The Shiro Project

by David Khara

  Eytan regaled the man at the reception desk with a couple of jokes, which Elena didn’t find particularly amusing. Then the man picked up the phone and made a reservation at a well-known brasserie. Who is this person I’ve been spending all this time with? Elena asked herself.

  As they walked away, she heard Eytan say, “Thanks, Thomas.”

  “No problem, Eytan,” the other replied.

  A few minutes of conversation, and they were old pals. It irked every fiber of her being.

  Following directions provided by Eytan’s new friend, they meandered the narrow cobblestone streets of Prague. Eytan took in the sights, admiring the city’s storied architecture, and especially the many towers and church spires that seemed to float above the red rooftops. The seemingly illogical mix of building styles—Gothic here, Baroque there, and functionally communist just around the corner—intrigued Elena. They gave the old city an almost Kafkaesque feel.

  When they reached their destination, a waiter led them from one room to another through a maze of narrow hallways. They arrived in a small intimate space that was nothing like the noisy and busy setup at the front of the restaurant. He showed them to the only open table.

  A hot spot for night owls, the restaurant provided a multilingual menu. While the main course options were limited, there were at least a dozen types of beer. Eytan decided on a caramel-flavored brew, which paired well with the daily special: honey-glazed roasted pork and vegetable soup in a bread bowl. Uninspired by the meat selections, all of which seemed to have some kind of sauce or glaze, she went for a plate of bramborák, potato pancakes flavored with oregano. They were a Prague specialty.

  “Now you can enjoy the local delicacies and also add some meat to those bones,” he said.

  “I’m not worried about my figure,” she retorted. “I was just suggesting that we get something to eat, not go off on some culinary romp in the city.”

  Despite the waiter’s suggestions, she stuck with plain water. Eytan gave the waiter the menus, and the man walked away, leaving the two superagents alone.

  “So you’re one of those weird people who eats only because it’s necessary for survival.”

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Does the concept of pleasure mean anything to you?”

  Deeply offended by the comment, Elena looked around to make sure no one could hear before leaning toward her partner.

  “Do you expect me to believe it has any more meaning in your life?” she taunted. “By the way, you eat pork?”

  Seeing the waiter coming back, she stopped short. He was skillfully carrying a tray loaded with five beers and one glass of water. He served up Eytan’s brew and Elena’s water, then sauntered off to deliver the rest of the drinks to the other tables.

  “I thought you knew everything about me,” Eytan replied.

  “Just the important stuff.”

  “In that case, you probably know that I’ve lived through hard times—deprivation, starvation, and worse. As a child in the Warsaw ghetto, I swore that I would never turn down any sort of food that was offered to me. Being held in Stutthof only reinforced that decision. Since then, I’ve allowed myself to indulge in life’s delights from time to time. And in response to the subtext of your question, I have a very personal relationship with God, but I eat whatever looks good to me.” He took a swig of his beer.

  “That makes sense.”

  Eytan took another swig and held out his glass to Elena. “It’s tasty. You should try it.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Your loss.”

  A welcome silence fell as their dishes arrived.

  Eytan dug into his meal, but Elena merely pushed the food from one spot on her plate to another. She was too distracted by her thoughts to enjoy the meal.

  “It’s not true, what you said back in the forest,” she blurted out. She looked at Eytan with her dark eyes. “What’s our profession again? Oh yeah, we execute orders, and ipso facto, we execute people. Despite your insinuations, I don’t get off on killing. I take pleasure in doing it the right way and for the right reasons. I like leading successful missions. That’s my job, and I’m committed to it. So in that respect, I see no difference between the two of us.”

  Eytan put down his fork, pushed aside his plate, and tried to read the fierce face in front of him. He couldn’t. Was this the hateful Elena whom he knew all too well, or were there other emotions that she had never dared to show? What had pushed this rigid character into defending herself so vehemently?

  “We’re not the same, and here’s why,” he responded. “I take out the guilty, those who threaten the innocent. But you and your friends live by some philosophy that continues to elude me—you are the threat.”

  He stopped himself. He didn’t want those at the surrounding tables to overhear. “Similar means, different ends,” he muttered, thinking back to their first encounter in the Sonian Forest.

  “If I’m such a menace, why did you ask for my advice before the raid?” Elena pressed.

  “Because I wanted your take on the situation. We’re a team at the moment. We may not like it, but that’s no reason to botch the mission. It makes more sense to rely on both of our skill sets.”

  “I failed.”

  It was hard to miss the dejection in her voice. At least his theory back at the hotel was right. She was in a bad mood because she couldn’t handle failure, especially her own.

  “Only those who never try never fail. Our mistakes have dramatic consequences. It’s inherent in our line of work.”

  “But you never mess up.”

  Her naïve comment amused Eytan. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Don’t be so sure about that. I’ve made lots of mistakes, and I’ll make plenty more. You’re traumatized by failure. But for me, it’s like rocket fuel. It pushes me to be even better at my job.”

  “Okay, I admit, I can be a little impatient at times,” Elena confessed.

  Eytan joined his hands together like the Shaolin master in the nineteen seventies TV show Kung Fu, which he had watched on occasion. “Knowledge is only acquired with age, young grasshopper.”

  Elena didn’t know what he was talking about, because she never watched television, but she relaxed a bit.

  “I haven’t figured you out yet, but I am taking your promise on face value,” he began again. “The one you made to Cypher. I don’t know what you two are to each other, and to tell you the truth, I don’t care. But I believe you will keep your word.”

  “Don’t waste your time trying to get to know me,” she responded coolly. “We’re working together today. Don’t get your hopes up, though. The time will come—”

  “Since you insist so much on that, I’d like to make one request.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Wait until we’ve finished our mission.”

  “Seems like a fair request. But you’ll always wonder if I play fair, won’t you?”

  “What’s the point in seeing a movie when you already know the ending?”

  Elena let out a genuine laugh, which Eytan had been hoping for since their arrival at the restaurant. The shadow of melancholy on her face disappeared, and her catlike eyes sparkled mischievously. Eytan appreciated her natural beauty, untouched by makeup. Under other circumstances…

  “Does the world have to go mad for us to have a peaceful conversation?” she asked.

  “You took the words right out of my mouth. But wouldn’t we be out of place in a sane world?”

  “Touché! Anyway, you mentioned my relationship with Cypher. But what about you? How is it that the mythical Eytan Morg, a former master in the art of solo combat, would agree to work for an organization that he should be fighting with all his might? What made you sell your soul?”

  Eytan brushed some stray crumbs from the bread bowl off the table. He looked at his hand as he answered. “You’ll probably find this hard to believe, but your boss kidnapped one of my closest friends to force me to collaborate with you.
Anyone who has ever been important to me is already dead. Many of them died before my eyes, and some of those deaths were my fault. Eli is the only person left.”

  “What exactly does this man mean to you? Sounds as if you love him like a father.”

  “You have no idea.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, November 1953

  The ocean liner broke through wave after wave. As buckets of blue-green water crashed on the deck, a dozen children giddily challenged each watery crest. Glued to the railing, they would wait for the next swell. Seconds before it arrived, they would run away in a flurry of screams and laughter. They never moved fast enough or far enough—or maybe that was the point. The children met each drenching peak with glee. The oldest, who looked about eleven or twelve, was leading the game with all the bravery of a war hero. Like a Royal Air Force fighter, he was wearing a blue polka dot scarf around his neck and a leather jacket with extra-long sleeves that covered his fingers.

  Eytan watched from a distance. The children’s playful shenanigans entertained him. But he was even more amused by the boisterous parade of parents who appeared one after another to retrieve their offspring and take them inside to warm up. The brisk late-November weather seemed to indicate that a harsh winter would sweep through Europe. But in a few days, the passengers on this ship would be enjoying the milder climate in Israel.

  After losing some of his steam, the little RAF cadet left his battleground and sheepishly followed his furious father. This bold and energetic kid would soon epitomize the new Jewish man. In no time, his strong jaw and muscular arms would trump the anti-Semitic stereotypes that portrayed Jews as stooped and frail people with big noses.

  Ten years earlier, Jews all over Europe had been teetering on extinction. Yes, millions had been lost in the extermination chambers. But now another era—one that Eytan couldn’t have envisioned in his darkest days—was beginning. And the survivors were sending down roots in a new land.

  Eytan returned to his drawing. The soft squeaking of his charcoal against the sketchpad lulled him into a daydream, temporarily displacing any nostalgia for London. Based in England since the end of the war, he had never fantasized about going to Israel. But the bigwigs at MI6 and Mossad were sending him there, so that’s where he would go.

  Equipped with the means to execute his missions, along with the serum he needed to stay alive, Eytan was now attached to the Israeli services. He would have the British military at his disposal on an as-required basis. He alone would decide on his targets and the appropriate time to take action. He would never have to answer to anyone. All issues concerning his missions were under his complete control. With his extraordinary strengths, incredible past, and almost unbelievable success rate, anyone betting on someone other than Agent Morg would have been crazy. And British Prime Minister Winston Churchill was far from crazy.

  After the war, Churchill, had suggested just executing the Nazi leaders instead of going through the motions of the Nuremberg trials. A clean and simple solution for those who had schemed to bring about the Final Solution. Franklin Roosevelt and Joseph Stalin had dissuaded Churchill, but Eytan admired this pragmatic and witty British prime minister. In fact, the bulldog and the giant had become good friends over the years. Thanks to Churchill, Eytan had developed a fondness for cigars. Eytan would miss his British comrade in his new yet ancient home.

  “Hey, mista!”

  A shadow was hovering over the sketchpad. Eytan looked up. The boy in the leather jacket and RAF scarf had broken away from his father and had returned to the deck. He was planted in front of Eytan with a confidence that most adults couldn’t pull off.

  “I heard the grown-ups talking about you. They say you’re a Nazi hunter. They say you made Wilhelm Stuckart’s car crash, the guy who wrote those anti-Jewish Nuremberg Laws. Is it true?”

  For a second, it looked like the kid was about to throw down the gauntlet.

  “Ah, to be young and uninhibited,” Eytan said under his breath as he rose to his feet. The boy’s eyes grew wide as he took in the man’s size.

  “So, is it true, mista?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Come on, be a pal!”

  Eytan laughed at the boy’s insistence. He leaned over to pick up his coffee thermos and poured himself a cup.

  “Can I have some?”

  “You’re too young. Is there no one else around here for you to bug?”

  “I want to be a fighter pilot or a Nazi killer when I grow up.”

  “It’s good to have goals,” Eytan replied, securing the lid on his thermos. He sat down again and picked up his charcoal and sketchpad, hoping the little squirt would get the hint.

  “How did you get to be so big?”

  The kid had tenacity. Eytan didn’t look up. Making eye contact would only encourage the pesky pipsqueak.

  “I ate all my carrots. Now leave me alone!”

  “And how come you got no hair? You’re not old.”

  Was this how the whole voyage was going to go?

  “So? How come you got no hair?”

  “Scram, or I’ll drag you back to your dad.”

  “He’s not my dad,” the boy said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “My name’s Frank.”

  “Good for you. Now go someplace else.”

  “My parents died in a camp. I was little when the Germans took them away. I don’t remember them. I try to, but I can’t. A new mom and dad are waiting for me in Israel.”

  Eytan put down his sketchbook. The kid didn’t look sad.

  “My parents were taken too. I’m big so that I can scare people who want to send us back to the camps. As for Wilhelm Stuckart, I just think he was a bad driver.” Eytan winked at the boy.

  The boy grinned. “It’s true then! You kill Nazis!”

  “You’ve got a one-track mind, champ, I’ll give you that. Let’s just say I make sure the bad guys who got away aren’t able to hide under their rocks for very long. But it’s a secret, okay?”

  The kid put his index finger over his mouth, indicating that he would, indeed, stay quiet, and held out his other hand to shake on it. The hand disappeared in Eytan’s gigantic mitt.

  An adult passenger loomed up from behind and grabbed Frank by the collar. “This child is out of control! Go back with the others,” the man ordered.

  The man was bald, wore glasses, and looked like he was in his fifties. He easily could have been mistaken for a strict German headmaster who had time traveled from the eighteen hundreds.

  “I hope he wasn’t bothering you too much, sir. He’s a mischief-maker.”

  “You should be proud of his liveliness. It’s a rare quality. And no, he wasn’t a problem at all. Frank and I are pals.”

  Eytan’s response seemed to ease the man’s mind. Before being shepherded back to his cabin, Frank glanced over his shoulder and waved to Eytan, who raised his hand in return.

  Eytan couldn’t help but wonder: How many orphans like Frank were on this ship? Five? Fifty? And how many more of them were scattered around the globe? Fifty million deaths. It was nearly impossible to comprehend all the parents, wives, husbands, and children who had been forced to live without their loved ones because of World War II. Always on the move, he had never dwelled on the statistics until this moment. Now they were almost too much to think about.

  Unlike Frank, Eytan remembered his parents. Just as clearly as he remembered the face of the soldier who killed his little brother. He put that face on every enemy he tracked down. The memory of it fueled his relentless drive. But he drew his strength not so much from hatred for his torturers but from compassion for the victims. As long as he maintained this balance, and the scales didn’t tip, he would be all right.

  Eytan spent the rest of the day sketching passengers who braved the wind and the cold to get a breath of fresh air on deck. At nightfall, he returned to his cabin. It was so cramped, he could barely move. But for someone who had experience
d the cages of Stutthof, the cabin was as good as the presidential suite in a five-star hotel.

  After dropping off his things, he went to the common room, where all the travelers took their meals. He sat down at a table with a dozen other people and ate his dinner while eavesdropping on small talk. His tablemates were chatting about their respective careers, family members who had already relocated in Israel, and what they planned to do when they got there. Their words were loaded with life and hope.

  Eytan stayed true to his daily routine by waving a polite good night and heading in the direction of the deck to savor an evening cigar.

  After that, he usually went back to his cabin. He would try to make it as late as possible, because his bed was too small to allow for much sleep. He sometimes spent most of night reading. It was a way to make up for an education that had been cut short thirteen years earlier. And he didn’t need much sleep anyway, no more than four or five hours. This evening, he would be reading Stefan Zweig’s wonderful novel The Royal Game.

  Eytan was still savoring his after-dinner Cuban cigar, when he heard a woman calling him. He turned, irritated at the interruption, and saw the ship’s nurse in white uniform running in his direction. She had curly brown hair and appeared to be about his age. She was cute, too.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but we need your help in the infirmary.”

  “The infirmary? What—”

  The nurse stopped him before he could finish his sentence.

  “No time to explain. Follow me.”

  Cute, but firm. He had no choice but to comply. He was hoping to deal with the matter as quickly as possible, because he was eager to get back to his book.

  Three hallways and two staircases later, he entered the infirmary behind her.

  Eytan was expecting a small room, like a sick bay with a single bed and a medicine cabinet. What he saw shocked him. Some thirty beds were packed into the space. A child lay in each one. There were kids of all ages. This wasn’t an infirmary. It was an orphanage. The room was warm and surprisingly calm.