by Arno Joubert
September 7, 1992.
Jaffa, Israel.
Zachary Cohen wiped cold beads of perspiration from his brow. He pulled the needle from his vein, loosened the tourniquet, and sat back with a sigh. He put the lighter, a small bag of meth crystals, and hypodermic needle in a tin and tossed them in the glove compartment. Zachary rolled down his shirtsleeve and grabbed his leather jacket from the passenger seat of the car.
He flipped the rearview mirror down toward him and looked at the reflection. A pale, gaunt face stared back at him, dark circles underneath the eyes accentuating the ashen skin. He brushed his curly black hair with his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and prepared himself mentally.
Zachary got out of the car and strolled toward the entrance gate of a neat, whitewashed villa. A white-pebbled pathway led to the front door.
Some weeds had appeared between the white stones. Brambles sprouted in one of the flower beds. He bent down and tore them out halfheartedly, leaving the roots behind. This annoyed him intensely. He started clawing at the embedded tubers, gouging the earth with his thumb. He stomped on the small hole he had made and cursed as a dizzy spell gripped him. He shook off a meth shiver and steadied himself against the gate, regaining his balance.
Fucking symbolic of everything my life has become. Why would she want to stay here?
He opened the gate and crunched up the pathway toward the two-story home. His home. Rang the doorbell, two long buzzes and a short one as he always did when returning. He turned around and sauntered into the garden, inhaling the heady odor of the sweet alyssum blooming in the unkempt flowerbeds. Zach experienced another pang of guilt.
I should be here.
The front door flew open and Becky came bounding down the stairs, an expression of pure joy on her face. She swung a small backpack in her hand. She buzzed toward him and launched herself into his arms with a young child’s exuberance. He grabbed her and tossed her into the air, catching her gently. She giggled delightedly. Zach put her down, pouted his lips, and tapped them with his finger. “Give daddy a kiss.”
Becky planted a kiss onto his mouth and hugged his neck, her lips to his ear.
“I missed you, Daddy. Come on, let’s go,” she said bouncing up and down excitedly.
Sarah appeared in the doorway in a wheelchair, hugging her arms insecurely.
“I missed you too, my baby. I want to say hi to Mommy first, OK?”
She nodded, her dark hair bouncing on her shoulders.
Zach climbed the stairs to the porch. Sarah was watching him, a mixture of tenderness and uncertainty on her face. He kissed her forehead and kneeled next to her.
“You’ve been gone for a long time, Zachary,” she said and cupped his chin. “Is everything OK?”
He nodded.
“You’re a good man, Zachary.” She hesitated. “That man said things about you—“
He stood up. “I cannot get into that now, Sarah.”
“It still doesn’t change who you are,” she said and pursed her lips. “Who you are to me.”
He breathed deeply then squeezed her shoulder. “I miss you.”
“So why don’t you come back? Nothing has changed. You need to stop beating yourself up like this. This wasn’t your fault,” she said, slapping her thigh to enunciate her last sentence.
Zachary threw his hands in the air. “Back? Come back here?” he hissed through gritted teeth. Becky looked at them with wide eyes.
He sighed and looked down at Sarah, his shoulders slumped. “I need to sort some things out first. You know that.” He stared at her, imploring Sarah to understand.
Rebecca was becoming restless. “Let’s go, Daddy. You promised, remember?”
He smiled at her. She had her mom’s long, dark hair.
“I remember, baby,” Zachary said, picking her up. He walked back to the car, threw Becky’s backpack onto the backseat, and fastened her into her car seat.
Sarah called to him. “Revenge won’t solve anything. Bruce is on this. He’ll get those bastards.” He saw her absentmindedly brush the scar on her neck.
“I know, Sarah,” he said wearily and waved her away. “I’ll see you later.”
Zach climbed into the car and relaxed. He took a deep breath and looked back at his daughter. “Let’s go to the zoo, baby.”
“Yay,” she shouted bouncing up and down in her chair, beaming her marvelously exaggerated “Becky smile.”
He put the car into gear and sped off without looking back.
This can't go on forever. He yearned to sleep in his own bed again. To hold his wife in his arms. But he wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Sarah rolled the wheelchair back into the house, shut the door behind her, and sat still for a moment. She straightened her dress and started sobbing, rocking back and forth in the wheelchair.
Yaya shuffled down the stairs. “He still doesn't want to come back?” she asked her daughter-in-law.
Sarah nodded, wiping tears from her eyes.
Yaya knelt next to her Sarah and embraced her. “He is like his father in that way. Once he puts his mind to something, he won't stop until he finishes.” She gave Sarah a hug. “It will all be OK, you'll see. Cohens are survivors; we always get through terrible situations like these.”
Sarah sobbed and nodded with pursed lips, trying to fight back the tears. “I know, Mom,” she whimpered and looked up, seeking solace from the gods she hoped were there. “I know.”
November 13, 1992
Jaffa, Israel
Rebecca's eyes flew open as a powerful hand clamped down over her mouth. A large man was looking down, sneering at her. He had a golden tooth and a toothpick in his mouth.
He had a blade strapped to his arm, but he didn’t have a hand. He dragged the blade across her neck. “I’m going to slit you like I slit your momma, little girl.”
Rebecca bit his hand and started to scream.
Sarah ground the cigarette into the ashtray then closed a photo album that she had been paging through and put it on the side table. She glanced at the flashing LCD clock on the VCR.
3:15 a.m.
She stood up wearily, scooped up the overflowing ashtray, and emptied it into the dustbin. She felt numb, emotionally drained.
The past month had been pure hell. She had to cope with almost losing her husband. Then the distance he had kept from her and her own physical pain. She knew that she needed to get her energy back, to be strong for the family. At least he had come back. She didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse.
She sighed then switched on the kettle and lit another cigarette. He was using drugs. He was impossible to live with. Yaya said it was the guilt; it was eating him up from the inside.
The staircase creaked and Zachary shuffled down, holding on to the handrail for balance. He cast her a furtive glance but said nothing.
“How are you?” she asked.
“You know,” he said and shrugged. “The sleeping pills helped for a couple of hours, but it’s tough.”
“We should take Bruce up on his offer. Get Becky out of here, somewhere safer.”
He shook his head. “I’m not giving up on my daughter, Sarah.” He glared at her. He looked like shit, unshaven, and he refused to sleep in their bed, preferring the one in the guest bedroom.
“He’s a good man, Zachary. He loves Rebecca like his own. And she is fond of him as well.”
The ceiling squeaked. They heard padded footsteps above them.
“Is she awake?” Sarah asked, surprised.
Zachary shook head. “She was asleep when I left her.” He turned around. “I’m going to bed.”
Sarah followed him as he ambled up the stairs. She peeked into Rebecca's room. A dark figure was hunched over her body, and then Rebecca started to scream.
Zach swung around, slipped, then ran into Rebecca’s room and leaped toward Rebecca's assailant. Sarah saw the flash before she heard the gunshot. Zachary groaned and fell to the floor, clutching his stomach. Another shot rang out and Sarah
dove down the stairwell, stumbling her way to the kitchen.
She rummaged in a drawer and found what she was looking for, then she spun around and started firing haphazardly up the stairs. She could hear the footsteps run away from her and then a crash as glass broke. A dull thump as the assailant landed in the garden outside, urgent footsteps as he ran down the blacktop, making a hasty escape.
Sarah bounded up the stairs. Rebecca was kneeling next to her father, her black hair forming a curtain in front of her face.
Sarah put her ear to Zachary's chest. He wasn’t breathing.
She rushed into Zachary’s study, her hand shaking as she dialed 102. The operator tried to calm her down and promised that an ambulance would be there in five minutes.
She slammed the phone down and dialed another number. After three rings, Bruce answered groggily. “Hello?”
“Oh God, Bruce. Help us! Please help us!” she screamed hysterically.
The doctor strode toward Sarah and looked at her helplessly, shaking his head.
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Cohen. We did all that we could do. He had massive blood loss. He had barely recovered from the previous attack.” He pursed his lips. “He was weak.”
Rebecca Cohen put her hands to her face. She sat down shakily and sobbed.
Bruce nodded solemnly and thanked the man.
The doctor left and ambled down the passage, out of sight. He entered his office and closed the door behind him, picked up a phone, and punched in a number.
“Hello?”
“Hello. This is Dr. Frankel.”
“How did they take the news?”
“His wife is distraught. Bawling her eyes out.”
“And they believed you?”
The doctor smiled. “Absolutely. I’ve had lots of practice.”
“And where is he now?”
“In an ambulance, on his way to you.”
“Condition?”
The doctor thought for a moment. “Not good. All that’s keeping him alive is the life support equipment.”
“Brain damage?”
“No, none. But he’s had massive renal failure. He’s not going to live through this.”
The voice chuckled. “We shall see about that Doctor, we shall see.”
Sarah called Bruce to the kitchen. “Are you sure she’ll be safe with you?” she asked nervously, pulling the belt around her gown.
Bruce nodded. “Both of you will.”
“So we’ll have to move to South Africa?” Sarah asked. “Leave everything behind?”
“Unfortunately, yes, Sarah. And I would like to adopt Rebecca as my own daughter, as another level of protection.” He shrugged. “Maybe change her name. Get as far away from this place as we can.”
“Where will we go?” she asked, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands.
“I have a game farm; you will be safe there.”
Sarah held her hands to her face and sobbed. She stood like this for a minute, her shoulders jerking, crying without making a sound. Then she pulled herself together and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “OK, I understand,” she said, sniffing. “This is the best for Becky.”
Bruce squeezed her shoulder. “This is the best for both of you. Who knows? Things could change, but now we need to get you two to safety.” He stuck out his hand. “Deal?”
Sarah nodded and they shook on it. “Deal.”
CHAPTER TWO
May, 2009
Camps Bay, Cape Town
Jordan held the spoon with the vile concoction out toward Natalie. “Come on, Nats, this Jell-O shot has your name on it.”
Natalie Bryden smiled at her twenty friends in front of her. The sun shone brightly on a glorious Cape Town afternoon. She was celebrating her twenty-second birthday, and her boyfriend, Jordan Harris, had arranged a pool party at his parents’ luxurious villa in Camps Bay, Cape Town. Reggae music blared from outdoor speakers and people splashed around in the pool, tossing a Frisbee and having fun. The crowd had become raucous as an alcoholic buzz fueled the frenzy.
Her friends stood in a semi-circle around her, chanting her name.
Natalie folded her arms. “You know I can't handle the heavy stuff. Couldn't I down a cider or something?"
“You have to celebrate, girl,” Jordan said, wiggling a spoonful of Jell-O in front of her nose.
She groaned and grabbed the spoon. The chanting became louder and Natalie swallowed a mouthful of the Jell-O.
“Hip hip hooray! One more, just one,” Jordan shouted.
“Ugh. Thanks, but no; the stuff is horrible,” Natalie said, pulling her face in disgust. “Gimme a cider.”
Her friends laughed and directed some friendly jibes her way. Jordan handed her a light beer, which she gratefully accepted, taking a large slug to get rid of the taste. She pulled him closer and gave him a hug. “Thanks for the party.”
“Speech, speech!” someone shouted, and the partygoers started clapping their hands rhythmically.
"OK, enough already.” Natalie brushed her dark hair back with her hand. "Guys, thank you all for coming to my party, and a special thanks to Jordan for persuading his parents to allow this bad girl and her friends into their lovely home.” She giggled. “Oh, and please leave everything as you found it."
"Not going to happen,” someone chimed from the crowd and everyone laughed.
"There's meat in the fridge and salads and rolls on the table. Could some of you handsome gentleman start the barbecues? I'm starving.” She winked at the men in the crowd. “A kiss to the best cook.”
Fires were lit, and a friendly squabble broke out between the young men and Jordan over who would win the competition. Natalie ambled to the kitchen to help with the preparations when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She dug it out of her jeans pocket and read the message.
“Happy Birthday, baby. You're a grownup now and you need to know you're in grave danger. Perreira and Callahan have been located. Phone conversation intercepted, 11:37 AM GMT+3. Map data at https://mos.isly.com. Love you, Becky. ZC.”
Natalie reread the message. She clicked the link and was directed to a Google map with a drop pin labeled “Perreira.” It zoomed into a location somewhere in Mozambique. Her head started spinning, and she sat down on a wooden deck chair, pulled up her knees to her chin, and hugged her legs. Memories flooded back. She was overwhelmed, nauseous, and scared. “How is this even possible?”
She dialed a number on her phone, but it went straight to voice mail. “Dad, when you hear this message, please phone me. I've received a text from Zachary.” She hesitated. “You said he was dead.” She blinked and swallowed hard. “Why would you lie to me?" she asked softly. She disconnected the call, closed her eyes, and rested her brow on the palm of her hand. Her heart thumped in her chest, and she felt the bile rise in her throat.
Jordan ambled toward her, a concerned look on his face.
Natalie took a few deep breaths and rocked on her heels. Her phone vibrated in her hand, and she read the new text message from Bruce.
“We need to talk.”
Jordan sat down by her side. “Are you OK, Nats?” he asked, concern etched on his face. He wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder.
Natalie pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, I’m not,” she said biting her lip. “Something strange is going on.”
Tel Aviv, Israel
Private First Class Yehudi Schweda opened the evening's operational plan. He was the shift leader at the Israeli Defense Force's computer operating center, also called “OPS.”
The night ahead was uneventful. Backups to be run, a biweekly payroll job for the nursing staff. He looked around at the brightly-lit room.
Nice, quiet evening.
He took a joint from his coat pocket and lit up, inhaling deeply.
He pulled open a drawer and took out a headlamp, switched it on, and tested the beam on his hand. He nodded and walked to the electric distribution board. The room went dark as Yehudi flipped off all
the breakers. He looked around. Red, green, and yellow lights were flashing on the tape devices, and a faint green glow radiated from the central consoles. Soft buzzing, whirring, and clicking noises emanated from the robotic tape libraries. Against a wall, a 42-inch LCD TV displayed the Israeli Defense Forces’ network diagram, a crisscross pattern of green lines connected to green blipping dots.
All green, all OK.
Yehudi took another drag and followed the headlamp beam to his chair. He sat in the chair, moved the public announcement system's mouthpiece closer, and switched the setting to “Ops” before switching off the headlamp.
"This is your captain speaking." His voice boomed through the darkened room. Yehudi smiled and took another drag. "We are embarking on a mission of epic proportions to annihilate the home world of the Klingons. Yes, yes, I know. It will be fraught with danger, but if any Starship is capable of completing the mission successfully, it is the Enterprise." He stood up and held the mouthpiece close, gesturing with a waving arm. "And though we may face imminent danger and life-threatening situations, you know you may always count on my sound judgment. Your captain, Yehudi Schweda.”
He started typing on the console and announced, “Captain's Log, new entry."
Yehudi logged into the Israeli Defense Force’s centralized messaging system called SYSM. He opened his own message box and started reading the posts. A new message had arrived some time earlier.
“Subject: Nightly Procedure Directive: Batch Job Scheduled
Job Type: Production Update to Backend
Name: Becky22
Scheduled: 23:15
Initiators Required: 2
Assembler: Cobol
Run time: 15 minutes
Media Required: Data tape ZC0168
Additional Instructions: Tape is found in cabinet C1, section 8. Unlock key ZCKalahari979. Run and forget, no need to report back on completion status.”
