by David Khara
“Our organization is light years from the clubs for aristocrats titillated by Ouija boards. We have shared values, Herr Hitler. Our objective and yours are linked by the quest for the superiority of the Aryan race. Working together would advance both our causes.”
Rudolf Hess and Adolf Hitler shared a knowing look that testified to a growing interest in Christian Delmar’s arguments. “Let’s suppose I accept your offer. What would you require in return?”
“Nothing you can’t give us.”
“I’ll be the judge of that!” Another unexpected outburst. The emissaries remained unperturbed.
“As I said, nothing you can’t give us. You will take power by legal means, and you will be free to do what you want with it. You will apply the twenty-five-point program you had the NSDAP adopt in 1920. The future of the Jews is of little concern to us. Kill them, imprison them, whatever you want. However, the anticapitalist measures must be revoked or disavowed.”
“The economy is irrelevant. The State must control everything.”
“A serious mistake, sir. You will need the support of industry, the banks and businessmen in order to develop your greater Germany. This aspect of our agreement is nonnegotiable.”
Hess was about to intervene but remained silent. Hitler rubbed his chin and stared at the floor. “I’ll think about it. What else?”
“You will institute scientific research programs in the military, industrial and, very importantly, medical fields. You will fund these programs with our support in both raw materials and hard cash. In return, we will be informed of every plan, formula and invention. We won’t compromise on that either.”
“On this point, our intentions converge. However, I fail to grasp the connection between your offer and your interest in the Germanic race.”
“Our organization pursues the same objective as you, Herr Hitler.”
“A new Germany?”
“No, Herr Hitler. A new world.”
CHAPTER 16
Zurich, 8 a.m.
The arrival at Zurich was torture. After fighting the urge to beat the crap out of his idiot neighbor throughout the flight—and the brat’s incredibly lax mother at the same time—Eytan had to let everybody get off the plane before him to avoid being spotted by Jeremy Corbin. His nerves were frazzled, his knees had seized up, and he was ten minutes behind the stock trader. To add to his frustration, he had left all his weapons in NYC and wouldn’t be resupplied until he arrived at the hotel his people had booked for him.
Fortunately, his surveillance job was facilitated considerably by the sheer predictability of an American agent. The young woman accompanying Jeremy would follow her CIA training to the letter. As a result, she would refuse to take a cab, renting a vehicle and driving it herself. That way, if they were followed, she would be in control of the situation. And she could carry weapons in the trunk. All Eytan had to do was head for the car-rental counter. A sardonic smile on his face, his habitual military bag over his shoulder, Eytan walked through the airport, wondering why he was whistling “The Colonel Bogey March.” As he approached the car-rental counters, he slowed and slipped behind a pillar. The international terminal would soon be swamped with passengers, but for now only a few shambling groups were visible, making his surveillance task all the easier.
The two blonds were filling in forms at the desk. Hanging around to watch was pointless. Eytan left the building. The air was warm. The temperature would reach the seventies in the afternoon. Summer wasn’t Eytan’s favorite season. His massive build was better suited to cooler climates. He climbed into a cab, quickly explained, in perfect German, that his wife would soon appear with her handsome lover and handed the cabbie a bundle of euros. The driver’s sympathetic look received a blank response.
While keeping an eye on the parking garage exit, Eytan considered the possibilities. The Swiss were known for their watches, cheese and, above all, their banks. Could Jeremy and his chaperone be here to recover the documents the Metsada had been chasing after for weeks?
A gray Lexus coupe stopped at the parking garage barrier. The tinted windows made identifying the occupants impossible. Eytan hesitated. He needed to be absolutely certain. The passenger window was lowered. A barely smoked cigarette flew out and bounced on the asphalt. The window closed immediately but not before Eytan had glimpsed Jeremy’s hair. The Israeli agent relaxed, tapped the cabbie on the shoulder, and off they went.
“Yada, yada yada,” grumbled Jeremy.
“You’re not just a pig, you’re a puerile one.” Jackie’s tone was serious. This time, she wasn’t playing mind games.
“Look who’s talking. After half a day on a plane, I think I’m allowed to enjoy a smoke. Jesus wept!”
“You can wait till we arrive. All I can say is, the car’s no-smoking. End of story.” With a resigned sigh and a final drag, Jeremy lowered the window and flicked the cigarette away. “Now what?”
“We swing by the hotel, pick up the gear left by…No, that’s none of your business. Caffeine refill and a visit to the bank. If all goes as planned, we’ll be on the flight home at one this afternoon.”
“Cool. There’s no point hanging around. I want to be back for Mom’s funeral.”
Jeremy stiffened, fighting a wave of grief.
“I understand. But…” Jackie hesitated, as if sincerely regretting what she was about to say. “There’s next to no chance Bernard will allow you to attend. You’d be playing into the hands of the people gunning for your family. Bernard wants to keep the lid on my assignment with you, so he won’t agree to a major protection operation or even lay a trap for your enemies.”
“I can’t let her go without saying goodbye, Jackie. No way. She raised me on her own, and I was never in the running for Son of the Year. I owe it to her.”
Jackie remained silent. Jeremy interpreted it as a mark of compassion—an unexpected one, at that. When she spoke, her tone had changed. “We’re being followed.”
“What?”
“A black Mercedes on our tail. I’ve been changing lanes and ignoring the GPS for the last few miles, just driving at random. We’re not dealing with a genius, but he can drive.”
“Do you have a plan?” Jeremy realized just how small she looked behind the huge wheel.
“Unarmed, it’s better to avoid contact. Dammit, we’re passing up a great opportunity to snare them and find out more.”
“Them? You don’t think it’s my giant?”
“From what you said and Bernard’s reaction, I don’t see that guy letting himself be spotted so easily.”
“What do we do?”
“Let them follow us. Forewarned is forearmed. We’re ahead of the game.”
A Peugeot taxi tailing a Lexus that was being followed by a Mercedes. The situation verged on the ridiculous. Eytan smiled. They were doing everything to make life easy for him. Blondie would be watching the Merc, not him. The pursuers, who were anything but smart apparently, wouldn’t pay any attention to him either.
So far, so good. A little inner voice whispered to Eytan, For how long?
CHAPTER 17
They’re still on our ass. Jackie says there’s no point trying to lose them. I feel like a worm on a hook. Not a fate I envy. Note to self: Cool car, this Lexus. If I make it out of this and can sit behind a wheel again, I’ll buy one to replace my DB9.
We reach the hotel with them on our tail. Thank God, it’s an underground parking garage. They don’t push their luck by following us in. Blondie’s right. They’re waiting for us to recover whatever’s in the safe-deposit box before hitting us like a swarm of locusts on a field of wheat. If I had to choose, I’d take the locusts. But you don’t always get what you want.
I’ve decided to let events take their course. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. I can’t see my pocket-size bodyguard stopping a colossus riddling me with bullets. We’ll see. In any case, she’s got the discreet surveillance of her surroundings down pat. Good job.
The hotel’s pure luxury.
I don’t know about the city. I only saw it reflected in a rearview mirror. At least I’ve got a Swiss stamp in my passport now. I can start a collection. The elevator takes us straight to the lobby. Big, clean and shiny. Hip mirrors on the walls. I was hoping for a Swiss chalet, and I wind up in a cookie-cutter boutique. We could be anywhere in the world. It’s almost sad. The standard desk and receptionist seen a thousand times before. Jackie registers us as Mr. and Mrs. Ingalls. The guy doesn’t notice my look of surprise. Charles and Caroline Ingalls—alcoholic trader and CIA killer. Shit’s going down in The Little House on the Prairie. I lean back six degrees to scope her butt. Nice. A married man now, but don’t expect me to be sawing wood just yet. Best of all, the CIA’s picking up the tab. If killers weren’t chasing me, my parents hadn’t just died, and I didn’t feel like a rat in a maze, I’d almost think I was on vacation.
A bellhop appears with a black case. Jackie smiles. Tooled up. The bellhop accompanies us to our room. On the way to the elevators, I check out the wildlife in the lobby. Actually, I stare at it. Which of these “guests” is going to stab me in the back? Is the bitch that killed my mother here? And the little fat guy with greasy hair in the badly cut suit, why’s he staring at me like that? I’m sweating. My right hand starts to shake. They could use some AC in here. The heat’s unbearable. The way my guts are torturing me, the in-flight meal must have been past its sell-by date.
Jesus, quit staring, you asshole! He’s coming over, reaching into his jacket. He’s a hit man! Jackie’s up ahead. I yell, but she doesn’t look around. The bellhop’s feeling up her ass. She’s stripping in public. A freak, I knew it. You’ll have Jay jumping your bones, beauty! But right now, I charge the dwarf before he smokes me. Tackle him to the floor. He lashes out with his tentacles. Shit, is his skin blue? The world’s spinning around me. Suddenly, once again, the lights go out.
“Hey!” A sudden burning sensation wakes me.
“There you go, Jeremy. You’ll feel better in a few minutes.” Jackie’s leaning over me. A strange newly kind tone in her voice. She’s holding an empty syringe.
“Better? What happened to me? I was in the lobby and then…I don’t know, everything just went weird.”
“Cold turkey. With the stress and jet lag you got a fit of something like delirium tremens. I gave you a shot of a derivative of benzodiazepine. You need to drink some sugar water and get some glucose into your system. From now until we get back to New York, you’ll have to carry a bottle of water with you at all times.”
She presses a cotton ball to my forearm. The fleeting skin contact makes my whole body tingle. Unless it’s the stuff she just injected into me. “You always walk around with that on you?”
“Hardly. I thought it might come in handy. Bernard warned me about your alcohol issues. I thought I’d better have something with me just in case. Anticipation’s an important part of my profession.”
“You’re doing a fine job.”
“I wish I could return the compliment. You attacked a hotel guest. Keeping him quiet will cost the American taxpayer. Incidentally, you also called me a horny bitch and announced your plans for me. Very classy.”
Ouch. I grab the pillow, wedge it against the headboard and haul myself into a sitting position. The gyroscope’s still off-center, and the room pitches like a sailboat in a storm.
“No way are you getting out of that bed. The jab is palliative not curative.”
I massage my temples and close my eyes, hoping the first signs of a headache will go away. When I open them, Jackie’s in the bathroom doorway, a damp towel in her hand and an affectionate smile on her lips.
“Does this benzo shit have any known side effects?” Silently, she comes over and presses the towel to my forehead. Cool water trickles over my cheekbones, follows the contours of my jaw and drips onto my chest.
“Sure. Sleepiness, loss of balance, dependence if you keep on using it. But you’ll be OK with the dose I gave you. You’ve just succeeded in making my job a bit more difficult.” I grasp her wrist with one hesitant hand and look her in the eyes. Adopting a serious expression isn’t hard for me right now.
“I’m sorry, Jackie. For the insults and anything else I said.” She doesn’t reply, except with a look every bit as intense and sincere as mine. The skin contact flusters her as much as me. Usually I’d shamelessly take advantage, but not with her.
Snapping out of it, my chaperone stands up. “Don’t worry. The sexual fantasies are caused by the delirium. I’m not mad at you. We’ll stay here this morning to let you recover and head over to the bank after lunch. And along with drinking all that water, you’ll have to stay away from the booze. The drug and alcohol don’t mix.”
Barely twenty minutes later, I’m on my feet again, not without a slight but mercifully brief loss of balance. I grab a smoke at the window, watching the avenue down below. Jackie locked herself in the bathroom shortly after shooting that shit into me. I sound harsh, I know. Must be the jet lag.
The bathroom door opens, and my water nymph emerges reinvigorated, with damp hair and wearing anthracite-colored jeans and a pale blue shirt. White sneakers with pink stripes emphasize how small her feet are. She wears a few discreet touches of makeup and even a little gloss on her delicate lips. I should feel flattered and smile—it’s always a good sign when a woman dolls herself up—but my mind’s full of morose thoughts. This moment of solitude, a rare luxury since yesterday, has allowed me to get things straight in my head. I was wrong about everything the whole time. My father, my mother, Bernard. The fatal accident I caused is the action that best reflects my true self. That’s nothing to smile about.
“Stop beating yourself up. You really think that’ll bring her back?”
She’s an expert at reading my mind and catching me off guard. I fiddle with my cigarette to hide my melancholy ruminations.
“At the risk of coming across as a total douchebag—or more of one than I appear to be already—I have to confess the aim isn’t to bring her back. Unfortunately, that’s beyond my, or anyone else’s, power. Until that crappy night, I’d been wasted a couple of times in my whole life. Sober, there would have been no accident. Drunk, my reaction time was too slow. That’s what eats me up. Guys get wasted every weekend with no consequences except the gradual destruction of their livers. Me, it took one drunken party and a momentary distraction to kill a child. I have to live with that on my conscience. I have no choice. I don’t drink as a cop-out, but as appropriate punishment. But have no fear, I don’t drive anymore.”
My smile doesn’t seem to convince her or dampen her curiosity. Understandable. I don’t convince myself. She wants to know more. “How did you beat the rap? Shouldn’t you be in jail?”
I need nicotine. I take a big drag on my smoke. “Bernard offered the parents a one-off lump sum. A very big sum. A PI the firm hired found out the mother was an undocumented immigrant. Cash plus silence equals Jeremy dodges jail time. And it makes me sick.”
As disgust deforms my features, I try to get a grip. Jackie sees the evil gnawing away at me. Her voice softens. “You never talk about it, do you?”
She’s sharp as a tack. It might as well come out. “No. Never seriously. You know, Jackie, hating yourself doesn’t make life easy. And admitting it doesn’t solve anything.” She comes over, grins, nudges me aside and peers out the window with me. She’s happy pressing up against me. The feeling of her thigh against mine is up there in the Highlights of My Existence.
“You’re wrong about two things.”
“Oh, yeah? Which ones, Miss Freud?”
She slicks back her damp hair, then shakes her head left and right. “Hurting people comes easy for some heavy drinkers. My father proved that time and again.” Buffy isn’t looking at me. Her gaze wanders over the buildings opposite us. I expect the worst. “He started hitting me in my high school freshman year. Occasional beatings, followed by endless apologies and sobbing. There was nothing he had to take out on anybody. He was a doctor in deepest, dar
kest Arkansas, a respected, well-liked figure, a regular churchgoer. He had money, a wife who loved him and a hardworking daughter. But he drank for no apparent reason. The asshole blamed it on me. He said I was too pretty, a prick tease. Believe me, I was so shy it was almost impossible for a boy to talk to me.”
I let out a long whistle. “I get the picture.”
She arches an eyebrow and looks at me with doe eyes. “To some extent, what happened shaped the rest of my life. To cover up the bruises, I found something to justify them. I started attending the tae kwon do class that some madman had opened in that nowhere town. I got into it, and the instructor said I had talent. One day, I came home and saw that my father was treating my mother the same as me. He didn’t see the first blow coming. Nor any of the blows that followed. I kicked his ass all over the house. I stopped just before I killed him. I didn’t hate him enough to rot in jail for life on a murder rap. He dragged himself along the floor, beat up and bleeding, begging me, telling me my mother understood him. How long had she been taking the slaps and lashes of his belt? I didn’t give him time to justify himself. I didn’t see any point listening to his pathetic excuses. I grabbed some stuff and walked out. I joined the army, then the Secret Service before Bernard recruited me. He got me a transfer to the CIA’s Special Operations Unit after he saw my file at a disciplinary hearing for insubordination. I have problems with authority. Ever since, every opponent has my father’s face. I made anger my greatest motivation.”
“I conclude it’s better not to pick a fight with you.”
“It’s not necessarily a good idea. Why the long face? My story isn’t so dramatic.”
Oh yeah? I have a long face? I’d better watch myself, but the thought of a guy hitting this girl revolts me. Hugging her seems the only thing to do. Anyway, let’s change the subject. “And the other point?”
