by E. L. Pini
“Negative. Just me and a friend.”
Abrasha raked his hand through his thick salt-and-pepper mane. “How about I join you?” He sucked in his gut, looking about as comfortable as a stuffed turkey. “Free of charge,” he added hurriedly.
“Next time,” I said. “When we organize a pensioner tour.”
“Still the same little prick, I see.”
When we entered Abrasha’s wood-paneled office, we found that Nora had made herself at home and taken over the computer, hooked up to a large monitor on the wall. “We’ve already received two responses to Abrasha’s request. One of them goes by Schwadron, the other’s named Tupolev.”
“Interesting,” said Abrasha. “The market must be on fire. Those are actually two of the three distributors—I’d expected replies from a bunch of small fry, to be honest.”
“We’ll look into them,” I said, “but my guess is that we want the third guy—that one who didn’t reply, and probably won’t anytime soon.”
Abrasha nodded appreciatively. “Your friend here,” he told Nora, “is too smart to be an Arab hunter, certainly for the ridiculous salary he makes.”
“Get to it,” I snapped, rejecting the momentary impulse to feel sorry for myself.
“Distributor number three, since you asked nicely, is a monumental asshole by the name of Victor Zhdaniev. An ex-major in the GRU, ex-Spetsnaz, responsible for a small genocide in Grozny. They call him ‘the Chechen.’ He works with a bunch of old Spetsnaz buddies, his personal-security-slash-operations team.”
“Huh,” I said, interested.
“If you decide to make contact, tread with caution. Build a rapport. Buy some conventional weapons first—pay in full. Buy more. As for your stuff—approach the topic carefully. Look out for his buddies. They’re not a bunch of children, or, like Raful would say, ‘drugged bugs in a bottle’8…”
At 23:00 we landed on a small runway in Herzliya. I somehow managed to retrieve Dr. Verbin’s number from my brain, but as I was dialing, I realized this thing was doomed from the get-go, and I should really just forget about her. She was charming, true—captivating, even—but I was fairly certain she wasn’t looking for something casual, and I wasn’t looking for commitment. Besides, if she were interested, she would’ve called.
I hung up before she could answer. I had about two and a half hours before the meeting in the Pit. I hoped to sleep for at least two.
13.
Air force operations at the Pit, thirty minutes to H. The technical team was going over the lists of contacts and passwords one last time before H-Hour. Froyke made it, but he looked like death. I hugged him gently and updated him on the meeting at Larnaca, including Abrasha’s bid at the upcoming MOD auction. “He deserves it this time.”
Froyke promised to speak to the DM later that day and handle the auction thing as well as my new “Pissed-Off Saudis” project. G walked over and patted me on the shoulder. I wished him luck. The commander of the air force walked in with his staff officer. Someone passed a piece of paper along, divided in four columns: Black coffee. Instant. Black with milk. Tea.
02:45—The satellite images lit up the plasma screen. G ran radio checks with the airborne pilots. Everyone was ready. The squadron commander led the formation.
02:55—Another radio check.
02:58—“Auntie has entered the party zone,” informed the squadron leader.
03:00—The satellite was tracking the convoy, fifteen trucks—fifteen missile batteries.
“Closer,” requested the commander of the air force. The camera zoomed and focused on the covered trucks. It was impossible to make out the missiles.
“SA300, silhouette’s a perfect match,” the air force intelligence officer asserted, and a satisfied smile pulled at the air force commander’s lips.
03:05—G flashed a nervous glance at the commander, who approvingly nodded his head.
03:06—“Engage!” G croaked. Craft one and two fired on the first truck, while three and four fired on the last one—four trucks exploded and burned, blocking the escape route for the others. Two trucks desperately broke off, driving off the road and into the desert. They didn’t get far. The rest of the trucks were abandoned by tiny, frantic figures, like so many field mice.
Must be nice, I thought, considering the pilots. Sterile, bloodless war, no mud, no sand in your eyes, never seeing blood or hearing screams. Like a game.
“Engage! Engage!” G rushed them unnecessarily, and the air force commander glanced at him, seeming amused.
03:07—The airplane quartet stabilized, formed into a new attack formation, destroyed the remaining trucks. It looked like a movie scene, like slow motion. Each plane took a truck. Another pass, four more trucks went down. Hellfire and secondary explosions on the ground. The squadron leader and his lieutenant helped themselves to the final two.
03:09—“Executed!” the squadron leader informed us, adding, “Executed successfully. Roger, out.”
The younger members of the staff broke into a round of applause, which slowly died when they realized none of the veterans had joined in. My eyes searched the room for Tamir, the young major from the operating division who reminded me so much of Eran. But he was no longer there.
“Good work,” said the air force commander. He waved his hand and left the room. G approached me, looking like he might attempt a hug. I hurried to shake his hand before he got around to it. The technicians drifted around, patiently waiting for us to leave so they could start prepping the Pit for the next shift. Froyke seemed ashen and exhausted. I extended my arm, but he insisted on standing up on his own. We left for the parking lot. His limp seemed worse, much worse.
“You must know, they’ll grow up,” Froyke said, apparently feeling my apprehension at the young officers’ applause. “They’ll grow up.”
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Could it simply be the difference in age and experience that created such different responses to this professional, successful attack? I felt no joy of victory at the sight of those dozens of burning, fleeing grasshoppers, running from their trucks to be shot down from above. If anything, a degree of empathy for the grasshoppers. And mostly, there was a sort of emptiness.
“Let’s discuss your Pissed-Off Saudis,” he said.
“Sausage.”
“What?”
“There’s a Russian at the old central bus station, mostly serves breakfast to construction workers. Herring, dried vobla, soft-boiled eggs with sausage and bacon, teacup full of vodka. Good for the thinking process.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“Vodka and sausage?”
“That, too,” said Froyke. “But I’m talking about your Pissed-Off Saudis.” He added air quotes. He paused for a moment, thinking, and eventually said, “If any of this leaks, we’re eating crow.”
We got in the car and headed to the old central station, and I asked Froyke what was with all the smiling. He explained he was thinking of his father. “They had a kind of ritual, every morning for thirty, maybe forty years. Dad would eat the herring with the buttered rye and then drink his vodka teacup—more of a mug than a cup, really. When he’d finish the cup, he’d reach for the bottle, as if to fill it again. Mom would yell and scold, and he would tell her, ‘Yudit, after I drink a cup of vodka, I am a new man. And this new man—does he not deserve a cup of vodka?’”
14.
The rising dawn swallowed up the lights that illuminated the office of Imad Akbariyeh. Imad’s adversary was on his last legs—another joyless victory in Mortal Kombat X. Time moved slowly, annoyingly so. Outside the door stood Husam, Imad’s driver and bodyguard, trying to find the words to relay the dire news. Najib, their man in Sudan, had reported that the convoy was completely destroyed, most fighters dead. The body of Nasser, Imad’s younger brother who had driven the first truck, has been positively identified.
�
�Perfect kill,” Imad listlessly declared his victory, just as Husam entered. One look at him was all it took. “Talk!” Imad ordered, slamming down his laptop screen.
“Four F-16s. They took down the first and last trucks, then went after the rest, one by one.”
“Nasser?” he asked, already knowing.
“At the head of the convoy. First to go. I’m sorry, boss. Nasser was a man of—”
“Yeah,” said Imad, deep in thought. “My brother was a man. And now he’s a dead shahid.”
He suddenly burst out laughing, wildly, stopping only when he was forced to suck air into his lungs. “He recently asked me, my little brother, if each shahid gets his own seventy-two virgins, or if they’re supposed to share.” His face grew solemn and he mumbled, “Baba. Baba’s gonna kill me.”
“What’s that, boss?”
Imad didn’t reply. He stood by the table with his back to Husam, taking deep, heavy breaths.
“I think,” he said eventually, “that some fucker around here lets them know whenever we send a convoy.”
“It’s their satellites, and the American satellites. They see everything,” said Husam. Imad ripped the cables out of their sockets and smashed the laptop on the floor. It shattered loudly. “I don’t think it’s just the satellites. There had to be another source that alerts them before the satellites can pick up the convoy.”
Imad leaned against the edge of his desk, looking at the broken black line that Nasser drew, marking the convoy’s route. This is all that’s left of the boy, he thought; a broken black line. And then Baba’s face appeared before him, his eyes red and accusing. From now on he would dedicate his life to avenging Nasser and Baba, and to banishing the Jews from Palestine. Cure this guilt.
He stormed out of his office, passing the hospital’s small, flag-ornamented plaza, eventually stopping in front of Dr. Patrice’s office. The pediatrician, the Jewish volunteer, Anna’s second-in-command. Husam came running. “El-dam ma bisir maye,” he muttered, cocking his pistol. Blood is thicker than water. He reached for the door handle… and stopped. No. A Jewish doctor from Paris? Too predictable. The Jews were bastards, but they weren’t idiots. If they even had anything to do with his position here, they’d pulled those strings without his knowledge, just to create bait obvious enough to remove suspicion from the actual mole.
He passed the door and walked to the next. The office of Dr. Anna von Stroop. He waved Husam away and delivered an accurate kick, smashing the lock but leaving the door intact.
15.
“You only had to knock,” said Anna, downing the remaining cognac in her glass.
“You haven’t been sleeping properly,” he said.
Cold sweat beaded on Anna’s back. She poured herself another drink.
“Bad dreams. It happens some nights… and you? What are you doing breaking doors at four in the morning?” She smiled at him, picking up the Valentino blouse from where it was draped on the chair and slipping it on.
“Nasser was killed.”
“Your brother Nasser? Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She held him softly, bringing the glass to his lips and tilting it into his mouth, as if she were giving medicine to a petulant toddler. She pressed her lips to his forehead and cheeks and eyes, covering his face with a flurry of kisses. Her tears flowed down his cheeks. She moved to kiss his ear, which she knew to be one of his erogenous zones. She wanted him inside her now, more than anything.
The tension he had brought into the room began to dissolve. Imad pressed against her body as if trying to disappear within. She herded him toward the bed, looking deep into his dark eyes, trying to work out what he knew.
“Too many cameras in the sky. American satellites. Israeli satellites. They know exactly when a convoy leaves. They crush it and murder everyone inside.”
“I… I prefer not to know about these things.”
His hand rose to her throat suddenly, closing firmly around it. “Are you sure you don’t want to know?” he roared, squeezing.
The cold sweat on her back and the twitch in her right eyelid were symptoms she knew all too well. Unless she pulled herself together and showed some resistance—right now—she would crack. Imad squeezed tighter, and she began to wheeze. He loosened his grip a bit and stared into her eyes, into a cool blue that revealed not a drop of weakness.
Anna wouldn’t betray him, he thought, releasing her neck. He stroked her hair, saying, “Someone in this camp is giving them information about the convoys. The satellites are just a last-minute warning.”
Anna wet her lips, her nostrils flaring slightly. A terrified doe, staring into the shotgun’s barrel. Imad felt his anger dissolve at the sight. This was a crucial phase of the game—now the frightened animal must resist the hunter. A final struggle, to assuage any suspicion. She slipped her hand between his legs, cupped his testicles and squeezed—apparently tighter than she should have, because Imad leapt to his feet in alarm and slapped her, hard.
“Bring the cuffs.” His voice was stiff.
Anna cradled her burning cheek. “I… you like it when I grab you there.”
“Only when I tell you to! You see that?” He pointed at the ornamented copper handcuffs that hung at the side of her desk.
“I thought we were over this game.”
Imad wiped the sweat from his brow. “It isn’t a game. And nothing is over.”
He grabbed her by the neck and forced her flat against the table. Time to surrender. Anna parted her lips slightly and licked them. Imad pressed his lips to hers and they kissed, passionately, until both were out of breath.
“I don’t think you have a choice,” he said once his breath had steadied. “You have to know what’s going on here. You picked a side, and I need you here with me. Until the end… Husam is collecting the staff’s computers and phones. He’ll take yours, too… he has to,” he said, nearly apologetic. “One of your people is telling them everything.”
Anna caressed his cheek, kissed his ear, and when she felt his swelling erection, slipped her hands into the copper handcuffs. Imad fastened the rings around her wrists and stroked her ass, the pace of the strokes quickening in tandem with his breath.
You picked a side, and I need you here with me, until the end. His words echoed in her mind when he ripped off her panties and smacked her ass with an open palm.
“Stop that, Imad, there’s no intimacy in it.”
“Intimacy my ass. Your ass, really. I’m going to tear it apart,” he muttered, accentuating the words with another hard smack to her ass, which was already beginning to bruise.
“Come to me,” she said. “Hard!”
Imad tried to squeeze himself inside of her. “I’ll rip that white German ass to shreds, Doctor von Stroop.”
Knowing that a complete lack of resistance would make him suspicious, Anna clenched her muscles, refusing him entry. Imad wiped the sweat from his face, pressed and pushed against her. When she remained closed, he began punching her. Stomach, kidneys, until the air was knocked out of her, and she groaned, surrendering. He brutally penetrated her.
“It’s good, my Nazi whore.” He grabbed her head between his hands, pulling himself ever deeper. “It’s good, your white… flesh…” He kept thrusting until he came, with a loud cry, shuddering.
He slipped out of her, breathing heavily, and covered her back with gentle, conciliatory kisses.
“I love you.” His voice was raw. “Was it good for you, too?”
“What the hell was that Nazi crap?”
“You’ve passed your test already.” He kissed her neck and laughed. “Bunch of idiots, those Nazis. Try to build an Aryan empire, and instead create the Jewish fucking state. On our lands!”
He opened and removed the handcuffs.
“I need my passport back,” she said, buttoning her shirt.
“Are you leaving
me?” He pouted in feigned worry.
Anna smoothed her fingers over her face. “This desert of yours is bad for my skin. A hundred degrees in the shade… what shade?” She chuckled. “But really, I’ll also need a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a new ultrasound machine.”
“You just bought one.” He looked up at her, puzzled.
She stroked his head. “An X-ray, not an ultrasound. Also, that asshole Greek supplier of yours sent us an X-ray that was obsolete twenty years ago. Probably got it at Turkish bazaar.”
“I’ll handle him.”
“I’m… booking a ticket for next week.” She reached for her phone. “You can come, if you want. Please get the money and my passport ready. And another thing. Tell your idiot fighters that you’re their commander, not mine.”
Imad walked over to the espresso machine he got her for her birthday, made a cup and offered it to her before lighting a Gauloises cigarette.
“Your cigarette,” he said, placing it between her lips and kissing her forehead. She hugged him. He collected her laptop from the desk, stroked her head and kissed it again.
“Husam will give you back your computer and your passport. Go next week, find a proper ultrasound machine and we’ll get it for you. Get back soon. You have a hospital to run.”
Imad slammed the door behind him and Anna crumpled into a fetal position on the floor. A tear escaped, then another, and then she was weeping bitterly, mumbling in German, a high-pitched, childish voice—“Anna ist eine Putana, Anna ist eine Putana…”
Anna is a whore. For a moment, she was fifteen again, a boyish, chubby, clumsy adolescent, with thick glasses and long blond hair. In the storeroom of the school in Charlottenburg, she was holding Francesca, the Jewish-Italian girl who was clutching her torn clothes, wiping her tears. Francesca acceded; she was kissing Anna’s lips, leaned into her. They were locked in a tight embrace, kissing passionately. Anna unraveled the remnants of Francesca’s sky-blue shirt and kissed her small breasts. Francesca responded in kind…
