by David Khara
The fun was just beginning.
“Jeremy, not only is Bernard going to be going ballistic, but we’ll never get on a flight tonight if you don’t wrap this up in five minutes.”
I take a last series of notes. Hang up. Three calls for all that information. Good value. “OK, Jackie. I’ve got all I need. It’s absolutely wacko.”
“Talk.” She sits down next to me.
“Here goes. In January, several pharmaceutical companies placed orders for millions of units of products needed to make vaccines—basically, diluents, stimulants and additives. My father’s figures alone detail transactions involving five hundred million units.”
“That sounds enormous.”
“Not if you take into account the population of developed countries. Until now, it never struck me as crazy. Not anomalous, at least. I called some guys I know in the city, guys I work with every day. The accounts of the major labs’ suppliers are going through the roof. They spread orders across different companies and periods to keep it from drawing attention. If you add the volumes ordered in the last six months to the figures for January, you hit two billion doses. Now that is crazy.”
“Crazy a lot?”
“Crazy staggering, Jackie. Especially since no health scare has necessitated the mass production of vaccines since the start of the year.”
“Wrong.”
The deep voice comes from the doorway. Like two synchronized swimmers, Buffy and I spin around. I knew it. I don’t know why, but I knew it. Baldy stands there, hands in pockets. Wearing the same duds as when we met in New York. Jackie draws and points her gun at him. “Freeze! Not very smart, showing up unarmed. Especially a pro like you.”
There’s a mocking, vengeful edge to her voice. The guy seems to rub everyone the wrong way. Even so, the threat doesn’t seem to worry him. In fact, he smiles.
“Hands up!” Jackie orders. His hands slip out of his pockets and rise toward the ceiling. That twinkle in his eye isn’t a good sign. On the mark again! He unfolds his massive fingers. They’re gripping a grenade. If Jackie fires, we all blow.
“I’m here to talk, not to pick a fight. Put your gun down. I don’t mean you any harm.” Jackie glances at me. Waits for my approval. I’m no secret agent or bodyguard. If the guy wanted to kill us, he would already have done so. With his wrong hand, too, for all I know.
I nod. Jackie lowers her gun hesitantly. The big clown has an annoyingly smug grin on his face. He slips the grenade back into his pocket. Morg—as Jackie called him on the phone with Bernard—ambles across the room and takes a seat on the couch, legs crossed, arms outspread.
“I was listening to you from next door. Good work, Jeremy. If you get bored with finance one day, I can get you a job with Mossad, no problem.”
“Why not? As long as the salary isn’t paid in knuckle sandwiches.”
Jackie glances at me from the corner of her eye and frowns. I love that pretty face.
The Jolly Green Giant seems to have a better sense of humor. “I wasn’t supposed to run into you. Just protect you. That’s why I decked you. Sorry.” He should be. My nose will remember our meeting for a long time.
Jackie chimes in. “Why did you say ‘Wrong’ when Jay said there had been no health scares?”
Morg takes his arms off the back of the couch and leans toward us. “Don’t you read the newspapers?”
CHAPTER 24
Eytan takes the pile of complimentary newspapers off the coffee table. He rapidly flips through the pages until he finds the article he’s looking for.
“Here we are. International section of today’s London Times. ‘The situation in Mexico is causing serious concern in the scientific community. The number of deaths linked to a new and particularly virulent strain of influenza has increased dramatically in recent weeks. The virus causes severe diarrhea, leading to dehydration. According to authorities, an estimated 2,000 people have died, and the number is rising. The incubation period seems much shorter than other influenza strains. A delegation from the World Health Organization is due to arrive in Mexico City, and credible sources are talking of widespread quarantine measures.’ I’ll spare you the reporter’s half-assed analysis of the geopolitical consequences,” Morg concludes, lobbing the paper at my feet.
“So there is a health scare,” Jackie sighs with a frown.
“It’s better that way. At least, now we know what the vaccines are for.” From the way they look at me, I figure I’ve said something stupid. “What?” I splutter.
“Labs order chemicals that will enable them to produce tons of vaccine just a few months before a particularly virulent epidemic starts, and you find that reassuring?”
Maybe they have a point.
“Hold on, before you crank up your conspiracy theories, remember there are pharmaceutical watchdogs and epidemiologists all over the world. There are even tighter controls than on many other sectors. Those guys just had great intuition. I’m not convinced.”
Before Morg can reply, Jackie intervenes. “Before debating the ins and outs, maybe you should tell us who you are, why you’re protecting Jay and on whose orders.”
Short and to the point. Love it.
“My name is Eytan Morg. I work for Metsada, a unit within Mossad. To be even more precise, I’m a Kidon agent.”
“Kidon?” That earns me more appalled looks. Apparently I should know.
“Kidon is a subunit created in the early seventies to conduct covert operations. The general public learned of it when Spielberg made Munich.”
Now she’s talking to me like I’m stupid. “Sorry, Jackie. Never saw it.”
She goes on, “Kidon is the abduction and execution unit of the Israeli secret service. The name means bayonet in Hebrew. At the CIA, we study their techniques. Generally, they work in teams of four. Three men and a seductive woman if the target is a man. So, Agent Morg—Kidon Morg, I should say—where are your colleagues?”
“I have the peculiarity and privilege of working alone,” he replies serenely.
Jackie’s on a roll. “How do you know Bernard Dean?”
“I met him as part of a cooperation program between our two countries. That information is irrelevant to the current situation.”
“Why make your entrance right now?”
This time, Eytan Morg seems to hesitate a moment. “For the very good reason that we need to work together with our cards on the table if we want to survive.”
“What guarantee do we have you won’t eliminate us once the mission is over?”
Good question!
“Mossad has nothing to gain by your deaths. You don’t have many options. You can team up with me and benefit from my skills. Or you can go it on your own and then…”
He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. He’s made his point. An awkward silence ensues as we face off stonily. I wouldn’t say no to a smoke—it must be the stress. The dilemma of a secret agent: Kill or be killed. Simple and cruel. I see now why Dad left home. How can you lead a normal life without compromising your family? A thought comes to mind. “Eytan? Could you answer Jackie’s question? Why is Kidon protecting me? Why did you rescue Jackie in that alley?”
“My superiors appear to think that you have information that could lead us to a major enemy. Hence my intervention.” He glances at the tiny blonde. “As for Agent Walls, you were safely in the bank, so when I saw those guys tailing her, it seemed like a good idea to do something.”
Buffy nods her appreciation. Great. I have my own Mossad nanny. Party time.
“Would you mind telling us the whole story?” asks Jackie, as pragmatic as ever.
She brings out a hot sweat in me.
“You’re right. I should explain, but it’ll take some time. Can we take a look at the contents of the box first? I wouldn’t be surprised if they corroborated a hypothesis that will make my explanations even clearer.”
The box. I’d forgotten all about it. I grab it and remove the brown paper wrapping.
Eytan sud
denly leans closer. We have in front of us a tiny, very scary-looking black box.
CHAPTER 25
Like a man possessed, the Israeli agent launched into a full-on history lesson. “In April 1945, Hitler stripped Himmler of all his duties after he was revealed to be negotiating with the Allies through the vice president of the Swedish Red Cross. The SS chief promised not to speed up executions in the concentration camps and to allow humanitarian organizations to send in food. In return, he hoped to avoid prosecution and obtain a position in Germany’s post-war government. But the Allies rebuffed him, and who could blame them?
“After Hitler’s suicide, Himmler tried in vain to join Admiral Dönitz’s provisional government. Dönitz hated Himmler and sent him packing. In desperation, Himmler fled toward Austria wearing an eye patch and disguised as a sergeant major in the Secret Military Police. He was arrested at a British checkpoint on May 22, 1945. Ironically, Himmler’s false papers aroused the Tommies’ suspicion because they were unusually pristine and complete.
“As the Allied powers were spying on each other, a Canadian agent, John Stewart, had infiltrated the British unit. He discreetly made himself known to Himmler. When the reichsführer-SS realized he had been unmasked, he once more tried to negotiate. His talent for manipulation nearly saved his life. Secretly, he gave Stewart a key decorated with a swastika, which opened a safe that contained top-secret SS files. It was Himmler’s last bargaining chip. Scared of being seen with Himmler, however, Stewart disappeared with the key in his pocket.
“Himmler was brought in to see a doctor for a routine check-up. Despite his disguise, he was recognized by one of the guards. Cornered and in an attempt to obtain an interview with British secret service, Himmler gave the guards a small black box no bigger than a cigar box, engraved with the death’s head symbol of the SS. Everybody ignored him. The check-up began. Seconds later, the prisoner screamed ‘I am Heinrich Himmler’ and bit into a cyanide capsule. He died betrayed, stripped of power and rejected on all sides. Poetic justice, perhaps, but the punishment hardly seemed to fit the crimes.
“Shortly afterward, the key flew to Canada with its new owner. The box was deposited in the MI6 archives with tons of documents seized from occupied Germany.” This box. This key. Three pairs of eyes converged on the unnerving little box. Two initials in Gothic script flanked the embossed skull. H.H. Heinrich Himmler.
“What can be in there? It’s tiny,” Jackie said, mesmerized.
“As they say, there’s only one way to find out,” Jeremy replied eagerly. He inserted the tiny key into the lock. A spring clicked. The lid popped open.
“Shit!” Jeremy took out a black-and-white photo that had yellowed with age. “That’s all there is,” he murmured. The blurred photo showed a slim, ageless man in a white coat gripping the shoulders of a child who looked like he was somewhere between six and eight, head shaved, wearing a striped concentration camp uniform. The smug smile of the scientist contrasted with the child’s eyes, which contained all the despair in the world. It was impossible to say if the child was a boy or a girl.
Jeremy handed the photo to Jackie. Lips pursed, she ran her fingers over it.
Eventually, it was Eytan’s turn. Jaw clenched, he stared at it in silence. “Viktor Bleiberg,” he sighed.
“Sorry?”
Eytan cleared his throat. “The man in the white coat is Professor Viktor Bleiberg, one of the worst criminals of World War II.”
“Never heard of him.” Jeremy glanced quizzically at Jackie for any reaction. She slowly shook her head.
“He died in an explosion in 1942,” continued Eytan. “The Nazis did all they could to erase any trace of his existence.” He flipped the picture over. “A sentence in German and a series of figures.”
“We’ll need a translator,” Jeremy declared, slapping his thighs.
“False prophets make only self-fulfilling prophecies. That’s what it says.”
“You speak German?” Jeremy asked in amazement.
“I speak French, English, Hebrew, Polish, Russian, German and a little Spanish. I’m sure you feel smarter now that you know that.”
Put in his place, Jeremy rolled his eyes and clammed up.
“The code was added later,” Eytan went on. “It’s not the same ink, and the handwriting is more contemporary. And from the three names, I deduce it’s a message from Daniel Corbin. Jackie, do these codes remind you of anything?”
The two agents pored over the scribbled message.
JEREMY
DANIEL J.
ANN
18791411287279141111101125162725261125
12111627162221261112262122162526261210251
22726
DLIH
“Yes, it looks like a numeric key code. They’re not necessarily complicated, but they can be a pain in the ass when you don’t have the key. Which we don’t.”
“I could send it to my people for decoding, but I’ve been ordered to cease transmissions, and we have no time to lose.”
“I’ll talk to Bernard about it when I next speak to him,” concluded Jackie.
Jeremy grabbed a pen and piece of paper, copied out the coded message and slipped the paper into his pants pocket. He unfolded the road map that had been in the safe-deposit box with the spreadsheets. A red arrow with a scribbled street name and number made any hypothesizing redundant.
“My father wrote down an address in Zaventem, Belgium. I guess we’ll find answers to our questions there.”
Eytan jumped up and headed for the door. “Pack your bags. Let’s hit the road. We’re headed for whatchamacallit on the map.”
Jeremy glanced quizzically at Jackie. They should already have been on the flight home. Bernard was not going to be impressed. “Apologizing will be quicker than asking for permission we won’t get. And I think our best option is to follow Eytan,” answered the young woman.
Jeremy slapped his thighs and got up in turn. “OK, let’s go. A trans-Europe trip with Kidon Airlines!”
CHAPTER 26
Zurich, 9 p.m.
Our bags are ready. Jackie and I wait while Eytan empties a flight case of two silencers, three or four magazines and a cell phone, all of which wind up in various pockets of his combat pants. He also takes out a small black box the size of a cigarette case. With any luck, he smokes. If we outnumber Jackie in the car, I can smoke my ass off. He closes his case, presses the handle and twists it a quarter turn. Smoke filters out of the cracks.
“This tape will self-destruct in ten seconds, Mr. Phelps,” I laugh. Alone. “Say, if you destroy everything on each mission, that’s gotta add up for the Israeli taxpayer!” Long faces. Two days of all those I love or loved dying off around me. Humor is all I have left.
“Let’s go. I’ll tell you all I know in the car.” Eytan grabs his army bag and opens the door. He closes it immediately. “Change of plan.”
He drops his bag on the floor. Jackie does likewise. “What’s going on?” she asks anxiously.
“Three guys about to enter your room. We need to take extreme measures.”
“Releasing some tension won’t do me any harm,” says Jackie.
“OK. Three heads, three bullets. You want to prove I got you wrong?”
“Give me a gun. If I use mine, I’ll have to fill out reams of paperwork when I get home.”
She’s not kidding. I have a question. “Don’t you want to take one of them alive? They must know something.”
“Smart. But I’ll bet my jacket—and God knows I love my jacket—that they know nothing useful. Anyway, we have no time to interrogate them.”
He lobs Jackie a gun. “Kill ’em.”
“Hold on! What if they’re cops?” Just asking.
“Cops don’t use silencers.”
Jackie nods to us and steps into the hallway. I don’t like this. No, I’m definitely scared for her. “I hope you’re not sending her to get slaughtered.”
“I doubt it,” he grins.
The door opens again. The g
un is lobbed back from whence it came. Barely thirty seconds have passed. When Jackie has that expression on her face, you don’t want to mess with her. “Let’s get outta here,” she says.
Eytan pockets the gun and nods. We exit.
In the hallway, I nudge our bedroom door open. One guy’s strangely contorted on the bed. Another’s sitting on the couch staring blankly at me. The last one’s sprawled on his back on the floor, arms outstretched. Three guys, three bullets between the eyes. Impressive. The chambermaids will need a shrink.
Eytan comes over. He pulls a flat circular object out of his jacket pocket. He presses and twists the strange puck, then tosses it into the room. His big paw grabs my collar and shoves me forward. “C’mon, we have work to do.” A muffled explosion echoes in the hotel room. I keep walking.
We quickly check out, pick up the rental and blow. Eytan programs the GPS with the address in Belgium, pulls into the Zurich traffic and heads for the freeway. As soon as we’re out of the city, Jackie tries again, “I think you have some explaining to do. Don’t you?”
As promised, Eytan begins his tale. “A little over six months ago, we received a request for assistance from senior people at MI6. A British agent had been taking World War II case files out of the archives at the Ministry of Defense. Certain officials make a little extra on the side by selling old reports to collectors or even writers. Given the space required to store dusty old files with no strategic importance anymore, a lot of department chiefs turn a blind eye to it or even skim off a commission. But in this instance, the Brits considered the documents sufficiently sensitive to ask for our help. I’ll skip the details, but after a very persuasive chat with the incriminated agent, I found myself on the trail of a buyer in the United States.”
“Persuasive? A chat like that with you is not something I’d relish,” mutters Jackie.
