by E. L. Pini
63.
Now it was time to settle things with our walking dead, this time in a permanent manner. The prime minister, however, was worried about the Germans’ reaction and wouldn’t succumb to the DM’s pressure and approve Imad’s assassination within German borders, instead suggesting that we hand Imad over to the Germans. This was also an unacceptable solution—the Germans would release him the first chance they got. Less than two months after the Munich massacre28, the German authorities had released the three murderers in their custody for a pinkie-swear from the terrorist organizations that they would avoid activity in Germany. Politicians are a bad breed. It’s just a matter of time until they fuck you over.
Then again, politics, my ass. A small Beretta, a .22 bullet. Point-blank, like we did in the old days, and no more Imad. The DM would throw a tantrum and Froyke would call it a “violation of orders that we can live with,” and the director would say that Ehrlich’s entire career consisted of violations that he decided we’d be able to live with. And then… Bella would talk to him, and he’d calm down, or he wouldn’t.
I had to find some way to calm down. I transferred command to Luigi. The little punk had grown up to exceed each and every one of my expectations. Before my very eyes, he’d transformed from a wild and fresh-faced war machine to a sophisticated, calculated one. I allowed myself a mental pat on the back.
The small neon sign that glowed with admirable modesty on the street that intersected Anna’s pointed to a small dive bar, which seemed like a fitting place to raise my serotonin and blood sugar levels back to normal. I was hoping it would help pass the nerve-wracking wait, and my unending frustration from this spectacular stunt they’d somehow managed to pull on us. I remembered the heritage stories about the military commandos of yore, which my old team had considered heroes. According to the stories, when those fine soldiers needed to unwind, they would go into Jordan, raid some Bedouin settlement, slaughter a bunch of them and come back in a far calmer mood. Shit like that no longer flies in today’s military—let alone the Mossad—so when I needed to blow off steam, I went into the nearest bar and ordered a Kentucky bourbon. It used to be Macallan, but O’Driscoll had changed that.
When I entered the bar, I realized that it was in fact a watering hole for skinheads. Everyone seemed to be wearing brown or black leather suits. There were swastikas on the walls.
Fine, I thought. So be it.
I ordered a beer and a schnapps. The bartender did not appreciate this invasion, and neither did his little Nazi patrons. I felt their hostile eyes on me.
“You have five minutes and then heraus, we’re closing.”
“Okay,” I answered and lit a cigar. “Then make it a Kentucky straight, bitte.”
The bartender pointed at a sign forbidding smoking in public places. I looked around and saw that nearly everyone was smoking.
“You’re quite the Arschloch, aren’t you?” I said, blowing a ring of bluish smoke in his direction.
“What did you say?”
“I said, you’re an Arschloch.”
He pulled out a long crowbar from under the bar and waved it around threateningly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the group of approaching skinheads. I leaned toward the bartender, who took the bait and swung his crowbar. My left hand diverted the swing and my right rose quickly toward his chin, my open palm colliding with his chin. A familiar crack signaled that his jaw had been broken. He went down, whimpering. The rest of his Nazi buddies were still steadily approaching. I gripped the crowbar and headed toward the exit, which happened to be on the other side of their main thug. He was massive, with a body-builder physique, arms the size of utility poles. The sleeves of his tight black T-shirt were like tourniquets. He crossed his arms and smiled sweetly at me, licking his lips. A gold stud glinted at the tip of his tongue. If only I’d had a pair of pliers, I’d relieve him of both of them. His fellow patrons were closing in around us, watching the show, and perhaps waiting for the right moment to jump in. I swung the crowbar, and the schmuck charged at me like a bull; I shifted half a step to the left and swung my shoulder back for momentum, striking his solar plexus with my right elbow. I brought the crowbar down on his mouth, breaking his front teeth, and swooped my leg in a wide arc. He was on the floor now, coughing up tooth fragments, so I put out my cigar in his open mouth and turned to face the exit. They parted before me like the Red Sea. Outside I noticed that the steel doors had two large rings welded to them, meant for a padlock. I slipped in the crowbar. If there was no rear exit, the little Nazi bunch would be enjoying each other’s company for a while. As unprofessional and irresponsible as that was, it did wonders for my serotonin.
64.
Tracking Imad was becoming exhausting. Apart from Anna, he made no calls—cellular or any other digital medium—at least, none that we’d managed to intercept. He wouldn’t go anywhere or do anything without first checking for surveillance. His armed bodyguards were just as meticulous. This meticulousness forced us to keep our distance and rotate our lookouts as much as possible. If it weren’t for Anna and her clinic, we never would have come close. Imad seemed to have grown more paranoid since their dinner at Margaux, and I decided not to risk Anna by planting cameras and tracking equipment. There we’d settled for simple audio transmitters. The Nevi’ot technicians went a step further and planted the same type of Siemens bugs used by the German security service.
“Doctor Taissiri will arrive at the clinic this evening, to make some arrangements,” Imad informed Anna. I considered that to be our go-ahead. We performed communication checks and checked with Albert, who confirmed his access to just about every camera and CCTV in Berlin. The Siemens microphones were responding perfectly. An IDF Lockheed C-130 military transport plane, which had been loading ammunition at an American air force base, received instructions to sit tight. To avoid either of them warning the other, I planned the operation on three simultaneous fronts.
First front: Both of Imad’s bodyguards would be neutralized by four fighters provided by the local Mossad branch, and set free once Imad and Taissiri were safely on their way to Israel.
Second front: Luigi would take control of the clinic operation, where he was stationed undercover as Stephan, a part-time Chechen nurse. This would be his first time performing as a team leader, and he was excited and determined. He had chosen Ran to serve as his number two and had personally handpicked the means and equipment. He and Ran should have no trouble detaining Dr. Taissiri, and I had no doubts whatsoever in Luigi’s ability to deliver. I knew that as we approached H-Hour, he would grow less excited, and more focused.
Third front: The cherry on top. Uzi and I, assisted by Anna, would detain Imad. This had to be coordinated perfectly with Luigi and Noam from the branch. I’d decided that if worse came to worst, I would shoot Imad with the intent to kill. Let them yell at me afterwards.
Anna shot a wary glance at her watch. She should be meeting Imad in under an hour and still had no idea where. I went over the details with her one more time. When Imad called and suggested a meeting place, she would suggest another, and try to bring him to her apartment, but would not insist too much—what was important was the timing. We took Abdu to Francesca’s apartment, just in case.
When Imad arrived, she would attempt to initiate sex with him as soon as possible. That should be easy—especially with the help of the incapacitating agent, similar to Rohypnol but slightly more potent, which waited in a small perfume bottle in her bag. One spray should suffice. When Imad started scratching his ear, she’d know he was near the breaking point and primed for seduction.
It was at this point that Anna stopped me and raised her large, pleading eyes at me, asking for my personal guarantee that Imad would not be assassinated. I gave it, telling her that even if I wanted to, I didn’t have authorization to kill Imad—and either way, his strategic value was in what he knew, so we were all similarly motivated to keep him alive. It wasn’t
the whole truth, but it seemed to calm her.
Anna was lost in her thoughts, and I went over the details again and again in my head, once again coming to the conclusion that if anything went wrong, I had no choice but to neutralize Imad and deal with the fallout later.
I could already see Froyke telling me off like an insubordinate child, see myself responding the same way I always did—“It was an unavoidable violation of orders, one we can live with”—and him telling me, “Sure, Ehrlich, you can only live with the violations you can live with… I’m too old for this, Ehrlich. What do I tell them upstairs?”
“That an alteration was necessary due to unexpected conditions in the field,” I would say, “and that Ehrlich is an uncontrollable asshole and a slave to his whims.”
“That’s fairly accurate,” Froyke would probably say, then smile slightly and sigh.
65.
Stephan the nurse finished disinfecting and prepping the operating room. He looked at his watch. H-Hour was approaching. A car sped down the road nearby, blasting Hare Krishna at full volume. That was Nathan, letting him know the bad guys were coming. The music grew distant and died out. Now Nathan was supposed to wait and follow Taissiri into the clinic. Luigi had no way of knowing that a Bavarian traffic cop, deeply distraught by the Hare Krishna, had pulled Nathan over, thoroughly checked his papers, called to check with the station, all while an increasingly impatient Nathan stood there and waited.
“Good evening, Nurse Stephan!”
“Good evening. Doctor Taissiri, right? I’m just finishing up the OR and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Could I ask a personal favor?”
“Of course,” replied Stephan. “Anything I can do to help.”
“I need assistance with this evening’s operation, and I’d appreciate it if you joined me.”
“This evening?” Stephan wondered. “I just finished prepping it for tomorrow.”
“Yes, I see,” said the doctor. “And you’ve done a fine job. However, there’s been an emergency… of course, you’ll be paid overtime. One hundred and fifty percent.”
Luigi couldn’t help but think that Nathan was supposed to be here by now. Where was he? Calm down, he said to himself. Calm down and be patient. You’re overenthusiastic. Take it slow.
As he considered his response, two large men in scrubs entered the room, pushing two smaller men in wheelchairs.
He needed to think quickly, now. Where the fuck was Nathan? Avner had warned him against operating alone, but there was no other option—he would be pissed at him, but ultimately happy with the results. Dr. Taissiri was still waiting for his reply.
“Two hundred percent for every extra hour or part of an hour,” said Luigi.
The doctor held out his hand. “Deal.”
A small lopsided smile appeared on Luigi’s lips. He imagined the surprise on Dr. Taissiri’s face after the operation. His two thugs would probably wander off somewhere; they had nothing to do here. The other two would be confined to the operating tables. He just needed to overpower Taissiri. That wouldn’t be difficult. Then the guys from the branch’ll get him on the transport plane, and we’ll fly back to Israel, along with Imad. It’ll be great.
He smiled inwardly, anticipating Avner’s fatherly scolding, which always carried with it a note of appreciation for Luigi’s determination and ingenuity. After that, Avner and he would sit down and share a bottle of grappa di Romano Levi.
“Be right back,” he said, feigning coyness. “Need to take a piss.”
He walked into one of the stalls in the restroom and took the old Japanese dagger he’d confiscated from Colonel Sokolovsky out of the toilet tank. It was the only weapon he’d allowed himself to bring into the clinic. Nathan had the Tasers and the guns. Luigi flushed and attached the dagger to a Velcro strip on his leg. Should he phone Avner? No, now wasn’t the time to bother him. We’ll move along with the bad guys, neutralize the fuckers. Avner will be pleased with him.
When he got back to the operating room, Taissiri was standing by his two patients, stroking the head of the one nearest to him, speaking quietly in Arabic.
“Blood pressure,” Taissiri ordered, pointing at a cart. As Luigi turned around to take out the blood pressure monitor, Taissiri pulled a loaded Beretta from his white coat and yelled, “Now!”
The two large orderlies lunged at Luigi and confined him. Each shoved his hand under one of Luigi’s arms and grabbed a wrist—an old-fashioned lock, favored mostly by cops, but an effective one. One good squeeze was all any either of them needed to snap Luigi’s arm. The two idiots in the wheelchairs were clapping. Taissiri hushed them and filled a large syringe. Luigi stopped struggling—any resistance at this point would only serve to exhaust him. Taissiri returned the Beretta to his coat and approached Luigi, wielding the syringe.
“Calm down, Stephan. It’s just some mild anesthesia.”
The time was now. Luigi raised his foot and brought it down on the toes of the orderly on his left, who recoiled in pain and released one of his arms. He quickly spun around and shoved two fingers into his eye sockets, and the orderly fell to the floor, moaning and blind. The other orderly, still holding his right arm, was pushing Luigi’s elbow upward and leaning his entire weight on his wrist. Luigi’s arm broke with an audible crunch, but he managed to break free from the orderly’s grasp and bent into a defensive stance, his dangling arm cradled against his stomach. The orderly inched forward, eyeing Luigi’s broken arm. Luigi turned his right shoulder toward him, seemingly exposing it, and when the orderly reached for the arm, Luigi snapped open like a spring. His open left palm connected with the orderly’s chin, breaking his jaw. A final kick to the testicles and he was down, neutralized.
“Come on, motherfuckers!” Luigi cried out hoarsely and moved toward Taissiri, who was pale, sweating, and steadily moving backwards. Taissiri dropped the syringe and pulled out the Beretta, yelling commands in Arabic. One of the surgical candidates sprung out of his wheelchair, and the other rolled back into the corner of the room. Luigi managed to draw his dagger and retreated slightly, reevaluating. “Move as slowly as the time frame allows,” Avner always told him. But I have no time frame, he thought. I need to slow down, but where’s Nathan? Where the fuck is Nathan? I can’t think, can’t focus.
The patient that had left his wheelchair was running toward Luigi with his head lowered, apparently attempting to ram him. Luigi let him come closer and stepped aside at the last second, bringing his elbow down on the back of the attacker’s neck. He exploited the moment of stunned confusion to slide his dagger across his throat. The patient fell to the floor, dead. Taissiri’s shaking hands failed to extract a shot from the Beretta. Luigi moved toward him, his dagger at the ready. Taissiri began yelling desperately, and the other patient left his corner and rolled himself toward Luigi. Taissiri finally managed to squeeze the trigger, firing at Luigi’s center of mass. Luigi fell, struggled to get back up. Another shot and Luigi sprawled on the floor, unmoving.
Taissiri, breathing raggedly, stood above Luigi’s corpse, his gun aimed and shaking. He kicked Luigi’s head, watched it rock limply, devoid of muscle tone and of life. He then walked toward the blinded orderly who was whimpering on the floor and shot him as well.
66.
Murphy was also working overtime tonight and had apparently pulled out all the stops. Imad was gone. Gone! The little shit had canceled his meeting with Anna due to an “urgent issue that required his attention” and vanished without a trace. Even worse, I was the idiot who had ordered the local Mossad branch to drop their surveillance; I didn’t want to spook him. Well, it fucking worked—he was so un-spooked that he up and left. I could only hope Taissiri knew where he was. And to top it all, the line to Luigi and Nathan was down. The Siemens surveillance system, which had responded perfectly during the tests before H-Hour, had fallen completely silent. The Nevi’ot technician, who was operating it for
the first time in his life, couldn’t seem to reactivate it.
I hopped on Uzi’s bike and we sped to the clinic. Everything seemed quiet when we got there—we kicked down the operating room door, weapons drawn. I didn’t see Nathan, or Luigi, at first; Taissiri, however, was standing in the middle of the room, attempting to aim the gun with shaking fingers. I fired two bullets into his right shoulder, and he dropped the Beretta and crumpled to the floor. Uzi charged the hostile in the room, who was sitting in a wheelchair, wetting his pants.
I kicked away the Beretta, which Uzi picked up, and noticed Luigi lying on the floor. I hurried to check his pulse, childishly and pointlessly hopeful.
“What?” Uzi said, stunned, as I rose from Luigi’s lifeless corpse. “What, he’s dead?!”
He raised the gun toward the man in the wheelchair and fired a single shot into his brain.
“Cuff him,” I said, pointing at Taissiri, who was writhing and groaning on the floor. Uzi cuffed Taissiri, added a kick to his injured shoulder, and seemed to think one kick wasn’t enough. I was forced to pull him away. I wondered where Nathan was during all this. Later I found out that he had been detained by some asshole traffic cop, and taken in for questioning at the local police station when he’d responded aggressively. The entire plan had shattered into a million pieces, and me—I had to pick them up. Froyke rose in my thoughts, quoting his father—Mensch tracht und Gott lacht. This is how the bad thoughts begin.
If I’d taken out Imad when he was at Anna’s, like Luigi had begged me to do, I’d have a dead Imad right now, and a breathing Luigi. If I’d agreed to risk Anna, just a bit—and why not, really?—and installed proper surveillance at the clinic, Nathan wouldn’t have had to resort to his fucking Hare Krishna and could have assisted Luigi when this whole thing had started, and then I’d have a captive Taissiri, and a breathing Luigi. I was at the epicenter of a massive, roiling shitstorm, and it just kept piling up. The entire plan had gone to shit. Now I had to do damage control and plan for the rest of it.
