The Night, The Day

by Andrew Kane

  the night, the day

  a novel

  Andrew Kane

  Berwick Court Publishing Co.

  Chicago, IL

  This is a work of fiction. Except for a few historical references, any resemblance to specific persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Berwick Court Publishing Company

  Chicago, Illinois

  http://www.berwickcourt.com

  Copyright © 2015 Andrew Kane. All Rights Reserved

  acknowledgments

  I am fortunate to have an abundance of blessings of which I am undeserving. To the usual cast of characters, family members and friends, you know who you are and how grateful I am. I will single out but a few.

  Debbie, I keep repeating the same thing but it’s true: nothing is possible without you. Max, few fathers get the opportunity to say to a son, you are my hero, a man among men, an unending source of inspiration. Jess, as you will see on the following page, this book is yours. Your literary talents far exceed my own and I am eager for the day when the world will hear from you.

  To my publisher and editor at Berwick Court, Matt and Dave, what can I say? Beyond believing in me, your critical eyes, skilled touches, and demands for excellence have made me a better writer and this a better book. Dave, may the late nights go on forever!

  For Jessica

  Our budding author

  When we neither punish nor reproach evildoers, we are not simply protecting their trivial old age, we are thereby ripping the foundations of justice from beneath new generations.

  -Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago

  prologue

  July 13, 1995

  A small private island off the coast of Guatemala

  She stood on the deck of the boat, watching the sunset, wondering what the darkness would bring. She felt her heart pounding, the blood pulsing through her veins. It was always this way when the end was near.

  Her eyes shifted from the sky to the shore of the approaching island less than a mile away. Only moments remained before the culmination of years of work and planning. There was nowhere he could run; no more disguises, deceits or lies. The chase would soon be over.

  She pictured him standing in his bedroom window, watching for her boat, savoring his Montecristo Habana. She imagined the smirk on his face as he awaited their evening together, and her satisfaction lay only in the fact that, after tonight, he would never again know such pleasures.

  Why did he always stand at that window? she wondered. Was it his paranoia, or did he simply enjoy watching her arrive? Had she truly gained his trust in the time they had known each other, or had he been anticipating her betrayal?

  Her mind drifted back to their first meeting, the day the trap was set. He had been lured to the mainland for a business luncheon, and there she was, alone, a few tables away as he waited for his appointment. It had been the perfect setup: the business deal, the luncheon – all a ruse to capture him. And it had been so easy to get him to love her. Too easy, in fact. Perhaps he had known all along. Perhaps he had been using her these past months; one last fling for an aging man.

  Suddenly, her thoughts disgusted her and she dismissed them, convincing herself that he was as rusty as he was old. Regaining her confidence that she had the advantage, she held fast to her belief that the worst punishment he would endure would be the knowledge of her betrayal.

  The boat approached the dock. For security purposes, the grounds surrounding the house were illuminated at night. She was always ferried from the mainland on his boat, escorted by two of his guards, while three other guards stood watch around the house and the island. But on this night, her usual escorts lay dead on the cabin floor, their clothing now being worn by her two fellow agents, Kovi and Arik.

  She was concerned about the risks. In her favor was the fact that the old man didn’t see very well from distances, and that Kovi and Arik were similar in stature to the dead guards. Against her was the possibility that one of the island guards might be nearby. She had been careful, had studied the place meticulously, memorizing the guards’ rotation schedules, planning every detail of the operation. She was confident nothing would go wrong. But then, she knew that many missions failed from the unexpected.

  Kovi jumped on the dock, grabbed the rope from the bow and began securing the boat, while Arik took her hand and escorted her onto the dock.

  “Seems clear,” Kovi whispered as he surveyed the area.

  They started toward the house, moving as naturally as possible. Kovi and Arik kept their Uzis draped over their shoulders, the same way the guards wore them. They seemed nervous, vulnerable out in the open without a weapon immediately in hand. The time it took to reach for one’s gun could mean the difference between life and death.

  They made it to the front door without incident. Now, no longer in view from the bedroom window, Kovi and Arik instinctively grabbed their weapons.

  She reached into her handbag, pulled out a Beretta, and signaled for Kovi to stand watch by the door as she and Arik proceeded into the house. Everything, thus far, was according to plan.

  She knew that Carlos would be waiting in the master bedroom. With him, it always began there. He had once explained that it was just too painful for him to sit through dinner without first being with her. “When you get to be my age,” he had said, “you wait for nothing.” She had humored him. It was all part of her master plan. For the greater good, she told herself. She had long ago abandoned the fantasy that she could remain pure while doing this work. She had developed an uncanny ability to control her emotions, to do whatever needed to be done. The mission was all that mattered.

  She came to the bedroom door. Arik stood aside and readied himself against the wall. She reached slowly for the doorknob, the Beretta hidden behind her back. Arik remained still as she turned the knob. She looked at him, wishing him luck with her eyes as she slipped into the room.

  Carlos rose from his seat to greet her. “My dear,” he said as he approached her.

  She knew immediately that something was wrong; the look in his eyes told her as much. He knows. Without hesitation, she presented her gun. “It’s over,” she said, pointing the Beretta at him.

  “You disappoint me,” he responded, with the arrogance of one who no longer experiences fear.

  “No. It is you who has disappointed me, and the rest of the civilized world. Now, raise your hands and turn around!”

  Suddenly, she was distracted by gunfire from the hallway, jolted just enough to give Carlos the opportunity to pull out his own weapon.

  “It appears we have a stalemate,” he remarked, glancing at the Luger in his hand.

  The shooting in the hallway continued, spurts of automatic fire. “Arik,” she called, ignoring her own predicament. But there was no response.

  “My guards, they were prepared. As was I.”

  She reminded herself how crucial it was to take him alive. “Arik,” she yelled again, her eyes glued to her target. “Kovi!”

  Still, only gunfire.

  Stay calm, she told herself.

  “It’s too bad, really,” Carlos said. “You thought you had me, thought that you would bring me in for a public trial or something. Tell the world things that it’s already sick of hearing about. Sorry to spoil your little plan.”

  The door burst open. Startled, they each dove for cover as Arik charged in. Carlos began firing from behind the bed, but Arik’s Uzi easily overpowered the Luger. Her cries of “nooooo” from the corner were muffled by the gunfire. Within seconds, it was over.

  She got up and went over to Arik. “Kovi?” she ask
ed.

  “Fine,” Arik answered. “There were three guards, all dead.”

  The two of them looked at the pool of blood oozing from the limp body on the rug. Arik bent down to feel for a pulse. “Nothing,” he said.

  Containing her rage, she stood silently over Carlos’ body.

  “We have to get out of here,” Arik said.

  She knew he was right, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave like this, to admit defeat. She looked at Arik. There was no way he could understand her thoughts. For him, a fourth-generation Sabra, this was just another mission; for her, Galit Stein, daughter of two Dachau survivors, it was much more. As far back as she could remember, she had sworn to make the murderers pay, to keep alive the stories of evil that had been fixed in her consciousness from her earliest days. This had become her sole purpose for existing. And now, Carlos Zacapa, formerly Nazi SS Colonel Carl Hoffmann, had stolen it from her.

  She turned to the body on the floor and spit on it. “Damn you, Hoffmann, damn you to hell!”

  Arik moved toward the door. “Galit, we must go. Now!”

  She quickly regained her composure and fell in line behind him.

  Kovi was waiting as they came out. “Where is he?” he asked.

  “Dead,” was all she said.

  Arik shrugged his shoulders.

  Watching the island fade in the distance, Galit was enraged, but also baffled by how Hoffmann could possibly have known her plans. Now that he was dead, she figured she would probably never learn the answer.

  For a moment, she was reminded of the debacle years ago involving the auto worker in Ohio. She had convinced herself and her superiors that this time things would be different; after all, the evidence against Hoffmann was unimpeachable. It had been an uphill battle; most of her compatriots had lost their enthusiasm for hunting Nazis. Now she would be returning empty-handed, only making things more difficult for the next time, if there would even be a next time.

  She imagined how Ezra, her unit chief, would react. He had warned her of the consequences should she fail: “Galit, you must understand, the world is no longer interested in this, especially after the Demjanjuk thing. Even our own government sees little purpose in rounding up sick old men who no longer pose a threat to our survival. If you do not succeed, this will be the last of it. We have more than enough to deal with from our present enemies.”

  She knew she could never accede to such defeat and be able to face herself or her parents again. Even though her parents did not know what she was doing, she was still doing it for them. And for the aunts, uncles, and grandparents who had perished long before she became part of this world.

  No, she wouldn’t accept it. There were still a few more, at least one other who had become known to her recently. She would convince the others, do whatever it took to get another chance. One more, she would tell them. She would make them listen. This time, no mistakes.

  One more.

  chapter 1

  August 20, 1996

  Sands Point, New York

  Jacques Benoît could no longer bear the images racing through his mind. He had thought he had successfully destroyed all traces of his past, but now it was returning to haunt him. His prayers were useless, as would be any attempt to flee. He was trapped, his fate in the hands of the men outside.

  He was certain they were out there, watching and waiting. He had glimpsed them several times over the past few weeks. Usually two, sometimes three. On the street, in cars, wearing suits or casual clothing. No patterns, nothing that the average person might notice. But Jacques Benoît was not the average person.

  He exited the church with his wife, Martha, an American lawyer he had married twenty-five years earlier. It was a second marriage for each of them. She was divorced, and his first wife had died from cancer. That was the only truth he had told her about his life before they had met.

  “Good to see you, Martha,” the minister said as he took her hand.

  “Very nice service,” she responded, smiling.

  “Jacques.” The minister offered his hand and the two men shook. “Everything okay?”

  “Of course,” Jacques answered in his enchanting French accent.

  The minister appeared unconvinced, but it was not a good time to get into anything. He would call upon Jacques later that day to continue his inquiries. It was part of his job to meddle, especially when it concerned his wealthiest parishioner.

  Jacques and Martha approached their car. “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Reverend Sanders asking you if everything was all right?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, feigning a smile. “I have never been better.” He tried not to be obvious about looking around. He didn’t see anyone, but he was sure they were there.

  Outwardly, Martha pretended to accept her husband’s answer, but in truth, she had been worried about him for some time. It wasn’t hard to notice his uneasiness – a stark contrast from the man she had known all these years. But every time she had approached him about it, he was politely dismissive, insisting everything was as usual. She had even thought of suggesting he talk to a professional, but she knew he simply wouldn’t. Now that the minister had noticed something, maybe Jacques would be more responsive.

  The chauffeur held open the door of the Lincoln stretch limousine as Martha and Jacques climbed in. “Bill and Susan have invited us to join them at the club for brunch,” Martha said, waiting for Jacques to instruct the chauffeur to proceed directly to the exclusive North Shore Hunt Club.

  Jacques hesitated. “You know, dear, I have a few calls I must make this afternoon. Why don’t you go by yourself?”

  “But, Jacques…”

  “Now, now, love. Why should you miss such a wonderful brunch simply because I have some business to attend to? I will see you afterward for dinner on the boat. You can even invite Bill and Susan to join us.”

  She neither agreed nor disagreed, which was always a sign that she would do as he asked. He told the chauffeur to drop him at home and then take Martha to the club. A few minutes later, the limo pulled into the entrance of their Sands Point estate. Jacques got out, kissed his wife on the cheek, and watched as she drove off. He then turned and scanned the vast woods surrounding the house, still certain he wasn’t alone.

  Their home was much too large for just the two of them, but a man of his standing could live in nothing less. Their children were grown, and seldom visited. She had two, a son and a daughter from her previous marriage, both of whom were married with children of their own and lived nearby. His son from his first marriage lived in the Ionian Islands, on Corfu, and managed one of his many international resorts. The young man was in his mid-40s, single, and – to the best of Jacques’ knowledge – was enjoying the life of a playboy.

  Jacques let himself in. On Sundays, the housekeeper was off. He locked the front door and walked to the kitchen. He peered out the kitchen window, looking for movement in the woods. Everything remained still, but he knew they were there. Smart. Skillfully hidden. But there.

  He left the kitchen and made his way through the foyer toward the back of the house into his study. As he entered, he looked around at the burnished mahogany and oak furniture, the walls filled with expensive art, photographs and various humanitarian awards. His eyes stopped at the Picasso sketch, his most valued material possession. He would miss that more than the others. He looked at some of the photographs, seeing himself shaking hands with three American presidents, two British prime ministers, and two French presidents. What a scandal it would be if the truth came out! But he wouldn’t allow that. He couldn’t allow that.

  He was compelled again to the window. Bastards! They were playing games with him.

  He reached into his desk drawer for the pills he had obtained weeks ago from his doctor. Weeks ago, when he had started feelin
g their presence. He looked at the bottle in his hands. Xanax, a nice redress for anxiety and insomnia. It frightened him to hold his fate in his hands like this, but what choice did he have?

  Of course, he could fight. Between the court delays and his money, he would probably be long dead before they would win. But then there was the disgrace. He truly loved Martha, her children and his son. He had lied to them all and would readily give his life to sustain that lie. The truth just was too ugly.

  He looked at the picture on his desk of him and Martha standing on the beach in Antigua on their first trip together. Where had the time gone?

  He remembered how they’d originally met, just a few months before the picture was taken. He was in New York conducting business with an American conglomerate, a joint venture to open two new resorts, one in Hawaii, the other in the Virgin Islands. Martha headed up the legal team representing the Americans.

  He had been amazed at the time, seeing a woman in such a position. In his native France, of famed enlightenment, this would never have been. But it didn’t take long for his amazement to fade into understanding; in fact, the moment he heard her speak, her talents became obvious. And beyond that, he had found himself enamored with the sound of her voice.

  He had known instantly, at that very first encounter, that they would marry. He had simply never met anyone like her. Frenchman that he was, it didn’t even dawn on him that a woman like her might belong to another. To the French, such problems were trivialities, especially for one as rich and influential as he.

  In any event, it hadn’t been an issue. She had been only a few months past a messy divorce, which had left her rather sour on men altogether. But Jacques Benoît wasn’t just any man, and he had vowed to make her know it.

  At first, she had been resistant, delicately thwarting his advances. But eventually, after countless lunches, dinners, and meetings – all presumably under the guise of business – she had weakened, at least enough to be convinced into taking a week at his resort in Antigua. It was to be quite innocent and platonic, so he assured her, a reward for her matchless dedication and skilled handling of their business. In the end, it was anything but.