by D S Kane
Jon woke the next morning and went to the martial arts center for a workout. Distracted, his mind wandered. A smaller, faster man tossed him like a rag doll. He tried harder to focus, but it wasn’t working. After half an hour of being thrown about, he felt hurt from hitting the mat.
He showered and took the tube to the city library. At one of the carrels, he sat at the library computer, connected to a small, private library to complete research on his Islamic banking paper. Screen after screen of banking news scrolled past.
He was fascinated. Islamic banking practices paid careful attention to religious law in the Koran. No bank could charge interest for any loan, but equivalent fees were permitted.
One bank in particular was popular with Islamic fundamentalists. The bank claimed a reputation for secrecy. He scanned the bank’s financials, and drew his brows together. The Bank of Trade had an extremely low capital-to-assets ratio, since most of their work was trade finance, and such transactions were recorded “off the balance sheet.” Trade finance was “travel insurance” for goods shipped to another party, and this bank dominated the Islamic market.
In one of the banking and finance blogs, someone wrote:
The B of T is a great place to store funds to be used for purchase of weapons or drugs. Many of the world’s covert services also have bank accounts there. But its cash flow seems a mystery. Just the rounding errors on its foreign exchange activities might be enough to quadruple its income. Where does the rest of the cash go? It sure doesn’t show up in their P&L.
Jon’s father had once told him how a bank could be used as a financial Laundromat. From the financials, he could see that unless the bank was unprofitable in every other line of business, they had over a half-billion dollars of unreported profit every year. Did other Islamic banks hide as much of their income? Late in the day he returned to his tiny apartment and listened to the blues music Lisa had introduced him to. Before he’d met her all he’d liked was classical music, where he reveled in the mathematics of musical progression. But as he scanned the notes he’d taken at the library, he found his fingers tapping to the compelling, driving rhythm of a Robert Johnson tune. The verses pounded through his head:
She’s a kind hearted woman; she studies evil all the time.
The song evoked the times they’d spent making love. He closed his eyes and saw her, on top of him, moving slowly, grinding against him, her hands locked on his chest. It was too much; he opened his eyes and tried to ground himself.
What would happen if his paper were published? The possible outcomes drifted past him, and he drifted into planning what he’d do. Some outcomes lifted his spirits, especially the ones where Lisa was a prime variable in the equation. But he could hear her voice as if she were there. He imagined her pointing a finger at him, telling him, “While I’m away, don’t try planning our lives.”
She’d once told him, “You’ll be a banker, making tons of money, and I’ll create and manage a charitable trust, spending all you make to fund good causes. I want to save the world, Jon. Don’t you?” He still couldn’t answer her question. Now, for the first time, he wondered why.
His hands in his lap, he stared at nothing, but saw her in his head. He smiled and continued working.
Within a few hours, the rough outline was complete. He read it and made a few changes. This early version had potential. It was his best work ever, possibly even worthy of publication.
While it rained outside, he spent the hours working non stop to polish a final draft of the paper. The next morning, he wrote a cover letter and placed a printed copy of the paper and the query into an envelope addressed to one of the editors at The Economist.
He stretched and decided to walk to a post box, even in the rain. People walked past, under umbrellas on the shallow hills inside Hyde Park. He dropped the envelope in the post box near Speakers’ Corner.
The pub where they’d met was nearby. She’d made the first move, crowding beside him, smiling as she ordered a Guinness. He’d felt unsure about himself until that moment. But, by the end of the night, he had her cell number.
Now in the dark bar without her, he needed something stronger than a Guinness. “Lagavulin, please, straight up.” And looking at the chipped shot glass, he realized the single malt scotch from Islay he was sipping was her usual drink of choice.
The pub’s sound system played old acoustic delta blues tunes as he savored the whisky’s smoky flavor. He was struck by the realization that he knew so little about her. Why hadn’t he argued harder with her about accompanying her to see Israel and her mother?
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called her.
“Lisa, I miss you. Have you told your mother yet?”
“Calm down, Jon. I just finished unpacking.”
“Yeah. Have you told your mother yet?”
He waited through an extended silence and was about to repeat his question yet again.
“Yes. I’ve told Mother. As I told you before I left you at the airport, Mother has some issues.”
His jaw dropped. “Can you let me fix this? I can come there tomorrow. I can—”
“No, Jon. Leave everything to me. Okay? I love you. Only eight more days and I’ll be back with you.” He heard a door open on her end of the phone line and then there was someone talking near her. She must have covered the phone. He heard a low, muffled voice, almost certainly a male. Then she said, “I’ve got to go now. Mother has a question.” He felt puzzled by the voice she referred to as her mother.
He finished his drink, and walked back to his apartment. She’d told him her father died in the IDF, the Israeli Army. The war in Lebanon. They’d both lost their fathers, but at least she still had her mother.
Aviva Bushovsky could feel the tears against her cheek. “Uncle Yig, please. I did what I thought best. There was more to lose than gain.”
But the man she faced across the desk hissed back, his eyes narrowed to slits. “You will address me as Assistant Deputy Foreign Minister Ben-Levy.”
Her mouth fell open. She was sure he could see the anger she wanted to hide. She staggered to her feet and hurried from his office, slammed the door and sprinted down the narrow corridor to the staircase. Before anyone could notice the tears pouring from her eyes, she raced up the stairs from the basement, eager to leave the building.
What if Mother knew everything? Her heart pounded with fear. She needed to contact Crane, but she worried they might be tapping her cell phone. Damn them all for arranging her personal life! It was so easy before her current assignment, where she’d lost her way. She squinted against the wall of heat and bright sunshine that met her as she emerged from the lobby.
Her wristwatch chimed, signaling her weekly lunchtime date to meet Ruth Cohen at a Mike’s Place, a café near the corner of Hasadnaot Street and Hamenofim Street in downtown Herzliyya.
If she didn’t show up, that might make them all the more suspicious. She didn’t want the company, but she did need to eat. Maybe a decent meal would clear her head and shake off her memories of the bitter meeting she’d just experienced.
Driving there would save time. She parked in the nearby Gav Yam Parking garage, an elevated structure on Ari Shenkar Street.
Striding two blocks to the café calmed her. She thought of her fiancé, more sensitive, more logical than the Israeli men she worked with, and less driven by the emotions she knew he felt. He always tried to understand her, and often did.
At a crosswalk, she considered her dilemma. She’d have to resign. Twenty-three-years old, and after four years, her current job was all she knew how to do. What could a bat leveyha do if she left the Mossad? It would be best not to tell Ruth, since they both worked for Uncle Yig.
She walked through the door of the restaurant and forced a smile. “Hey, Ruth. Sorry I’m late.”
Ruth nodded back, her blond hair reflecting sunlight. “I heard the ruckus as I walked by the old man’s door. Are you in trouble?” Ruth’s expression seemed devoid of emotion. A
viva wondered if she was being tested. It might be the case, since Ruth also worked as a bat leveyha.
Aviva shook her head, a thick strand of red curls falling in front of her eyes. She raked a hand through her hair. “Just a difference of opinion in how to run my current assignment. Nothing to worry about.”
They both ordered falafel and cola. Ruth seemed uneasy with Aviva’s obvious stress and remained subdued and watchful. She mentioned an IDF major she’d seen in the halls several times in the last week. “He’s a real stud. Tall and buff. Cute face, too. But I heard he’s married. Name is Avram Shimmel. Ever see him?”
Aviva nodded, happy for the distraction. “He’s Yigdal’s next recruit. The old man never slows down.” Could she trust Ruth with her dilemma? No. This was her problem, no one else’s. She forced a smile.
Ruth touched her hand. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Aviva shook her head. “No, but I can’t talk about it.” She reached for her purse and placed some cash on the table and rose. “I have an errand to run. See you back at the office.”
Ruth nodded. “Later, then.” She put down her half of the cash to pay the bill and stood.
Much calmer now, Aviva straightened and examined her reflection in the mirrored wall of the deli. Her olive-colored eyes were still red from crying. She pulled makeup from her purse and covered the redness close to her eyes before she left the restaurant.
The street was crowded to overflowing and kept her from running her usual surveillance detection route.
As she walked up the stairs to her car’s space, she thought again about her fiancé, and all her lies. Even her name.
But then she was consoled by what she’d done for him. Through her, he could reclaim his real identity. She would guide him, both of them working together, just as his parents had before they died. Aviva stood a bit straighter as she walked.
She took the key from her purse. Turning it in the car door’s keyhole, she heard the characteristic click of a bomb trigger.
A wall of flame burst through her, swallowing her consciousness forever.
Chapter Five
Heathrow Airport, El Al Terminal
February 25, 7:53 a.m.
Jon had called Lisa every day. But for the past two days she hadn’t answered her cell phone, forcing him to leave voicemail.
But tonight she was returning. An hour ago he had eagerly thrown on his raincoat and caught a cab to Heathrow as the sun set behind a curtain of frigid fog. Now he stood expectantly inside the international arrivals building, in front of the exit from customs and immigration, holding a bouquet of roses.
Smiling, he paced, rehearsing his greeting. A memory of their last kiss at the airport floated through his mind. He savored the one coming soon.
The arrivals board indicated she should have landed about a half-hour ago. He waited for her to come through the door, out of customs. And waited. After an hour she still wasn’t there.
He dialed her cell. There was no answer. He cursed, counting the seconds.
And waited some more.
People swept through the door, but soon the emerging throng dwindled. The minutes kept passing and his stomach knotted.
What had delayed her? Had she missed her flight? What if she was sick or hurt? No one ever took this long to clear customs unless…What if she’d been caught bringing something illegal back from Tel Aviv? But, she would never do that, would she? He calculated outcomes based on his worst fantasies.
When he called her cell again, once more, he dropped into voicemail. Did she call him to say she’d decided to stay over a few more days? He checked his own voicemail. There was no message from her.
How could he find out what had happened?
Jon walked to the ticket counter and waited in line, his eyes darting between the customs exit and the counter clerk. “The arrivals board shows El Al Flight 36 landed ninety minutes ago. I need to know if I’ve missed someone who was on the plane. Can you tell me? Her name is Lisa Gabriel.”
The clerk smiled, busy with screens on a terminal. “Sorry, sir. I can’t give out that information.”
And then, another thought: what were her bloody secrets?
He whispered, “Crap.” He waited another hour, but nothing changed. His hands flexing and unflexing with anger, he found a taxi home.
The next day, he called her cell and got the same result. He called the airline, asking if she had been booked on a flight from Tel Aviv. The clerk declined to answer, just like the counter clerk yesterday.
He worried about her. Israel was a dangerous place. He should have argued with her about going there. They could have arranged instead for her mother to come to London, couldn’t they?
He went to the airport and spent the entire day waiting for her. She didn’t return that day.
She didn’t return the day after.
What were the “secrets” she had confessed to having? What, exactly, was her business in Tel Aviv? He tried without success to use mathematics to construct her world in Israel.
He wandered the streets around Hyde Park, numb, seeing her where she wasn’t.
To keep himself from going berserk, he took the tube down to Leadenhall Street toward the end of rush hour and watched bankers in three-piece suits pressing their ways into their downtown offices. Soon, this would be where he would spend his workdays, too. Each building had a name. Baker House. Eddings House. Spindall House.
What would he do without her? He walked for hours, passing St. Paul’s Cathedral and marching over ice-covered sidewalks, reaching Upper Thames Street. He stared at the wind-swept river, remembering when they had walked along it on a freezing day two months ago, bundled up, arm-in-arm.
It was growing dusk. He was nearly frozen when he decided to return to his apartment.
Jon slogged against the wind, back through the Middle Eastern section of town near Marble Arch, and down Oxford Street past Speaker’s Corner.
He stopped at a Tunisian restaurant at the intersection of Seymour and Portman streets. She had told him she loved Middle Eastern food, so he’d taken her there for lunch the week before she’d left, and offered her the engagement ring. His heart ached as he recalled her smile. He didn’t know why, but he remembered the aroma of a lamb tagine steaming on their table.
But now, nothing made him feel at ease.
A growing foreboding intersected his longing for her. It got worse when he took off his coat inside his apartment, staring at his empty bed.
What were her secrets? He had to know!
He was determined to know what she’d never told him.
He donned his coat and marched the sixteen blocks to her apartment. He knocked on the door. No answer. Then he remembered; her roommate hadn’t yet returned from a business trip. Lisa had given him her spare key when she’d taken his ring. He’d never intended to use it, wanting to respect her privacy.
Now things had changed.
Hyperventilating, he unlocked the door, noting the musty smell and the steamy temperature as he walked through the doorway into her room of the suite. He flipped the light switch and blinked. He still couldn’t get used to the hot-pink walls. Opening her closet, he inhaled her scent. He recalled her hands on him, guiding him into her.
He opened her dresser and searched every pocket of her clothing. Then he slid his hands under her dresser. He pulled the drawer out to see if anything had been taped under or behind it. Next, on to her closet. Nothing in her jeans pockets. Nothing in the blouses. He ran his hands in under the bed. Nothing taped there. Nothing unusual in the medicine cabinet. Nothing interesting behind the books in the bookcase, and no papers hidden between their covers.
He frowned, the ache in his heart growing every second. He saw a pile of papers on the night table and picked through the stack. But he found no indications of any contact names for her friends or relatives in Israel. And no letters from her mother.
There were more papers on the kitchen table in the suite’s common area. He scanned each, but m
any were her roommate’s and even among hers, nothing useful.
She’d taken her notebook computer with her.
His mind flailing for answers, he wondered for a moment if maybe this was her way to break it off. But when he saw on the dresser the photograph of the two of them together, he was certain a change of her heart wasn’t the answer. He removed the photo from its frame and looked for a long moment at the two of them together, smiling and and happy. Then he flipped the photo over and examined its back. Scribbled in pencil was a single word with a question mark: Crane? It meant nothing to him. Jon knew no one with that first or last name. He dropped the picture in his pocket. Who the hell was Crane? It didn’t compute.
In his growing confusion, other questions formed in his mind. How many people with the last name “Gabriel’” were there in Tel Aviv? Was there an address for her family? Could he contact her mother? Would the telephone directory service in Israel speak English? Without answers, this would drive him crazy.
He replaced her possessions, but kept the photo.
When he exited the iron gate of the old brick building, he headed to the university library. He’d never been in the nano-lab where she worked, but had met her just outside, at the library’s stairs down to the subbasement. Needing answers, or at least more data points, he walked down them now, entering the supercomputer lab where she’d told him she spent so many hours.
Within the hygienic hum of the lab, he found one of the techno-geeks, an overweight man with a goatee. “Do you know a woman named Lisa Gabriel? She works here.”
The man scratched his chin. “Nope. And I know everyone assigned here. I’m the techno-weenie prince. I run the place.” His smile showed one chipped tooth.
Jon pursed his lips. “She’s about five-six, thin, olive-green eyes, red hair pulled back and an upturned nose.” Then Jon remembered the photo he’d stolen and showed it to the geek.
The man examined the picture. “No one working here looks like that. Believe me, I’d remember.”
Several other geeks were working in the lab. Jon showed them her photo. No, nothing.
