“Okay, Reuven,” the prime minister said firmly. “I think we’ve found the man with the proper motivation.”
“Pardon me?” Reuven said.
“Alex, as of this moment and until you hear otherwise, I’m putting you in charge of the Nibelung Ring. But on one condition—you don’t go to Damascus.”
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Reuven objected, “that goes against the Nibelung charter!”
“Sending Alex Bartal to deal with the crisis instead of going yourself also goes against the charter. And as you said, Reuven—I alone have authority over the Ring.”
Alex heard Reuven step back and state for protocol, “Mr. Prime Minister, I consider this a dangerous and unjustified decision.”
The dog could go on barking, but Alex now had the authority to issue orders to the Nibelungs without needing anyone else’s approval.
THE ORCHID FARM, EAST OF LYON | 13:45
With a sense of foreboding, Alex stepped out of the darkness of the rainforest and covered his eyes. He climbed into the SUV. It was cold in the car, cold and wet, and Orchidea looked despairing. Morosely, she said, “The farm was broken into, the virus is gone, Justus is dead, the Ring has been crushed—it’s all over.”
With a hopeless shrug of her shoulders, she added, “What am I supposed to do tomorrow morning?”
It was time to take a gamble. “You’re going to Damascus.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Tonight.”
“What—”
“You said you’d do anything.”
“Damascus?”
If she was part of the conspiracy, he wasn’t telling her anything new.
“There’s a meeting in Damascus tomorrow between the head of the Syrian Mukhabarat and whoever they’re collaborating with, the man behind the attacks on the Nibelungs and probably the theft of the virus as well. When we find out who he is, we’ll have our answers.”
“Will it be dangerous?”
“You’ll be risking your life.”
Orchidea lowered her eyes. Her eyelids were translucent. “How much of a life do I have anymore?”
Her words hung in the damp air. The rain drummed on the roof.
“We have to do something with the bodies,” Alex said.
“Lance can put them in an empty refrigerator in the Cube. When I get back from Damascus, we’ll take care of them.”
How could she be so sure she’d make it back safely?
“You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”
“Where?”
“To Damascus.”
He shook his head.
“It’s my birthday tomorrow,” she said.
“Would you rather not go?”
“It’s just kind of weird celebrating my birthday in Damascus.”
“What’s that place I was in before?” Alex asked.
“The paphs greenhouse.”
“Sorry?”
“Paphiopedilum. It’s a genus of orchid that produces some of the most amazing varieties in the world.” The light was back in her eyes. “Like the ghost orchid. It can sell for more than fifteen hundred euros.”
“Who pays that kind of money for a flower?” Alex asked, thumbing through the list of contacts on his phone.
Orchidea smiled.
He wondered how she would function under threat on enemy soil.
“What are you doing right now?” Alex asked into the phone.
“Waiting for you to call,” Paris answered with a chuckle.
Alex told him about the break-in at the Orchid Farm.
“Can you go to Damascus?”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Alone?”
“With Orchidea.”
“From the Hothouse?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re out of your mind. She doesn’t have any field experience.”
“You do. Are you in?”
“What do I have to do?”
“Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock local time, the head of the Mukhabarat, Omar Hattab, is meeting with the man behind the assault on the Ring. We want to know the man’s identity. Take pictures, try to get ears on the conversation. Then stay on his tail until you find out who he is. He might be armed, and he’s dangerous. They call him the Israelite.”
“He’s Israeli?”
“God knows. Take a flight to Brussels and go see the head of our station there, Sammy Zengot. He’ll tell you what to do and fit you out with the gear you’ll need. I’ll call him right away.”
“I told you we’d screw the motherfuckers in the end. I’m happy to do the honors,” Paris said.
The call was disconnected.
“You mentioned somebody named Lance,” Alex said. “Can he stay here until the security guards from Brussels arrive?”
“He went to the supermarket in Genas. He should be back by now. He’s the only one left.”
“Except for you.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That if you want, I’ll drive you to the airport.”
She gave him a long, piercing look. She was a worthy woman.
“I need a few minutes to get organized and pack. Come on—in the meantime you can see where I live,” she said, opening the door of the Land Cruiser.
Alex heard his internal brakes squealing.
“I’ll wait here.”
PRIME MINISTER’S OFFICE, TEL AVIV | 15:01
“How did we wind up in this ugly mess?” the prime minister asked, getting up and pacing the floor.
“Sir, if you so wish, I will tender my resignation immediately,” Reuven said, pausing before he added, “but, of course, then the media will start rooting around in your backyard.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind, Reuven. But let’s focus on the real problem. What can we do right now to get the virus back?”
Reuven scratched his head and brushed his shoulder. Then he kept silent.
“Are you saying there’s nothing we can do?” the prime minister protested, straightening his tie.
Reuven felt as if the ceiling were descending on him. “We don’t have the thousands of operatives it would take to search all over Europe for the stolen inhalers. And they could already be on another continent.”
“Pretend for a moment that you are prime minister, Reuven,” the PM said with a cynical smile. “Just pretend.” He paused to let the words sink in. “And you’re responsible for the Nibelung Ring and the Hochstadt-Lancet virus. What would you do?”
Reuven was a cunning rat and a master of devious tricks. He wasn’t tempted by the smell of the cheese in the trap.
“I understand,” the PM said.
Muffled voices came from beyond the thick door. A telephone rang.
“With all due respect, Mr. Prime Minister, if I understand correctly, you’re telling me that you are authorizing the insertion of our agents into Damascus?”
The prime minister licked his pale lips. “Yes.” Then he added, “Why? Do you have some objection?”
“No, sir. I trust your judgment implicitly. It’s your decision to make.”
“Exactly.”
“And at your behest, Alex Bartal is now in charge of what’s left of the Nibelung Ring?”
“Yes, Reuven,” the prime minister said, dismissing him coldly.
Later, in the backseat of the Volvo taking him back to his office, Reuven turned off the tiny recorder he had concealed in the pocket of his suit jacket.
EAST OF LYON | 14:19
“Had Justus seemed unusually tense lately?” Alex asked her on the way to Saint Exupéry Airport.
“Maybe a little. But once it was over between us, he kept his distance.”
“How long has it been since he ended it?”
“Two months and six days.”
The rain was finally letting up. The truck in front of them sprayed mud onto their windshield.
Alex switched on the radio and searched for a station that was playing soothing music. All he
found was cacophony and the shrill voices of announcers on speed. He turned the radio off.
In the ensuing silence, she said, “I told you. He wanted me to have a family.” She bit her lip. “Aphids destroyed more than half of the greenhouse. I didn’t catch it in time. We had to burn orchids worth almost four hundred thousand euros. Justus was furious. The farm isn’t insured. He didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t forgive me. Five days later, he broke it off.”
In the rental car parking at the airport she said, “Maybe we’ll meet again, at a better time.” Reaching out a cold hand, she stroked his face, then leaned in and hugged him, her eyes gazing into his. Taken by surprise, he froze, confused by the quiver of lust that ran through his body. Her breath smelled fresh. She was so young. He wanted to bury his head between her breasts.
“Thank you for giving me the chance to make things right. I won’t forget it,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the lips.
Alex’s heart pounded. Orchidea released her embrace, got out, and walked away, disappearing into the sea of cars.
He sat there for a long time without moving.
Standing in front of the flight departures board, he couldn’t remember where he was supposed to be going.
There was no reason to rush off anywhere, no place he had to be, no one waiting for him.
The Grunewald house was empty. There were no direct flights to Berlin, and the next flight to Zurich left in four hours. He bought a one-way ticket and at a bookstand found a detective novel with a lurid cover. Leaving the crowds behind, he took a seat in a quiet corner of the terminal. He looked around him. He was alone. He called Sammy Zengot in Brussels. They discussed the details of Paris and Orchidea’s mission in Damascus.
“What’s their cover?” Alex asked.
“False identities similar to their real ones. The trip is a surprise for her birthday. They leave tonight. Where will you be?”
“Damascus is dangerous, Sammy. It could be her last birthday. Buy her something.”
Sammy chuckled. “We’ll look after her.”
Alex hung up.
He searched his mind for Jane, but the cells that stored her memory had clouded over. Orchidea intensified the sense of loss. He opened the book he’d bought, but after no more than half a page he realized that the words weren’t sinking in.
His phone vibrated.
Parsifal!
The German said in his deep voice, “I’ve decided to tell you about the Mud Man.”
“Does he have a name?”
“No.”
“Is he connected to the Israelite?”
“Both terms come from Christian Identity doctrine. I don’t know who he is, but I can tell you that the Mud Man is a sociopath.”
“Have you penetrated his organization?”
“We sent in two undercover agents,” Parsifal said.
“What did they find out?”
“They disappeared. We never found the bodies.”
“How did you learn about him?”
“I interviewed him. They wanted my opinion as a psychiatrist. There was a black screen between us. I never saw him, and they never showed me his file or picture. Nothing.”
“What did they want to know about him?”
“Whether he was reliable. Whether he could be trusted.”
“And what was your conclusion?”
“That even the opposite of what he said was a lie.”
“Give me something I can use to find him.”
“Be careful with the Mud Man, Alex. At the age of eight he was sent to a reform school in Nuremberg. One night they found him wandering around the dormitory, totally naked. All he had on was an armband he’d made from toilet paper. It had a swastika on it.”
FLIGHT TO BERLIN | 21:13
As the plane made its way from Zurich to Berlin through a dark sky, Alex’s body tingled. At last, Mossad was silently reaching out its long tentacles to squeeze the life out of the demon.
Below, lights flickered in the distance.
Germany, the black box; the eye of the storm; the axis of torsion. Its dark past pulled at him, undermined his foundations. At times he felt that if he could only look the evil in the eye, he would be healed.
Germany had cleaned itself off and moved on. But he was still caught in the web of his fixations, held back by his insistence on delving into its crimes, like a creditor who refused to forgive a debt.
The plane touched down.
Grunewald was covered in ice. Behind the bars, the windows of the house were dark. He got the Glock from the doghouse, where he had stored it, and slid a round into the chamber. It was snowing lightly.
The drawn gun made its way into the silent space, where the smell of thyme and grilled meat hung in the air.
A chilly welcome: the heating wasn’t on. He tried everything he could think of, but it didn’t do any good. Then he checked the fuse box. Everything was in working order. Dammit, there must be a fault in the heating system.
He checked the ghostly house room by room, stunned again by the works of art.
The living room was dimly lit by the outside lights. The thin legs of the Walking Man cast a long shadow.
An empty house is a dangerous house.
Zengot called from Brussels.
“They’re taking a Turkish Airlines flight at 23:30. It lands in Damascus at 1:30.”
“What are their chances of making it out of there alive, Sammy?”
“We did what we could in no time. Their cover is too thin.”
Alex banged his open hand on the glass wall. His fingers burned.
Paris was a street cat. Even if you threw him off the roof of a nine-story building, he’d land on his feet. Orchidea wouldn’t. The thought of her made Alex regret his decision. He’d taken advantage of her weakness.
Even a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure his fatigue. But his body was on fire, his muscles ached, and the madness would start in the morning. The bedrooms weren’t safe. He’d be too exposed.
The deep cupboard in the pantry smelled of onion and garlic, but it was a good place to hide from the nasty cold. The bottom shelf was empty. It was about five feet long and two and a half feet wide. He folded his body into it, covering himself with his jacket and a woolen blanket he found in a closet. Exhausted, he sank into a troubled sleep.
DAMASCUS, SYRIA | 01:24
About half the women were wearing hijabs. Some had their faces veiled. The men were all dressed in cheap suits. The cabin of the 737 reeked of pungent body odor. Paris seemed to be the only man without a mustache.
The lights of the hostile city twinkled like bait on a hook.
Zengot’s deep voice still echoed in her ears, raising the horror of underground torture chambers and dungeons in infamous Adra Prison to the north of Damascus.
The line at passport control didn’t move. The air stank of cigarette smoke. The portrait of President Bashar al-Assad looked down from every wall, as was only proper for a dictator under threat.
At the last minute she found an empty stall in the ladies’ room. A hole in the floor. She vomited up her meager dinner.
The Nissan Primera they rented had seen better days, about sixty thousand miles ago. Paris was driving. Antiquated yellow cabs raced along the brightly lit road, and dozens of minarets pierced the night sky.
They cut around Damascus from the east, passing the poor tin shacks of the Jaramana refugee camp, where a stray dog was rummaging through an overturned trash pail. The wind carried the smell of burning garbage.
MAALOULA, NORTH OF DAMASCUS | 02:47
Damascus receded behind them until its lights vanished, and they entered the moonscape of the M1. The countryside was silent and desolate. On their left were the Anti-Lebanon Mountains. Yellow lights flickered in distant towns.
Paris was shorter than she was and not very attractive, but he was solid and well-built, with narrow hips and a broad chest. He wasn’t arrogant or patronizing or full of himself.
But he was hiding s
omething.
He smiled at her.
Orchidea tried to smile back, but her face was frozen. And she was dying of thirst.
The road rose slowly to a barren, rocky plain. The Anti-Lebanon Mountains still towered over them imposingly on the left.
Paris glanced at the dashboard. “Seven and a half miles to Al-Qutayfah. The turnoff is just past it.”
The asphalt illuminated by their headlights was swallowed beneath them.
Finally the lights of Maaloula, situated on a steep hillside in the Qalamoun Mountains, flickered above them. The houses clinging to the scarred land looked as if they had been built one atop the other. They entered the town, its empty streets dimly lit by weak streetlamps. Pistachio trees grew everywhere. A tired mule raised its head and gazed at them indifferently as they passed.
The crosses and domes of ancient churches appeared around every corner. Religious murals adorned the front walls of the houses. Zengot had told them that some of the locals spoke modern Aramaic, the language of Christ.
“The house is on the outskirts of Maaloula, about half a mile after the last building on this street,” Paris whispered. “Look for a stone house that has arched windows with bars on them.”
An icon on a tiny church showed the Virgin cradling Jesus, a baby with a golden halo. Paris sped up, turned into a narrow alley, and switched off the engine. He checked the mirrors. After a few minutes he reversed, turned around, and drove into the black night with the lights off, going so slowly that Orchidea barely felt the car moving. He kept a close watch on the numbers on the odometer.
Orchidea opened the window, letting in the sounds of insects buzzing and whistling and crickets chirping. The calm was seductive—and deceptive.
The Nissan wheezed, its springs creaking on the dirt road. A row of pistachio trees on the right was heavy with green clusters of unripe fruit.
A red cross with the word Doctor below was painted on a white tin sign on a low stone fence. The word was written in English, French, Arabic, and some unfamiliar language, maybe Aramaic.
Paris stopped the car and turned off the engine. The radiator fan continued to roar for a few seconds before switching off. Somewhere, a dog barked. After that, there was silence. They got out of the car. It was cold on the mountain.
Ring of Lies Page 21
