The Morgenstern Project

by David Khara

  “Yes.”

  “What do you get out of it?”

  “Nothing other than the satisfaction of doing my job.”

  “You can’t be serious. Aren’t you enjoying the sweet taste of revenge?”

  “There’s nothing sweet about revenge.”

  “You’re lying. I bet right now you’re getting off on just the thought of killing me. I bet no woman could ever give you a hard-on like the one you’ve got at this very moment.”

  “Was that your motivation?” Eytan asked. “Pleasure?”

  “Yes,”Karl-Heinz grunted. “I miss the exhilaration of taking on a fierce beast or a worthy warrior. I don’t care about politics, or ideologies, or any of the other fantasies that phony prophets spit out in order to establish power. That first encounter, the perfect moves, and the victory are all that I care about. I wanted to slit your neck like a butcher slaughters a cow. Missing that opportunity is still my biggest regret. But I did get to kill your friends.”

  “Your attempts to provoke me are useless. I’m here with one very specific goal, and nothing you say or do can stop me from accomplishing it.”

  “All right then, kill me if that’s what you want, I’m no longer in a position to defend myself. But killing me won’t do anything for you. All your life, you’ll be driven by the lust to kill. And all your life, those you love will suffer.”

  “That’s why I keep them at a safe distance,” Eytan replied. “And I always will. It’s for their own good. And mine too.”

  Eytan rose to his feet and loomed over Karl-Heinz, watching the man tense up. Karl-Heinz understood the rules of the game. The winner lived. The loser died.

  Vae victis—woe to the vanquished, Eytan thought.

  Eytan knew it wasn’t just the fear of dying that the man was feeling. He was thinking of Juliana and Milene and all the moments they would never share. Perhaps he was wondering if they, too, would die on this day.

  Eytan pulled an impressive knife from his belt. He knew the sight of it was reawakening the pain in Karl-Heinz’s dead arm.

  “You plan to finish me off with the same weapon from Poland?”

  “I don’t use it in your honor, but in memory of the man it belonged to.”

  To Karl-Heinz’s surprise, Eytan put the knife back in its sheath.

  “Relax. I didn’t come here to kill you, Dietz, or to bring you to Israel for trial. I wasn’t given authorization. But that doesn’t matter, because I’m a free agent and can do as I please. The truth is, your death wouldn’t be good enough for me.”

  Eytan checked his watch. He rummaged inside his jacket and took out a colorful braided bracelet, which he threw on the coffee table. Karl-Heinz picked it up with a trembling hand.

  “That bracelet belongs to...”

  “Your daughter, I know. Her name is Milene, I believe.”

  “You didn’t...”

  The former colonel’s voice was lifeless. Eytan responded with a snarky smile.

  “I would never separate a daughter from her mother,” he announced as he threw Karl-Heinz a gold wedding band, which the man instinctively caught on the fly. Eytan imagined the heartache and insane rage he was feeling.

  “You’re right, Colonel. Those who are closest to us pay the price for the lives we lead. And now, if I may...” Eytan reached over and took the bracelet out of Karl-Heinz’s hand. “I’ll still be needing this. You can keep the ring.”

  “How could you,” Karl-Heinz sobbed.

  The giant walked over to the French doors, opened them, and pushed back the shutters as he rattled off a list of names.

  “Janusz, Karol, Vassili, Piotr, Pawel, Marek. It was for them that I could have done it,” he said.

  “Could have?” Karl-Heinz repeated.

  Eytan left the house and closed the doors behind him. He walked over to Karl-Heinz’s car, where Juliana and Milene were standing. When he reached it, he turned around and saw Karl-Heinz looking out the window, the relief evident on his face.

  Eytan gave the child her bracelet. She slipped it back on her wrist. He smiled at the child and patted her blond curls. He turned to Juliana and reached into his jacket. Karl-Heinz was expecting him to pull out a gun—Eytan knew this. But Eytan pulled out a cigar instead. Juliana wasn’t following the agent’s movements anyway. She was looking at the window. She flashed a cold, suspicious look at her husband. Juliana was holding something, and when she caught his eyes, she threw it in his direction. Karl-Heinz’s photo was on the cover of the document. In his SS uniform, he was standing in front of the destroyed village of Lidice.

  Eytan could already hear the words running through the former SS officer’s head. “That was the past. Those were different times. I’m not that man anymore.” Had he really talked himself into believing all that? Eytan picked up Juliana’s suitcase and led the mother and daughter out of the courtyard. He opened the green gate. The three of them walked out to the street.

  ~ ~ ~

  Karl-Heinz felt his legs give out. He slid to the floor. He was torn between the torment of losing his family and his anger at himself. He had let the young Eytan slip away all those years ago. Karl-Heinz had been above it all. Life had been sweet. He had never expected the world to come crashing down around his ears. He cried, laughed, and cursed the bastard Patient 302.

  “It has been and will be the fate of all those who cross your path, Morgenstern, to feel pain and sadness! Even with one arm, I’ll become a hunter again. For the rest of your life, everyone you love...”

  His obscene promises bounced off the walls of his living room. Seconds later, the house he had shared with his beautiful wife and daughter burst into flames.

  Chapter 47

  Fort Wayne, present day

  With his weapon wedged in his armpit, Eytan was examining Tim Terry’s corpse. Blood was flowing from the Marine’s head and forming a dark puddle around the barrel of the gun lying next to him.

  “It’s done,” Jackie said, her hand on the giant’s arm.

  “Almost,” he corrected, grabbing Terry’s legs and pulling the body toward the circle of military trucks.

  “Quick, go join the others,” he ordered. “I’m going to inspect the vehicles and bodies. You don’t have to be here for that.”

  “Your call,” she replied, fully aware that no arguments could sway the Kidon agent when he had made up his mind. “But aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Am I?” he asked in surprise as he continued to heave the dead weight.

  “Unbelievable,” she sighed.

  She turned her back and started limping away.

  “Thanks?”

  “About time,” she hollered.

  “I thought I already said that.”

  Jackie stopped. She turned around to face Eytan. The disarming wink he shot her was worth all the thank-yous in the world. She turned around again and continued to limp away. She was eager to hold her husband in her arms.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jeremy was pressing as hard as he could against the bullet wound. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. They were red with blood. Actually, he couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t understand anything either. He could hardly believe he was still standing. In fact, he was kneeling.

  Beside him, Avi was ripping open a packet of compresses with his teeth and unscrewing a bottle of antiseptic with his free hand. The doctor’s calm behavior bewildered Jeremy, but he surrendered to Avi’s unquestionable expertise.

  “Eyes on me. Keep your eyes on me,” he instructed Eli in a reassuring tone that sounded almost melodic. It infused Jeremy with hope. “I’m going to disinfect the wound and put pressure on it. It will hurt, but that’s a good sign. And don’t stop looking at my handsome face.”

  Avi shooed Jeremy’s hands away. He applied a thick square of soaked gauze to the bluish skin swollen from the bullet and began to clean Eli’s injury.

  The trembling man struggled to stay conscious. Every time his eyes started to roll back, he refocused on Avi’s face. The
doctor kept trying to make him smile.

  “Don’t talk,” Avi whispered when Eli started to articulate something. “Everything will be all right.”

  Tim Terry’s final bullet had struck Eli in the shoulder, shattering his clavicle. Jeremy had rushed to Eli, catching him to cushion his fall. Just as quickly, the blood had started shooting out of him in huge spurts. Springing into action, Avi had grabbed the backpack filled with first aid supplies, which they had bought after fleeing the High Line. He had emptied out its contents and given Jeremy his instructions.

  “Tear open Eli’s sweater, and apply pressure to the wound.”

  Since then, Jeremy had watched in fascination as Avi performed a graceful dance with his skilled fingers. He had come to believe that they would make it.

  “I need you to cut four strips of tape to hold the gauze in place,” the doctor ordered.

  Jeremy fumbled to execute the task. But before he could finish, Eli’s chest started heaving.

  “He’s having a heart attack,” Avi said, sounding just as composed. “Secure the tape while I start CPR.”

  With extreme effort, Jeremy contained his growing sense of panic. It seemed as though they had gone through their allotment of good luck.

  Avi placed the heel of his hand on Eli’s sternum. He placed his other hand on top of the one on the sternum, and with straight arms, he began a series of compressions.

  Jeremy observed the old man’s face. Eli was staring at him with eyes that looked pleading. Jeremy didn’t know what to make of it or how to respond. As the seconds passed, Eli’s expression became more insistent. His eyes gleamed with energy. He took Jeremy’s hand and squeezed with unexpected strength. Then he released his grip. And Jeremy understood.

  After thirty compressions, Avi placed a hand on Eli’s forehead and pinched his nose. With his other hand, he lifted Eli’s chin. Avi put his own mouth over Eli’s and blew twice.

  Back to chest compressions. Then mouth-to-mouth again. Jeremy searched Eli’s face for the slightest sign of recovery. Avi continued his rotation, the sweat dripping from his forehead. Two sequences, then three. The fourth was his last.

  With his hands joined on Eli’s chest, Avi stopped his thrusting. The doctor remained motionless for a second, then slumped and took his head in his hands. Numb, Jeremy watched as Avi began to weep. Unable to look at him any longer, Jeremy stood up and turned away. He ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes misty, he peered at the heavens. The ground was swaying under his feet. Dozens—no, hundreds—of conflicting thoughts were colliding in his head.

  In stark contrast to Avi’s sobs, the birds were chirping wildly in what sounded like celebration. They had reclaimed their turf in the sky.

  “Boys, we got lu...”

  Jackie stopped when she spotted Jeremy. Her smile faded. Tears rolling down his cheeks, Jeremy rushed to meet her. He took Jackie in his arms and held her tight.

  “No,” she whispered, tearing herself from his hold.

  Seeing Eli, she fell to her knees beside Avi. Jeremy joined them without uttering a word. Jackie caressed the old man’s forehead. He had died in what seemed like excruciating spasms, but now he was peaceful, at rest. Pain, it appeared, was only for the living.

  Jeremy, Avi, and Jackie remained huddled around Eli’s lifeless body for some time. When he heard a twig snap behind him, Jeremy looked over his shoulder. Frozen in his tracks, Eytan was standing mute a few feet away.

  Jeremy, the reader and bookseller, found himself struggling to find the right words. Soothing, comforting words. He searched Jackie’s face, hoping she would know what to say. She couldn’t find the words either. They didn’t exist.

  The three of them rose to their feet and joined Eytan. Jeremy could see all the emotions of a man whose walls were crumbling. And even though the man wasn’t shedding a tear, he could recognize the aching father and abandoned son in his eyes.

  Chapter 48

  Washington, D.C., one week later

  The odor of cooking oil and grease invaded the foodie’s nostrils. The only vegetables that this establishment offered were the tomatoes and iceberg lettuce that garnished the burgers dumped on the tables with mugs of beer. Truck drivers and construction workers made up the clientele at this pit stop off I-95, just south of the Beltway. The décor consisted of old rural landscapes in plastic frames. Complementing the artwork were the country hits blaring from the loudspeakers.

  Simon Attali was seated in front of a meager salad of the same tomatoes and lettuce that went with the burgers. Although salads weren’t on the menu, he had talked the manager into having the cook throw the vegetables in a bowl. And the cook had succeeded in scaring up a packet of Italian dressing to go with it.

  The United States would never cease to amaze the master spy. Americans liked to think of themselves as the glamorous leaders of the free world. But this restaurant was another side of the country. In truth, America was a colorful hodgepodge of wealth and poverty, English and multiple other languages, many faiths, healthy athletes and young adults who shot up heroin, optimism and cynicism. And without a doubt, the American dream, so obtainable just a decade ago, had taken a hit, except for those born with a silver spoon in their mouths. One of those people was the pudgy man in the black raincoat who had just entered this dive.

  Attali watched the man, whom he silently called Mr. Potato Head at the occasional Mossad meetings that concerned the pathetic loser. He was walking toward him with the awkward smile often exhibited by the well-off when they found themselves in surroundings that didn’t meet their criteria. Of all the jackasses who haunted the White House and Pentagon hallways, he had to be the one heading the case that had brought him to the United States.

  Travis Lamont pulled back the chair across from Attali and sat his flabby ass down.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he apologized. “I couldn’t break away, and then the beltway traffic was miserable. But I don’t need to tell you about the beltway. You’ve had some experience with it. So here we are. How’s it going, my man?”

  How’s it going, my man? Did they offer courses in Washington on how to be ingratiating and hip at the same time? Attali could see right through Lamont’s attempt to create an artificial rapport. Idiots who fell into this trap would bitterly regret it. But Attali had a trick or two of his own, and now he was using one that Eytan Morg had taught him when he joined the intelligence service.

  “Play the fool. No one ever suspects the fool,” the assassin had advised him. And Eytan was a master in the art of passing himself off as a dumb jock.

  It was time to respond.

  “Oh, same as you, I’m sure,” Attali said. “Always hustling to get some politician out of a mess that he’s made.”

  “Tell me about it,” Lamont snickered. “Right now I’m stuck with one who’d rather drop his pants in front of secretaries than write up reports, which the government pays him a pretty penny to do.”

  “I trust you’ll use your typical discretion to fix the situation.”

  “You know me too well,” the potbellied government worker laughed as he pointed a playful finger at Attali. “Let’s say I have some photos, and in exchange for keeping them a secret, I’ve made a new friend. In a vultures nest the size of DC, it’s important to have friends.”

  Attali tried to keep himself from showing his scorn.

  “True, friends are important, but also fickle,” he said, slapping the thick file beside his plate.

  “The purpose of your visit?” Lamont questioned as he looked ravenously at the document with a red cover.

  “This? No, this is a gift, a token of goodwill.”

  “Simon, you’re something else. You know what a kid I become when I’m presented with a pile of candy.”

  “If I were you, I’d limit my sugar intake,” the Israeli joked. “Speaking of which, you don’t have diabetes, do you?”

  “I don’t like it when people make fun of my weight,” Lamont said, offended. “It’s not very nice.”


  “I’m not making fun of you. I’m worried about your health, especially in light of some information I acquired a few days ago.”

  “I’m touched by your concern, but I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

  “Did you know that nearly 2.5 million diabetics in the United States suffer foot ulcers and that as many as five percent of them will have to undergo leg amputations?”

  Lamont ran his fingers through his hair. Attali was clearly making him nervous.

  “No, I had absolutely no idea.

  “Fortunately, they make miraculous prosthetics these days,” Attali continued. “I learned this recently, and I’ve been finding out more about these devices.”

  Travis Lamont’s smile disappeared. His shell was cracking, and Attali was reveling in it. His hatred for this man had reached a new high after he had gotten Avi Lafner’s detailed report, accompanied by the doctor’s resignation.

  “Don’t beat around the bush,” the White House envoy said, plainly angry.

  “Sending the hounds after Eytan Morgenstern? That was not a good idea!” Attali declared, shaking his head. “And all for what? To enhance the performance of soldiers that you yourself mutilated?”

  “What? That we mutilated? I had no idea!” Lamont shouted, placing a hand over his heart. He calmed down and adopted a conspiratorial tone.

  “It was one general who devised the whole scheme behind our backs. I swear! All I did was attend a Pentagon meeting.”

  “A meeting in which you decided to track and kill Titus Bramble.”

  “No!” Lamont rose up. “That was not my decision.”

  “No need to lose your temper. I believe you, Travis. I just hope the media believe you.”

  Lamont was pale and fidgeting in his chair.

  “You don’t plan to... Come on, Simon. We’ve been friends forever. I must have two or three things that would interest your government.”