Ring of Lies

by Roni Dunevich

  A chill ran down his back.

  “Where exactly was the money going?”

  “Into the account of what was supposedly a Swiss NGO for Alzheimer’s research.”

  “His father had Alzheimer’s. Couldn’t they have been legit donations?”

  “I sent someone to the address in Lucerne.”

  “And?”

  “It’s an empty lot.”

  “Maybe they moved.”

  “It’s been empty for nineteen years. The heirs are fighting over the property. We checked out the bank account. Justus Erlichmann was the only depositor. It was opened specifically for him.”

  Thoughts were racing through Alex’s head. “Does Reuven know about this?” he asked finally.

  “I thought I’d give you the pleasure.”

  “When was the first money transfer?”

  “October 1994.”

  “More than twenty years ago,” he said. It was freezing outside.

  “Last month it was ten times as much as usual, three hundred thousand euros,” Exodus said. “The total figure is almost six million!”

  Even a fire hose wouldn’t have relieved the dryness in his mouth.

  Justus Erlichmann—the champion of Zionism and faithful servant of the State of Israel—had a dark side.

  “The NGO funnels funds to neo-Nazis?” he asked.

  “We milked a reliable source in the German Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution. They know the organization. It’s a front for a neo-Nazi group, but they don’t know anything else about it. All they know is that it exists.”

  “What’s the name of the group?”

  “The Fourth Reich.”

  Alex looked back at the home of Justus Erlichmann. The exquisite house suddenly seemed hostile, its rooms contaminated. The imposing, tastefully lit library was infested with vermin. The artwork glittered like gold-plated shackles, and the thought of the swastika on the tail of the Messerschmitt made him sick to his stomach.

  Repressed monsters threatened to soar up out of the depths of his memory. The Holocaust had lived in his parents’ home like an unmovable tenant. Silent and bleeding, it had lain among the clothes in the closet and beside the empty bottles on the balcony, puncturing his sleep with nightmares, slashing into his childhood with terror.

  His mother’s stories about Treblinka and Auschwitz. Her father hanged before her eyes. Aunts and uncles sent to the gas chamber or shot in the back and falling into open pits. The heavy barrel of a gun slamming into her little neck. A bullet penetrating her body. Unendurable pain.

  He felt a pressing need to get as far away from this house as possible, but some dark, unnameable force urged him to stay, to resist and fight back. He’d let himself believe that his intimate conversation with Justus in Café Einstein had forged a genuine link between them. Now he knew that the despicable German had deceived him.

  “That’s utterly ridiculous!” Reuven declared. “Justus never gave money to neo-Nazis!”

  “Exodus can fill you in on the details,” Alex told him.

  “I already told you, the PM doesn’t want us to investigate Justus Erlichmann. I gave you a direct order not to ask econ or intel to look into him. You chose to ignore my order, and now you want to embarrass me in front of the PM? How am I supposed to tell him your idiotic suspicions after he explicitly told me to leave Justus alone?”

  That’s your problem, Alex thought. “When did Gunter find out he had Alzheimer’s?”

  “You’re ignoring me,” Reuven said hotly.

  “Do you really want to discuss what orders you gave or didn’t give, or are you ready to deal with the fact that Justus had close ties to a neo-Nazi group?”

  Reuven remained silent.

  “Can we move on, Reuven? When was Gunter diagnosed with Alzheimer’s?”

  Reuven let out a sigh.

  “Nineteen-ninety-four,” he said quietly. “The director needed to find a successor. Gunter suggested his son, Justus. The PM said it looked too much like nepotism. He didn’t approve Justus’s appointment until after the elections.”

  “Isn’t it strange,” Alex said, “that Justus transferred hundreds of thousands of euros to neo-Nazis just before he was killed?”

  Reuven didn’t respond.

  “Maybe Gunter was the one who started giving them money,” Alex went on, thinking out loud. “No one ever looked into the Erlichmann family?”

  A bottle uncorked. Liquid poured. A swallow.

  “What difference does it make now?” Reuven said. “I have to bring all this shit to the PM.”

  He hung up.

  A light snow rustled through the trees. Snowflakes landed on Alex’s face and melted away.

  The photo of the dead machine gunner from the Time–Life album floated up before him. His lifeless body lay with his legs on the balcony and his head on the wooden floorboards of the room inside. The dark pool of blood grew bigger from picture to picture.

  Alex went back inside under a cloud of grief mixed with rage. His body shook from adrenaline and cold. He climbed the stairs to the bedroom and sat down beside Jane, telling her in a soft voice about Justus’s secret donations to neo-Nazis.

  “That’s not possible,” she whispered back.

  He nodded, his head as heavy as a church bell.

  “He was more loyal to Israel than to his own homeland,” she said. “At most he might have made a small donation. Justus was no traitor!”

  If only she was right. “He gave them close to six million euros.”

  Jane’s face fell. She lay there in silence.

  It was almost midnight. The doorbell rang. Alex hurried downstairs, his Glock in his hand. He met Paris in the entrance hall and handed him the gun. Then he opened the door while the Frenchman covered him.

  It was a courier with a thick envelope containing Justus’s BlackBerry.

  Alex went back upstairs, undressed, and got into bed. A nightlight cast a soft glow over Jane’s face.

  “We’re in for some tough days ahead,” he said, moving closer. She reached out and put her arm around his neck. Alex switched off the light.

  The silent BlackBerry on the bedside table blinked blue.

  Within seconds, he had sunk into a deep sleep, dreaming of the bronze sculpture of the Walking Man. The figure was hunched over in despair.

  On its chest was a yellow Star of David.

  DIARY

  4 SEPTEMBER 1943

  I looked into the new commandant’s eyes and saw dark, icy tundra. Since his arrival, the waves of arrests have multiplied alarmingly. The transports to the East are more frequent, and those who have been transported vanish without a trace.

  5 OCTOBER 1943

  Jewish families are disappearing. Apartments are emptying out. An ill wind whistles through abandoned living rooms.

  Today I baked croissants with Nazi butter.

  6 OCTOBER 1943

  The commandant came into the café this evening, drunk with power.

  Champagne! he cried. Champagne and six glasses!

  A sign that he had sent a packed transport to the East.

  7 OCTOBER 1943

  Yesterday, 967 of our children were transported. Tonight, I had to pour a rare bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape for the beasts from the SS.

  I am the whore of merchandise.

  There is no forgiveness.

  GRUNEWALD, BERLIN | 08:42

  The aroma of fresh espresso and buttery croissants rose from the kitchen. Paris had risen early. He was lying on the sofa in the living room, reading a book. Outside, the sky was clear.

  Alex went into the kitchen, shading his eyes against the gleam of the white snow in the morning sun. Jane made her way downstairs and sat down at the breakfast bar. Alex dipped a silver knife into a pot of prune jam, spread the dark fruit on a piece of warm croissant, and placed it on the plate in front of Jane.

  “More coffee?” Alex called out to Paris.

  The Frenchman nodded, got up from the sofa, and padded i
nto the kitchen on bare feet. He pulled off the end of a croissant and stuffed it into his mouth. Beyond the window, crows were pecking at the snow.

  The BlackBerry in Alex’s pocket beeped. Anxiously, he looked at the screen: Barcelona $.

  “What’s going on?” Jane whispered.

  Alex turned the BlackBerry so Paris could see it. “What does it mean?”

  “There’s a message on the forum,” the Frenchman said. “May I?” He reached out and took the phone from Alex.

  Paris went to crazyheli.com. “It’s from Barcelona,” he announced. “It says, ‘I’ve got a live one.’ ”

  “How do we know someone didn’t seize Barcelona and force him to reveal how he communicates with Justus?” Alex asked.

  Paris and Jane exchanged a nod. “If Barcelona had sent the message against his will,” Paris explained, “there’d be an exclamation point at the end.”

  “And what if it wasn’t Barcelona who sent the message?”

  “The sender has to enter his code a second time at the beginning of the message. You can’t see it, but if it’s not entered, the system automatically adds the exclamation point,” Jane said.

  “Ask him when and where we can meet.”

  “I already did,” Paris said, pulling on socks and shoving his feet into his shoes.

  Alex nodded. “Do you want to stay here?” he whispered to Jane.

  A delightful lemony perfume wafted from her neck. “This time I’m coming with you,” she said, standing up and grabbing her coat off the back of a chair.

  “And you’ll wait here till we get back?” Alex asked Paris.

  A hint of envy flitted across the Frenchman’s face. He swallowed. Finally, he nodded.

  EL PAPIOL, NORTH OF BARCELONA, SPAIN | 14:11

  The warm Mediterranean sun thawed the Berlin frost out of him and charged him with renewed energy. On the northern edge of El Papiol, a mature chestnut tree cast its shade over an old stone house. Rusty iron scaffolding clung to the front of the building.

  “Barcelona is expecting Justus, not us,” Jane said.

  “It’ll be okay,” Alex said, pulling up next to the scaffolding.

  The ground was strewn with black buckets stained with dry plaster. A hoe and a pile of dusty bags of cement were leaning against the wall. A light breeze blew through the trees. The unfenced yard was covered in wild grass dotted with daisies. Alex knocked on the rustic wooden door while Jane shaded her eyes from the sharp arrows of light thrown by the sun.

  They heard footsteps approaching. An ancient peephole opened and a pair of black eyes stared out at them. The peephole closed, and the door opened to reveal the barrel of a Sig Sauer pointed at Alex’s face.

  “Can I help you?” a woman asked.

  Her skin was deeply tanned, her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her eyes bored into Alex and Jane. Dark armpit stains showed on her denim shirt and sweat dripped from her face, but she didn’t bother to wipe it away.

  “Justus isn’t coming,” Alex said.

  “Who are you?” She had a deep voice, almost a baritone.

  “We’ll tell you inside.”

  “No.”

  “Justus is dead. Thirteen Nibelungs have been killed. Someone knows about the Ring. You’re in danger. We’re the ones who sent the alert last night and got your message on the helicopter forum. We’re here to help, but only if you let us in. Please.”

  The barrel of the gun didn’t budge. After giving Alex a quick once-over, the woman passed her eyes slowly over Jane, checking her out from head to toe.

  “I’m London. They’re after me, too. That’s Alex. He’s Mossad,” Jane explained.

  A shutter creaked in the wind, and somewhere a dog barked. Barcelona opened the door and lowered her gun. The tough expression on her face was replaced by a look of wariness. “Come in,” she said, leading them into the dim interior of the house. Pencil drawings on parchment paper lined the stone walls. The mosaic floor was almost entirely occupied by models made from cardboard and wood. Barcelona brought them a carafe of water and two freshly rinsed glasses and placed them on a wrought-iron table. A ray of light seeping in through a high window painted prisms in the water.

  “Where is he?” Alex took a sip of water.

  “What do you know about me?” Barcelona asked guardedly.

  “Nothing. Just that you’re in danger.” He saw her looking suspiciously at the inflamed scars on his hands.

  “Where is he?” he repeated.

  “All I found on him was some cash and this,” she said, pulling a Third World cellphone from her pocket. She handed it to Alex.

  There were pictures. One showed Barcelona beside a blue truck in front of the Basílica de la Sagrada Família. Another was a distorted face shot from too close up. Above the pictures was a long series of digits: the number to which the photos had been sent.

  They finally had a lead.

  Alex called Butthead and told him to trace the number.

  “Where did you take him down?” he asked.

  “At La Sagrada Família, where I work. He was shadowing me. I knocked him out and brought him here.”

  “Show us,” Alex said, appraising her with male eyes. She was fleshy and rugged.

  They walked through a small bedroom to the rocky yard behind the house, grass sprouting between the stones. “He’s over there,” Barcelona said, pointing to a small, windowless stone building.

  A current ran through Alex’s body, as tingly and stimulating as speed. He opened the rusty iron door, its hinges creaking. The dark interior was lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the puddle of dim light, a man in a gray suit was tied to a chair, a black plastic bag over his head. A hole had been torn for his mouth. The bag rose and fell in time with his breathing.

  The prisoner sat up straight.

  The walls were covered in gray egg-crate acoustic foam. In the corner was a worn black leather case and a music stand.

  “I play my trumpet here,” Barcelona said quietly.

  Jane closed the heavy door.

  “Was he carrying a weapon?” Alex asked.

  The bronze-skinned Catalan shook her head.

  “Give me your gun.”

  Barcelona reluctantly handed Alex her gun. The butt was warm.

  Alex moved closer to the prisoner. His hands were bound tightly to the arms of the chair with silver duct tape. Alex pulled the bag off his head. The man’s face was pasty, his chin was slumped on his chest, his eyes were half-closed, and his black mustache was stiff.

  He looked Turkish.

  “What’s your name?” Alex asked.

  No response.

  “Mute?”

  No response.

  “Deaf mute?”

  No response.

  A sharp slap landed on the prisoner’s cheek. His head was thrown sideways.

  There was a deathly silence. Jane lowered her eyes.

  “Are you going to answer me?”

  No response.

  “I need a chair, a bucket of water, and some kind of club,” he said over his shoulder to Barcelona, sticking the barrel of the gun against the man’s thigh. The prisoner’s eyes bulged in fright. Alex was pretty sure the acoustic foam would absorb the noise.

  He fired.

  A howl of pain burst from the man’s throat. The smell of gunpowder spread through the room. Fat globules of thick blood fell from the wound onto the floor: plip-plip-plip. The man fought for breath.

  “You don’t have much time,” Alex said.

  EL PAPIOL, NORTH OF BARCELONA | 14:19

  “Where are you from?” Alex asked.

  The bare bulb above their heads was reflected in the pool of blood collecting on the floor. The veins in the man’s neck bulged. He clenched his teeth and breathed through his nose.

  “Syria,” he croaked.

  “Where in Syria?”

  The man shut his eyes and coughed.

  “I asked you where in Syria.”

  “Idarat al-Mukha
barat al-Jawiyya,” he declared in pride and pain, spitting on the floor.

  Syria’s Air Force Intelligence Directorate has little to do with aerial intelligence. It is under the direct command of the Syrian president, Bashar al-Assad. Bashar’s father, Hafez al-Assad, formerly the commander of the air force, brought its intelligence agency under his wing and used it to bolster his totalitarian rule. Ever since, it has been charged with the country’s most sensitive covert operations overseas and plays an important role in safeguarding the regime.

  “Are you killing our agents?”

  The prisoner shook his head. Sweat dripped from his chin.

  “We just gather information.”

  “You’re lying!” Alex thundered, sticking the gun against the man’s other thigh.

  Jane looked away. Barcelona watched, mesmerized.

  “Information about who?”

  “Everybody.” The man’s face twisted, and his breathing became raspy.

  “Who killed the agents?”

  The Syrian gazed at him with tortured eyes.

  Alex moved the gun to the man’s temple. His finger on the trigger was taut. He leaned over the prisoner. He could see the blue veins in his eyelids. The Syrian had halitosis.

  “I asked you who killed the agents.”

  “I don’t know,” the Syrian said pleadingly.

  “Where did you send the pictures?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Alex took the gun away from the prisoner’s temple and used it to strike him savagely across the chin. Something broke. The man groaned. Blood flowed from his mouth, and he spit out splinters of broken teeth. Blood was still dripping from his thigh.

  Jane turned her back and covered her ears with her hands. She was standing next to Barcelona, who was exhibiting increasing fascination with the scene.

  “Where did you send the pictures?” Alex repeated in a whisper, his lips almost touching the Syrian’s face.

  Blood was spilling from his mouth onto his chin. “To the number they—”

  “The Mukhabarat assassins?”

  “No.”