by E. L. Pini
“You know that makes no sense.”
Her chin crumpled, like a child trying not to cry.
“Have it your way,” she said, pressing against me. I stroked her hair, and she pushed harder against my chest, as if trying to disappear inside me. I gently tried to cool her down a bit, and she placed a finger on my lips. “Come here.”
I obeyed. She guided me to the sofa, took off my shoes and lay down beside me.
“I know you can’t… I know it’s wrong.” She turned to me, kissed my forehead, my cheeks. When she reached my lips, I kissed back. I found it difficult to stop. The kiss grew deeper.
“Just for tonight, just this one night, I can’t be on my own… just this night, and that’s it.”
I took off my shirt, and she suddenly threw back her head and laughed wildly.
“Ha! Some tears from the blonde, and there you go, giving in. Fantastic. The Israeli hero cracks like an egg. I love you, Schatzi.” She got up and held out her hand. “Now get up, and let’s go our separate ways.”
I ordered the taxi. Luigi picked her up, and I drove after them and returned only when I watched her safely reach her apartment. On the way back, I made arrangements to have Digital Albert and his team flown in, to tap every security camera in Berlin.
A year before that, we’d been in London. Three months of intensive training—surveillance, communication protocols, withstanding interrogation, body language. Other than that, we’d spent every free minute fucking. We were staying at a basement apartment that I’d rented on an alley just off Kilburn Road. Our only tape was Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited. We must have listened to it a thousand times. A Greek called Spiros would arrive twice a day to bring us “fish and ships” for two and examine our security arrangements. At the end of those three months, I’d decided that she was ready. She’d accepted my offer and started her new job as the administrator of the UNICEF children’s hospital in Shabwah.
61.
The operations room that Noam had arranged for us was in central Berlin, on the twenty-first floor of the Sternbach Towers, in the offices of the Initiative for the Development of Alternative Sustainable Energy Sources. I preferred to keep tabs from a surveillance car we’d parked at the corner of Anna’s street. Her building’s concierge had been replaced by Nathan, one of our guys, granting us another foothold.
Just as Nathan reported that Francesca was on her way up to the apartment, Anna’s phone rang. Imad, on the other end, told her that he’d sent a car to take her to the restaurant. He was cautious, not mentioning an address, calling from an untraceable phone. I felt an odd stab of excitement at the sound of his voice. I alerted Uzi, another one of ours, who was patrolling the surrounding block on a BMW bike. Nathan reported that Anna had entered a Berlin taxi. Uzi followed her on the bike for a while and at some point was replaced by Keren, from Noam’s team, driving a modified Smart. Twelve minutes later, she reported, “Restaurant Margaux, Unter den Linden 78.”
I asked Albert, back in the operations room, to tap into every camera he could find in the restaurant’s vicinity. Uzi joined Keren and we tried to get them a table at Margaux. There were no available tables, but we insisted and eventually got them a couple of bar seats. This would have been optimal, if it weren’t for Imad’s two covert bodyguards who also came and sat by the bar.
“For the main course, Chef Hofmann recommends the salmon. The salmon is absolutely spectacular—it is flown here in a special aquarium specifically developed for the restaurant, steamed in a local Riesling and served with white asparagus in a clarified butter sauce with black lentils and porcini flecks.”
“Anna?” Imad held her hand and tilted his head toward the head waiter, who was waiting for her reply.
“Yes, sorry, I spaced out. That sounds wonderful. How about you choose, and we’ll just eat?” she suggested, fixing her glasses, which had a small transmitter embedded within the frame. She pushed them up her nose, reminding herself that Avner could hear every word, and that he was close.
The head waiter bowed, smiling. “I’m certain you will be pleased.” He clicked his heels and returned to the kitchen.
Imad squeezed Anna’s hand and proceeded to ask a question which had never before come up. “Do you love me?”
“Do you really love me, baby?” Luigi’s mocking voice suddenly blared through. “Can you believe this asshole?!”
I was momentarily horrified, but thankfully, the sound link from Anna was one-way. Anna decided to bring the ball back to her court. She slipped off her shoe under the table and gently slid her foot under Imad’s testicles.
Imad reached under the table and gently stroked her foot. “Anna, I’m serious…”
“Do I love you? The truth?”
“Yes. This is important to me.”
“Oh, it’s so important to me, baby! Testa di cazzo, important to him… fucking Arab.” Nathan was giggling uncontrollably at Luigi’s second outburst, and Uzi was demanding an exact translation for Testa di cazzo. I was forced to shut them up.
“I don’t love you.”
“Yes!” yelled Luigi triumphantly.
“I’m…” Anna sighed. “I’m addicted to you. I hate you, but I’m addicted to you. I thought I kicked the habit, and suddenly you’re back and I’m so happy… like a junkie that suddenly found a pound of crack on her doorstep.”
“I couldn’t call sooner, not with them listening—Anna, they’re after me… the Americans, the Israelis, Interpol…”
The audio link fell silent. Nothing but distant background noise.
“But you’re so adorable,” Anna cooed eventually.
“Jeez, lady, tone it down,” muttered Keren from her seat at the bar.
The waiter arrived and placed the entrées in front of them—two plates with large truffle slices, soaking in fizzy champagne. The sommelier arrived shortly after, brandishing a wrapped bottle.
“Just pour, please,” Imad cut him off. The sommelier uncorked the bottle with a loud POP that startled both Anna and me, then poured a tasting sample, which Imad drank and approved with a nod. The sommelier seemed frustrated by the lack of a more appropriate response for his Dom Pérignon.
“Anna, I need your help…”
Anna took a large gulp from her glass, stood up and rounded the table to embrace Imad, who had gotten up as well. She kissed his neck, his forehead, his cheek, and eventually his mouth. Luigi’s melodramatic groan extracted hushed giggles from everyone. Imad tried to say something, and Anna placed a finger on his lips.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you with me. You’re mine, and I’m greedy and possessive as you well know. Just, please, don’t hurt my work at the clinic…” Anna was sticking to the pattern I had trained her to follow. Only accede after reasonable resistance.
“I promise. We won’t use the clinic until you say you’re done for the day. Thirty operations—”
“That many?”
“Two a night. Two weeks, and it’ll be done, over. We’ll start tomorrow night, and after we have ten, we’ll take a break for a week or two.”
Just that sentence alone would have been worth this hassle. They had ten shahids’ worth of explosive stuffing—fifteen gallons of gel, give or take.
Anna returned to her seat and refilled their glasses. “It’s dangerous, Schatzi. If they close my clinic, these kids… they have nowhere to go. They’ll stay sick. Some will be permanently crippled. Why not rent a clinic? It’s not difficult—I’ll help, if it’ll keep you safe.”
“I’ll help… porca Madonna.” Luigi spoke with genuine anger, a true classic among Italian curses, again inciting giggles.
Imad gazed into her eyes.
“Your clinic presents the perfect opportunity. Arabs are always coming and going—anywhere else, this sort of activity would be monitored, but who would even consider monitoring Dr. von Stroop’s UNICEF children’s
clinic?”
“What about the people looking for you? The Americans, Interpol?” She didn’t dare say “Israelis.”
“They think I’m dead. And we’ll keep it that way.”
Anna finished another glass of champagne. “Shall we go?”
Imad smiled and rose from his seat. “By the way, this new nurse, Stephan—what do you know about him? Check, please,” he added to a passing waiter.
“You’re about to find out, cazzo,” Luigi hissed, his voice an odd mixture of joy and malice. More scattered laughter.
I was momentarily concerned, but Anna simply ignored the question and kissed him again, deeply. The asshole did his homework and was again proving to be a thorough, dangerous professional. I decided that it was time to end this. My dance with Imad, from the Little Jihad in Rome all the way to Shabwah, had gone on for too long. The trail of bombings, injuries and deaths he’d left in his wake was even longer.
Chef Hofmann arrived at the table and pointed at the champagne truffles, frowning. “Was the food not to your liking?”
“Oh, not at all—it was delicious. It’s just, we have… urgent matters to attend to.” Imad winked. “Another time.”
Hofmann smiled. “Yes, the entire restaurant shares your happiness. I’ll pack the meal for you, you can eat at home.”
“You are gracious as usual. Thank you. Please send over the waiter with the check.”
Hofmann shook his head. “On the house. When you have a proper meal, pay a proper bill. It will be soon, I hope.”
Uzi and Keren were kissing passionately when Imad and Anna passed them on their way out, and so it made sense when they got up and followed them outside to wait for the chauffer.
“Guten Abend,” Uzi greeted Imad, who nodded back. “Good evening.”
A calculated move, to remind Anna we were right there with her.
The Porsche arrived. Imad held the door open for Anna and signaled his bodyguards, who got into a black Lincoln Navigator that seemed to appear out of nowhere and blocked the view of the Porsche until it disappeared from sight.
“Your place?” Imad asked.
“His place, Anna, please! Go to his place!” I muttered to myself, but Anna directed him to her apartment, perhaps out of concern for Abdu. Imad sent his bodyguards away for the night—he apparently felt safe enough without them.
The temptation was great, but I had to hold back, stick to the original plan. We needed him alive. A kidnapping, right under the noses of his bodyguards, let alone flying him back to Israel without incident, required meticulous planning and logistics. Far more logistics, unfortunately, than a quick bullet to the brain.
62.
Noam coordinated the night shifts, and Luigi joined me for a cognac and an espresso at a nearby bar.
“Remind me again why we aren’t just executing the cazzo along with his pair of gorillas,” he moaned.
I told him that I’d rather give Imad the freedom to hopefully lead us to Taissiri. It wasn’t an all-out lie, though the truth was that we were not authorized to execute Imad, and that didn’t seem likely to change in the near future. Nahum from foreign affairs has been scolding us daily about the Germans—and the rest of Europe, for that matter—who were “extremely pissed at our crude and invasive actions within their borders.” He also made sure to remind us that the use of European passports during the recent operation to assassinate al-Mabhouh27 in Dubai “did nothing to increase their love for us.”
Luigi remained unconvinced. He raised some other arguments supporting an immediate execution—from an operational viewpoint, they all made perfect sense. I couldn’t help but notice that I’d made each and every one of these arguments before, to Froyke, to the director. We clinked our glasses, this time drinking for healthier, yet considerably shorter lifespans for all spiteful politicians and bureaucrats.
Luigi’s final argument was one I hadn’t yet considered. According to him, “This Mabhouh, he grew up in Jabalia, with our buddy Imad. They were probably friends.”
“And…?”
“And nothing. Isn’t that reason enough?” he concluded the subject. I imagined Nora and him—the intel had undoubtedly come from her—giggling in bed after a cheerful fuck and making bets as to who could justify the assassination more creatively, tickling each other to death. I chose not to tell him that the primary obstacle was the continuing negotiations to fund the German submarines—this has become a personal obsession of the prime minister, who was unlikely to approve anything that might sabotage it. I suddenly recalled all the scheming and plotting I’d carried out along with Froyke and Bella in order to bring Luigi to The Unit, despite the ardent objections of the HR clerks.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Not laughing, just smiling.”
My pager beeped. Now what?
But this time, it was a welcome beep. O’Driscoll, who’d been keeping an eye on Victor back in Arkansas, informed me that Dima was ready. We hurried to the operations room, currently ruled by Albert’s iron fist. Froyke received approval from the DM, who’d received approval from the prime minister. I sped things along as much as I could, before anyone got a chance to change their mind. Froyke pulled some strings and got Unit 9900 to redirect a satellite and provide us with real-time coverage.
I spent the time remaining till H-Hour with Luigi, rechecking Anna’s security and the surveillance on Imad. Everything seemed to be in order, but something was troubling me, a vague uneasiness I couldn’t pinpoint. I needed Eran, but I was too troubled to communicate with him. The first images from Chernobyl were filling the screens. I found myself idiotically wishing for a large tub of popcorn to go with this movie night. The night was clear and the satellite images were clear and sharp. The plan ticked along like clockwork. The guard in the front showed the expected amount of enthusiasm toward the blond prostitute that approached his booth; within seconds, he was lying in a pool of his own blood, gushing from a slit throat. The three guards on patrol had a few seconds to stare blankly at the spike strip that slashed their tires before they were taken out with silenced bullets.
Dima approached them to confirm the kills, and I think I saw him smiling skyward. Three large military ZIL trucks entered the scene. Someone was directing them to position themselves on top of the railroad tracks, each stopping about six feet before its designated PETN tanker. Dima’s men linked the trucks to the tankers with red-and-white tow bars and started towing them down the railroad, gaining speed as they went. After about an hour of driving, the first truck suddenly came to a screeching, rattling emergency stop, causing the tanker to rock dangerously from side to side. This was a cause for concern, to say the least. Luigi was swearing in several different languages. It didn’t affect the tanker, which continued to sway alarmingly. Albert later claimed it rocked thirteen times before finally settling down. The other two trucks behind it were approaching fast, dangerously fast—why the hell wasn’t anyone warning them? I asked Albert to zoom in. Dima’s minuscule form could be seen on the tracks, waving his hands at the trucks which continued to hurtle toward him.
“Puta madre, the cazzo cut corners with the radio. One hundred grand, and the cazzo goes cheap on communications,” Luigi swore, just as Dima pulled out a pistol and fired at the first truck. It was a smart move. The driver heard the bullet ting against his right wheel cover and began a controlled emergency stop. The driver behind him, however, failed to notice in time. The brakes shrieked with compressed air, the sound something between a hissing snake and an approaching missile. The tanker’s metal wheels vomited clouds of sparks against the rails. It was becoming clear that this would not end well. The driver, who had apparently come to the same conclusion, jumped out of the truck and fortunately had enough wits about him to turn the wheel before his escape. The truck swerved off the tracks and flipped on its side. The tanker, still attached to it, rolled off the tracks as well. I had the option of an emerge
ncy link to Dima—I wanted to order him to blow up the tanker and move on, or possibly blow up all three, but any such contact would leave a digital footprint. As I considered the options, a call came in from Froyke, who unsurprisingly knew exactly what I was thinking and warned me to avoid contact. Dima figured out what needed to be done. He and two of his men approached the tanker and set up a few charges, then moved away to activate them. The explosion and resulting flames would not have looked out of place in any Hollywood action blockbuster, and the operations room burst into applause and exclamations. If only I had that damn tub of popcorn…
The two remaining trucks continued until they reached an unexpected gap in the railroad—they had most likely been confiscated by the metal merchants of the new Russian economy. The convoy headed for the 61K-012 regional road. Dragging the tankers’ metal on asphalt was a trying, arduous task. The steel wheels would occasionally dig into the road and become stuck. The trucks moved in low gear, milking their massive diesel engines for all they had. After an hour of this dreadful ordeal, the two ZILs came to a halt in the middle of rural Novi Yarylovychi’s only road. Small explosive charges ignited the gel, and the small village was burned away from the earth. The wooden houses blazed in ever-growing flames. We could smell it all the way from Berlin. The rookies in the operations room applauded again, and I thought of Robert Duval in his cowboy hat, smoking a Havana cigar on the chopper’s landing skid and destroying the Vietnamese village to the sound of the Ride of the Valkyries, giving that speech of his—the smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole hill. Smelled like . . . victory.
Not for the first time, I thought to myself that this Tarantinoesque scene should surely be considered the very peak of Coppola’s filmographic record. I approved Albert’s request to transfer the rest of Dima’s pay.
The next morning, Russian and Ukrainian newspapers reported the attack carried out by Muslim terrorists, who had murdered thirty-two victims in cold blood, most of whom were retired commissars. The Grozny newspapers, on the other hand, joyously informed their readers of the long-awaited revenge of the liquidator families. The photos portrayed celebration. Free candy was had by all. Phase three had been executed successfully.
