by Bryan Devore
Putting his radio to his mouth, he said, “Kazim!” After a few seconds of silence, he repeated, “Kazim! Report!”
No sound came through the radio.
“Kazim!”
Nothing.
Then a large burning chunk of helicopter fell past the window. It was a ball of flames, plummeting fast, and even still, he felt the radiant heat through the window. And in that fleeting instant, he saw the US flag painted on the burning fuselage that fell past him.
Reports came through the radio that all the agents on the roof had been killed, that a helicopter had crashed onto the roof and broken apart, that the entire top of the hotel was now in flames, and that Kazim and his men were all dead. The president had also likely died in the explosive crash.
Was it really all over so quickly?
“Take a team of five to the roof,” he said into his encrypted radio. “Check for survivors. And confirm that the president is dead.”
Lowering the radio, he stared out at the sparks and burning debris still hurtling past the window. In the distance, he could see the Eiffel Tower rising above the low lights of Paris. A sense of awe washed over him at the sudden realization of how far he had come on the journey to this night. The whole world seemed showered in sparks. The memory came to him, unbidden, of a night five years ago.
* * *
Maximilian gazed at the sparks flying up from the train wheels. Mesmerized, he scarcely felt the frigid air blowing between the flimsy plastic flaps that gave the only protection from the elements. This was his third time standing outside during the night’s journey, for he found sleeping difficult, even with the soothing rock and sway of the train. He was traveling to Istanbul, but he may as well have been voyaging through deep space. The world had become disgusting to him. Not the world as a whole, but the powerful, concentrated part that controlled all the rest. The injustice just went on and on for decades, with not so much as a breath of equality or fairness or empathy. The few turned a blind eye to the many, and no one, it seemed, could do anything to change this. Life was unfair. Nature knew this truth best and didn’t bother trying to sugarcoat it. And for a long time, he had not cared, because he hadn’t the energy to care, for he was powerless. He had been too busy fighting for his people before even they betrayed him. For a long time, he had dreamed of getting back at them. But then one day, he had found a book that opened his mind to the possibilities of living purely for a cause greater than himself. He had discovered a book about Hannibal Barca and his lifelong commitment to save Carthage from Rome. Hannibal had ultimately failed in his quest, but through no fault of his own. Rome had been too powerful for any army of that time. But Hannibal and his men had achieved astounding victories against superior forces, using tactics so brilliant that by the end, even though he had lost the war, he was forever remembered as one of the greatest military generals of ancient times. Of course he had to know that the odds were against him. And yet, Hannibal knew he had to fight. And reading that book had helped Maximilian come to know that he, too, must fight against the modern-day Rome—and its ally that had betrayed him. He must inspire the weak to defend themselves, and he must show the powerful that they could no longer act with impunity.
Looking out at the snow-laden stands of scattered evergreens that marked the crossing from the barren Mongolian plains into the endless wintry forests of Siberia, he felt the first real peace he could recall in months. In the pale moonlight, the patches of trees made dark islands on the vast, rolling sea of snow.
Hearing the door between the cars open, he turned from the austere landscape to see who was behind him. It was a man younger than he, perhaps in his late thirties. He had a short beard, and a hard strength in his expression that Maximilian often saw in this part of the world. But unlike so many Mongolians, who had a look of weathered tranquility, and a slow deliberateness in their movements, this man had yanked the door open and was moving toward the next car with a pent-up aggression that felt almost dangerous.
“Good evening,” Maximilian said.
The man turned sharply with blazing dark eyes, obviously surprised to find someone standing outside on the small walkway between train cars. Maximilian was fascinated by his response: first the reaction to potential danger, then a wary stance, and finally, almost a hatred at the surprise. This man before him was like a snake: startled and immediately ready to strike at any possible threat. Not seeking company or conversation. Alone and wandering in the night.
“Is it not a good evening?” Maximilian asked.
“It’s colder than Satan’s bum out here,” the man replied.
Maximilian nodded. “Hannibal and his men fought the frozen landscape of the Alps in the fall of 219 B.C. to invade Rome. He was a great man, in part because he could tolerate pain.”
“I’m no expert on history, but didn’t Rome defeat Hannibal?”
“Not really,” Maximilian said. “He invaded Italy and terrified the Roman army for sixteen years, defeating them in battle after battle on their own ground—right up to the city gates of Rome itself. The very mention of his name struck fear into the heart of every Roman citizen. Eventually, his twenty thousand men—an army that he needed to replenish constantly with new recruits to replace the dead—did fall to the Roman war machine of a quarter-million soldiers. But can that really be called defeat? What man in the history of the world, other than Alexander the Great, could have achieved even a fraction of what Hannibal did? No, Rome didn’t defeat Hannibal. Not really, not ever.”
“You sound as though you worship him.”
“No, not worship. But I respect him more than any other man who ever lived. Whom do you respect?”
“My brothers.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I had three.”
“They’re gone now.”
“Yes.”
“All of them.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
The man nodded.
“Would you like to join me inside for some tea?” Maximilian asked. “One of the great pleasures of traveling is meeting new and interesting people with interesting stories.”
The man stared hard at him for a few seconds, then nodded.
They walked back to the dining car, where they could get late-night drinks. A few hundred souls traveling through the Siberian forest on a winter night, and Maximilian felt he had finally met someone with eyes darker and more dangerous even than his own. What kind of man could have survived a life more violent than his? If there was one thing that a man who had killed could do, it was to recognize the eyes of a killer.
“I’m Maximilian,” he said as they sat down at a small table along the stretch of dark windows.
“I’m Kazim,” the man replied, shaking the offered hand.
They were the only two in the dining car besides the barman, puttering about at the far end. Maximilian was ready to move past the pleasantries and start using the tactics he had learned as a case officer for the Shin Bet, recruiting Palestinian agents in Israel.
“You’ve been in prison,” he said. Not a question, but an instinctive guess.
“Yes,” Kazim replied.
“Where?”
“Istanbul.”
“You’re heading back there now?”
“Yes—to the city, not the prison. You?”
“Heading in that direction, but it’s not my final destination.”
“What is?”
“Paris.”
The man behind the small bar stepped out onto the red rug that stretched down the aisle. Dressed in a white shirt, bow tie, and black slacks and vest, he moved gracefully down the quiet dining car. Maximilian watched him from the corner of his eye, looking up only at the last moment. The barman’s bushy mustache outweighed all other features of his face.
“One Russian tea,” Maximilian said. “And . . .” He looked at Kazim.
Kazim held up two fingers.
The barman took away the two tall glasses with standing cloth napkins inside and returned to the bar.
“How did you know I was in prison?” Kazim asked. “Not a guess, I’m guessing.”
“No, I could tell.”
“How?”
“I worked in a prison for years.”
“Worked?”
“As an interrogator.”
“Inside the prison?”
“Yes. In probably the worst prison in the world.”
“A Russian prison, then—in the gulags?”
“Worse.”
“A communist prison? China? North Korea?”
“Do I look Asian? No. It was much worse than any of those.”
“What could be worse than a prison in Siberia or North Korea?” Kazim asked.
“The one in Jerusalem. There are no criminals there. No political dissidents. Only terrorists.”
“You interrogated terrorists in the Jerusalem prison. You’re Jewish.”
“No, not anymore. I have abandoned my people.”
“Why?”
“They betrayed me.”
“I don’t understand.”
Maximilian smiled, then turned his eyes to the decorative wood paneling lining the sides and ceiling of the dining car. The wood was cut with curves and open sections that gave it the random botanical pattern of vines. His mind drifted back through time. How could he explain the world he had come from to this intense younger man sitting across the table?
“It was an old Turkish prison,” Maximilian continued. “We took terrorists there for questioning. Inside, they would tell us everything they knew. We didn’t want false confessions—only the truth of what they knew. We didn’t bring anyone in there until we knew so much about them, we could torture them and know if they were telling the truth. We knew how to test for the truth. The Shin Bet was a well-oiled machine, and the men I worked with knew how to protect our country better than any other government on earth can protect theirs. Israel is surrounded by enemies, and because of the Palestinians, we have enemies living within our own borders. Our intelligence community is the best of them all. We don’t make mistakes like America’s CIA. Our counterterrorist groups give us better security. We spend a higher percentage of our country’s GDP on the military than any other country on earth. We have nuclear weapons and a working antimissile system against short-range rockets from Lebanon and Syria.”
“You do realize I am Muslim.”
“So we can’t be friends—because I was Jewish and you are Muslim?”
“I don’t know,” Kazim said.
“You’re from Turkey?”
“Yes.”
“So you are not an Arab.”
“Correct.”
Maximilian opened both hands and turned his palms upward, as if the supposition of their alliance had resolved itself. “Turkey has been a friend of Israel for many years now—not that I care anymore. Are you a religious fanatic—an Islamic fundamentalist?”
Kazim hesitated. “Why? Are you a spy?”
“For Israel?”
“For anyone.”
“No, not anymore. Are you a religious extremist?”
Kazim smiled slightly. “No . . . not anymore.”
Maximilian nodded, then tried to see out the window. But the light inside the dining car had cast their reflection on the black window, hiding the outside world.
“So we both are men who have lost their way,” Maximilian said. “Men who have broken ties.”
“We’re on the Trans-Siberian Railroad in Mongolia in winter. I think that the only men on this train are those who have lost their way.”
“We are in Russia now, in Siberia.”
“Doesn’t matter—it’s all the far edge of the world out here.”
The barman returned with two glasses of Russian tea in nickel-plated holders, with spoons sticking out. He set them on the table along with a tray of honey, sugar cubes, syrup, and jams.
“What changed your religion?” Maximilian asked, after the barman had left.
“I never said it changed. My interpretation of it changed. My intensity changed.”
“How?”
“I became less intent on strictly following the ancient teachings of my religion, and instead focused on what had been taken from me.”
“But Islam is based on strict behavioral adherence.”
Kazim didn’t respond.
“What was taken?” Maximilian continued before taking a sip of his tea, enjoying its distinct smoky flavor. He didn’t want to seem as if he was forcing the question.
“My brothers—all three of them. I was the youngest. Now I’m the oldest—the only one left.”
“You must be strong to have survived such a loss.”
“What about you? Have you changed your religion?”
“In a way, I think I have. But Judaism is a birthright, so maybe my politics are what has truly changed. Unfortunately, politics has a strong role in religion, or vice versa. For so long, my faith was tied to the struggles of Israel. The connection was easy because the struggles were great. My father fought in the Six-Day War. I myself fought in the 1982 Lebanon war. War is common for citizens of Israel, and terrorism is even more common. Many in the world support Israel. Many have sympathy for its people, but they cannot truly know what it is like to be surrounded by a dozen nations wishing to wipe your family from the face of the earth. Israel has the strictest antiterrorism procedures in the world for a reason. They live with their enemies, surrounded by their enemies, and as I came to realize one day, they even have enemies among themselves.”
“One day?”
“The day Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated.”
“Did you know him?”
“I was on his security protection detail. His safety was my responsibility. We saw a rising tension in the streets after the Oslo Accord. Many Israelis hated him for giving Arafat so much in the negotiations. Many thought the Palestinians deserved much less than what he was offering, but he wanted peace. It was understandable. But tensions were growing. We asked him to start wearing a bulletproof vest, but he refused. He said he had been a soldier before becoming a politician. I admired him for that—for his courage. He was a truly extraordinary man. And one day, some punk with a gun just walked up behind him as we were moving toward the car, and shot him. He died within hours, just like America’s President Kennedy. The nation—and most of the world—suddenly mourned. Then everything changed for the worse. The peace process stopped. The Shin Bet and all other security agencies in Israel came under fire for failing to protect Rabin. I was in the middle of it all. Something terrible had happened to Israel.”
“So then you abandoned it?” Kazim asked.
Despite the warm tea, Maximilian felt a sudden chill. “Yes, I have abandoned Israel. I reject it and all its allies.” He was not ready to reveal the full story of why he now hated his former home. He could not yet trust this man with the painful secrets of his past. “I have grown angry at the entire concept of powerful governments influencing foreign countries. And if I use this anger to attack a friend of Israel, I can show the world the folly of superpowers meddling in other countries’ affairs. Ironically, I now fantasize about becoming like the madman who killed Bobby Kennedy, or the madman who killed Rabin.”
“And who would you attack? Who would be the target?”
“It is a dangerous conversation—even more dangerous than what we have already said. So please, before I continue, I wish to hear your story.” He paused, took a sip of his cooling tea, and said again, “Please tell me your story.”
Kazim’s features seemed to grow darker as he leaned away from the hanging light behind him. He stared silently at Maximilian. Then, standing up from the table, he said, “My story is too dangerous to tell. Thank you for the tea.”
He started for the door.
“I know about Baghdad,” Maximilian said.
Kazim stopped. He stood completely still, frozen in the aisle of the dining car. Then he turned sharply, like a startled animal reacting to a sudden danger.
“I know about Baghdad,” Maximilian repeated, “but what I don’t know is your story afterward.”
Kazim looked at him without a word. His breath quickened.
“I’m a friend, Kazim.”
“I don’t know you.”
“And yet, I’m still a friend.” Maximilian gestured for him to rejoin him at the table.
He shook his head.
“I know Moqtada al-Hakim.”
Kazim took a step closer. “How?”
“Through Abdul al-Sadr. I’ve been tracking you since Calcutta. Saw the mess you made in Bangkok. Lost you in Singapore. Found you again when you entered Hong Kong. Followed you to Vladivostok and have been with you on the train since there.”
“You’re tracking me? Who are you?”
“Don’t worry, no one else is looking for you. You weren’t on Interpol’s radar, and the Americans have no idea who you are. MI-Six doesn’t know. Mossad doesn’t know. No one knows—no one except your friends.”
“I have no friends.”
“You have friends in the community.”
“What community? Yours?”
“No. The type of operations you did were not a main concern for Israel. When Israel abandoned me, I abandoned it in return. But I still have channels with Palestine and Libya, and they have channels to Iran as well as to radical networks. I made some inquiries and was directed to a man who knew Hakim. We had a conversation in Kuala Lumpur. Your name came up. I was interested and made other inquiries. Saw you had spent some time in Dubai but had left for India. It wasn’t easy, but I finally tracked you to Calcutta only a month after you left there. It was difficult catching up with you, but now we are here on this train, heading for Moscow. I hope that before we arrive at the end of this line, I will have convinced you to join my cause.”
“The world is a big place, with a lot of people. Why are you so interested in me?”
“Because you have more motivation for my plan to succeed than anyone else on my team—perhaps even more than I.”
