trust me at first. But she came around. I promised her the standard package. Told her she would have to arrange for the escape herself, through the RAF, so they would buy her right up to the end. But then we would pick her up, she would get new papers, all the back pay, and it was a lot. If she wanted, she could spend her life sunning on the beach in Netanya and picnicking with Wolfgang Lodz.” Benni’s voice fell to a whisper again. “I swore to her, Itzik. And I meant it. . . .”

  Ben-Zion stared at Baum, and he actually felt sorry for him. To some men, losing an operative was like losing a child.

  “A German guard was switched at the last moment,” Eckstein concluded. “He wasn’t briefed, and he opened fire. Brought her down, but she got up and made it to the helicopter.”

  No one spoke for a few moments. Eckstein, wishing he had a cigarette, chewed his lip instead. He looked over at O’Donovan, who had fallen asleep on the bed, his sneakers still placed on the floor. Ex-soldier, Eytan assessed. Probably airborne.

  Ben-Zion backed up to the windowsill, leaned against it, unbuttoned his suit coat, and folded his arms. He looked up at the ceiling and began to nod slowly, as if he were praying, while he rapidly extrapolated the rest of the sad scenario.

  “I get it, Baum,” he said. “You run this girl, this woman now, for years. Maybe she’s in love with you, maybe not, but she’s in very deep, out there on point, and you’re her lifeline. But you never bring her in, right? You leave her out there.”

  “She was irreplaceable,” Eckstein said, although he did not need to defend the tactics. Itzik himself would have left his own mother in Baghdad if she could transmit hot merchandise. “Her stuff probably saved a hundred lives. Maybe more.”

  “Then she breaks,” Ben-Zion went on. “Goes under. But you reel her in one more time, get her to trust you again. Then she gets shot, and from her point of view you’re a duplicitous Jew bastard who set her up for a hit. Good so far?”

  Benni said nothing, although Itzik did not pause long enough to hear a rejoinder.

  “Now she’s really pissed off, gone forever. Winds up in Lebanon, with Hizbollah, then Yadd Allah.”

  Benni knew what was coming, but he just took the blows in silent penitence. They had not shared the truth with their commander, and he was justifiably absolving himself of the responsibility.

  “And there isn’t enough blood on earth to quench her rage,” said Itzik. “Unless it’s your blood, Baum. So you’ve finally turned her, all right. Turned her into something that for ten years she only pretended to be. A sworn enemy of the State of Israel.”

  “I think that’s a bit dramatic,” said Eytan.

  “Really, Eckstein?” Ben-Zion spun on the major. “Hell hath no fury, my young friend. You can check with my wife.”

  The judge and jury had spoken. Itzik suddenly straightened up, walked to the minibar, and rummaged through the bottles. He came back popping the tab on a can of Imperial beer.

  “So you’d better tell me now what all this has to do with the Tango file,” he said as he sipped.

  “Tango was Martina,” Benni murmured.

  Itzik stopped in mid-swig. He looked over the top of the can and licked foam from his upper lip. “Excuse me?”

  “Yes,” Eckstein confirmed.

  The color rose dangerously to Ben-Zion’s face. Sure, it was standard procedure to camouflage the identity of an asset, especially a double. The real names and bases of operations were changed, and sometimes there was even a “shadow file,” kept in the control’s safe. But when briefing him on Tango’s status, Baum and Eckstein had always appeared to be confiding in him, bemoaning the loss of a male asset, a Belgian who was working the European terror networks and had supposedly been caught and killed. The memos all referred to the male gender, and one even included a physical description. His ire broiled as he recalled once bragging about Tango to his Mossad counterpart.

  “Then who the fuck was Paul Krimmant?” Itzik growled.

  “It’s an anagram,” said Eckstein. “From the letters of her name.”

  Ben-Zion stared at Eckstein, then turned the heat of his gaze on Baum. Though they were downtrodden now, he pictured them snickering behind his back after God knew how many file briefings.

  “I hate you two, you know,” he said simply. “I really do.” He pointed a long finger at Benni. “If Ruth wasn’t involved in this, I’d pack you both off home and sing an aria at your courts-martial.”

  Benni and Eytan watched the general as he tipped his head back, finished the beer in one long guzzle, and crushed the can in his large hand. He tossed the aluminum carcass into an empty wastebasket, but the ring was muffled by the MTV veejay, who still chattered on. Ben-Zion placed his fists on his hips as he came to a decision.

  “You fucked this up, Baum,” he said. “So now you fix it. Moonlight is going to run, as is.”

  The significance of that statement did not escape Itzik’s officers. Their commander cultivated the image of an emotionless warrior, but he had kids of his own. For Ruth’s sake, he would not change the time or place of the prisoner exchange.

  “Your ex-girlfriend has a dangerous toy now, Baum. And she had better not get to use it.”

  Benni’s eyes widened. How did Itzik know about the Minnow? Benni had not even briefed Eckstein yet on those details.

  “Avraham Yaron works for the army,” Itzik responded to Baum’s expression. “Not for you. He flashed us from Washington.”

  Benni nodded. There was no betrayal there. Had Avraham known about Ruth, he would have kept his mouth shut.

  “Now, this is how it will run, people,” Itzik continued. “The exchange is going to come off, as scheduled, and come hell or high water, you had better tend to this little problem.” He took one fist from his hip, looked at his watch, and began to wag a finger. “I don’t even want to hear about this, except maybe next month at Ben-Levi’s wedding.” He was referring to the nuptials of one of the cipher clerks. “You have less than seventy-two hours. Anything or anyone you use is up to you, but no one who’s on the payroll. Baroor l’chem?”

  “It’s clear,” said Eckstein. Ben-Zion was giving them a dim green light. On the other hand, he was cutting them off, forbidding all use of departmental support. “But we are going to need a few things, Itzik. Expensive things.”

  “Use your fucking gold card,
” the general snapped.

  “Come on, Itzik . . .” Benni growled.

  “Okay then, Baum. How much is in your pension fund?”

  “You know how much.”

  “That’s right, I do.” The general nodded as he thought. “Tell me, did Horse know about any of this?” The reference was to Benni’s troubleshooter.

  “Maybe some of it,” Eckstein reluctantly volunteered.

  “Good,” said Itzik. “As of right now, he is suspended without pay. If he happens to show up here carrying a hundred thousand, it will be out of your own pocket, Baum. And if later on, by some miracle, Mr. Paul Krimmant’s back pay reimburses your account, don’t ask me about it.”

  “Thank you, Itzik,” Benni whispered.

  “Don’t thank me! I could murder you both and get a medal!”

  Itzik stretched up to his full height, buttoned his suit jacket, and recovered his raincoat. Benni rose to face his commander, and Eytan joined him at his side. Both men wanted to shake the general’s hand, but they were afraid to break his spell of self-deception. Itzik took his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. He shook his head once, and headed for the door. He stopped and turned halfway across the room.

  “You have created quite a monster, gentlemen.”

  “Es ist unser Ebenbild,” Benni muttered in German.

  “What did he say?” Itzik demanded of Eckstein.

  “In our own image,” Eckstein said.

  The general grunted, and then he was gone.

  Chapter 17: Casablanca

  By midnight, the owner of the Café de France would normally have been closing his establishment. His four waiters, in their livery of black trousers, olive wool blazers and vests, white shirts, and black ties, would have damp-clothed the Formica tops of forty tables, carried piles of chipped demitasses on shoulder trays to the tired barmen, and dumped a hundred ashtrays clotted with butts. They would have lowered the metal shutters that walled off the café from the sidewalk, and outside, between the high concrete pillars at the edge of the street, rolled the huge red visors stamped with Coca-Cola logos up into the overhanging roof.

  They would have been relieved to be finally off their burning soles, but even though the clock tower in the Place Mohammed V struck the witching hour, it was not to be. Far away and half a day behind, the Royal Moroccan soccer team was joining battle in Brazil. The Café de France had a large-screen TV, and the place was teeming as if for a lunchtime sitting.

  Benni Baum did not mind the crowd. On the contrary, he was comforted by the clatter of dishware, the glottal shocks as Moroccan tongues struck soft palates, the muffled roar of the Renaults, motor scooters, and petit taxis that funneled through the vast square that was Casablanca’s hub. The wind that dodged around the red weather banners and into the café carried a port perfume of sea air and scorched petrol, mixing with café noir and tobacco as it snatched up the hopeful shouts of “Coup du Monde!” when Morocco finally scored.

  It was widely held in the Israeli intelligence community that more successful operations had been planned in open cafés than in soundproof briefing rooms, a tradition born of the concept that it was harder for the opposition to acoustically target an improvised meet than a fixed base of operations. Indeed, the overburdened AMAN comptroller had once seriously proposed acquiring a restaurant franchise rather than continue to face the mountains of luncheon receipts that smothered his desk each Friday.

  The main floor of the café was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, which was also fine with Baum, as the waiters had to set him up on a balcony at the top of a curved stairway. Aside from the trickle of patrons quickly using the men’s room between game quarters, no one else was up there, because the television below was partially obscured by a buttress. However, the entrance of the café was in plain sight, and as Baum’s visitors wandered in, each of them repeated a similar mime. They scanned the main floor, saw no one they knew, finally looked up, and were beckoned by Eckstein’s finger.

  The small group of High Atlas mountain trekkers—for certainly by their bright alpine sweaters, neon belly pouches, and dark anoraks they could be nothing else—had gathered around three tables pushed together by the accommodating maître d’. The man’s presence temporarily stifled their “touring” plans, as he had returned to the balcony, unfurled a camel rug, and was bowing toward Mecca as he recited the rakatin. Benni Baum, who sat at the head of the joined tables, leaned the back of his metal chair against the rear wall and drummed his fingers on his knees. When the pious Moroccan finally rose and recovered his rug, Baum smiled at him and bowed his head in a gesture of respect.

  Baum’s party was not yet complete, so he waited, not wanting to have to rebrief anyone. He was anxious to start, yet a modicum of calm had returned to his troubled heart, for in truth he had not expected to have a team assembled so quickly. He looked to the far end of the joined tables, where Eckstein straddled a chair and rested his chin on his arms, pretending to watch the match while he kept an eye cocked on the front entrance below.

  Benni regretted his earlier accusatory outburst, in which he had challenged Eckstein’s decision to stop over in Tel Aviv en route from Addis Ababa. And he had quickly apologized when the major recounted his activities while briefly on Israeli soil. Eytan’s visit was so short that he had not even seen his own wife and son.

  Eckstein had begun his military career as a paratroop officer, and those years at the sharp end of the IDF had ingrained the habits of mission preparation. More often than not, operations were canceled at the last minute, but you learned to prepare your men and equipment with the very first rumors of impending action. If you were ordered to stand down, then the only price your troops had paid was a few liters of sweat.

  Eckstein had scant information with which to plan properly, but he knew that Ruth Baum was being held by Martina Klump, somewhere in North Africa. That was more than enough to assemble a team, men who had close-quarter combat experience and dual nationalities, as Israeli passports would have prohibited travel to the Maghreb. He had also accurately guessed that upon being briefed, Itzik Ben-Zion would be reluctant to inform his own superiors, for such a revelation would put irreversible gears in motion. The prisoner exchange—Itzik’s next plateau toward the peak of chief of staff—might be put off. And while Baum’s many friends in high military places might decide to mount an official operation to recover his daughter, that plan would be subject to cabinet approval. Ruth did not exactly constitute a planeload of hijacked Jews, and who knew what political squelching could occur in the corridors of the Knesset? So if Itzik was going to support a rescue attempt, it had to be one he could deny, and therefore Eytan’s telephone calls were made, even before he saw the boss, to men not presently “on the payroll.”

  The bulk of Israel’s army is composed of reservists, men and women accustomed to finding in their mailboxes small brown envelopes summoning them to a thirty-day stint. They are also given a coded call sign that may be broadcast by radio or television during an emergency. The members of small elite units are often summoned informally by a phone call from their operations officer, saying only, “Anu zazim. We’re on the move.”

  Eckstein was able to make contact with most of his prospective candidates, even those who had relocated to Europe for employment purposes. Yet the bulk of the men were still in Israel, and all of the conversations were short and more or less the same.

  “Didi, it’s Eytan.”

  “Ma-enyanim, ben-adam?! How are you, man?!”

  “Fine. Listen, are you busy?”

  “As hell, as always. What’s up?”

  “Something big. It’ll take three days, minimum.”

  “Shit. I have law boards tomorrow.”

  “Benni needs you.”

  “I was gonna flunk them anyway. Give it to me.”

  “Okay. Go to Ben-Gurion, pick up a ticket for TWA flight 883 to Paris, leaving at 0620.”

  “Want me to charge it?”

  “I already paid. Ticket’s under
David Lerner.”

  “Chutzpahnn.”

  “Then catch the first connector to Casablanca. That you’ll have to pay for. Maybe we’ll reimburse you.”

  “Ooh-ah. A self-paid vacation.”

  “Check into the Hotel de Paris on Rue Branly. Show up at the Café de France in Place Mohammed tomorrow at 2400. The rest is gear. Want to copy?”

  “Hey, don’t insult me. I just memorized fifty torts.”

  The unquestioning replies to Eckstein’s obscure summonses should not have surprised him, although he was always pleased to find those fluids of loyalty and self-sacrifice still running through Israeli veins. Decades of warfare had not yet slimmed the lines of young inductees volunteering for dangerous duty, and even with these mature veterans, their reflexive response to the call of “Follow me!” had not slowed. Eckstein was well aware of the secret peace negotiations slowly bearing fruit on previously entrenched fronts, but he wondered if peace, when it finally came, would alter the character of the Israeli nation for better or for worse. . . .

  Benni lit up a Casa Sport, a local filterless cigarette that had the bite of a Sobranie and the aroma of dried sheep droppings. He looked at his watch and decided to give the last man five more minutes, then they would start without him.

  To his right, Horse was finally returning to his usual state of somber reflection. Over the past twelve hours, the little operations analyst had been batted about an emotional racquetball court.

  First, while still in Jerusalem, he had been summoned to take a telephone call from the commander himself, whose tinny voice hailing from some long-distance relay was all too clear in its intention. Ben-Zion informed Horse that he was, as of that very moment, suspended indefinitely without pay, and he should leave the premises. With Benni Baum out of the country and no one else to bat for him, Horse meekly complied, praying for elucidation in the near future. As he was wandering bent-backed and spiritually deflated toward the main entrance of the SpecOps building, he was stopped by one of the ksamim, a wizard from the subterranean workshops where tools of the trade, such as minicameras, transceivers, and detonators, were disguised as wristwatches, Walkmans, and fountain pens.