Ring of Lies

by Roni Dunevich

  “Erlichmann. Justus Erlichmann.”

  “I need the address,” Alex said.

  “I’ll send someone ahead to disable the alarm. It’s a job for a specialist.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see when you get inside.”

  “What do I tell his wife?” Alex asked.

  “His wife died just over a year ago.”

  Alex undressed and got into the shower. His whole body ached from cold and tension. Under the soothing hot water, he was able to unwind a little. It was the best thing that had happened to him in the past twenty-four hours. He closed his eyes, attempting to suppress the thoughts racing through his head.

  The water washed it all away. He lathered the soap and scrubbed his body vigorously with the suds.

  When he was a child, he’d once sat down in his father’s reading chair with a Time–Life picture album on his lap, as heavy as a gravestone. It contained shocking photographs from World War II that brought to life his mother’s terrifying stories, about her as a young girl struggling to get free from the war’s claws: the concentration camps she managed to escape from with his grandmother, the fear, being at the mercy of traitorous Poles, the loss of her childhood, of hope, of joy.

  Those Germans—that’s what her parents called them. Those Germans, they’d say, stressing the demonstrative with loathing.

  The appalling pictures in the book had given shape to the stories in his mind. It was the first time he’d seen the face of death. One group of photographs in particular remained engraved in his memory.

  It was a series of four photos taken in rapid succession during the battle for Leipzig. In the first, two American soldiers were firing a machine gun at German troops from the balcony of an apartment.

  In the second picture, one of the soldiers was missing and the other was lying lifeless on the balcony floor, still wearing his helmet, with dozens of empty shells around his feet. Beside his head was a pool of blood that reflected the white clouds.

  In the last two pictures, the pool of blood grew progressively larger.

  He’d been forced to listen to his mother’s horror stories about the war in Poland. He remembered how she’d described their desperate escape, hunger, fear, capture, escaping again and being captured again, torture, shots fired, being wounded.

  After she had kissed his brow and tiptoed out of the room, the pictures of the machine gunner in Leipzig would rise up and haunt him.

  He was six, and even the electric trains he got for his birthday couldn’t restore his innocent happiness.

  The bathroom had steamed up.

  The water was boiling hot.

  Alex felt cold.

  ALT-MOABIT, BERLIN | 19:43

  Someone was knocking on the door.

  He turned off the water and grabbed a thick towel. “Who is it?” he asked in English.

  “A friend of a friend,” a voice answered.

  “Hold on a second.”

  Alex pulled his clothes on, his body still wet and shivering. He opened the door and saw a young face smiling at him.

  He recognized the courier. He gave him the plastic bag with the blood sample. The man handed him a black toiletry bag and left.

  Alex set the bag on the bed and opened it. Two Glock 17s, four full magazines, and a fifty-round ammo box. A long brown envelope contained twenty thousand euros in used bills held together with a rubber band. He took out the magazines, broke open the two pistols, checked the chambers, tested the triggers, and examined the top cartridge in each magazine. When he was done, his hands reeked of gun oil.

  Jane was on her way. She was the only Nibelung he knew, the only person who could help him. Contact between them was strictly forbidden. But Justus had disappeared, Reuven was far away, and danger was looming.

  He felt anxious about seeing her again so soon. It was premature. Their reunion in London three months ago, when she’d helped him rescue Daniella from her abductors, had clearly reignited old fantasies. But then the shots fired in the hospital had taken Naomi’s life, and his world had been turned upside down. Ever since, he’d been walking on eggshells, trying to figure out what he could allow himself and what he couldn’t; what was proper.

  Reuven called. Alex tensed, readying himself for the blow.

  “They released Galia’s picture. It’s better that you don’t see it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “They put on a thick layer of greasepaint, but you can see that her interrogation was brutal.”

  “What about that lawyer? Has he been allowed to talk to her?”

  “They let him see her for a couple of minutes.”

  “What did she say?” Alex asked, his throat seizing up.

  “She’s unconscious. On life support.”

  ALT-MOABIT, BERLIN | 19:52

  Reuven was still on the line, breathing in his ear.

  “The Turks knew from the start she was Mossad,” Alex said. “Someone ratted her out. They don’t need a confession. It’s time we bite the bullet and get her out of there alive, while we still can.”

  “I discussed it with the PM. He’s against it.”

  “Put the pressure on and he’ll understand that he has sole responsibility for her life. He’ll fold.”

  “I have to consider the big picture, Alex. The country’s interests come first.”

  Alex took a deep breath. Reuven had known that Galia was going back to the warehouse, and he hadn’t objected. And it was Reuven who’d told them to use Istanbul’s warehouse in the first place, creating a crack in the wall between the Ring and Mossad. Now he was trying to dodge responsibility, opting to abandon her without batting an eye.

  “You have to save her,” Alex insisted.

  The line went dead.

  Alex splashed cold water over his face, praying that he would see her again.

  The BBC was showing a photo of an ecstatic man wrapped in a tallis and holding two tiny infants. The anchorwoman kept repeating the name “Falacci.” The Turkish security organization was conducting a manhunt for him. They believed he could lead them to members of an Israeli spy ring operating in their country, she reported. Cut.

  The front pages of the Turkish papers. Cut.

  The Turkish prime minister, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, delivering a frenetic statement, his eyes blazing. The British interpreter translating: “Israel will soon pay for its crimes against the Turkish people.” Cut.

  A picture of Karabashi’s dead body bound to the chair in the spice warehouse in Bolu. Cut.

  The Iranian’s lifeless face. Cut.

  Back to the studio. The anchorwoman was talking about the United States, President Obama, the Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean. Cut.

  A pair of stealth bombers taking off at night from Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri.

  Good God, the situation was snowballing out of control. Alex turned off the television.

  The Turkish media was champing at the bit. More fresh meat was being thrown into its gaping jaws by the hour. Reuven hadn’t revealed the extent of the damage.

  He called room service and ordered two large bottles of plain mineral water. They arrived almost immediately, brought by an amiable young German who bowed, smiled, and left.

  Alex locked the door behind the waiter and went over to the window, looking out at the lights of Berlin. He stood there for quite some time.

  Jane was on her way. He’d long ago forgotten how to woo a lady. He’d always been secretly in love with her. Tonight, if he wanted her, she would be his. There was a cold lump in the pit of his stomach. He moved closer to the window. The river below was frozen, the cracked ice lit by the streetlamps. A warm orange glow issued from the heated living rooms in the buildings on the opposite bank. Daniella was far away, Naomi was buried deep in the ground, and he was in a business hotel in a city he’d always shunned, his heart fluttering in anticipation of the arrival of the woman he loved. Was he still capable of satisfying a mature woman, a hungry woman who had yet to taste the monotonous f
are of married life?

  Love doesn’t want you anymore at that age, like an employer who prefers only young blood.

  Last December in London, after twenty-five years, he’d sensed that what they’d once felt for each other had been rekindled, but Naomi still stood between them. He didn’t dare to cheat on her. Now that the barrier was gone and he could do as he pleased, the woman of his dreams was threatening to become a reality.

  Alex sat down on the edge of the bed. A German flag lit by a projector was waving above the glass dome of the Reichstag. He closed his eyes and felt the sleepless night demanding its due.

  He and Jane had been two of the four agents chosen for the squad. They met for the first time during the briefing in the safe house in Paris. The moment he caught sight of her, he fell dumb. Later, he was mostly befuddled. For seventeen months, along frozen highways, in nasty cheap hotels, running from one safe haven to the next under stolen identities, they chased after targets and eluded pursuers, strangled and stabbed, fired guns and planted bombs, the constant pressure telling on them. The prolonged isolation, the distance from home, the unrelieved tension—it all ate away at them. For the duration of the mission, they were allowed no contact with their families, save for one brief meeting he had with Naomi in a gloomy Swiss hotel. He managed to resist the temptation for a long time. Jane waited with exemplary patience.

  When a bomb exploded in the safe house in Marseille, they knew for certain that their identities had been blown. They fled. That night, they could no longer keep their hands off each other.

  It was the best and worst time of his life. He spent weeks planning how to tell Naomi he was leaving her.

  Giving in to exhaustion, Alex lay down on the bed fully clothed and fell asleep instantly.

  DIARY

  23 FEBRUARY 1943

  At the café this morning, someone tossed a two-word phrase into the air: concentration camp.

  19 JUNE 1943

  Drancy is not an internment camp but a concentration camp. A concentration of Jews. The new camp commandant came to the café this evening. He is German. He was sent here to increase the rate of transports to the East. His very aspect inspires terror.

  22 JUNE 1943

  Since the beginning of the occupation, Le Monde has been steadily shrinking.

  In the boulangerie, where no one can see me, I have begun to read the Resistance paper, Combat. Combat is steadily growing. When I finish reading it, I throw it into the wood-burning oven.

  23 JUNE 1943

  When the smell of Wehrmacht oiled leather jackboots blends with the aroma of rising yeast dough, my soul seeks refuge from the devil.

  ALT-MOABIT, BERLIN | 21:02

  Alex woke up with a start and opened his eyes. The light was on. His heart was pounding. Outside the glass walls, the lights of the hotel shone on thick snow falling silently.

  He heard a gentle knock on the door.

  He got up from the bed, grabbing one of the pistols and holding it behind his back as he moved toward the door.

  His phone vibrated.

  The phone could wait.

  Another knock.

  He opened the door and his jaw dropped.

  She stood there, frozen in place. Then a smile spread across her face.

  His mouth was dry. He seemed to have swallowed the words.

  She came in, moving toward him without any hesitation, and he threw his arms around her. She slammed the door shut with her heel and dropped her bag on the floor, freeing her hands. With sparkling eyes, she studied the contours of his face and then wrapped him in a soft embrace. “Oh, Alex . . .”

  A shudder went through him. Her first touch was new and familiar at the same time.

  “I’ve been waiting so long . . .” she whispered.

  He pressed his body to hers, and she brought her lips to his. Her kisses were endless and demanding, her lips silky, her mouth cool and fresh. He closed his eyes and sent his tongue in search of hers. She gathered his face in her hands and moved her lips away.

  She gave him a gentle shove and he retreated, bumping into the bed and falling back with a happy laugh. She sat down on top of him and he could no longer speak. A wave of lust passed through his body, heating his flesh, the sweet feeling spreading through his loins. He shut his eyes and felt the warmth of her face on his.

  Her lips flitted over his mouth and her breasts pressed into his chest as he stroked her slender back from shoulder to firm butt. He envisioned her young and naked, revealing all. Her scent was burned into his memory.

  She stretched her body out beside him and closed her eyes, and they were both enveloped by a tender serenity. It had been ages since he’d lost all sense of time and place like this. Her breath brushed his neck, and a pleasant quiver ran down his spine. All the while, her sparkling eyes gazed at him from up close and her long fingers stroked his face. Closing his eyes, he surrendered, the terrible events of the past day melting away and draining out of his body.

  They lay there for a long time, caressing each other and kissing.

  A ping.

  His body tensed. Her phone was on the desk.

  “Don’t move,” she whispered. “I’ll be right back.” She got up, and he watched her tall, agile figure cross the room. She glanced at the screen and tossed the phone aside, then returned to the bed and settled herself on top of him again, her body giving off a pleasant warmth.

  For a moment he forgot the madness going on outside, down there in freezing Berlin, in Istanbul, in Lisbon, and God only knew where else.

  Her body was rubbing up against his. “We have to go,” he mumbled.

  “In a minute.” She buried her face in the curve of his neck. It was hot.

  Later they rose and got ready to leave. He gave her one of the Glocks and two magazines, and stuffed the envelope with the cash into the pocket of his new black North Face jacket.

  The ashen-faced reception clerk kept asking whether something was wrong. He said no and paid the bill, and they walked out.

  Jane drove them west in her rented Mercedes. Alex filled her in on the events of the past twenty-four hours, from Bolu to Invalidenfriedhof. She nodded, her jaw clenched.

  “We have to turn Justus’s house upside down until we find the list of Nibelungs.”

  “There may not be a list,” she said.

  “There has to be. No one could keep so many details in his head, no matter how phenomenal his memory.”

  “You don’t get it. Justus is a genius. Are you sure it was his blood?”

  “We’ll know for certain in the morning.”

  “He deliberately stretched the limits of his memory. There was Alzheimer’s in his family. He was afraid that one day he’d find out he had it, too,” Jane said.

  “Have you seen him lately?” Alex asked.

  “I was supposed to meet him at the Tate Modern in London at the end of February. There was an exhibit he wanted to see. Marcel Duchamp, Man Ray, Francis Picabia. I waited more than an hour.”

  “He was late?”

  “He didn’t show.”

  “Had that ever happened before?”

  “Never. Justus was more punctual than the Deutsche Bahn.”

  “Did you meet up eventually?”

  “The next day. He was acting odd.”

  The phone in Alex’s hand vibrated.

  Reuven.

  “Sorry, Alex,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “Galia.”

  “What about Galia?” he asked, although his heart was already seizing in pain.

  Reuven waited a moment before hanging up.

  “What happened?” Jane asked.

  His dry eyes burned.

  “She’s dead.”

  GRUNEWALD, BERLIN | 21:37

  Justus Erlichmann had chosen to surround his house with a black wrought-iron fence whose bars were topped with pointed gilt finials as sharp as bayonets. The large two-story building stood in the snow, its zabaglione-colored walls and inviting facade conve
ying a deceptive innocence. Snow was still falling, piling up on the dark slate roof tiles.

  Going in through the service entrance at the side of the house, they found themselves engulfed in a heavy silence. Jane was in the lead. She switched the light on. They were in a huge heated space with a high ceiling and bare brown brick walls, plastered and painted in white to half their height. A green light showed on the silent alarm panel. The “neurosurgeon” had been and gone without leaving a trace. Stifa Kadosh was Mossad’s top expert at picking intricate locks and disabling sophisticated alarms.

  A forty-foot glass wall in the living room looked out over a large backyard. The outside lights shone on the somber, majestic forest beyond.

  Alex turned around and gaped in awe at the bookshelves along the whole length of the room.

  If the list of Nibelungs was hidden among the books, it would be easier to find a lost sardine in the ocean.

  On the wall facing the kitchen was a painting in the style of Mark Rothko as big as a king-size bed. The intensity of the rough color blocks was hypnotic.

  Jane came closer and wrapped her arms around him, her body offering the warmth he so desperately needed. Her face lay in the crook of his neck. His eyes were wide open. When she kissed his neck, he shuddered and said, “Galia’s mother will be devastated. She raised her on her own. Galia’s father was a pilot. He was killed in the Yom Kippur War.”

  Jane released him and walked away. He heard her footsteps going up the stairs.

  In the silence, his head was inundated with thoughts of Galia. He saw the part she had played in his life. Her life had been in his hands. He would never forget the sound of the moan that escaped her when she was hit.

  He would do whatever it took to find the person responsible for her death.

  He would find him, and he would plunge a dagger into his heart.

  Jane went into the bedroom, on the upper floor. She bumped into one of the tall floor lamps whose linen shades cast the room in a gentle golden glow. From the wide bed there was a view of the forest, its bare trees visible in the garden lights.