Seeing Double: An Elisabeth Reinhardt Novel

by Nancy Alexander

  The winding road climbed high into the mountains. The view was fabulous, a panorama of the lush Houla Valley. Below a majestic flock of cranes took flight as a helicopter approached from the south. On landing, three man in formation leaped out, weapons pointed, other men followed carrying equipment. Two officials, flanked by bodyguards, climbed out wearing starched tan uniforms. The old stone building was ensconced in vines and surrounded by trees. It was rectangular, 2 stories high with a flat walled roof and arched doors and windows. Three stone steps led to a carved wooden door where Hadara joined them. Without speaking they entered a large stucco room simply decorated with a long cedar table surrounded by 16 armchairs. Plywood was nailed to the inside window frames so the only light in the room was artificial coming from large, bronze chandeliers hanging over the table and flashing computer screens that lined the back wall. The floor was tiled; a long hallway led to the back of the building and mixed aromas of coffee and cooking drifted outward. Four men stood guard around the room, rifles at the ready and two men sat at a bank of computer terminals staring at the screens.

  The meeting began with a short prayer as a simple meal was served. Pushing her plate aside, Hadara began, “Gentlemen, we have inserted an asset in the “Sword” camp with a strong cover story that should appeal to its leader. A three man team is assigned as backup. So far the asset’s cover is intact.”

  General Kfir asked, “Have you gotten any solid information yet?”

  “Not yet, General” Hadara said, “Our communication works only one way, it’s too dangerous otherwise. The asset is under constant surveillance.”

  What she did not include in her report was the identity of this undercover asset and just how worried she was about this mission. She sent the agent best suited to the job based on all that was known about the target, but she regretted the decision.

  “Well, Hadara,” the man said sensing her conflict, “I gather something about this is bothering you, but this mission is of utmost importance. We cannot underestimate the damage this ‘nut-job’ can do. He’s new but already he’s got a shit load of followers trekking across the desert after him. This guy is one dangerous SOB plus he’s a lunatic. He’s convincing, I’ll give him that, but still a lunatic.”

  “I understand General,” Hadara said, waiting to go on.

  “Alright,” said General Mizrahi interrupting, “What’s happening in the U.S.? You’ve got a bunch of folks over there right?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Hadara answered, “We have a diverse task force involving several agents and their handlers in place tracking down a nuclear arms network.”

  “Making any progress in finding anything?” Kfir asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” said Hadara, “We have firm leads in several cities and some very talented undercover work is going on over there. We should know more within the week.”

  General Kfir studied her face, “Do you feel alright about this group Hadara? You seem a bit edgy about them. In fact you seem a bit edgy altogether tonight. Is anything else bothering you about these missions? Anything you haven’t mentioned yet?” He’d worked with Hadara for fifteen years and knew her well. He sensed there was something she had not disclosed.

  It took her several minutes before she answered, “No, Sir, just the usual mission worries.”

  An hour later, after discussing the matter exhaustively, General Mizrahi changed the subject, “There’s a rumor out there about a turncoat in Beirut. A big muckety muck. Know anything about that?”

  “Just rumors at this point, Sir, nothing definitive,” Hadara replied. “I have some ears on the ground and I’m following their posts. If there’s something there it will come out eventually.”

  General Mizrahi retorted, “If there’s something happening there we need to know sooner rather than later. That means big problems for their PM and he’s a pretty tough guy himself. A high up guy with lots of clout mucking about with terrorists could destabilize the whole regime. We can’t afford to have that happen. You have some personal contacts over there don’t you?”

  “Yes, Sir, I have lots of contacts,” Hadara said somewhat evasively.

  “I see,” the General replied with a hint of irritation, “Well, you best light a fire under your contacts’ behinds because that shit could be a game changer.”

  The meeting went on until midnight ending with speculation about how these problems might all be related.

  “These rumors of a turncoat in Beirut, this new group forming under the egis of a strange ‘nut-job’, these unknown contacts of yours, all seems connected somehow,” General Mizrahi stared at Hadara. He was a seasoned military man and he knew when a bigger issue was at play.

  Turning to face her he said, “I trust you’ll have more information for us the next time we meet. Can I trust that, Hadara?”

  “Of course, sir,” Hadara agreed hastily.

  Driving away amidst the sound and dust of whirling blades, Hadara Eiliat reflected on her decision to withhold information from two of the most powerful Generals in Israel. She had never broken protocol this way, but she felt certain it was the right decision. After all, she didn’t have the whole story yet, she rationalized. For now “The Chameleon” in all its manifestations would remain her secret. It seemed only fair, she thought wryly; after all she was where it all began.

  - 6 -

  THE TRACKERS

  They crossed the street with the determination of hunting dogs locked onto a scent. Bodies tense, they walked in tandem, hard eyes surveying everything in their path. They had been on this trail for nearly a year and were now within striking distance. They had orders from their revered leader and they would follow those orders to the death if necessary. Nothing would stand in their way. This was their mission. They shoved through the double glass doors of the Northern Trust Bank Building in downtown Chicago, strode into the elevator and pressed 3. They were nearly there. They could almost taste their victory. At the end of a quiet hallway, they found the door. The name-plate read: Elisabeth A. Reinhardt, PhD. They pushed into the empty waiting room and kicked in the office door, tumbling forward as the door gave way. Guns up, they confronted an empty room.

  Confused, they scurried about making certain their quarry wasn’t hiding somewhere. Nothing remained but a pair of black Zelli loafers poised in front of an over-stuffed chair. Muttering in their native tongue, the leader picked up the shoes and examined their soles. They were still warm and the transmitters were intact. How had he known? Angry the leader directed one of his men to start searching the building floor by floor starting with the Men’s Room. He directed the other man to search outside in case they had escaped the building. The leader remained in the room a few more minutes. He was puzzled. His mind raced through a hundred possibilities. There was only one door in and out of the room and they had not passed them in the hallway. They had been here minutes ago and now had disappeared. He had to be here somewhere.

  It was a lovely room, comfortable with Oriental carpets, bookcases and plants, but the leader did not see beauty. He saw defeat. Looking out the window he saw the Mercedes idling at the curb. With a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, he prepared to report this failure to his revered leader. Before leaving, he stepped over to the desk. The appointment book was open to today’s date with appointment times listed. On several lines there were initials in capital letters written in a woman’s hand. On the line for this hour were the letters ABA. Those letters meant nothing to him. There were no phone numbers or other notations and all the desk drawers were locked. That told him nothing. Nothing! They knew this man only as ‘The Chameleon.’ He wore many faces, assumed many identities and moved quickly, it seemed he was in two places at once. They had followed him all over the world and thought they had cornered him in this office but poof he disappeared again. Vanished into thin air! Swearing, the leader turned and stomped out of the room.

  Pablo Ruiz had pulled into the alley behind the office building in less than 5 minutes. He slowed down just enough for two pe
ople to jump into the backseat and flop down, before gliding away. Pablo was one of two employees working for Protect and Serve, a private security agency headed by Gil McCray, a former Chicago Police Department detective. McCray passed the detective’s exam after only 4 years on the force; his record for clearing cases was outstanding, but he sometimes found the ‘rules and regs’ a bit too restricting. After fifteen years and a number of conflicts with administration later, Gil McCray and the CPD parted ways. A highly moral man, he fought for the underdog and earned the reputation of superhero in the city law enforcement community. So when he left the force to open Protect and Serve he had lots of referrals from his brothers in blue and soon expanded his organization to include two other top law enforcement professionals, one of whom was driving this get-away car currently transporting two stowaways Ari Ben Aviv and Elisabeth Reinhardt.

  “Where to?” Ruiz asked Elisabeth, who had risen to a seated position and was checking her cell phone for information from her team. Elisabeth Reinhardt was not just a psychologist specializing in trauma recovery in her private psychotherapy practice in Chicago. She was also the head of the Chicago branch of Chevra Hatzollah, an international organization formed by survivors of the Nazi Holocaust whose mission was to help innocent people who had no one else to help them. Translated from Hebrew, the name means ‘group of rescuers’. Although it was founded as a Jewish organization, religious affiliation was not a condition of membership, nor did it influence decisions about whom to rescue. The sole criterion for receiving help was that individuals be in desperate, life threatening circumstances as a result of political persecution, abuse, cruelty or some other type of victimization and have no other help available to them. Many unofficial ties had been established with law enforcement agencies, but their firmest alliance was with Protect and Serve.

  “We’re cleared for S-1,” Elisabeth said, reading her messages. She reviewed pictures taken from cameras installed in her office building and watched as three men, guns drawn, barged into her office. She reviewed police reports that had been forwarded to her which described the incident and indicated police were giving chase to the men and the cleric. She frowned. This was wholly unexpected. There had been no warning from their world-wide networks, which were being alerted to the situation. “Gil will meet us there in 90,” she said puzzling over their information lapse.

  “You got it,” Ruiz responded as he turned onto Rte. 294 heading north.

  “I can sit up now yes, Ma’am?”

  “I think it’s best to wait a bit, just wait till we’re sure,” Elisabeth told him. “Are you comfortable enough?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, I am fine and very grateful to you and your driver friend here,” the passenger said and was silent. After a few minutes he said, “This afternoon, an appointment was happening, I was to meet with …a ... person at a certain time. It is quite important that a message can be gotten to her.”

  “What time is your meeting?” Elisabeth asked.

  “At 2 o’clock this afternoon, I am expected to be there … at a certain location,” said the young man worriedly.

  “We have time,” Elisabeth said checking her watch, “We’ll take care of it; give me a moment, Okay?”

  “Yes, of course, I will remain silent now, thank you for your help.”

  Elisabeth nodded at him and sat back reflecting on the events of the last hour. She thought about the silent passenger curled up on the floor on the SUV. She realized several things didn’t make sense. First of all, there was his presentation as a rather fragile young man. He must be important enough in the tangle of Middle Eastern conflicts to be chased down this way. But in what way was he important? Could he be an operative? That didn’t make sense given his behavior and attitude. But perhaps all that had been an act.

  And what of the men chasing him, they seemed organized enough, yet they risked being identified and captured, at least on camera, racing about in downtown Chicago, breaking into professional offices in a bank building with guns pulled. That didn’t make sense. They were taking huge risks unless they knew they had someplace safe to hide. What place could be safe enough to hide from the authorities? An Embassy? If they were tracking this young man, why hadn’t they waited until he was in a more accessible, less public location? Even the cleric got out of his car and talked openly with these young men who were about to commit a felony or many felonies. He stood in the open where cameras could capture his image and car’s license plate. That meant this young man was a high value target for them. But that didn’t make sense.

  This young man, this Ari Ben Aviv, didn’t make sense. He seemed innocent and frightened. He was so compliant, following her instructions, depending on her to save him. Why would that be? If he was a trained operative, wouldn’t he be inclined to give orders, not follow them? To assume the initiative not depend on some unknown woman to rescue him? Nothing in this situation was making sense and Elisabeth Reinhardt needed things to make sense. Was he really a tough, well-trained operative? If he was then why act like he wasn’t? Why take all these risks and create this scenario in this way? Why not just contact her and talk with her directly about whatever he needed?

  Who was this man who presented himself as frightened and needy? If he knew he was being followed, which he apparently did, then why had he led those men to her office? Didn’t he realize he’d be cornered? Did he really think a locked office door would keep 3 ruthless pursuers out? What kind of trained agent would walk right into an office and get cornered with no plan of escape? Or did he know that she would get him out? Could he possibly have known that she could get him out? If that was the case, he knew more about her than he should have known, more than he had any right to know and if that was the case, then this drama had been more about her than she realized. The number of people, outside of her established network, who knew about her hidden back door, could be counted on one hand. And that thought brought to mind another thought. If today’s events were about Chevra Hatzollah what was the endgame? Perhaps it had been his plan to force her to reveal herself in this way so she had no choice but to run with him and bring him into the inner circle of Chevra Hatzollah? If that was the case, then she and her whole organization might be in danger.

  She signaled to Pablo to drive past the highway exit. She needed time to think. She did not want to bring this young man into the bosom of her organization without being sure about him. She texted her brother, Manny, their internet researcher, and explained some of her concerns, then returned to her thoughts. She didn’t think she was in danger from the quiet young man on the floor, if he meant to harm her he would have done that already.

  No, if he had bad intentions, they were being directed toward something else, something more devious, more complex. The shoes were another mystery. They didn’t make sense either. If he knew he was being followed why hadn’t he figured out how he was being tracked? Why hadn’t he realized they had placed tracking devices in his shoes? He had apparently evaded these men for a long time, so he had to have cultivated some skills in avoiding capture. And if they had been close enough to place trackers in his shoes, then why had they not captured or killed him then, wherever and whenever that had been? Where does one leave one’s empty shoes long enough for someone to put tracking devices in them? A hotel or a gym? If someone was close enough to access his shoes, why hadn’t they just accessed him as well? Could they have somehow accessed his shoes before he bought them, a store perhaps? If that had happened, he must have ordered those shoes in advance and if that was the case, then a much larger plot was afoot.

  Perhaps he ordered the shoes online and they had accessed his computer, checked out his order and interceded somewhere between the factory and his doorstep. But if that was the case wouldn’t they have an address where the shoes were being delivered? Why not capture him there? Perhaps their goal had been to follow him somewhere not just capture or kill him. If that was the case where were they expecting him to go and what were they expecting him to do there? Had he been impor
tant to them because of where he was going and who he was going to see? There again, it led back to the question of her, her office and her role in Chevra Hatzollah.

  She texted Pablo, who was negotiating a traffic snarl, to make sure they weren’t being followed. He signaled the ‘all clear’ and she texted him to pull off the road and find someplace where they could talk to their passenger. Pablo pulled off the highway and after about 10 minutes pulled to a stop behind an abandoned gas station. The rear parking lot was filled with dust and aging vehicles, it backed onto heavily weeded stubble of trees. Without a word, Pablo got out of the car leaving Elisabeth gazing down at Ari Ben Aviv.

  The young man raised his head as the car stopped and got onto the seat next to her. “Are we here now?” he asked.

  “No, we are not, Ari, may I call you Ari?”

  “Yes, of course, do call me Ari,” he smiled at her, “Why is it that we are now stopping the car?”

  “I need to talk to you,” she said.

  The rear door opened and Pablo Ruiz said, “Come with me” reaching for Ben Aviv’s arm. With only moderate, alarm the young man complied and walked with Ruiz into the back of the abandoned gas station. Handing him a JC Penny bag, he said, “Put on these things and put everything you have in the bag.”