by John Altman
Yet he ran a hand across his bald pate, took another sip of Cabernet Sauvignon, and returned to the piano. He attempted Beethoven’s Sonata no. 14 in C-sharp Minor—appropriate, considering the pale maiden floating beyond the picture windows. But he was weary and had perhaps imbibed too freely. He butchered the piece, losing every subtlety.
Giving up, he closed the lid above the keys and sat for a moment, lost in dark thought. Then he gave his head a little shake and pushed back from the piano. He was short, wiry, his trim physique maintained by an ascetic lifestyle—occasional overindulgence with claret wines excepted—since his long-ago days as a commando in the finest of all Special Forces units, the Sayeret Matkal.
Before he could rise from the bench, his wife appeared in the arched stone doorway. “Yoni is here,” she said. “Shall I bring wine to the garden?”
The ramsad—head of the Mossad—covered his surprise with the ease of a professional liar. He nodded casually, as if this after-dinner visit at home, on the Sabbath, were the most natural thing in the world. “Thank you, ahuvi.”
Seated in the courtyard of Jerusalem stone, surrounded by desert flowers, his clothes ruffling in the warm wind, Yoni Yariv looked much like the young man the ramsad himself had once been: wavy black hair, intense blue eyes, powerful chest beneath the loose open-collared shirt. Yoni had also served in the Sayeret Matkal. And he, too, had graduated from the elite commando unit directly into the HaMossad leModi‘in uleTafkidim Meyuḥadim, the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations—Mossad.
At the older man’s entrance, Yoni half-stood and accepted a clumsy embrace. Naomi brought two glasses and a fresh bottle on a porcelain tray.
Yoni waited until she was gone before sitting again, and then said beneath his breath, “Better here, now, I thought, than at the office tomorrow.”
Taking his seat carefully so as not to weave, the ramsad made a nonchalant gesture.
“I don’t want to burden you with details.” Translation: I understand that it’s my job to keep you insulated. “But you should be aware …” Translation: I’m covering my ass; you can’t say I didn’t warn you.
The ramsad slowly poured two glasses, listening.
“It’s Jana,” said Yoni solemnly.
Jana … Jana. The director had to grapple to place the name. Yoni’s wife? Daughter? No. He remembered. An undercover operative who had infiltrated the white-power movement in America as part of the initiative called Di Yerushe—inheritance. The operation extended the tactics of Mista’avrim and Duvdevan, undercover units posing as Arabs within the occupied territories, onto the global stage—an unfortunate necessity when local governments had proved unable to deal satisfactorily with terrorist threats. The program had taken shape after a series of missteps shook Mossad’s faith in the Americans and Europeans. First, the German BfV lost track of a Hezbollah agent trying to buy seventy tons of yellowcake on Germany’s black market. (A Mossad assassin corrected their mistake.) Then the Belgians fumbled the removal of a Canadian engineer working inside their borders to procure parts for Saddam Hussein’s Project Babylon supergun. Then the final straw: the CIA ignored Israel’s warning of a “major assault on a large-scale target,” deeming the intelligence “not credible”—one month before the attacks of 9/11. Now Di Yerushe routinely infiltrated extremist organizations around the world, watching closely the traffic in weapons of terror, trusting no one but themselves.
Yoni gave his wine a small exploratory sip. “She’s ended up in Portland, Oregon. Last week a shipment came in by sea, from Boulogne-sur-Mer. She seduced the man who received the cargo, and then found it in his cellar. Unfortunately, the man interfered … and is no more.”
The ramsad used thumb and forefinger to pick invisible flecks from his eyes. Against his better instincts, he allowed himself a gulp of wine. Then he leaned back and asked, “When?”
“Just hours ago.” Yoni leaned away too, unconsciously mirroring his commander’s body language. “She contacted me immediately, seeking further instruction. This man lives—um, lived—in a remote cabin, held no real job. By the time he’s found, she’ll be long gone. The question is less about the man than about the intercepted shipment.” Something gleamed in the young man’s eyes—excitement, thought the director, perhaps ambition. “Several kilos of plastique. And eighty ampoules of liquid sarin.”
The ramsad blinked.
Yoni nodded, obviously pleased with himself. A half smile flickered across his full lips.
The ramsad closed his eyes, processing. Eighty ampoules of toxic nerve agent … Maniacs. Savages. A terrible tragedy had been narrowly averted. Yoni and his operative, Jana, should be well rewarded.
His mind ticked ahead. Only by leveraging every crisis into an opportunity had Israel survived as long as it had. What else, now, did it stand to gain? They might backtrack the shipment, roll up whatever militant group in France had provided it.
Of course, the political possibilities dwarfed the tactical. World opinion teetered on a seesaw, tilting in Israel’s favor after the latest terrorist action on Western soil, only to reverse again after the nation’s latest effort to defend itself. The UN’s criticism grew ever harsher. Israel’s greatest ally, the United States, blew hot and cold. Something like this, dramatically revealed in the court of public opinion, would prove conclusively who the true barbarians were. But one must tread lightly, of course. A Mossad operative working undercover inside America’s borders; a murder—for so they might consider it—of one of their citizens …
A shame, in a way, that the maniac had not seen his mission through. A tragedy on US soil was worth a million equivalent tragedies in Israel. As the record showed, the sleeping giant embraced moral relativism and was truly roused only by the shedding of its own blood. A successful attack of this magnitude might change the course of history. And there was a rapidly shrinking window of opportunity in which to make such a change. Iran’s assertion to the International Atomic Energy Agency that its nuclear program would remain exclusively peaceful was rubbish, of course. Inspectors would be duped. The same processes that led to nuclear energy also led inevitably to nuclear weapons. Israel itself had played that same game, back in the years before the Six-Day War, back when America still treated Israel like a rogue state—and came within a hair of throwing the burgeoning Jewish homeland to the wolves …
And then the idea came, all at once, beautiful and terrible in equal measures.
His eyes opened again.
A balmy wind blew through the korizia trees surrounding the courtyard. The moon glowed coolly overhead. The ramsad could almost sense his younger self, regarding him as if across a great divide, wondering how they had reached this place.
But most of his mind was racing ahead, parsing details. He had worked with explosives in the Sayeret, but for this he would need a real expert, a munitions specialist acquainted with the state of the art. And where? The closer to the bone they could strike, the greater the impact. Of course, a convincing backdrop would be necessary for whoever actually pulled the trigger. A path would be laid, leading directly to Iran’s door. Then the juggernaut that was the United States would finally drop the leash and let Israel handle its business. The Dimona reactor had become active in 1962. Mass production of atomic warheads had begun in 1967. Now Israel bristled with an arsenal of over two hundred Jericho nuclear missiles, ready to be released from underground bunkers, Sufa jet fighters, Dolphin-class submarines.
The war would be brief but decisive. America might wring its hands in public, but in private thank Israel for doing its dirty work, as usual. Other Arab nations would fall into line once they saw which way the wind was blowing. The short-term cost would be high. But the long-term benefit—a solution, finally, to the Gordian knot; an end to fighting, once and for all—would be priceless. He would take the burden onto himself, dirtying his hands and his conscience for the sake of future generations.
Bu
t right now the priority was the sarin, the plastique, the operative with blood on her hands, whose capture could ruin everything.
“Jana,” he said aloud.
Yoni nodded.
“You have faith in her?” the ramsad asked.
“Absolute faith,” the young man answered without hesitating. “She’s the best I’ve ever trained.”
“She must bring this matériel far from the scene of the … incident. To the safest of safe houses.”
Yoni nodded. “Already arranged.”
“Immediately,” said the ramsad. “Then wait for further orders.”
Yoni nodded again. He stood and gave a slight ceremonial bow. The half smile flickered again, and he saw himself out.
For a few moments more, the ramsad sat alone in the moonlit courtyard, looking abstractedly at the wind-tossed korizia trees, his head cocked as if listening to some melody that only he could hear. Then he got up, listing only slightly from all the wine, and went inside to make a call.
Mount Hood, OR
In the gravel driveway to the cabin, Jana folded her slender frame behind the Ford’s steering wheel.
Using keys she had found in the dead man’s jeans, she fired the ignition. The engine purred. The gas gauge’s red needle rose—three-quarters full.
She spent a last moment trying to remember anything she may have forgotten. Then she shifted into reverse. Backing out of the driveway, she checked the truck’s bed in the rearview mirror. The bungee cords held tight; nothing beneath the tarp shifted.
During the half-hour drive into Portland, her right eyelid kept twitching. She counted back from five, again and again. Yoni’s trick for handling anxiety. Five, four, three, two, one. Five, four, three, two, one. Shvoye—patience. When he had taught her the technique, they were sitting on a Herzliya balcony at dusk, holding glasses of sweet plum wine. The air rich with smells of the nearby beach and their just-finished lovemaking. After showing her the trick, he had given a half smile, the most smile he was capable of. That night, she had realized for the first time that from then on, any separation between her personal and professional life was gone. The lovemaking had been part of the training. Everything would be part of the training now.
Five, four, three, two, one.
But now the speedometer’s needle was creeping up. Moistening her lips, she eased off the gas. There might be speed traps, heading into the city. Haste would work against her.
She passed through a West Hills neighborhood of glazed terra-cotta roofs, then descended into the modest working-class area that she had called home for almost three years. Turning onto a tree-lined street of duplexes and fourplexes—kids chalking sidewalks, laughing and catcalling, gliding on skateboards beneath streetlamps—she ran a quick cost-benefit analysis. She would be occupied inside her apartment for perhaps ten minutes. Better to park by the curb, where she could keep an eye on the payload beneath the tarp? Or a few blocks away, so nobody would connect her to the vehicle?
She had already been seen in the bar. When the man’s body was discovered—and it was definitely a matter of when, not if—they would start looking for her. By then she would have changed vehicles anyway.
She parked by the curb. Locking the truck’s doors, she went swiftly up the front walk, toward the porch. Switching the stolen keys for her own, she let herself into the vestibule. Just as she entered, the door across the way opened. Her superintendent poked his graying head out. “Wondering when you’d get back,” he said.
She could feel his gaze crawling over her rumpled black blouse and skintight jeans—the same outfit she’d worn out last night—making calculations and judgments, noting details that would be repeated with salacious relish to the police whenever they came knocking. But she managed a bright, disarming smile. “You caught me,” she said lightly. “Here I am.”
The old man sniffed disapprovingly. He had reptilian eyes and a drinker’s veined nose. “I worry,” he said.
“No need.” Jana opened her own door. “I can take care of myself. G’night, Mr. Camber.” Before he could answer, she was in the apartment and closing the door behind her.
She put down her purse, moved to the window, and hooked aside the curtain. The red Ford pickup remained parked by the curb. Enough toxic nerve agent sat beneath that frosty tarp to send God knew how many people to a horrible, convulsing death. And rowdy teenagers skateboarded right past, hooting and yelling, oblivious. But strangely, she felt less nervous now. She was entering perhaps the time of greatest peril—she must, for a few minutes, leave the truck unobserved, its contents unsecured, while she made preparations. But the eyelid had stopped twitching.
She turned from the window and went to pack. After filling a suitcase, she found a lockbox hidden beneath a loose floorboard. Keying in the combination (5-8-4-8, Israel’s independence day), she withdrew a rubber-banded deck comprised of a passport, driver’s license, Social Security card, Visa card, and MasterCard, and a smartphone containing snapshots, numbers, and addresses to back up her new identity: Charity Leeds, from Poughkeepsie, New York. Just on my way back home, Officer, after visiting some friends out west. Nothing to see here.
In the bathroom, she found beneath the sink a cosmetics bag containing a wig and contact lenses to match the face on the license and passport. She packed toiletries on top, then zipped it. She would wait to actually change until she had gone some distance from here, in case the nosy superintendent was watching out a window.
She spent a few moments studying her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Beneath the fading makeup, her face looked disturbingly slack—a defensive reaction, she supposed, to having taken a human life. But they were at war. He had been the enemy. He would have done the same to her. Indeed, he had been planning as much, and worse. She made herself smile. It looked ghastly.
In the living room, she checked the truck through the window again. Then she walked around the house, making a final pass. Her DNA and fingerprints were everywhere. No time to bleach it all. But there was nothing that might shed light on her true identity. She had not allowed herself to keep even a single photograph of Yoni, although the sight of his message on her phone this morning had reawakened him in her mind’s eye with startling clarity.
She put him from her mind. Later.
From a hollowed-out King James Bible in the living room, she took a thick roll of small-denomination bills and put it in her purse. She soaked her old phone in tap water, then used the haft of a kitchen knife to smash it into pieces, which went down the garbage disposal. Then she slung the purse over her shoulder, picked up a bag in each hand, and went to the doorway.
For an instant more, she paused. She had not expected to feel any sentiment about leaving this apartment. It had never truly been home, of course. Everyone here knew her as Tiffany Watson, originally from Maine (she had traded one Portland for another, ha-ha)—a twenty-four-year-old cashier at Rite Aid, with a deep-seated lode of racism and a penchant for muscly guys with tattoos. Nevertheless, standing now on the threshold for the last time, she felt a surprising pang of … ergah was the Hebrew—bittersweetness. Three years of her life, charade or not, had played out here.
The feeling passed. She moved forward, locked the door behind her, and marched purposefully down the front walk to the waiting pickup.
She climbed behind the wheel again, started the engine, and pulled away.
The road from Oregon to Vermont was essentially a straight shot, forty-odd hours mostly on I-80, bringing her through Cheyenne, Omaha, Chicago, and Cleveland. Follow the signs, keep pressing east, and she wouldn’t go wrong. En route, she would change cars, drive through the night, grab a few hours’ sleep if absolutely necessary, and reach the safe house by Sunday.
Merging onto Route 84, she turned southeast and quickly left the city behind. The ghostly pale silhouette of Mount Hood soon followed. Empty black land rolled out endlessly on either side. The full
moon was a floating saucer of milk. She switched on the heater, dialed it low. Keeping the speedometer at sixty-five, she put her hands at ten and two on the wheel.
Her eyelid twitched again. The anxiety was back. With it came a headache, thudding a steady counterpoint to the broken yellow line vanishing evenly beneath the left front tire.
Hopewell, NJ
With no light pollution, the night sky glimmered brilliantly.
Dalia left behind the tiny main street—one bakery, one coffee shop, one gas station, one dentist—and hit open countryside. Her Prius rocked along unpaved roads, past red barns and rickety silos. Wooded hillocks rolled into the moonlit distance. The full moon hung low above a black tree line.
She turned again. Soon a dirt driveway branched off, ramping slightly upward. She parked beside a silver Nissan Altima, before a cozy stone Cape Cod with old-fashioned gables and dormer windows. The remote cottage was surrounded on three sides by forest, on the fourth by a broad, rolling field. One curtained window glowed softly. Nearby, a peaked wooden roof sheltered a hand-dug well. The front door was unlocked. The cool, dim interior smelled of men living without women: fry grease, stale tobacco, lingering hints of body odor, and dog.
Sitting on a love seat opposite a mantle, a sleeping gray German shepherd at his feet, Gavril Meir held a miniature cup of Turkish coffee. When Dalia entered, he bestirred himself slowly. He looked several pounds heavier than he had just six weeks ago. His handshake was too strong, bordering on painful. But this was how the man went through life: crushing things before they could crush him. One glass eye—the result of a grenade on the wrong side of the Suez Canal more than a quarter-century ago—peered disconcertingly off into shadows.
After the handshake, he sat down again, heavily. “You’ve earned me fifty shekels.” His teeth, when he showed them in a grin, were crooked. “Feigenbaum already gave up on you.”
David Feigenbaum came out of a back room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Yom asal, yom basal,” he said philosophically—a day of honey, a day of onion. He shook her hand and then settled, with nary a creak, into a rocking chair across from the couch. He was as light on his feet as Meir was heavy.
