Spy Dance

by Allan Topol

  “You were resisting arrest, mister,” he shouted. “Now you’re mine.”

  To make the point, the general pulled away for an instant, and then slammed Nielsen hard against the wall. A jolt of searing pain shot through Nielsen’s body.

  “Let’s try that again,” Chambers said sadistically.

  Before the general could smash him against the wall another time, Nielsen gathered his right hand into a fist. The frustration and anger he had felt all night were surging to a crescendo. With a sudden jerking motion he slammed his fist into Chambers’ face. The general never saw the blow coming. Nielsen felt the bridge of Chambers’ nose disintegrate and some teeth give way.

  Blind with rage, spitting blood, Chambers grabbed Nielsen’s throat with both hands. As the general kept squeezing, Nielsen felt himself weaken. He knew that Chambers meant to kill him. From deep inside he summoned the strength to bring his fist up one more time. He slammed it so hard into Chambers’ face, he heard the crunch of the general’s jaw breaking. This time Chambers screamed in pain. Releasing his hold on Nielsen, he dropped to the floor, clutching his face and gasping for breath. Blood was pouring from the general’s nose and mouth.

  For good measure, Nielsen kicked him once in the balls and bolted for the door of the conference room. He opened it slowly and peered out. From his vantage point, at the end of a long corridor, he saw Major Hawkins in the third-floor reception area, about forty yards away, casually chatting with two MPs and a corporal, a good-looking young woman, on duty at the reception desk. The MPs must be there to arrest him–just waiting for a signal from the general, who was on the floor writhing in pain. Other than those four, the floor seemed deserted. Across the corridor from the conference room was a red exit sign marking an inside stairwell.

  Nielsen waited until the four were looking in a different direction, and then he slipped across the hall and into the stairwell. He didn’t know if it was locked on the first floor, but it was the only choice he had.

  As he raced down the three flights of stairs, he tripped at a landing, tearing his pants at the knee. Then he picked himself up and kept on running. At the bottom, on the first floor, he tensely grabbed the doorknob with a moist hand. The door opened.

  Peeking out, he saw pandemonium at the front entrance to the building. A score of reporters were badgering the base press officer. In the glare of television lights, a CNN reporter was reeling off a series of preliminary statistics: “One hundred and eight people dead, one hundred and eighty-two wounded, and...” Nonchalantly, Nielsen walked in the direction of the front door. In the confusion, he slipped among the milling crowd and through the front door.

  Once he was outside in the intense heat and bright sunlight, a wave of fear overtook him. What had he done? Now he was a dead man. Before the attack on Chambers, he could have defended himself at trial.

  But what could he do now? In a matter of minutes, Chambers would get help. The whole U.S. military in Saudi Arabia, as well as the Saudi police and army, would be looking for him. Every exit from the country would be sealed. Border police would have his picture. They would have orders to shoot to kill.

  He would have to call someone who could make him disappear.

  Chapter 1

  July, Five Years Later

  David Ben Aaron sipped an espresso, leaned back in the black leather chair and closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of a great dinner at Arpege. There were only twelve well-spaced tables in this temple of haute cuisine on the Left Bank–not far from Napoleon’s tomb. Suddenly, he was aware of a stockinged foot moving up and down between his legs. Across the table, Maria Clermont, blond, beautiful and braless, leaned over to scoop some chocolate soufflé out of her dish. She picked up the spoon, rolled the soufflé around on her tongue and gave him a sensuous smile that fit with her hair falling seductively over one eye.

  He could hardly believe that this was the same woman he had spent five hours with today in a conference room with half a dozen Renault executives. David had been trying to sell the French carmaker a new computer program his kibbutz had developed. Then, Maria, the high corporate official, had been wearing a loose-fitting gray suit, hemmed long to look professional, no makeup or lipstick and her hair tied back tightly. Her voice had been serious, and she listened intently and took copious notes, never giving any indication whether she favored the transaction he was proposing.

  Yet when she walked through the doorway of the restaurant, he was dazzled, as were all other men in the room. She was stunning, wearing a black silk sheath dress cut tight and short to display her high, full breasts, narrow hips and long, beautifully sculpted legs. Around her neck hung a gold chain with a pendant made of a large round cabochon emerald surrounded by diamonds that sparkled against her suntanned skin. Her lipstick and nails were a dark red, and the aroma of Patou’s Joy followed her as the maître d’ led them to their table.

  Her voice had a deep throaty tone that hadn’t been there this afternoon, and she accompanied it with a robust earthy laugh. Even her mannerisms were different. No longer the prim and proper executive, she relished the raw oysters, picking up the shells and erotically licking the juice. He had watched with amusement as she ate clean the bones from the exquisite herb-crusted rack of lamb they had shared with a bottle of 1985 Clos la Roche by Dujac.

  Hoping to prolong the evening’s pleasure, he asked, “How about a cognac or an Armagnac?”

  “I have a bottle of 1945 Château de Laubade at home,” she replied. “Most people think that was the best year of the century.”

  He didn’t care about the year of the Armagnac. He was just relieved to hear that he wouldn’t have to invite her back to the Normandy, his fleabag hotel on the Left Bank, which definitely would have chilled the mood.

  “But if that doesn’t suit you, I have some ‘49 and ‘53 as well.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. When I gave Michel a divorce, I insisted on keeping the wine cellar as well as his Armagnac collection. He cried like a baby.” She gave a short, caustic laugh. “If he hadn’t decided to marry that tart, he could have continued the old arrangement. Having her on the side while being married to me. I would never have found out. God, men are such fools.”

  David nodded slightly to a tuxedo-clad waiter and silently mouthed the word “L’addition.” Seconds later a check appeared.

  “Speaking of being impressed,” Maria said, “I’m blown away at how well you handled yourself at this three-star Paris restaurant for a...” She stopped in mid-sentence.

  “For an Israeli,” he said, “or for a Jew, you mean.”

  She blushed and looked indignant. “I didn’t mean that at all,” she protested. “I meant, for someone who’s not a native Frenchman. You people are always so sensitive.”

  “History in this part of the world hasn’t been kind to us, but still I’m sorry I misunderstood you,” he said gracefully, wanting to let her off the hook. It was eleven o’clock in the evening of a very long day. At this point he had one objective, and that was to get her out of that black dress and into bed. They could fight about politics and bigotry some other time... if there was another time.

  In the cab, he put am arm around her shoulder, and she snuggled up to him. The air from the open window of the taxi blew against both of their faces, scattering the thick, curly black hair on his head. He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment.

  Behind the cab, a gray BMW sedan was following them, carefully maintaining a twenty-yard distance on the mostly deserted streets. Neither David nor Maria had any idea it was there. If the taxi driver did, he didn’t pay it any mind.

  “What’s your wife going to say about this?” Maria asked devilishly.

  “She died a year ago,” David replied tersely.

  She stiffened. “I’m so sorry. Really I am. Michel always says I put my foot in my mouth.”

  “What about your colleagues at Renault? What will they say?”

  She raised a finger to her lips. “Shh. They can’
t know, or I’ll be sacked. It’s a company rule. We can’t consort with vendors or prospective vendors.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m dead serious, and they enforce it.”

  “So you’re taking a helluva chance for me.”

  “Let’s just say I’m betting you’re going to be a good lover and worth the risk.”

  He gave a devilish smile. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

  She laughed. “You’re so damn self-confident. That’s what I liked about you the first time I met you. You can do anything you want. And when Jean-Pierre left to take that phone call, and we were standing alone at the coffeepot, you simply said, ‘What time would you like to have dinner with me tonight?’ Not whether I would, but what time.”

  “Well, you have to try things. You never know what will work. Plus, I figured you had clout in at least one good Paris restaurant, and I wanted a good meal while I was here. Do you have any idea what the food’s like in Israel?”

  She stroked his cheek. “That’s not all you wanted from this evening. Your eyes let me know that.”

  Tired of her chattering, he reached his hand under her silk skirt. To his delight he found that she was wearing stockings and a garter belt, rather than those annoying panty hose. He stopped on the soft, moist skin on the inside of her upper thigh.

  On the outskirts of Paris, Maria gave the driver directions for a series of turns on narrow roads until they rolled up a gravel driveway that led to a huge stone house. It was lined with tall evergreens and had a well-manicured lawn. David whistled involuntarily.

  “Part of the payoff from the divorce,” she said. “Rich men shouldn’t fool around. It can get expensive.”

  “You must have had a good lawyer.”

  “Ah, they’re worthless. I did the bargaining myself.”

  “I didn’t realize you were so talented.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet. Now kiss me.”

  And he did. It was the first time he had kissed a woman in a year, and he enjoyed it.

  As he learned minutes later, Maria lived alone in that grand house. There was no one to awaken during the loud session of lovemaking that began just inside the front door.

  “I’m going to rip off all of your clothes,” she said as she tore at the buttons on his shirt.

  It ended an hour later in the bedroom with her third cry of ecstasy. Then she turned onto her front and fell into a deep sleep. He pulled the sheet up over her naked body and moved the unfinished snifters of Armagnac away from the edge of the night table so she wouldn’t hit them if she swung her arm.

  For David, sleep wouldn’t come. He lay on the bed looking at the full moon through the open curtains of the second-floor bedroom window. The evening had brought back haunting memories. Next week it would be one year since Yael’s death.

  He had never thought it possible to love someone as intensely as he had Yael. He could still see her light blue eyes, sparkling with life, as if there were tiny sapphires buried in the centers. Combined with her intelligence had been the bold drive of a risk taker. She’d been someone who knew what she wanted from life. Someone for whom life and love were exhilarating.

  Yael had kissed him deeply, holding him tight, that last morning before she left to go to Jerusalem. She had lingered for a moment to squeeze his hand, as if she had an awful foreboding of what was ahead. Then she raced off, late for her ride, her blond hair cascading down on her back, her body still trim and athletic, her long legs well formed from running, sensuous where they joined together at her small, tight rear in khaki slacks that hugged her skin.

  It was a picture that would stay etched in his mind. In the last year, his celibacy had been a form of mourning for Yael as well as a part of the life he had so carefully constructed for himself after her death. But as the end of the year approached, he realized that he couldn’t bring her back. Before this trip to Paris he had made a decision that the time had come to get on with this part of his life as well.

  Suddenly, he thought he heard a noise downstairs in the house. He bolted up to a sitting position and listened carefully. First there was nothing, then a slight sound.

  Light footsteps on a wooden floor?

  What could it be?

  A pet?

  She hadn’t said anything about one.

  Was he being paranoid?

  He heard another sound.

  There was someone downstairs. Now he knew that for sure.

  He slipped out of bed and quickly took stock of the house, as he remembered it in a mind foggy with alcohol. There were two sets of stairs leading up from the floor below: the wooden back stairs from the kitchen that they had used this evening, carrying glasses of Armagnac, and the carpeted center staircase.

  Instinctively, he looked for his clothes, but then remembered that they were scattered with hers downstairs just inside the front door.

  He needed a weapon. As his eyes scanned the bedroom, he didn’t see anything he could use.

  Suddenly, he remembered that in the kitchen, she had half a dozen knives hanging on the wall, next to the pantry. As quietly as possible he crossed the room, naked, to the wooden back staircase. Stealthily, he tiptoed down the stairs, partially illuminated from a light they had left on in the kitchen.

  When he reached the kitchen, he heard footsteps going up the center hall staircase toward Maria’s bedroom. He quickly surveyed the knife rack and grabbed a boning knife with a black handle. Clutching it tightly in his right hand, he crossed the oriental carpet in the living room and climbed the center staircase.

  It was dark on the second floor and very still.

  Perhaps the noises were all his imagination.

  Or paranoia?

  He climbed slowly, holding the knife in his hand now moist with perspiration .

  Suddenly, without warning, he heard the unmistakable sound of an automatic weapon being fired across the bedroom.

  He ran wildly. At the entrance to the bedroom, he saw the wide back of a black-shirted man gripping an Uzi and surveying the damage he had caused. Instinctively, David threw the knife at the assailant. It plunged into the back of the man’s neck. The assailant started to raise his gun and turn around, but he abruptly collapsed to his knees, dropping the Uzi, which skidded harmlessly across the polished wooden floor. The man was propped against the wall, with the knife still stuck in his neck.

  Ignoring the assailant, David turned on the bedroom light. He took one look at the bed and knew it was hopeless for Maria. Enraged, he turned his attention back toward the killer, who was writhing in pain. David picked up the Uzi and aimed it at the man.

  “That was meant for me, you bastard, wasn’t it?”

  The man’s eyes told him that he was right.

  “Who sent you?” he demanded.

  The man started to raise his hands to pull out the knife in his neck, now surrounded by spurting blood, but they fell down weakly. “The knife…” he mumbled.

  “Tell me who sent you, and I’ll take it out.”

  The killer closed his eyes. It was futile, David realized. The man had lost too much blood. He would never be able to talk. David was tempted to fire off a few rounds and put the killer out of his misery, but after what he had done, he deserved to die a slow death.

  Sadly, David examined what was left of Maria’s beautiful body. Her head bad been blown apart. Brain and tissue were splattered against the mahogany headboard.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “So sorry you brought home the wrong man tonight.”

  He brought his clothes upstairs and dressed quickly but carefully, making certain that he didn’t leave anything of his in the house. Then he grabbed a white monogrammed washcloth from the bathroom and meticulously wiped every surface he had touched, including the handle of the knife. When he was finished, he dropped the washcloth into the sink and let it soak in hot water.

  He glanced at the pink princess phone next to the bed. For an instant he considered calling the police, but quickly
rejected the idea. He didn’t want to leave the sound of his voice, which might be recorded. It was a risk that he couldn’t afford to take.

  Chances were that no one had known she was having dinner with him tonight. She had said that she was too worried about her job to tell anyone.

  The reservation at Arpege had been made in her name. No one knew him at the restaurant. He might be able to slip away, after all. At any rate, he had to take the chance. He couldn’t risk dealing with the police.

  Chapter 2

  It was one of those gorgeous sunrises that characterize the Eastern Mediterranean in the summer, when the red ball of a sun rises across the desert against a perfect azure sky without a single cloud in sight. It didn’t seem right to have such a beautiful morning. It should have been damp and gloomy with the heavens gray and cloud-laden to match their mood.

  They walked together, arms around each other, a man and a woman in her mid-twenties, up the hill, toward the cemetery of kibbutz Bet Mordechai, on a rocky plateau in the western Galilee. They had come to observe the one-year anniversary of the death of the same woman, but their relationships with her in life had been so separate and different. Only in the last year, since her mother’s death, had Daphna formed a bond—in part through shared grief—with this Russian.

  Daphna could still remember the first time she had met him. Four years ago, she had come home from Shabbat leave in her last year of military service, as a helicopter pilot in the Israeli air force. Mother had been radiant—no, she shouldn’t call her Mother, even in death she should call her Yael, as her mother had wanted in life. In the small kibbutz house that Yael occupied, she had told Daphna, “I want you to meet a new immigrant from Russia tonight at dinner. David Ben Aaron is his name. I’m going to marry him.”

  He seemed nice enough that night—a scholarly looking Russian, her mother’s age, with thick coal black curly hair, deep black eyes and wire-framed glasses, who tried so hard to communicate with her in Hebrew, until she finally felt sorry for him and shifted to the Russian she had learned in school. But she didn’t have the faintest idea why her mother had decided to get married for the first time after all of these years. Not that it mattered to her, or so she told herself. After all, didn’t Bruno Bettelheim write that one of the results of kibbutz living, with separate living arrangements for children and parents, was a severing of strong parental emotional bonds?