by E. L. Pini
“What do you need, bubinke?”
“Could you handle the old man? Keep him from expiring on us?”
Bella shook her head. “I’m doing everything I can. So is that professor from the hospital and your adorable doctor, and Moshe… everyone’s doing their best, but… things don’t look too good, and your old man thinks he is twenty years old.”
“Look after him. Please.”
“I am. They’re coming in tomorrow to do some tests.”
I blew her a kiss. “Who loves you?”
“You do. Conditional love,” she said and went back into the office.
49.
On the plane, Luigi texted me that Uncle Victor was already waiting for us and was getting impatient. I was also expectedly impatient, with the target flashing in front of us and adrenaline flooding my brain.
The Frankfurt apartment Zhdaniev rented was in a luxury apartment complex on Schifferstrasse. The building could only be entered from the lobby, which was guarded by a sharply dressed concierge and an impressive surveillance system. The building’s owner was an amiable Jew who asked no questions when we requested he fire his previous concierge and hire Luigi in his place for a weekly salary of nothing.
We also rented an apartment in the building across the street, owned by the same cooperative Jew, for the purpose of surveillance and a command center. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. Visuals and audio of the apartment was excellent. We found that Victor’s Spetsnaz buddies were currently away killing some poor sap in Abidjan. Africa was far enough for comfort. Noam from the Mossad branch gave me command over a small local team—now I had Ran and Uzi, in addition to Luigi. We now outnumbered them, just like Froyke insisted.
I set the H-Hour. Tonight, 03:00.
At midnight I met O’Driscoll, who had come all the way to Frankfurt to tell me that they were extremely interested in the information Victor could provide, adding that Jones’s team was stationed nearby, primed for action.
“Jones is a good guy. Trustworthy,” I said, realizing this is my chance to pay O’Dri back for the Pissed-Off Saudis arrangement, as well as dumping the tedious hostage care on him once the operation was concluded.
02:15—Luigi phoned me from the concierge desk and brought my attention to the screen showing Dima and the Colonel, from the Spetsnaz team, on their way up to the apartment.
“Scheisse.” There went our advantage. We could still pull this off if we used Jones’s team for reinforcement—but that would require Froyke’s authorization, and Froyke had told me, several times, that the operation was only approved if the Spetsnaz bodyguards were away.
It would be a clear violation of orders, but one I was willing to live with. I muted the audio link to the operations room back home. Luigi and I reexamined our assets and options. We no longer outnumbered them, but we still had the element of surprise. We’d just have to be sneakier.
***
Someone banged on the door, loudly and urgently. More knocks followed. “Mr. Zhdaniev! Mr. Zhdaniev!”
The Colonel stared at Victor. “Sounds like the new concierge, that idiot Italian.”
“I’ll go,” said Dima and went to open the door. Luigi stood there in his blue concierge uniform, yelling excitedly and waving his arms in the general direction of downstairs.
“Machina, machina fire! Auto—boom!”
Dima tried to get him to talk English, but Luigi didn’t respond. Dima grabbed him by the ear and dragged him toward Victor, who asked him what he wants, this time in Italian. Luigi again flailed his arms around in response. “Your car. Downstairs. It’s on fire!”
Victor ran to the window to see smoke rising from his Audi. He yelled at Dima to come down with him and ran out of the apartment. Luigi remained in the apartment, his eyes scanning the room. Victor and Dima’s steps continued to echo down the hall. Luigi rubbed his injured ear, drew his weapon and aimed it at the Colonel. “Colonel Sokolovsky,” he said, “I suggest you avoid moving without permission. I’m not Spetsnaz, just Golani, but from three feet, I never miss.”
The Colonel, despite having spent around forty of his sixty years in some of the more daring operations by the Spetsnaz, seemed stumped. Golani? Israelis? What were they doing here?
Victor and Dima were charging out of the building toward the smoking car, when the way out was suddenly blocked by three rather large men, all aiming weapons at their centers of mass. Victor raised his hand, halting Dima. He stared at them in disbelief.
“Guten Morgen, Mr. Zhdaniev. How are we doing this morning? Please hold your hands out in front of you,” I said in German and, switching to Hebrew, added, “Dan, cuff them. Uzi, search.”
I provided cover while Dan and Uzi collected the weapons, including Dima’s hidden arsenal—a Scorpion submachine gun, a .22 Beretta concealed at his ankle, an ice pick on his right shin and three star-shaped shurikens.
“Shall we head upstairs?” I politely suggested.
We went back up to the apartment. The Colonel was also handcuffed, as was Sveta. Luigi was admiring the Japanese dagger he had taken from the Colonel—“perfectly balanced and sharper than your brain, boss.”
“Colonel Sokolovsky, I presume. Nice to finally meet you. We’ve been waiting for you to come visit for years… a shame.”
“Mossad?” Sokolovsky calmly inquired.
“That’s right. We have work to do, comrades.”
“Who are you? Who sent you?” asked Zhdaniev.
“The state of Israel sent me. My boss sent me, to shut down your business. Fifteen hundred Stingers for Hezbollah, three thousand RPG launchers, five Cobras for the Somalis, liquid PETN for Imad Akbariyeh, another tankerful at Lebanon. I’m afraid this is unacceptable. By the way, we destroyed the tanker three days ago. Oh, and we pulled back the transaction you were waiting for—nine hundred thousand, remember that?”
A twisted smile stretched his lips.
“You move to America,” I said. “Full board for the rest of your life. You help me back into the Chernobyl factory and I try to be nice. This is the deal.”
Jones came in with his team and started loading Victor and his buddies onto the truck. And then I received a call I would have given anything not to.
“Froyke’s in bad shape,” said Bella. “Doctor Verbin is with him. Get down here as soon as you can.”
I transferred command to Luigi and left to the airport, trying to fathom the meaning behind the words “bad shape.” Was Froyke leaving me, too?
50.
An airport police patrol car drove by the plane when it touched down on the runway at Tel Aviv and waited under the ramp once it came to a stop. I sprinted toward it. The sergeant driving the car yelled, “Ehrlich?”
“Go,” I said, and he hit the gas before I closed the door.
“I’m taking you out directly through our station,” he said. I thanked him and he added, “There’s a driver already waiting for you outside with one of your jeeps. Do you need an escort to Jerusalem?”
“No need. The jeep knows the way. But thank you for all your help.”
The car screeched to a halt and I sprinted to the jeep waiting outside the police station with the engine running. Verbin was at the wheel.
“Move over, I’ll drive,” I said. I drove out and turned on the siren, and soon we were at 140 miles an hour, the tachometer creeping into the red. Verbin seemed a bit alarmed but said nothing.
“I’ve missed you so much, but… how is he?”
She squeezed my shoulder. “It isn’t good, but it isn’t hopeless. Professor Fleishman is with him.”
“Who’s Fleishman?”
“Our senior oncologist. He’s very good, at the top of his field. He… Froyke’s recovering from surgery. He’s still sleeping, hooked up to a ventilator. You can drive a bit slower. He’s in the best possible hands, I promise. Stable and asleep. Nothing is go
ing to change over the next couple of hours.”
I flicked on the emergency lights and stopped at the side of the road near Motza, on the edge of Jerusalem. I pulled Verbin into a hug, as tight as the car seat allowed. “I’m sorry, I…”
She placed a finger on my lips and smiled. “You’re just incapable of doing anything properly, aren’t you? It’s either speeding like a maniac or standing on the side of the road like a klutz. Drive.”
“I really did miss you.”
“I did, too. Now drive.”
I drove. After a minute, I asked again. “So what’s going on with him, exactly?”
“He was in a meeting in Jerusalem—they brought him in a prime minister’s office car. At first they thought it was a heart attack. Turns out it was aggressive pancreatic cancer. Problematic… but there are patients who have managed to recover. Professor Gorni, for example…”
“Verbin, sweetheart, speak Hebrew. How long do we have?”
“We don’t know. We need to wait and see how he responds to the surgery, see if Fleishman managed to get all the damaged tissue… or if it’s spread.”
She stroked my arm. “Does he have any family?” she asked. “Bella only told me when they brought him in…”
“He has family. One son left the country; he’s somewhere in Alaska now. They’re not in touch. The other one found religion, along with Froyke’s wife. They’re extremely Orthodox now, and not really in touch, either.”
When we got to the hospital, Verbin leapt out of the jeep and hurried inside. I remained behind, leaning on an overgrown hedge, postponing as much as I could. When Froyke’s old squad members had begun to wither and die one after the other, he’d told me, “It’s stalking me, too…”
“What’s stalking you?”
Froyke had smiled. “The Kishon cancer,” he’d said and made spooky sounds, wriggling his fingers.
Verbin came back and took my hands in hers. I pulled myself together and we went inside. One of our guys was sitting in the hallway by Froyke’s door, a small earbud in his ear. He stood up the minute he saw me, and I signaled with a small nod that he could sit back down.
Froyke was hooked up to sensors and machinery, seeming to have shrunk to half his size. The prosthesis lay beside his bed. I placed a hand on his forehead. It was cold. I stared at the dark brown bloodstain on his green hospital gown, and for a moment, it seemed to spread, growing lighter and larger. I braced my hand against the wall to counter the sudden dizziness, and then the images flooded my mind. The bloodstains spread, filling my vision. I heard the voices of Eran and Ya’ara.
51.
We were at Dana, the children’s hospital at Ichilov Medical Center in Tel Aviv. I was with Ya’ara and little Eran, waiting for the doctor. The name “Prof. Agranat” was written on the door. I remember thinking it couldn’t possibly be the same Agranat.
“Ehrlich family, you’re next,” the nurse declared and saw us in.
“RP? RP! Unbelievable… how many years has it been? Get over here and give me a hug!”
After the hug, the professor crouched and held his fist in front of Eran, who happily bumped it.
“So this is my little fighter? Strong, aren’t you? Come here, sweetie, open wide.”
While Agranat examined Eran’s throat and went over the X-rays provided by Ya’ara, she whispered, “What’s RP?” in my ear.
“An old joke,” I said. “I’ll tell you later.”
Agranat finished the examination and said, “Polyps are inflamed. We need to remove them.” I appreciated that he chose the word “remove” rather than “surgery” or “cut.”
“We were expecting this,” I said, patting Eran’s back. “Right, little man? We found the best polyp remover in the world for you, and he’s a friend of mine from the army—we trust him.”
Eran was peacefully wandering the professor’s office, seemingly entirely disconnected from the exchange, and only opened his mouth upon encountering a large Transformer on the small cabinet behind Agranat’s desk.
“I have two questions, Professor Garganat,” he said.
“Agranat,” I corrected.
“Thass fine,” replied Eran. “Tell me, Garganat—why’d you call my dad Arpee? And question number two is what are you doing with this Optimus Prime?” He shook the Transformer. “This is for kids!”
Agranat laughed. “Like father, like son. Look, young man. You’ll have to ask your dad about the first bit. Regarding Optimus Prime, he’s yours—if you behave.”
Eran approached the professor, his little fist raised in front of him. The professor obediently bumped it. “I recommend removing these polyps as soon as possible.”
“Whenever you say, but ideally when Avner’s home. When’s your next flight, RP?” Ya’ara asked, smiling.
“In a couple of days. I’ll be gone for about a week.”
“Actually, you know what?” Agranat pointed at the timetable he had opened on his screen. “What are you doing right now? Another patient just canceled his… removal. I have an open slot, if it works for you.”
“You mean you want to operate right now?” Eran asked. “Thass fine with me. What do you think, Daddy?”
I hoisted him into the air and pressed my forehead against his. I whispered that I loved him more than anything in the world, and there was no doctor I trusted more than this Garganat.
Ya’ara went with Eran into the operating room. I waited outside.
***
“These fighters,” Agranat told Ya’ara while he checked Eran’s blood pressure. “It’s all well and good on the battlefield, but when it comes to their children, they’re terrified.” He smiled. “Everything looks good. A couple of hours in recovery and he’ll be as good as new.”
“Why RP?” Ya’ara asked before they left the operating room.
“That jackass, he really never told you? I will, then. RP stands for rage and power,” said the professor, and in a deeper voice, he added, “Avner Ehrlich Ne’eman. Two hundred and thirty pounds of rage and power.” He signaled one of the nurses to move Eran from the operating table to one of the rolling patient beds.
“Could you clean the blood, please? It would be better if Avner didn’t see it,” Ya’ara asked.
“No problem, lady,” said the nurse and carried on with whatever he was doing. Aganat went to the sink and sterilized his hands.
“We were raiding a Syrian observation post. Suddenly we were taking heavy fire, a barrage from an unknown source. They had a heavy machine gun positioned somewhere, probably a new post, because there was nothing about it in our intel. We didn’t have time to react. Two dead, Ra’anan and ‘Loco’ Moshiko, who was a volunteer from Argentina, no family. He and Avner were close. Ido, who was the commanding officer, ordered a retreat. Avner refused, said he wasn’t going anywhere until he took down the machine gun operator. There was no love lost between the two of them, to say the least, and Ido asked what a smart-ass like Avner was going to do against an invisible, heavily armed opponent who had the clear tactical advantage. RP answered in short: ‘With rage and with power.’ Then he loaded his rifle and sprinted up the hill, alone, yelling and firing like a maniac, like those Indians in the old movies. I don’t know if it was the fire or the yelling that killed that Syrian with the machine gun, but he got him. We took down the rest of their force with pretty much the same method. It was insane. Insane! The team started calling him ‘Rage and Power,’ RP for short. But it was just the team—no one else was supposed to know. But you know how these things are. After that, the way that team acted out in the field—they thought they were, like they were unlisted in the bullet address book… they gave him the Brigade Commander Citation—should have been the Chief of Staff Citation, but those assholes said that on account of the insubordination—he essentially disobeyed a direct order—he got the next best thing. Idiots. You know, that team… other than Avn
er and Ami Kahanov, I think there’s no one left.”
Agranat and Ya’ara came out to the hallway.
“Where’s Eran?” I asked.
“There’s nothing to worry about. Everything went perfectly,” said Agranat, and then the nurse came, pushing Eran’s rolling bed, and there was dark blood on Eran’s chin and it had poured down the sheet covering his sleeping body, and I felt the floor slipping away from under me. Everything was far too white.
“RP, what’s going on with you?” was the last thing I heard, and I didn’t know who it was that spoke, because the voice sounded like it was rising from a deep, bottomless well. The last thing I remembered was feeling the chill of the floor, but no pain.
***
“You faded out for a while. Where were you?” asked Verbin, dabbing my forehead with a wet wipe.
“I’m fine. When is he going to wake up?” I nodded toward Froyke.
Verbin looked at the monitor. “He’s stable. I estimate he’ll be awake in an hour or so. Let’s go to the cafeteria. He needs his rest.”
When we got back, Professor Fleishman was there, arranging the pillows to better support Froyke’s raised head. “He’s strong. Our hero, really. He’ll make it. Are you his son?”
“Almost,” I said. “A colleague. He’s my boss.”
“Your father’s an impressive man. I’ll get going. He’ll be fine,” he said and handed the chart to Verbin. “Doctor, tell him he’ll be fine.”
Verbin read diligently, and I went to Froyke and held the hand hanging out from under the blanket.
“Phase two?” Froyke rasped.
“Yeah, boss. The Chechen is closed for business.”
“Good.” A hoarse whisper. “Good.”
“Let him rest,” said the doctor. I leaned in, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and whispered, “Come back soon, boss. It’s time for phase three.”
“What’s phase three?” he croaked.
“Chernobyl!” I said, grinning.
