Ring of Lies

by Roni Dunevich

  “We’re fucked, Reuven.”

  The chief was silent.

  “I’ll get whatever I can out of Justus,” Alex said. “I’ll see you in the office tonight and think about what to do.”

  Reuven still said nothing.

  Keep silent, deny, ignore. In retrospect, sending a Mossad team into the heart of a country as problematic as Turkey had been a big mistake, even despite the valuable intel that General Karabashi had given them.

  Reuven hung up.

  Now the PM and Reuven were going to hide themselves behind the defensive shield known as “no comment.” No admission of guilt—no responsibility. And with no responsibility, they could keep their jobs.

  Though he was exhausted from the sleepless night, he was too upset to doze on the plane. His thoughts went to Galia, her isolation, her distress, her pain. He tried to remember whether Turkey had capital punishment.

  The growing pressure in his ears interrupted the mounting anxiety of his thoughts. The pilot descended, landing at Tegel Airport.

  He usually managed to avoid Berlin. He’d had to go there twice. First in the early ’80s, on the hunting expedition where he met Jane. The second time was about two years ago, when he’d spent only a few hours there.

  Alex disembarked from the plane on shaky legs.

  A limousine whisked him to the modern terminal. A stone-cold voice announced the last call for a flight to Moscow. A chill went through his body. The guttural sound of German filled his mouth with a metallic taste.

  The rubber stamp came down on his forged passport.

  A taxi took him into the most scarred city in the world.

  Here the Third Reich was born, and here Kristallnacht took place. Here blood-soaked World War II was launched, and the final solution to Europe’s Jewish problem was plotted. Here an empire was created and then razed to the ground. Here Adolf Hitler flourished and then took his life. Here the dividing wall between the East and the West was erected, and the Cold War broke out. Here the Stasi unleashed its reign of terror, and here the Wall was torn down and the two Germanys were reunited.

  Outside, an ominous winter day. Minus nine, said a billboard. The streets were covered in fresh snow and the sky was leaden. Just a faint bluish light.

  He got out of the cab on Unter den Linden, and the cold lashed at his face like a curtain of needles. His feet crushed the coarse salt and pebbles that had been scattered on the ice.

  He had fifteen minutes until the meeting. Germans wrapped in hats and scarves hurried past him. Bebelplatz was close. He recognized the impressive Humboldt University building. A sudden gust of wind sent a shiver through him. He made his way carefully along the icy path.

  Bebelplatz was flat, rectangular, snowy, and empty. He looked for the monument buried in the cobblestones. He saw pale light coming from a bare, square window in the center of the ice-covered surface. He approached and looked down into the space. It was about fifteen feet square. Its walls were lined with empty bookshelves painted white.

  Here, in 1933, the Nazis had burned twenty thousand books written by Jews, Communists, and liberals who refused to accept Nazi principles.

  The whispering monument was bloodcurdling.

  It was as if it were murmuring, Your mother is dead.

  BEBELPLATZ, BERLIN | 15:56

  Alex’s eyes were fixed on the empty bookshelves. The cold seared his mouth and windpipe.

  Reflected in the glass floor beside him was a large image of someone else. He hadn’t heard any steps approaching. Alex turned and examined him. The tall German had a large, strong build.

  “You are the emissary,” the man declared, the wind playing with his mane of white hair. Alex recognized the dolphinlike forehead and nodded.

  “So the boss is too busy to see me,” the German added, slightly offended. A moment later, he decided to smile and reached out to shake Alex’s hand. His own hand was encased in a fine-quality glove. His grip was warm and strong, but his bottom lip drooped as if he’d just gotten bad news.

  “How are you, Justus?”

  “Spring does not arrive here until a month after it reaches Munich in the South,” Justus said.

  “What happened to your man in Istanbul?” Alex asked.

  Justus smiled mischievously. “What’s your rush?”

  “In one hour last night we lost the Istanbul Nibelung, and the leader of our operational team was wounded and captured. Even if she’s released, she’s burned forever. Do you still insist on foreplay?”

  The German’s smile flew off, gone with the wind. He shook his head.

  “Could Istanbul have betrayed us?” Alex asked.

  “No chance,” Justus said.

  “So why are the Turks only talking about a female Mossad agent and not saying a word about him?”

  “I do not know yet,” Justus said. “But I know my people very well. I promise you, Istanbul was no traitor.”

  “Based on what?”

  “I can read people like an open book.”

  “Really?”

  Justus studied him. “You are too close to your operative to handle this matter with the good judgment it requires.”

  “Really?”

  “You are a man of nearly endless patience who is at the end of his rope.”

  Another gust swept across the empty plaza. Alex felt as if he’d been stripped of his clothes. “Why did you want to meet here?”

  “Why not?” Justus asked.

  “Is this your favorite spot in Berlin?”

  “One of them. I love books. For me, this place is like the mouth of a volcano. Lava seething with hatred flows under our feet, threatening to erupt. Here, you can actually see it. If you are looking for beauty, go to Paris. People come to Berlin for its scars. Do you read German?” Justus tightened the gray cashmere scarf around his neck.

  Alex nodded.

  “There is a quotation from the Jewish poet Heinrich Heine engraved in the bronze tablets buried in the snow right under the soles of your shoes.” His face was enveloped by the white breath coming from his mouth. “ ‘This has been just a prelude. Where they burn books, they will ultimately burn human beings, too.’ ”

  BEBELPLATZ, BERLIN | 16:09

  A harsh wind was blowing in Bebelplatz.

  “Let’s walk. It is not so cold when you walk,” the German said, beginning to move. He must have weighed at least two hundred pounds, but the snow didn’t crunch under his shoes.

  They walked west on Behrenstrasse in silence. A young man wearing a long black coat was walking on the other side of the street. A scarf covered his face, and a flat cap hid his head. He was wearing low, rough boots with rounded toes. He seemed to be looking at them.

  Alex said nothing to Justus.

  Was the man across the street a threat?

  And again, the man shot him a glance.

  Café Einstein on Friedrichstrasse was packed with defrosting Berliners, refugees from the bitter cold. The walls were light colored, but the dark furnishings made the cramped, heated space even more oppressive. They sat on barstools at the wooden counter that faced the street. The daylight was dwindling on the bustling street, and illuminated signs were already lit and glittering on the snow. Alex took off his coat, scarf, and gloves and said with a smile, “Do you also put your houseguests in the freezer first?” He was beginning to be able to feel his face again.

  “I prefer short meetings,” Justus said and stood up. “Espresso?”

  “Cappuccino,” Alex replied. “Strong.” It would be interesting to see whether he could extract anything worthwhile in the short time the German allotted him.

  Behind him, someone placed a stack of rattling saucers on a counter.

  Justus returned and set down two cups.

  “Tell me about Istanbul,” Alex said and took a sip of his coffee. To his surprise, the cappuccino was decent.

  Justus sat down slowly, then ran his hand over his face as if trying to erase an image from his mind. “If I had another two or three men lik
e Istanbul in the Ring, we’d be in much better shape.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “At 2:02 this morning, his heart stopped beating. Five weeks ago he had his annual checkup. He was given a clean bill of health, as usual.” Justus downed his espresso in one long gulp. He put the empty cup down with the handle precisely parallel to the bar and the spoon lying on the saucer in front of the cup, also parallel to the edge of the bar. He wiped the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin, folded it diagonally, and placed the perfect triangle under the rim of the saucer. Alex felt like a voyeur at a private ritual. “How do you know that his heart stopped beating?”

  “Every Nibelung has a chip in his or her body with a sensor that contains a satellite transceiver. If the pulse stops, I receive a signal.”

  “Maybe it’s just a glitch?”

  “That has only happened once, when the Vienna Nibelung was undergoing an MRI after a road accident. The chip interfered with the magnetic field. If it were just a glitch, he would have shown up in Bolu and carried out his mission. Istanbul is dead.

  “He comes from a wealthy Jewish family. They are descended from Spanish Jews who fled to Italy during the Inquisition and arrived in Istanbul in the eighteenth century. The Falacci family.”

  Falacci . . . Falacci . . . the red sign on the front of the spice warehouse!

  “Falacci Baharat?”

  “Exactly.”

  “The warehouse in Bolu belonged to Istanbul?”

  “You seem surprised,” Justus said.

  We’re morons, Alex thought. Hopeless morons. “Who chose that warehouse for the operation?”

  “Reuven asked his Jewish helpers in Turkey for a safe place close to the Istanbul–Ankara highway,” Justus said. “Times are hard in Turkey now—that is what he told me. Everyone’s afraid to help.”

  “You suggested Istanbul’s warehouse to Reuven and he agreed?”

  “He had no choice,” Justus said. “Time was running out, and the location looked perfect. We knew that Karabashi had come for only twenty-four hours. So, yes, I suggested it to Reuven, and he agreed.”

  If Reuven had revealed that information at the start of the crisis last night, Alex would never have sent Galia into the trap. Reuven had brought about the disastrous contact between Mossad and the Nibelung Ring. Reuven had made a terrible mistake. And Reuven had lied.

  Alex said, “Someone was on to Istanbul and got to the warehouse through him, and then from the warehouse to us.”

  “Or the other way around,” Justus said with a sour smile.

  “Where did Istanbul disappear from?”

  “His office, on a street behind the Egyptian spice bazaar in Istanbul.”

  Reuven had chosen to endanger Galia because he figured that when the Turkish police discovered Istanbul’s body, they’d go straight to the spice warehouse in Bolu and find Karabashi’s body.

  Reuven had chosen to keep that information from him.

  Alex leaned closer to Justus. “How many people knew that Istanbul was a Nibelung?”

  “Just Reuven and I.”

  Justus’s left eyelid twitched.

  “Have you spoken to Istanbul’s family?”

  “They thought they were talking to a journalist. They don’t know that he was working for us. They have no idea where he is, and they are very worried. I checked with the Istanbul police and the hospitals . . .” His lower lip drooped again. “No body resembling him has been found in Istanbul in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “How do you explain that?”

  Justus shook his head and smiled. “You are so anxious to find an answer that you have convinced yourself that it is hidden inside my head. As far as I know, it is not there.”

  “Are you willing to give me a frank answer to a question?” Alex asked.

  Justus nodded reluctantly, running his fingers over one of his cashmere-lined black Pecari leather gloves. Their white stitching was raised. Two hundred euros a pair.

  When their eyes met, Alex whispered, “What makes a Christian German like you run a dangerous ring of sleeper agents for the Jewish state?”

  The tension that had gathered in the lines on the German’s face faded. “It is a long story,” he said. “In the early sixties my father decided to aid Israel. He was invited to Jerusalem for some event and met with David Ben-Gurion and Isser Harel there. He told them about his vision of the Nibelung Ring. Harel was against it at first, but after a long year of investigations and feasibility checks my father began to set up the Ring. I am second-generation.”

  So am I, Alex almost said. But of something else entirely.

  Reuven hadn’t even hinted at this.

  The two men sat in silence.

  “My father’s name is Gunter,” Justus added. A shadow crossed his face.

  “Another cappuccino?” the German asked, lowering himself to his feet from the barstool.

  Alex shook his head. “Is your father still alive?”

  Justus nodded, sat down again, and played with the edge of the folded napkin. “He no longer recognizes me.”

  “He’s at home?”

  “He is in the final stages of Alzheimer’s and suffers from respiratory problems. He recently had a severe stroke. He is in a sanatorium in Davos. When he was diagnosed, he made me swear that I would take him there, to the Zauberberg. As a young boy, he read Thomas Mann’s book and decided to end his life on the mountain.”

  His blue eyes glowed like a winter sun.

  Alex thought of his dead parents. They’d grown distant and smaller in his memory. He ought to weed the grass around their graves.

  “If you are staying the night in Berlin, I thought you might come to my home tonight. I live in Grunewald, just outside the forest. Your parents—are they alive?”

  “No.”

  Behind them, someone spread a newspaper.

  “They are from here, from Europe?”

  “You mean the Holocaust?”

  Justus sipped air from his empty cup. Then he nodded hesitantly.

  “My mother’s from Poland. She was a Holocaust survivor.” Alex smiled sorrowfully. “I’m second-generation, too.”

  “Something is causing you pain,” Justus said.

  He didn’t respond.

  “You hate Germans?”

  “No,” he replied too quickly.

  “It is perfectly understandable.” Justus smiled and shook his head. “But unjustified.”

  The German wouldn’t drag him into a conversation about the Holocaust. He had his limits.

  Alex said, “If an economic crisis should occur in Germany tomorrow and the stock market in Frankfurt collapsed, the extreme right wing would raise its head and suddenly prove to be a significant force in Germany. Maybe even the ruling power.”

  “As with all peoples, the Germans have their ugly side,” Justus said. “But there is also another Germany that is thriving. There are wonderful, humane, and enlightened Germans. Berlin is a cosmopolitan city, a cultural cornucopia. The younger generation is healthy and conducts serious research into our dark history. But you refuse to see any of that. For you, a German is an armband. Arbeit macht frei.”

  Bile rose in Alex’s throat. He crossed his arms over his chest. He sipped the last few drops of his coffee. The remains of sugar at the bottom filled his mouth with comforting sweetness.

  “Reuven told me that you had a tragedy,” Justus said softly and folded his large fingers. “I know that you are going through a bad time.”

  Reuven the chatterbox. A man of his rank in intelligence should know how to keep his mouth shut. But Reuven Hetz was drawn to meddling and manipulation like a bee to pollen.

  The coffee grinder stirred into life and whined persistently. The air was flooded with the rich aroma of ground beans.

  “The daughter is well?” Justus whispered with hesitant empathy.

  The daughter. Such a German construction. As if Daniella were a hanger, or an old suitcase.

  Alex nodded reluctantly.
>
  The German played with the napkin again, finally straightening it out. “We never had children. We tried.”

  A motorcycle roared past the street. Justus looked out, his eyes moist.

  A waitress cleared the plates off a nearby table, careful to keep her eyes down. Justus gave her a long look. A small smile appeared on his lips. He straightened the teaspoon. “Reuven also told you to shake the tree?” the German asked quietly.

  Alex smiled, then nodded. Reuven the snake. He pitted us against each other as if we were fighting cocks with razors tied to our legs.

  Justus’s BlackBerry vibrated. He glanced at it. His face darkened. His lower lip dropped, exposing his bottom teeth.

  “What’s wrong?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  His face was white.

  “We have lost another one.”

  “Where?”

  “Lisbon.”

  FRIEDRICHSTRASSE, BERLIN | 16:23

  Justus looked defeated. Sweat glistened above his upper lip. He put his face in his hands and sighed.

  Alex touched his shoulder gently. The German seemed surprised by the gesture and mumbled something in German.

  “Turkey was just the beginning,” Alex said.

  “How many Nibelungs are there in the Ring?” he then asked.

  The German gave him a distant look. “As many as are needed.”

  “Has anything unusual happened recently? Has your house been broken into, or your car? Did you lose any documents? Feel like you were being followed?”

  Justus gave him another distant look.

  “Is someone following you?”

  “Enough!” Justus snapped. He moved away and looked out onto the street.

  “So what happened?”

  “Guessing is for the foolish and the impatient,” the German said.

  “Apart from you, who has the list of Nibelungs?”

  Justus turned his head, looked straight at Alex, and, after a slight hesitation, replied firmly, “No one.”

  “Where is it written down?” Alex fired.

  Justus narrowed his eyes as if he were looking at an intrusive bug. “In my head.”