City of Knives

by William Bayer

  Hank was still skeptical. It sounded like hocus-pocus, the way the kids use the conch shell in Lord of the Flies.

  "How do you know all this?"

  "We've been watching them for years. We knew about the Göring cult. They commissioned a portrait of him ten years ago. We also knew the dagger was here, but until recently we didn't understand its significance, or that the leader kept possession of it, or even who the current leader was. This past year we mounted a penetration operation which yielded a lot of information. But then the officer who ran the operation was identified, and he and an operative were tortured and killed."

  "When did this happen?"

  "Month and a half ago."

  "You approached me four months ago at MAX."

  She nodded. "Even back then we had in mind a role for you, or someone like you who could get hold of their dagger."

  "Which you heard about from Max Rosenfeld?"

  She nodded again. "When Señora Pedraza brought it into him for appraisal, he recognized it, photographed it and handed over the photographs to a friend at our embassy. When, later, we learned the Señora needed money because she was contemplating a divorce, we developed a plan to pay her to help us steal it. The purpose was to discredit Pedraza by sticking him with its disappearance. But after our officer was murdered, we developed a second plan, far more ambitious and complex."

  "Why so devious with me, Marci? Why the phony story about the Korean maid?"

  "Luis' mistake."

  "Is his name really Luis?"

  She smiled. "Come on, Hank! Real names don't matter. Luis came up with the maid. He figured if you heard the dagger story from her, you'd be more likely to buy into it. But he forgot that the more you complicate things, the more likely they are to fall apart. Also he underestimated you. He figured anyone who dealt in Nazi daggers had to be a jerk."

  "You knew better?"

  "Of course! I liked you and respected you. And, whether you believe this or not, I very much enjoyed making love with you."

  Hank glanced behind to see if anyone was following. He didn't spot DiPinto or Laura, just more joggers crossing the street and several well-dressed women carrying shopping bags bearing the logos of expensive shops.

  "Lovely of you to say that, Marci, but I'm beyond the point of caring."

  "I understand."

  He stopped beneath a street lamp, moved close to her so he could look into her eyes. "Do you?" he asked. "Do you really? Do you have any idea what it feels like to be played for a fool?"

  "I didn't mean—"

  "Sure you did."

  The light gave her face a ghostly appearance.

  "Look," she said, "that's my job, to play people. Which doesn't mean I don't care about them or forget that they're also human beings."

  "Pretty thoughts." Hank spoke scornfully, wanting her to feel the full force of his contempt.

  "I want you to meet somebody," she said, pulling out her cell phone and rapidly punching in a number. Not bothering to move away from him, she spoke quickly in Hebrew. He didn't understand a word. When she was done she snapped her phone shut. "My friend's waiting for us. We'll walk this way."

  She led him across the intersection with Avenida 9 de Julio. "Let's turn here," she said, as they approached Arroyo. "I want to show you something down the street."

  He shrugged, followed her to a point where the street curved at the end of the block. Here they came upon a one-man guardhouse set up before a chain link fence. Inside the fence was a small trapezoid-shaped park. Marci stopped.

  "This was the site of the Israeli Embassy, blown up by a terrorist car bomb in 1992. Twenty-nine people were killed, many more injured. Hezbollah executed the attack with the help of the Immaculates. This little park is the memorial."

  Hank had heard about the attack, but hadn't realized the site was so close to the Alvear.

  "A very sensitive memorial," he observed. "I'm not going to say I'm unmoved. But is this the point where I'm supposed to go all squishy inside and pledge myself to assist your operation?"

  "That you're genuinely moved is enough," she said.

  "What do you want of me, Marci?"

  "I want you to help us."

  "What's in it for me?"

  "What do you want, Hank? You'll get your thirty thousand."

  "Real money or counterfeit?"

  "Do you think we'd sink that low?"

  "What about Señora Pedraza—is she really going to get a hundred fifty thousand cash?"

  Marci nodded. "That's what she's going to get."

  "You must expect a lot in return."

  "We do."

  "I sincerely hope you get it. As for me there's only one thing I want out of this...assuming I agree to help."

  "The dagger."

  He nodded. "The real one, not the replica."

  As they walked on, into the neighborhood called Retiro, he wondered where she would lead him next.

  "May I propose something?" she asked, as they started across the elegant Plaza Libertador General San Martín.

  "Sure, propose."

  "I bought a lot of stuff at MAX. When we're done here, all of it has to be sold off. The Göring dagger too. When this operation is finished we'll have no further use for it. Obviously we don't want it to fall into the wrong hands."

  "Obviously!"

  "Suppose you act as our agent—Hank sell everything on our behalf? At your regular commission, of course. If you manage to sell the dagger for a million, that'll earn you a hundred thousand free and clear. Plus you'll have your promised thirty thousand, and ten percent of whatever you can get for the rest." She looked at him. "Not bad pay, huh?"

  "No, not bad. Will you put it in writing?"

  "I'll have to clear it with my superiors first."

  "So this is just a speculative proposal?"

  "I'm serious, Hank. It makes sense to me. I think it'll make sense to them too. We're at a crucial stage now where we very much need your help. I happen to think you're entitled to something substantial in return." She paused in the center of the park, turned to him. "Can I tell them you'll go along?"

  A dejected homeless man sat on a park bench nearby, surrounded by polyurethane garbage bags. A shoeshine boy approached, implored Hank to let him polish his shoes. Marci handed the boy some coins, then waved him away.

  "Showing all your cards like this, Marci—you're not much of a poker player."

  "This isn't a poker game, Hank. It's what you told me you wanted—a one hundred percent honest conversation."

  "What do I have to do in return?"

  "Complete the sale and exchange with Señora Pedraza."

  "That's it?"

  "That's it."

  It was a very good offer, he knew. But he still had questions and was angry about the devious way he'd been treated.

  "Why didn't you explain everything in the first place?"

  "I couldn't. This is a highly classified operation."

  "Why not have one of your own people play the dealer role?"

  "To bring this off we felt we needed the real thing."

  "Who's Mr. G?"

  "Another member of the team."

  "Luisa Kim?"

  "An acting student. She does odd jobs for us on contract."

  "Laura?"

  "Another team member."

  "Anyone else?"

  "I can't tell you that."

  They started walking again.

  "You needed me for far more than buying that dagger." He told her. "You were also setting me up."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "I was seen meeting with Señora Pedraza in the Alvear bar. I'm sure you have pictures of us together and tape of us talking in my room. If she's ever questioned about the dagger—who bought it, who has it—she'll give my name. Then the Immaculates, or the Crocodiles, or whatever the hell they call themselves, will hunt me down. Also, if something goes wrong and your operation has to be abandoned, I'll be the one left holding the bag. That's what I'm really here
for, isn't it—to take the rap? To be the schmuck."

  Marci smiled.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Schmuck is the Yiddish word for penis."

  "So I'm a dickhead. Listen, you say you need my expertise. Why, Marci? What do you care whether Pedraza's dagger is real? You're not collecting Third Reich militaria. This all has to do with the replica, doesn't it? You want to plant the replica with Pedraza. Come clean, tell me the plan. Otherwise I won't play along."

  They'd crossed the park, now stood in front of a stunning art deco skyscraper.

  "A friend of mine lives here," Marci told him. "She's expecting us."

  On their way up to the thirtieth floor, she told him the building was called the Kavanagh, in its era the tallest structure in South America.

  "Kind of run down now, but it was magnificent in its day."

  "I keep hearing that down here," he said. "It seems to be the local refrain."

  Inside the apartment, Hank met Marci's friend, a strikingly intense woman in her forties with short dark hair and dark glowing eyes. Marci introduced her as Shoshana Rifkind, then the two women embraced. After they exchanged a few words in Hebrew, Marci told Hank that Shoshana would show him a videotape while she reserved a new room for him at the Mariott Plaza next door and arranged for his bags to be brought over from the Alvear.

  Shoshana guided him into her living room which overlooked the city. From here Buenos Aires appeared an endless grid sparkling with a million points of light.

  Shoshana's tape was a compilation of footage documenting the neo-fascist movement in Argentina: fire and wreckage after the explosion at the Israeli Embassy; more of the same after the devastating AMIA bombing; a montage of images of Argentine anti-Semitic tracts and virulent Argentine neo-Nazi websites; documentation of Hezbollah penetration of the "three borders" area, and the collusion between Middle-Eastern terrorist groups and elements in the Argentine army and police. This material was intercut with interviews with journalists and human rights observers concerning the rise of Argentine neo-fascism as well as an interview with a lawyer who accused a former Argentine President of taking a ten million dollar bribe in exchange for dead-ending the investigation of the anti-Jewish bombings.

  "We want you to understand what we're fighting against here," Shoshana said when the video was finished. "Why we care so much."

  Hank recognized her presentation as an emotion-laden dose of propaganda. He also found it convincing. He had no doubt that sectors of the government were riddled with neo-Nazis, and that Argentine Jews had good reason to feel threatened. Many, Shoshana told him, had emigrated to Israel, but the Jewish community of Buenos Aires was still substantial, the fourth largest in the Western Hemisphere.

  After the video, Marci reappeared.

  "Your friend here knows how to work a guy over," Hank told her.

  Marci nodded. "How do you feel about what she showed you?"

  "How am I supposed to feel? It's frightening, of course."

  "But—?"

  "I have to ask myself—why do you want to show me this?"

  "Why do you think?"

  "Maybe to make me, a guy who earns his living dealing in Third Reich militaria, see the error of his ways."

  "Do you see the error, Hank?"

  He shrugged. "There's a big difference between endorsing Nazi policies and dealing in Nazi-era artifacts."

  "The symbolism's the same. All those swastikas. It's too glib, Hank, to draw a distinction, and too easy to blind yourself to what those artifacts represent."

  He shook his head. "I guess I'm supposed to feel guilty now and seek redemption by assisting with your operation."

  "Will you?"

  "You still have to explain my fall-guy role in this."

  "I'll let Shoshana do that," Marci said.

  Shoshana began to pace the room.

  "Over forty years ago we kidnapped Eichmann here," she told him. "The Argentines still haven't forgiven us for that. We can't afford to take another such rap. So, yes, you were to be the fall guy if things went wrong. Blame it on the American. But you were not meant to take the fall if Pedraza found out his wife sold his dagger. In the first place, she'd never own up to it. That would amount to sentencing herself to death. Second, when we're done fixing up the replica, Pedraza will never know the daggers were exchanged."

  "We're sending it and your photographs out by courier tonight," Marci said. "Our artisans will fix it up, add three grams and make it indistinguishable."

  Hank looked from one to the other. "Let me see if I've got this right: One morning a woman walks into a Buenos Aires jewelry store with a dagger, and from that little encounter, you've created this huge elaborate scheme."

  "Yeah, that's about right."

  "Amazing!"

  "In a way I guess it is," Shoshana agreed.

  "You still haven't explained the point of it all."

  Marci glanced at Shoshana, they exchanged a look, then Shoshana shrugged.

  "There'll be a tracking device inside the replica," Marci told him. "That way we can follow Pedraza to his meetings."

  "You can plant a tracking device on his car. There has to be more to it."

  "There's also a microphone. When people in the leadership group meet, we'll be able to hear everything they say."

  Hank scoffed. "Still doesn't seem like enough."

  "It's more than enough!" Shoshana said. "There's an economic crisis here, the kind of crisis that's catnip for fascists, just the kind of environment in which Mussolini and Hitler came to power. Fascism is always based on nationalism combined with some form of hatred of 'the other.' In my view, the human race is hard-wired for fascism. It evokes a response from something deeply flawed in human nature. That's why we Israelis are always on guard. We know that wherever Jews are threatened, the seeds of fascism will be found."

  She leaned forward. "For a long time those seeds have been sprouting in Argentina. There's an important politician, a serious presidential contender, with close ties to Pedraza's group. If we can expose that connection, we can stop any chance of his being elected. But we need solid evidence such as a tape recording of an Immaculates meeting where that relationship is discussed."

  Marci looked at Hank. "You're right—planting the replica on Pedraza is the point of the exercise. As Shoshana explained, for us there's a great deal at stake. Which is one reason we're not going to endanger the operation by paying Señora Pedraza with counterfeit dollars."

  Marci stood. "Your new room's ready. By now your stuff's arrived. Let's get you set up over at the Marriott, then grab some dinner."

  She spoke to Shoshana in Hebrew, then embraced her. Shoshana gravely shook Hank's hand.

  "You're a very effective advocate," Hank told her.

  For the first time since they'd been introduced, Shoshana showed him a tight little smile.

  Back on the street, Hank turned to Marci. The night air was thicker now, carrying the aroma of the Río de la Plata.

  "So this operation's about planting a microphone with Pedraza's group so you can track their political connections."

  "And identify all the players."

  "Why?"

  "So we can deal with them. They're dangerous. They've had our people killed."

  "Please tell me something, Marci—what does 'so we can deal with them' really mean?"

  "That, Hank, you don't want to know."

  He studied her. It was time to get a few things straight.

  "Why did you call me when I was in transit in Miami? What was that warning about 'unsavory characters' supposed to be about?"

  "Believe it or not, I was worried for you?"

  "You recruit me, prep me to be set up, then worry?"

  "It's true."

  He shrugged. "Here's my final question: Did you or your people have anything to do with robbing my stuff in Pittsburgh to soften me up for your approach?"

  She stared directly into his eyes. "Absolutely not, Hank! I swear to it! Never, never, never!"

>   He believed her, perhaps because of the forceful way she replied or because he couldn't bear to think she'd been involved. He knew he still had little cause to trust her...but he couldn't help himself, he did.

  They engaged in numerous activities over the next several days, but the main one, the one that would be forever etched upon his memory, was fucking.

  They screwed over every piece of furniture in his new hotel room: the bed of course, the couch, the easy chairs, as well as on the carpet and against the walls. They made love at all times of day and night in different modes—violent couplings; soft affectionate entanglements; breathtakingly slow tantric copulations. At every opportunity they felt, tasted, stroked, caressed, licked, sniffed and imbibed one another till they lay exhausted in each other's arms. And all the while, between affectionate mutterings, he expressed to her his mistrust.

  "Is this part of the plan?" he asked, after a particularly tempestuous bout.

  "Fucking's always an option," she replied, amused.

  "You're awfully good at it. Did they teach you this at the Mossad training academy?"

  She giggled. "I believe it's more or less instinctive."

  "How can I ever trust you?" he asked on the third day as she nestled in his arms. "How can I be sure you won't betray me?"

  "Because now you know too much." She kissed him. "I've told you everything. Sure, we can clean things up here if we must, but we won't be able to fully erase the trail."

  "So I'll be believed. I suppose that's comforting." He stroked her breast. "Why expose yourself to me like this?"

  "Why not?" she asked, fondling him. "And, by the way, how do I know you're really going to come through for us?"

  As expected, Señora Pedraza phoned. When Hank's cell phone rang, he was walking with Marci on Calle Florida, past a crippled child begging for coins.

  The Señora told him that after giving some thought to their transaction, she'd concluded that two hundred thousand dollars was the correct price for the dagger. When Hank told her the price would be one hundred fifty thousand, she asked for one hundred eighty, and, when he again refused, for one hundred sixty-five.

  "No," he told her. "I'm the only legitimate buyer in town and I'm the only one with a replica. So it's a hundred fifty or nothing. Take it or leave it."