by E. L. Pini
“I come after them, they come after me… the only difference is the direction of the asses.” I shrugged. “Instead of chasing them around, they show up right on my front porch. Isn’t that a good thing?”
Froyke waved his hand, a sharp, dismissive motion, and then leaned toward me and spoke too softly for the others to hear. “I know what you’re worth, Avner. I know better than anyone. That doesn’t mean you can ignore that fact that, as far as Imad is concerned, you murdered his father and his baby brother. And Taissiri. And Anna. We both know he’s no amateur. Don’t talk back to me. Tell my little doctor I said hi,” he concluded, and I suddenly realized the sheer idiocy of what I’d been saying.
I decided to ask Kahanov to post his best men on guard, knowing that he would have anyway.
As for me, I would remain at her side 24/7 and brutally murder anyone who got too close.
76.
Nahum did everything he could to present the intel he shared with his European colleagues as fresh, recently discovered information. However, their initial gratitude soon became a cold, silent fury. The Europeans, still reeling from the recent wave of bombings, had realized that while they had been running around like headless chickens, the Israelis had withheld information about walking, ticking human bombs walking freely in their territory. Jean-Pierre Baptiste, from the French service, who had frankly always loathed the Israelis, had even spoken with his German and Belgian colleagues about the possibility of an Israeli plant within the team responsible for stuffing the stuffed shahids. The DM had offered our help and resources during the operation and had received only a hostile silence in reply. Nahum and his team were unceremoniously removed from the loop, and the European operation commenced. Despite the convenience of all three of the capitals being in the same time zones, the French managed the “trivial error” of raiding the hideout a full thirty minutes before the agreed-upon time.
The GIGN—the French antiterrorist police force—broke into the apartment in the 19th arrondissement, near the Stalingrad Métro station. The first hostile opened the door holding a gun and was immediately shot in the head. The other one, Mustafa el Hariri, managed to send an alert to his colleague in Frankfurt before jumping out of the second-story window and getting himself severely injured and arrested. The German team breached an already-deserted hideout in the Sachsenhausen district in Frankfurt. Having been warned by el Hariri, and being familiar with the Germans and their search methods, Hisham simply walked down the hall to his girlfriend’s apartment. From there he calmly watched the Germans search for him and called to warn his friends in Brussels. True hilarity, however, didn’t ensue until Molenbeek: the Belgian SWAT team barged into the hideout, stun grenades blazing, to find one miserable, bound and battered Arab, who told them that his friends had beaten him when he’d decided to turn himself in to the police. During his interrogation, he also revealed that the remaining two had escaped in a red Polo GTI, heading for Eindhoven in the Netherlands.
All pursuing teams were then sent after the red Eindhoven-bound Polo, while the two remaining stuffed shahids calmly made their way in a white pickup truck to Dunkirk, in the opposite direction, where they then boarded a fishing boat.
In Paris, the shahid who had jumped from the window was taken the emergency room of Saint-Pierre University Hospital. There were about thirty other patients in the ER. When Mustafa el Hariri activated the charge in his stomach, twenty-one people were killed.
77.
A cardboard sign reading BAVARIAN TV—PRESS had been stuck to the windshield. The rented minivan climbed up from Route 38 and onto Road 353, eventually stopping in front of the yellow metal gate at the entrance to Agur.
Ahmet, the Turkish cameraman, sporting platinum-blond hair, large sunglasses and pierced ears, attached a dashcam to the front of the windshield and turned it on. Gertrud, the team’s senior reporter, a tall and reedy woman with a bald head, pushed a pair of black-rimmed glasses up her nose. The golden phone that hung from her neck like an overgrown amulet was equipped with a camera—two twelve-megapixel sensors.
Gertrud asked Alon, the Israeli production manager, whether the gate actually operated or was it more of a symbolic gate? Alon asked Shabi, the driver who seemed to know everything.
“Sure, it operates. It stays closed from midnight till five a.m.”
Alon translated, and the Turkish cameraman interrupted to ask, “What happens if a resident of Agur arrives after midnight? Or has company over late at night?”
Shabi, who required no translation, said, “You can tell Sinéad O’Connor and her faggy little cameraman that each resident has an entrance code for his cell phone that opens the gate by remote.”
Alon translated, and Gertrud took some notes on her yellow legal pad.
***
At an aerial distance of about three hundred yards from the gate to Agur, Verbin was standing barefooted on a small stepladder, and on the very tips of her toes, she managed to reach and unscrew the old showerhead. She sadly noted to herself that the taller the ladder owner, the shorter the ladders—this might present a problem when she attempted to screw in the new rain showerhead. Avner’s need to be covered in water was nothing short of an obsession. Verbin’s diagnosis had been “a desire to return to the womb.” She laughed when she imagined her giant man crumpled into a fetal position in a soft, pink womb.
Adolf’s angry barks drew her attention to the cloud of dust raised by the minivan that parked next door, at Shuki’s. She returned to her efforts with the huge rain showerhead and failed for the third time. With a resigned sigh, she went to the kitchen and put on the pumps she had taken off before her first attempt. The additional two inches did the trick. She moved the small stepladder and turned the water on. A brief rattle from the pipes, followed by an enticing stream of water. She entered the shower and melted into the torrent of warm bliss surrounding her from all sides.
Then, of course, her phone rang. “Waltzing Matilda”—the ringtone she set for the medical staff. The iPhone slipped out of her wet grasp several times, and just when she managed to grip it, the ringing stopped and she received a WhatsApp notification.
“Mazal tov, honey!” the message read, along with a smiling emoji and another one of a small bouquet. “Just in case you were wondering,” came another massage from Limor, her friend from the OB-GYN department, “there is a ton of HCG!”
Verbin turned the water strength up as far as it would go and grinned into the gloriously warm current.
“When’s he getting home, huh?” she mumbled, smiling. “When’s your daddy getting home?”
The thought suddenly struck her that Avner might not be as delighted about this. She hurried out of the shower, threw on a robe and sat at the computer.
Honey bear, I’m pregnant!
Don’t panic! I have no intention of stealing your premium, high-quality sperm. If you aren’t into this, we’ll terminate. I’m really hoping that’s not what happens, though. For so many reasons:
A. While I’m certain that having a child at a young age would’ve been a terrible idea, by now I’m getting close to the point when having babies starts becoming difficult. I’m right on the brink of menopause, and I know what you’ll say to that—“menopause schmenopause.” But, from a purely medical point of view, every day that goes by is… well, you know.
B. And anyway, it’s not like I could have given birth to anything worthwhile before I met you. Huh? There’s something you can definitely get behind. I think he’d make a great brother to Eran and Gil, and I’m sure that if we could ask them, they’d tell us that they’re so excited they can hardly wait.
c. You know what? Fuck it. I don’t need to lay out reasons for you. I want to have your child, a child that’s ours. There’s nothing I want more in the world, and you should know that when he’s born, you’ll be second only to him, and that’s a good enough reason already.
D. Applying pressure�
��I sat down with Eran today and opened the ’67 Château Margaux. I didn’t wait for you, because I’m sick of waiting all the time. Come back to me, honey bear, and don’t worry your pretty little head over the Château Margaux. I took the bottle over to Shuki, gave him a teeny-tiny sip, and he corked it back up with the argon pump.
E. Applying attitude—by this point I’m sure Eran wants this to happen, and so do I, and if you don’t yet, I’ll make you. I’m crazy about you, you giant teddy bear. Say yes and come back already. I have little faith in the argon’s ability to preserve the Château Margaux, and I intend to have a glass every day until you get back here. So you should really get a move on. There, you see? I’ve “divided my forces,” I’ve “applied leverage”—I know all your damn tricks. I deserve to be the mother of your child—just come back, babe. Come back before I shrivel up and fly away from shorting for you so much. Yeah, that’s right, shorting. It’s better than longing, I think. I don’t want it to take long.
Eff. Always a good idea. Come back to me already, shorty. We’re shorting for you.
Best regards, Dr. Rosa Luxemburg-Verbin.
Verbin took a final look at the draft and pressed delete.
78.
Shuki the winemaker indicated the stainless-steel vats. “Miss Miller, welcome to ‘New World’ vineyard, located in the region where the very first wines in human history were produced, here in the Judean Mountains—one of the world’s oldest cultures, with its most cutting-edge technologies.”
“Oh, excellent speech! I’d like to film you saying exactly that for the introduction.”
“I’m… not sure I remember it exactly.” Shuki smiled timidly.
“Shit, man, an opening line like that?” sniggered Shabi the driver. “C’mon, must’ve took you a week to put that together. But don’ worry, they’re gonna play the audio back for you, you can write it down, hehe…”
Gertrud asked Alon what they were talking about.
“Shabi’s taking care of business,” he laughed. “He’s telling him we have a recording.”
“Okay,” she smiled. “Rehearse the text with him for a moment, and Ahmet and I will look around for a spot to take some wide-angle shots of this fantastic view.” Gertrud raised her hands in the air, her thumbs and forefingers framing a section of the westward view. “A wide shot of the sea and hills, then slowly pan toward the vineyard. A hundred and twenty seconds, music, some titles, then cut to a close-up of Mr. Shuki and his Old World/New World spiel, okay?”
“What’s this house, across the fence?” Ahmet pointed at the house next door, his eyes scanning for security cameras and perimeter sensors.
“Just a neighbor,” said Alon. “Shuki told me he’s out of the country most of the time—a diplomat, or something.”
“Whoever he is, his house is higher up—on top of the hill. Do you think you could get us access to take the B-roll shots from there?”
Alon said he’d ask Shuki, and that it’d probably be fine by him—this wasn’t Europe, after all.
“Ooh, look over there,” he added, pointing at the fence. A huge Neapolitan mastiff was standing by the fence, observing them curiously.
“If the neighbor isn’t here,” said Alon, “someone else must be feeding that beast. Maybe Shuki has the keys. Or maybe the neighbor’s home?”
“He’s not,” said Gertrud.
“How do you know?” he asked, noticing that Ahmet was also confused, even angry, at her confident reply.
Another dog, maybe a Belgian shepherd, came running and lunged at the shaky fence, barking madly. The film crew retreated, and both dogs now stood on their hind legs, leaning against the fence. The smaller dog let out a threatening growl, and the mastiff hesitantly joined him.
“Let’s go pay this neighbor a visit,” said Gertrud.
“Baldi, home! Adolf, Baldi… come home.” The voice belonged to a woman who had come from the direction of the house, a towel wrapped around her dripping hair. She scratched the dogs’ ears and they settled down and sat beside her, flanking her.
So this is his whore, I suppose, the Turkish cameraman thought to himself and shoved his hand into the camera’s lens bag, grabbing a small polymer pistol that had the appearance of a small camcorder and could fire two consecutive shots.
Gertrud cast a victorious glance at the cameraman, and her heart dropped when she saw him rummaging through the lens bag. If Imad shoots the bitch now, it’s all over.
“No shooting, Ahmet! We’re just checking, no shooting!”
Imad tightened his grip on the small pistol. A shiver crawled up his arm and he dropped it into the bag. The German was right, this wasn’t the time. He reminded himself that they were just doing recon at this point, for the purpose of careful, meticulous planning. Tawil sabrak, he repeated inwardly, like a mantra, Tawil sabrak. No cutting corners on this one. I have a plan and I intend to execute it perfectly, step by step. The little doctor’s time will come, too.
Imad removed his hand from the bag and nodded slightly at Gertrud, who instantly calmed down.
“I’m sorry if they scared you,” said Verbin, gesturing to the dogs at her sides. “They won’t do anything without being commanded to—they just look scary. Really they’re just a couple of puppies.” Like their father, she added inwardly and smiled.
“It’s fine,” said Gertrud. “I grew up with dogs. We’re filming a documentary about the vineyard. We were hoping maybe to film from your house, if it’s not too much trouble. I’m looking for a high vantage point, trying to capture the entire hill.”
“Um… I’d be happy to help, but I’m just a houseguest. The owner will be available tomorrow and I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you.”
“He’ll be here tomorrow? Good, excellent—could you give me his name and phone number?”
“His name is Avner. Give me your number and I’ll pass it along. I prefer not to put him on the spot.”
Tomorrow. He’s coming tomorrow. Imad took a deep breath and tried to conquer the turmoil in his head. He quickly walked back down to the minivan, opened the trunk and shoved his head inside, pretending to look for something. It was better if she didn’t remember his face.
“Thanks anyway,” said Gertrud and turned around to head down. “Bye.”
“Wait, Miss Miller, your phone number?”
“Oh, you’re right, I’m all over the place today. Sorry, my mind’s on the film…” She gave her a local number.
Gertrud looked around, and when she was certain that only Verbin could hear her, quietly said, “I had an… I was sick,” she said softly, indicating her smooth head, “and for more than a year now, I’ve been… really out of it…” Her voice seemed to grow fainter by the second. “It’s been so long since I’ve been given the chance to make another film, and now finally…”
She slowly approached the fence, so that her frail voice would reach Verbin. “And the script is lovely, about the world’s most ancient wine industry. This shot of the scenery puts us right in the middle, between modern Tel Aviv”—she pointed west—“and ancient Jerusalem”—she pointed east—“with its historical, theological and political significance… tomorrow morning I’m flying back.”
Gertrud came close enough to lean against the fence. Under her breath, she let out a soft, high-pitched whistle. Adolf leapt up and slammed into her through the flimsy wire fence. Gertrud let out a yelp and fell to the ground. Both dogs were now jumping at the fence, growling furiously.
“Dogs, home!” Verbin commanded. The dogs slowly backed away but stopped several feet behind her and remained there, waiting.
“Don’t move, you two,” Verbin told them and then yelled, “Hey, you, camera guy, come help me!” She started lifting the bottom part of the fence. Imad ran up, slightly more composed than he had been, and helped her pull up the fence enough so she could squeeze under it. She crawled toward the apparently uncon
scious Gertrud.
“Bring me some water, now,” said Verbin, cleaning her hands on her pants.
“Water! Get some water over here,” yelled Alon, who’d been away on his phone. He crouched beside Gertrud. Verbin waved him away.
“I’m a doctor,” she said. “Just bring me water, and wet wipes if you have them…” She rubbed her hands on her thighs again in an attempt to clean them and gently tipped Gertrud’s head to the side before unbuttoning her blouse and jeans and elevating her feet.
“Hold her legs. Someone bring a crate or something to hold them up.”
Shabi the driver came running and screwed the cap off the water bottle he’d brought, preparing to spill its contents on Gertrud.
“No!” ordered Verbin and held out her hands. “Here.”
Shabi poured the water over her hands, looking skeptical. Verbin cleaned her hands as best she could.
“Wet wipes!” Shabi announced and handed her some.
“Oh good, these have alcohol in them.” She meticulously cleaned her hands and opened Gertrud’s mouth with her fingers, moved her tongue out of the way and started gently dabbing at her mouth. “Everyone, give her some space. You’re blocking the air.”
Gertrud opened her eyes and blinked. “Did I black out?”
“Kind of,” said Verbin. “You passed out when the dog jumped at you. You need to get some rest now.” She looked around. “Where, though? Okay, let’s go into the house… away from all this mess. Bring the car.”
Shabi ran off to get the minivan.
“There’s no need, really… I’m fine…”
“I’m your doctor now. Do as I say.”
Shabi arrived with the car, and Imad hurried to open the passenger door and help Gertrud in before getting in the backseat. Verbin went to the driver’s seat, asked Shabi to get out, and then peeked into the back, visibly embarrassed. “Just me and the patient, please.”
