The Danger Within

by E. L. Pini

  The prime minister called us into his office. Ami laid out his intel, and I added the news from Abrasha. Locating the tanker was raised to the top of the EEI. My adrenaline was pumping. Nothing gets you focused like a clear, distinct target.

  The prime minister was apparently in the mood to provide some leadership, because he contacted Colonel Dudi, commander of Visual Intelligence Unit 9900, who appeared on the ridiculously huge screen to assure us that, “if this tanker is anywhere in the neighborhood, we’ll find it. What gets past the satellites will be caught by the drones, and what gets past the drones will be picked up by our aerial scouts.”

  Froyke and I exchanged skeptical looks. We were both considering the possibility that the tanker might be hidden underground, or in some warehouse—there were plenty of ways to avoid detection from the air.

  When we were done there, Ami went back to his office, and I escorted a limping Froyke back to his car. Suddenly he grabbed his prosthesis and doubled over. I lunged at him and grabbed his shoulders.

  “Deep breaths.”

  Froyke leaned on the car, panting. “Bring me a cigarette, please. There’s a pack in the car.” He tossed me the keys to the Land Cruiser.

  I found a green pack of Noblesse cigarettes in the glove compartment and lit one for him. Froyke took a long drag and slowly managed to steady himself. “It’s not the prosthesis that hurts, you know. It’s the missing leg.”

  “Well, imagine how much it would hurt if it was still with us.”

  “What’s going on with that Taissiri? Haven’t the Yankees found him yet?” Froyke always referred to Americans as “Yankees.” I couldn’t help but smile.

  “The Yankees seem to be getting closer. They estimate he’s hiding out around the Taliban caves.”

  I waited for Froyke to finish with his usual reiteration—instead, he grasped at his chest and suddenly fell, writhing voicelessly on the pavement.

  At first, I froze. Then all of the blood in my body seemed to rush back into my face. I shoved him into my jeep, turned on the siren and sped out of there like a maniac, sailing past red lights, flying over sidewalks, taking any shortcut I could think of. On the way, I called Bella and told her to inform the hospital of our arrival.

  The glass doors of the emergency room were saved only by the grace of a screeching emergency stop. Two paramedics emerged, running, and placed Froyke on a stretcher as a third yelled to “clear the entrance.” I nudged him aside and left the jeep and the whining sirens in place until I was certain that Froyke was the ER’s top priority.

  The nurse was already removing the electrodes from Froyke’s chest when I swung aside the curtain around his bed.

  “Cardiac arrest,” the doctor told me. “He’s okay now.”

  Froyke was as pale as a sheet, but breathing regularly.

  I went back outside to properly park the jeep. The hospital administrator was there when I got back—Bella must have terrified him into coming—along with Dr. Verbin.

  “We’ll keep him here overnight, just in case,” said Verbin, and without waiting for a response, she began to wheel the rolling bed out of the ER. Two paramedics hurried after her to take over. Verbin walked at Froyke’s side, I took up the rear. I was certain I could hear my pulse, thumping and thumping.

  “You’re exceptionally stubborn.” She smiled at me. When she looked back at the bed, her smile froze.

  “Stop!” she ordered the paramedic pushing the bed, and placed her hand on Froyke’s neck. The little green line tracing his pulse was running flat.

  “Machines are too far. Basic resuscitation, now! You, pinch his nose.”

  She placed two hands over Froyke’s heart and massaged it vigorously while the paramedic pinched his nose shut. Froyke was unresponsive. She didn’t stop, even when the paramedic spread his arms helplessly to the sides. The look she shot him was murderous. She closed her hand in a fist and struck Froyke’s chest with the heel of her palm. The paramedic ran down the hall, kicked an inoperative resuscitation cart in frustration, kept running. Verbin struck Froyke again. He did not respond. She looked at me.

  “Get over here!”

  I approached. She indicated the location of his heart. “Now you hit him, right here. Hard.” Her eyes bore into mine. “Don’t be afraid. Strong—not strong enough to break the bones, but strong.” She laid her hand on Froyke’s chest, palm up. “Now, hit my hand.”

  We’d practiced this resuscitation maneuver many times over the years. I’d never thought I’d use it, certainly not on Froyke. I took Verbin’s hand and moved it away.

  “I love you, Froyke,” I whispered. I raised my fist and lowered it with a force neither too strong nor to weak. Froyke’s body jumped, and then twisted and squirmed as if he was being electrocuted. He cracked opened his eyes and looked up at us, puzzled. I kissed his forehead.

  I turned around into Verbin’s hugging arms.

  “You’re not so bad. And he isn’t doing too bad now, either,” she told me and smiled sweetly. “Now, you can…you know.” She waved her hand at me dismissively. I realized, after several seconds, that she was getting rid of me—just like I had gotten rid of her when we’d first met. Tough lady.

  37.

  Froyke had been placed on anesthesia and life support and declared “stable.” Verbin was finishing up her shift. I was exhausted and soaked in sweat. It wasn’t like I could do anything to help at this point. I decided to head home and come back tomorrow, first thing in the morning. I went out to the parking lot, and when I climbed into the jeep, there she was, unlocking a shiny red Volkswagen Beetle.

  My heart was pounding again.

  “Do you need a ride?” I solemnly asked.

  Verbin turned around, smiling. “Not really,” she said, jiggling her keychain. “But I think you might need a passenger.”

  “Come on,” I told her. She held out her hand, and I helped her climb into my Cherokee.

  “Here I am. Where are we going?”

  “Agur, to park the jeep.”

  “Agur?”

  “Agur. A worker settlement in the Judaean Mountains. Founded 1950 by immigrants from Kurdistan. Currently houses eighty-five families, and me, and… my son… Adolf, and Garibaldi… and the most beautiful sunset in the country. A thousand feet above sea level, at winter the temperature—”

  “Okay, sold.” She leaned her head on my shoulder, and I drove slower than usual. Twenty minutes later we turned from Highway 1 onto Route 38.

  “Can we stop somewhere to pick up a bottle of wine?”

  “There’s probably one at the house…”

  “That’s fine, but what kind of guest shows up empty-handed? My Jewish mother would be horrified.”

  “I’ll give you a bottle, and you give it back to me. How’s that?”

  We drove past the yellow gate, into my little cul-de-sac that ends with an electric gate. I clicked it open with the remote and progressed toward the second gate. When the first gate closed behind us, the second one opened. The two monstrosities lunged at the jeep, barking maniacally. She flinched slightly.

  “It’s fine, they’re just letting me know how happy they are to see me.”

  “What about me?”

  “I guess we’re about to find out.”

  They escorted the jeep, happily barking, until we parked it by the small shed. I grabbed Verbin around the waist and lowered her from the jeep. “Introductions: this is Garibaldi the mastiff, the son of a friend from Rome, heir to the Italian royal family. This is Adolf, who graduated from Oketz summa cum laude and was discharged after his handler was killed at the Kasba.”

  “Adolf? That actually his name?”

  “Yeah. Long story.”

  I crouched to pet them. Garibaldi interpreted this as a desire to kiss and slobbered all over me. I wiped the drool off and cleaned my hand on his fur. “Garibaldi, you are an absurd cr
eature.”

  They approached Verbin, who bravely stood her ground, and sniffed at her feet until I scolded them. We walked into the refrigerated shed. I pulled a bottle of red wine from the shelves and handed it to Verbin, who seemed captivated by the heavy wooden shelves covered in tagged, dated bottles. I took a ball of cheese and a jar of cracked Syrian olives from the old Philco refrigerator in the corner.

  “Come on,” she said, “we’ll miss the sunset.”

  “Not a problem, I’m all about missing out on things. All we need now is some bread.”

  I placed the goods in a green plastic crate.

  “I’ll carry this to the terrace.” I pointed at the pergola at the end of the small vineyard. “Could you grab some bread from the kitchen? Basket on the right. The puppies will go with you.”

  “Other way around,” said Verbin and lifted the crate on her shoulder before heading out to the pergola.

  I walked behind her and looked at the house, enjoying what I saw: a single-story elongated rectangle, built from rough-hewn Jerusalem limestone. An open staircase shaded by a large, twisting vine led to the roof. Some of the walls were built from dark, massive Canadian logs that had been added as an extension of the old stone structure.

  I passed through the kitchen, got bread and some silverware, and met her on the terrace. Verbin was looking westward, spellbound by the reddening view of the hills.

  “Fantastic view. You’re clearly a professional seducer.”

  “It seems to work only if the subject is looking to be seduced.”

  I poured wine into the glasses and swirled mine around before shoving my nose in the glass.

  “To Froyke.”

  Verbin touched her glass to mine. “He’ll be okay. He’s strong.”

  She sliced off some cheese and nodded her head toward the narrow, elongated pool.

  “The pool is amazing. I’ve never seen one like it.”

  Eran used to call it The Dungeon. “Would it be okay if I hop in?”

  “Sure. Hang on, I’ll get you a towel.”

  By the time I came back, she had already stripped down to a black bra and panties. I was thrown, and slightly flustered by the perfect, curving shape of her. I kept my distance, tossing her the large towel.

  “Is this supposed to keep me chaste?” She tossed the towel at my head and jumped in the pool.

  The sound of her hitting the water alerted Garibaldi and Adolf, who rushed over to perch on the edge of the pool like a couple of lifeguards. I poured myself another glass and looked at her. It wasn’t like I had any choice in the matter—I was mesmerized. She moved in the water like a pro, round, tight motions. The water flowed over her smooth back, and a small, sculptured ass protruded from the water whenever she plunged her head in. I forced myself to get up. I went into the house and turned on the sound system. “’O sole mio”—Pavarotti rolled out of the speakers like soft waves lapping at the shore.

  The song was beginning its final verse—“Quanno fa notte e ’o sole se ne scenne, me vene quasi ’na malincunia.” Night comes, and the sun has gone down, and I am struck by melancholy, and then—an annoying buzz from the pager, followed by a message: “Nora wants you on the Rose.”

  I picked up the bulky, yet secure Mountain Rose14 device just as it rang. Nora was on the other side.

  “Hang on, finding a secure location,” I said and headed toward the vineyard, away from the pool.

  “You’re at home? With company? Good for you, man. Female company, I’m guessing. Listen, Dudi from 9900 called. They combed the whole neighborhood, couldn’t find it. They asked if there were any identifying marks.”

  “I wish.”

  “They tracked several dozen tankers—none were deemed relevant.”

  I was about to ask about the criteria used to determine said relevance, but Nora was already explaining—they were looking for a specific heat signature. Which meant that the satellites would be useless if the tanker was underground, or even just in an air-conditioned structure. I wanted to ask if she’d applied pressure to the other potential sources, if she’d told 9900 to continue their tracking efforts. At some point, someone would move that tanker.

  But Nora already knew what to do. I was starting to turn into Froyke, always reiterating, always double-checking.

  “Okay, Nora. Thanks,” I said.

  “Enjoy the company,” she concluded, hanging up.

  When I got back to the pool, Verbin was no longer there. The towel was laid out to dry on the green lawn chair. I whistled and Garibaldi came running. He rubbed up against my legs and led me into the house. I followed him down the hall, until he stopped at the bathroom door. Verbin was just walking out, her wet hair framing catlike green eyes which were usually obscured by her horn-rimmed glasses. I relaxed.

  “Where are your glasses?”

  “Do you prefer me with glasses?”

  “I think… I don’t know. At this point I can only say that I prefer you.”

  She came closer and took my hand. “Contacts. At the hospital I need the glasses to look a bit older, more trustworthy. Hold on a minute.” She went back into the bathroom and retrieved her wineglass. “Get the dishes from the pool, I’ll wash them.”

  “You know something my dishwasher doesn’t?”

  “Good point. Now pour me more wine, you huge bastard.”

  “Happily. I’ll get the dishes, you choose a bottle.”

  She raised her eyes questioningly.

  “There’s a little wine cooler in the study. All the bottles in there are ready to drink.”

  Verbin turned and went to the study.

  Scheisse. The study? You idiot.

  I hurried out to the terrace, collected the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher. I wondered if it was really an accident, or maybe I had done it intentionally, pointed her straight to my open wound. So she would know. So she could comfort me.

  When I turned around, she was standing in front of me, holding a bottle. It wasn’t a wine bottle. It was bourbon, and two glasses.

  “This is the strong stuff, right? Open up, please!” she asserted.

  “Drink.” She held the glass up to my lips. “Drink!”

  I gulped down the bourbon like it was a glass of vodka. This was not how bourbon was meant to be drunk. Verbin downed her one glass and then grabbed my hand and led me to the study. She nodded toward the photos of Eran. Dozens of them, framed, different sizes, from different times. They were everywhere. Eran nursing in Ya’ara’s arms. Baby Eran in a carriage at the beach in Tel Aviv. A small, golden-haired child, dressed as a cowboy. Eran in a judo uniform and a white belt, surrounded by his peers, a tall kid, his hair had darkened into a chestnut brown, big blue eyes and an athletic build. The judo uniform gave way to a karate uniform. The belts also traded colors, from white all the way to black. Martial arts certificates in English and Japanese, one of them signed by Mas Ōyama. The two of us leaning against the battered ATV, at the edge of the cliff on the edge of Ma’ale Vardit, arms around each other’s shoulders. Eran in his paratrooper uniform, receiving his wings, receiving his officer stripes. Graduation reports for outstanding performance from every course he ever took in the IDF. A photo of Ya’ara, beautiful, calm, leaning back in a straw chair. Older. Her hair was tied back. In the background was a large garden, and people frozen by the photo mid stroll. A big close-up of Eran I’d enlarged out of a year photo of his unit. I stood there, facing the wall of photos, facing her, and didn’t quite know what to say. I noticed a tear sliding down her cheek.

  “I knew Eran. He was an amazing guy. A really, really good guy,” she said.

  “What? How?” I stared at her, lost.

  She poured us both another drink and raised her glass. “To Eran and Gil.”

  “Gil?”

  “My baby brother. I raised him, pretty much, after…” She paused for a mom
ent, then continued, “Anyway, Gil was in field intelligence. He told me that Eran led them into the Gaza Strip one night to do some reconnaissance. They had special night-vision gear, confidential equipment. When they got back, it turned out that one of the lookouts left behind some classified equipment. Eran never reported it. In the middle of the night, he went back out there by himself, deep into enemy territory, and came back with the missing equipment. No one knew. Later, it turned out that…”

  “And your brother, Gil, how’s he? Is he okay?”

  “My brother, Gil… my baby brother, he’s at Loewenstein.”15 She slowly shook her head. “A vegetable, and that’s that. My baby brother’s a vegetable, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

  “Take the glass with you.”

  We left the room, holding hands, with the bottle and the glasses. We crossed the terrace, heading toward the pool. The motion detectors activated the outdoor lighting, trapping us in two bright beams of light, like rabbits caught by a hunter’s torch. Verbin shielded her eyes and I guided her along. The hunting lights went out. A column of small solar garden lights led us westward, toward the small cliff. I tightened my grip on her hand and took her to the black slab of rock.

  The words “Captain Eran Ehrlich Ne’eman” were carved into the rock, simple white letters. A garden sofa sat by the grave, and some empty wine bottled were scattered around. I picked them up and placed them in the wooden crate to the side. “Sit.”

  She sat and poured us another round.

  I sat beside her. “When Abrasha, who was the GOC16 at the time, gave Eran his captain stripes,” she said, “he was talking, very calmly and quietly, about the time some lookout had left behind some heat-vision equipment, and how Eran went into the Gaza Strip to retrieve it, by himself, the following night. He told us how he and Eran’s battalion commander weren’t sure whether to reprimand him or give him a goddamn medal… then he pulled Eran into a fierce hug, like he was his son. I was there—Gil had just made first lieutenant.”