by E. L. Pini
“Shema Yisrael, adonai eloheinu, adonai echad,” he said, the Hebrew sounding strange in his deep Texas drawl.
“What?!” I replied, astounded.
“Pray,” he said, still tracking the new diagnostics. “It might help. Okay, there we go, baby. Good boy. There’s a good boy.” He walked over to the dashboard and attempted ignition. Nada.
“I said pray, dammit!” he yelled and tried again.
The rotor groaned and stuttered before slowly stabilizing into a steady hum. Praise the Lord!
“Night stalkers never quit, huh?” I yelled gleefully.
“Put everything back where it was,” ordered Jule, leading by example. “We might still make it on time, but we won’t necessarily make it back out. We need to lose weight.”
I immediately informed Anna that we were on our way and that we’d arrive on schedule. I couldn’t stop thinking of his Shema Yisrael. Every once in a while, never for more than a few seconds at a time, I wondered if maybe there was a point in that sort of thing after all.
We were back in the air in moments and soon crossed the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait. Beyond the plumes of yellow dust, the black waters and tiny fishing boats looked like a child’s drawing, hopeful and naïve.
24.
“We’ve arrived at Hadhramaut, en route to Shabwah,” declared Jule, prompting us into action. We cocked the weapons and concealed them in the coveralls, along with the grenades. Jule was supposed to “miss” the marked landing space and fly over the camp to try and make sure we weren’t flying into a trap. Conspiratorial thought was deeply embedded in each of us, and this was supposed to provide some sort of defense against the possibility that Anna had already been exposed and forced to broadcast the extraction code.
My complete confidence in Anna—whom I had recruited, trained and nurtured—allowed me to rely on this meager defense, but I could have been wrong. After all, when we’d recruited her, she’d been working at the Palestinian refugee camp in Balata. This disturbing thought tossed me back through time, a swift and agonizing recap of Anna’s recruitment: a combined force of the Service, IDF commando and Border Police operatives disguised as locals, had entered Balata camp and engaged in a violent chase after suspects. At the time, Anna had been treating a six-year-old who’d shredded his arm with an electric saw working at his father’s carpentry shop. One of the Jihadis managed to escape the attack force and make it to her infirmary tent. By the time Anna had applied a tourniquet and started treatment, a Border Police force tracked the blood trail to her tent. Anna tried to protect the wounded jihadi, who was still in danger of bleeding to death. She was arrested, following a struggle, and taken to a Service facility for undergo further investigation. She didn’t cooperate there, either—insisting on answering all questions presented to her exclusively in German. Kahanov didn’t manage to find any German speakers among the Service’s available interrogators, so he called me for help.
I remembered it like it was yesterday. I was with Ya’ara, at Eran’s officer course graduation. He’d graduated with honors, as usual. “Ami,” I whispered angrily at Kahanov, “this is a bad time—the commander-in-chief’s pinning his stripes on as we speak.”
“Top of his class! No surprise there,” “Uncle Ami” replied proudly, and I felt a tear sneaking down my cheek.
“Locally sourced kid,” I answered with my regular, well-worn joke.
“So what am I supposed to do with her?!”
I signaled to Ya’ara and stepped back from the row of proud parents.
“What are you, high? Smack her, kick her around a bit, and she starts singing. No joy? Smack her twice.”
“Well, you know I would,” said Ami, “but the Supreme Court is really riding us, and besides, she’s German—they build your boss’s submarines. It’ll be a whole thing. Just get over here, whisper some Mamaloshen9 in her ear.”
“Fine. Inform Nora.” I hung up. Nora would prepare a concise report with everything I need to know about this fräulein.
The newly dubbed Second Lieutenant Eran Ehrlich, who knew that Ya’ara couldn’t stand firearms, handed me his weapon to put his arms around her and then pulled me into our small, family hug. It was the last family hug I remembered, and sometimes I’d think of it, and it would pull me out of my misery; other times, it pulled me deeper in.
I walked into the interrogation room, uncuffed Anna and placed a cup of coffee in front of her.
“I’m the good cop,” I said in perfect Hochdeutsche, smiling.
She smiled back, and I was stunned by her beauty.
“And if you don’t want to be charged with crimes that’ll keep you locked in this dump for a decade or two, until you’re not that pretty anymore, you should really start answering some questions.”
Anna pushed the steaming paper cup in my direction.
“Good cop can take his coffee and shove it up his asshole,” she said, still smiling.
I slammed my hand down on the table. The cup toppled over. I raised my knee, tipping the table slightly in her direction, so that the stream of boiling coffee ran down toward her. She didn’t flinch. Another blow to the table, harder this time. This time, she flinched.
“Now strip!” I yelled.
“What?!”
“I said strip.”
“You strip!”
I pulled a photograph from the folder—a line of women waiting for Dr. Mengele, naked in the snow.
“The one on the left, the tall one, that’s my Aunt Mimi. Your Dr. Mengele attempted to mate her with a large German shepherd, a thoroughbred. We could go meet her, if you like. She’s hospitalized not too far from here. Completely catatonic.”
A visible shiver gripped Anna’s spine. A placed a photograph of her grandfather on the table.
“This is Colonel von Stroop. He ran the camp. I assume you know him.”
Anna stared at the photo. The shiver became a heart-wrenching sob.
I left the photo on the table and left the room.
Outside, Nora asked if Mimi was the aunt’s actual name. I had no idea, to which she responded by letting me know that I was a vicious, heartless creature. “You’re definitely falling for her,” Nora concluded and left.
The concentrated rat-tat-tat of small-arms fire by the chopper’s nose tore me away from my thoughts. We were above the camp, having “missed” the solar farm, as planned, to perform a quick survey of the surroundings. The gunfire urged us back on course, and we complied. At 18:00 we landed at the designated landing point, right on schedule. We briefly “introduced” ourselves to Dr. von Stroop, and Mr. Husam, who surprisingly arrived with another armed man, named Hamid, supposedly to “assist with translation.” The sun began to set, casting a dim red glow on the settling plumes of yellow dust. The skies looked like the Valkyries set at the Berlin opera. I was raised on Mahler—Mother would play him to me any chance she got—but I much preferred Coppola’s Tarantinoesque use of the Ride of the Valkyries, with his insane colonel who loved the smell of napalm and reminded me so much of our own mad “Colonel” Mizrahi.
I picked up the laptop with the GES sticker on the lid and connected it to the farm’s control system. Husam and Hamid observed this curiously, inching toward me. I tucked in my elbow, making sure the Glock was safely nestled in its holster. What if this Husam was the fighter Anna had saved back in Balata? I was suddenly troubled, and not for the first time, by the thought of her being a double agent. I nudged the Glock with my elbow again, trying to estimate how quickly I could draw it.
The laptop indicated a malfunction—of course—and I ordered Luigi to dismantle the circuit from the unit in the last solar panel, located about a third of a mile away, in the far-west corner of the farm. I requested that one of the armed men join him, because he would probably need help removing the lids. To my surprise, they both left with Luigi. When the three of them left our line of sight, growing ever sh
orter with the setting sun, Anna slammed into me, holding me in a tight embrace. This was not the time nor the place. According to the plan, we had fifteen minutes to take off once we’d neutralized Husam, fixed the “malfunction,” and covered the access route to the chopper with landmines. But Anna, wearing the Valentino blouse I’d given her, clung to me tightly and wouldn’t let go. I clenched my jaw and somehow managed not to smack her. I reminded myself that she was, after all, a child.
“Anna, sweetie, get on the helicopter and stay there until I get back. I’ll go help Luigi wrap things up and we’re out of here, okay?”
But Anna wouldn’t let go and oddly started to turn me around, toward the camp. Only then did I notice the small, bandaged figure limping toward us from the camp. Fuck me, now what?
Luigi signaled me with his walkie. I was fairly confident in his ability to overcome two targets instead of one even without my help, but who knew—nothing else seemed to be going according to plan.
“Hurry, hurry!” Anna was yelling in French at the bandaged man, who struggled to waddle faster. I told Anna to board the chopper while I talked to him. She refused and explained that this was Dr. Patrice, a Jewish physician from Paris, who’d been tortured by Husam with an electric drill because he was suspected of supplying us with info.
“He’s Jewish,” she reiterated and added that she wasn’t going anywhere without him.
I radioed Luigi and told him he needed to dismantle another circuit.
“This helicopter does not have the capacity to carry another adult person,” I told Anna.
“Then go,” she said calmly, “and come back with a bigger one.”
I shook Dr. Patrice’s hand and took a deep breath. Anna and I supported his weight as he limped toward the chopper as fast as he could. I tried to calculate if the ammo and weapons could be discarded to make room for him but soon realized that I lacked the technical knowledge. I needed to check with Jule, who was smoking a cigar outside the chopper, his hand absently leaning on the rocket launcher. His eyes widened when he saw the company I’d brought, and he raised his arms in frustration.
“Another extraction,” I said. “Once we deploy the mines, we’ll be lighter.”
“Yeah,” said Jule, “exactly forty-five pounds lighter, and this guy weighs…” He scanned Patrice with an assessing glance.
“One hundred and sixty pounds,” said Patrice. “I’ll manage,” he added and turned to leave, collapsing before he managed a single step. Anna and I helped him sit up. At times like these, systematic thought is useless. Each step, I knew, must be solved independently.
“Wait here. I’ll go get Luigi.” I signaled Jule to stay on high alert and headed toward Luigi. He was still examining the printed circuit when I got there. Hamid hovered over him, holding a flashlight. I started to take apart another board, about fifty yards from them, and called for assistance. Hamid gave Husam the flashlight and started walking toward me. I nodded at Luigi.
Hamid suddenly stopped and looked back at Husam. He seemed to suspect something. I drew the Glock and hid it behind the open laptop lid. “Hurry, please!” I called out to Hamid. When he approached, I handed him the laptop, while my right hand pressed the Glock’s barrel against his temple. For the last time in Hamid’s life, he felt surprised. Shot at point-blank range, like a mob hit. I was the one who told my men never to execute, other than in cases of mortal danger. He was a risk to Anna. The execution was justified.
Things didn’t go as well for Luigi—when he lowered his eyes momentarily to reach for the Glock, Husam lunged forward, ramming him in the stomach. Luigi dropped to the ground and Husam drew his weapon. Luigi fired from the ground, a split second before Husam had the chance. He got to his feet and fired another, confirming the kill.
We each tossed a corpse over our shoulder and shuffled toward the chopper, our feet sinking into the fine sand. I explained the new situation to Luigi as we walked.
When we got there, Anna was gone. I looked inside the chopper, around it—nothing. This wasn’t Murphy’s usual bullshit. This was a straight-up kick to the balls. Patrice was inside, sleeping. Anna must’ve pumped him full of anesthesia. Jule told us that once Anna had become convinced there was no way to carry the weight of another person, she’d smiled and said, “When they find out that Husam and Hamid are dead and Patrice was taken, there’ll be no doubt anymore that Patrice was the spy.”
“She helped me get him into the chopper, kissed me on the cheek and walked away,” concluded Jule. “Hell of a girl!”
I seriously considered taking the helicopter into the camp, tossing Patrice out the door and taking Anna on board by force. Luigi and Jule looked at me expectantly.
“Want me to go in the camp and get her crazy ass back here?” asked Luigi.
I didn’t know what to tell him.
“I think she’s right,” said Luigi eventually. “If we extract Patrice, it’ll clear her of any suspicion. She could continue working.”
We unpacked the landmines and placed the corpses behind a small mound of sand. Luigi took the rocket launcher and headed out to deploy the mines as I attempted, unsuccessfully, to contact Anna. I understood where she was coming from, but this little stunt of hers had two snags: for one thing, Patrice would now be forced into hiding for several years. Also, though she couldn’t possibly know this, my plan with O’Driscoll and the Pissed-Off Saudis included bombing this camp into the dust, which meant that another extraction would be required before we could engage.
On the way back, I asked Jule if he was Jewish. He laughed in response.
“I have this Jewish buddy,” he said. “Shema Yisrael, adonai eloheinu, adonai echad, that’s what he says every time your boy Omri Casspi stands on the Golden State Warriors’ free-throw line.”
He picked up the chirping satellite phone from its housing and answered with a cheerful, “Hey, old man. It’s all good.” He twisted back and handed me the phone. “It’s for you. Line is secure. Calls may be recorded for training and quality purposes up at Fort Meade.”
Froyke was on the line. “Who’s this nice Jewish boy you’re bringing back with you?”
“Long story, boss. Can it wait?”
“Negative,” he replied, and I was wondering how the hell he already knew about Patrice taking Anna’s place on the chopper. Had he hitched a ride on a satellite, or did he have other sources, unknown to me? I hadn’t even finished the story when he cut me off impatiently.
“Is Bruno in Rome?”
“I think so.”
“Goodbye.” He hung up. And slowly, far too slowly, the old bastard’s plan was beginning to dawn on me.
From Djibouti, we flew back to Rome, where we waited for the meeting with bin Nayef.
25.
Anna was sitting on the sofa in the corner of Imad’s office. He sat at her feet, his head between her knees. They sat there smoking in silence. Imad’s jaw tensed as he straightened out the newspaper, which had been crushed into a ball, and looked again at the front page. A large image of three men, cuffed and blindfolded, lying on a gray concrete floor. The headline cried, “ISRAELI TERROR AT THE HEART OF ROME.” According to the article, three representatives of GES, the Italian energy company—a German engineer named Schultz, a technician and a helicopter pilot—had been kidnapped and restrained by Hebrew-speaking agents. The team had been about to fly to Hadhramaut to fix a solar farm at the UNICEF children’s hospital. Their documents and IDs had been taken and apparently used by their kidnappers (perhaps the Mossad) to book a Qatar Airways flight to Riyadh. The Rome Police Department was investigating the bizarre affair. The writer also mentioned that only a week had passed since the bombing at Ambasciata d’Umbria, associated with the jihadi underground…
“I knew something was off about him, right from the start. Then I thought—they couldn’t possibly be dumb enough to plant a Jew as a spy… and that’s probably what they were
counting on. Fucking Jew, fucking Jews,” Imad spat and recrumpled the newspaper.
Anna had never felt so safe in his company. First the death of his brother, Nasser, and then Patrice’s extraction by the Israeli commandos posing as solar farm technicians—which had proven beyond doubt that Patrice had been the mole supplying the intel on the convoys…something had changed in Imad, and he had become more open, more attentive, and more in need of her attention. Oddly, the deaths of Husam and Hamid seemed to contribute to this change, as if he had accepted his fate. The fact that Anna had managed to narrowly escape the Israeli team of assassins had only strengthened his faith in her and the sense of camaraderie and partnership they shared.
Imad had told Anna that a large shipment of rockets and missiles should arrive at the camp any day now, including the Russian antiaircraft systems sold to the Iranians at subsidized cost, intended for Hamas and Hezbollah.
“The fighters on the front lines are desperate for ammunition. A recent Israeli bombing campaign has destroyed their reserves. It’s time for a change of approach,” he said with a sudden, astounding openness. “I was wrong, thinking we could defeat and subdue the West. In the meanwhile, more and more Muslims and Arabs are murdered by other Arabs. No enemy has been as destructive to Arabs as the Arabs themselves. On 9/11, in a single day, we erased centuries of humiliation—and for what?! Now the Americans are tearing through Afghanistan and Pakistan, they control Iraq, they’re swarming all over Saudi Arabia, they’re arming the Jews—the Europeans cooperate, of course, and once again we are the black sheep of civilization.”
Anna took a drag from her Gauloises, her other hand stroking his hair. “Impressive speech. Did you practice just for me?”
