The Last Man

by P. T. Deutermann

  The road darkened as they headed up the long climb to Jerusalem. A lone taxi followed, one discreet kilometer behind.

  18

  Yosef Ellerstein was unpacking after his overnight trip to Amman when the phone rang. He looked at his watch. Ten thirty. Late for phone calls.

  “Hello, yes?”

  “Professor Ellerstein,” a raspy voice whispered. “I apologize for the late call.”

  “Who is this, please?”

  “This is Colonel Malyuta Lukyanovitch Skuratov. I am the chief of security at Dimona. Would it be possible for me to stop by for a few minutes?”

  Skuratov! Ellerstein thought. He didn’t like this at all. “Well, Colonel … Skuratov, is it? It is very late. Perhaps in my office?”

  “I am close by, Professor. Actually in the neighborhood. It won’t take but a few minutes, and it is rather urgent, I’m afraid.” Ellerstein put a hand over the mouthpiece and looked through the curtain of his front window. A large Mercedes was double-parked in front of his two-story apartment building. A white-faced figure was barely visible in the right rear window, raising a black-gloved hand at him.

  “Well—”

  “Thank you, Professor. I’ll be right up.”

  Ellerstein put down the phone and saw that his hand was trembling. How should he handle this? Had Skuratov found out his attachment to Shabak? If so—what? He heard footsteps coming up the stairs outside. More than one person was coming. He stepped into his bedroom, brushed his hair, and put on a dressing gown over his trousers. The doorbell rang.

  He went to the front door and peered through the peephole. There were three men outside. Skuratov he recognized from his own time at Dimona; one did not forget that face and the strange hat. The other two looked like bodyguards. He unlocked the door and opened it. Skuratov offered a gloved hand.

  “Professor Ellerstein. We meet again.”

  “Yes, Colonel. Chess, wasn’t it? Come in.”

  The two large men remained outside as Skuratov came through, trailing a faintly medicinal smell. He was a head taller than Ellerstein, but stooped and walking with an effort. He was wearing a dark suit. He took off his hat and proceeded directly to one of the two leather armchairs in the living room, where he sat down with a sigh of relief. He did not unbutton his suit jacket, and it hung in limp folds from his thin chest.

  “May I get you something—a cognac, perhaps?” Ellerstein asked. He recognized that he was stalling for time but wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just that ghastly face.

  The colonel stared up at him with those unusual gray eyes. “A cognac would be very kind,” he said, touching his lips with a handkerchief.

  Ellerstein went to the bar and poured two snifters of VSOP. He handed one to the colonel, gave a small salud, then sat down.

  “So, Colonel Skuratov?”

  “This concerns an American engineer, one David Hall, who is visiting Israel just now.”

  “Ah, yes,” Ellerstein replied, sipping his cognac. He decided to say as little as possible. Israel Gulder was going to sit right up when he called this little visit in.

  “It is my understanding that you have met with this American and helped him to arrange his trip down to Metsadá. Along with Professor Ressner.”

  “Yes, I did. At the request of the ministry. May I ask, Colonel—of what interest this is to the security apparatus at Dimona?”

  “No, you may not,” Skuratov said, keeping the twisted smile on his face, the smile that did not quite reach those gray eyes. He took a birdlike sip of cognac. “Forgive my bad manners, Professor. What I meant is, of course you would ask, but I am not at liberty to make an answer. Tell me something: Did the American tell you much about himself?”

  Ellerstein considered the question. He had to be careful here. What had Gulder said—piece of cake? He did not want to become Skuratov’s piece of cake.

  “We had drinks, once, no, twice. He said he was a nuclear engineer and that he had worked both in industry and for the government.”

  Skuratov took another small sip of cognac. “Did he tell you about a scandal he precipitated in Washington?”

  “He said he’d gotten into trouble with his company for being a whistle-blower.”

  “Yes. A whistle-blower. Such a quaint expression. Did he explain what it was that he was blowing his whistle at?”

  Ellerstein sat back in his chair. “Not really,” he said. “Or if he did, I wasn’t paying much attention. He did say his company fired him and then there was a lawsuit. Now, as I understand it, he no longer needs to work for money.”

  “Now he is here. This man who does not need a job anymore.”

  “Well, what of it, Colonel?”

  Skuratov put down his glass. “Here’s the thing, Professor,” he said. “We think there is a chance that this American is, how to put this … connected? That he is involved in the American intelligence apparatus somehow. They do that, their CIA. They have what they call … consultants.”

  Skuratov was looking at him intently. It took everything Ellerstein had to keep his face impassive.

  “So?” he asked. Consultant. He wanted to swallow but did not want Skuratov to see him do that.

  The colonel blinked once, twice, and then changed gears. “Are you aware that the American and Mrs. Ressner are seeing each other?”

  This time Ellerstein let surprise register on his face. “Really? I would have thought she was still angry with him. How do you know this?”

  “Let’s just say it’s my business to know. Frankly, Professor, we are worried about this American. These are delicate times in our relationship with the United States. There are seismic shifts occurring in the balances of power here in the Middle East, and our own nuclear deterrent is a factor in those balances. We find his Metsadá quest somewhat unbelievable, and therefore we are asking ourselves what his real purpose for being here is.”

  Ellerstein shrugged again and drank his cognac. The professional spooks always assumed the royal “we” when they were fishing for information. He decided to probe a little. “You think David Hall is a spy?” he asked. “If he is a spy, what the hell is the connection between Metsadá and Dimona security, if I may ask. Oh, sorry, I forgot.”

  Again, the smile that was not a smile. “He went out at night, yes? Twice?”

  “Up to the fortress, yes.”

  “How does anyone know that, Professor? The up-to-the-fortress part, I mean?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Dimona is only forty kilometers from Metsadá, Professor.”

  “So, what? He drove down to Dimona in the middle of the night? And did what? Did someone find a vehicle? Did he take pictures—better picture than their satellites can take? I rather doubt that, Colonel.”

  Skuratov continued to stare at him, as if he were some kind of specimen under a microscope. Then he put down his glass. “You are close to Professor Ressner, yes?” he asked, changing tack again.

  Ellerstein felt another tingle of alarm. “Yes, she is a good friend. I have helped her at the university.”

  “I think you can help us, Professor. It is like this: We would like you to keep an eye on Mrs. Ressner for as long as she is seeing this American. Oh, I don’t mean chaperone them or anything like that, but see if you can find out what they talk about, what questions he asks, if any, especially about Dimona. That sort of thing.”

  Ellerstein shook his head in wonder. This was exactly what Gulder wanted him to do: keep an eye on Yehudit Ressner. “Look,” he said. “I can arrange to see her often enough. I can even make a casual inquiry about the American, but beyond that, well, you don’t know her. I can’t just pry like that.”

  Skuratov heaved himself to his feet, grunting with the effort. “That would be sufficient, Professor. You know how we security people are—professionally paranoid. The American may be exactly what he says he is. A fool for history. However, if she has doubts? Concerns? Anything about his behavior? These are things I need to know, and quickly. There is much I
cannot tell you, of course.”

  There always was, Ellerstein thought as Skuratov handed him a card. “We ask these things as a favor to the government, Professor. We don’t want you playing spy or counterspy. We’d just like some informal feedback. Information. That’s the key. Pieces to a puzzle.”

  The colonel was smiling again. For some reason, Ellerstein couldn’t resist. “Like a distant consultant, then, Colonel?”

  Skuratov’s smile held in place. “Exactly, Professor. Like a consultant.”

  * * *

  Once Skuratov and his bodyguards had left, Ellerstein poured himself another cognac. He shouldn’t have said that, he thought. He sat down to call Gulder but then wondered if his phones were tapped. Skuratov had watchers on Yehudit and the American, Hall. He could be watching Ellerstein as well. Or listening.

  Gulder already knew that the colonel was watching Ressner and the American, so he would call Gulder in the morning, from a random office phone at the university, and tell him about Skuratov’s nocturnal visit. On the face of it, he could see why Skuratov had come to see him. Then again, it could also mean that the old Russian sensed movement in his backfield, and perhaps suspected that the government might be aware of the new Zealots. He might even suspect that Yossi Ellerstein was a government agent himself. What better way to neutralize him than by enlisting his support? Ellerstein was in no position to say no to Skuratov without revealing his own mission. Even the government did not know the breadth and depth of this new conspiracy. Or did they?

  He sipped his cognac. Wheels within wheels here, he thought. Or maybe more like a bunch of scorpions in a bottle. Then he wondered how he was supposed to sleep tonight, and, more importantly, how he was going to protect Yehudit Ressner.

  * * *

  As the big Mercedes pulled out of Ellerstein’s neighborhood, Skuratov placed a secure call. The ringing stopped, encryption tones synchronized, and then a voice answered.

  “Shapiro.”

  “Ellerstein was evasive. We need to do something.”

  “Your orders?”

  “Scare the American. Scare him hard. Make him want to go home.”

  “Got it.”

  The connection was terminated, and Skuratov sat back in his seat. He needed to think.

  “Drive around,” he told his driver. “Anywhere there’s no traffic.”

  19

  After the second dive on Tuesday morning, David completed his logistical arrangements, including getting his hands on the two extra air tanks. Now, having invited Judith to go with him to Caesarea, he couldn’t disappear on Wednesday as originally planned. It would have to be a Thursday getaway unless there was some convenient way of getting her out of the picture right after the dive tomorrow morning. He would have to postpone the run down to Masada until the following afternoon. The good news was that if there was still security on his tail, it gave him another day. His hooking up with Judith ought to make a pretty good argument for calling off the dogs. He was still trying to figure out why a security officer connected to Israel’s atomic power facility would be interested in his visits to Masada, though. The scandal in Washington? That was a reach.

  He had booked the rental Land Rover for Wednesday. He told the agency he would pay for it even if he didn’t pick it up until Thursday. The camping gear had been a simpler matter, and now he had everything he would need on the mountain stashed in his hotel room closet, including four filled air tanks. The agency didn’t seem to care one way or another, as long as they had that Amex card.

  After making the morning dive, he had spent some time wandering over the landward remains of Caesarea Maritima, marveling at the twin aqueducts that rose out of the dunes and marched across the beaches to the crumbling Crusader walls. He had walked around the now eerily silent, sun-drenched arena of Herod’s great hippodrome, trying to imagine the bloody spectacles played out on the now simmering sand. As he strolled through the ruins, he wondered about the wisdom of seeing Judith again. She had called to confirm the dive on Wednesday, agreeing to meet him at the hotel by eight that morning. Since he had a private dive guide set up, it didn’t really matter if they took some time to make sure Judith still knew which end of the regulator to breathe from before going out to explore the now submerged Roman seaport. He planned to have lunch with her after the dive and then get her back to town. That might still give him time to slip away and begin the expedition to Masada.

  As he thought about it, though, he realized that wasn’t likely. It didn’t really matter if the project slipped a day. Moreover, if he waited until Thursday to make his move back to the fortress, it would mean he would be diving into the cistern on Friday afternoon. Given that the Sabbath began Friday evening, the fortress would be empty of tourists and the site security guards for at least the next twenty-four if not thirty-six hours, which would significantly reduce the chances of his being caught.

  What was more important, he realized, was that he was not so willing to let this woman out of his sights just now. As he sat in his hotel room, what he really wanted to do was call her and invite her back to Tel Aviv for dinner again. Take another walk on the beach. This time go have that drink.

  Instead he went down to have dinner by himself in the hotel and then went back upstairs to recheck his dive calculations for the cistern. As he got ever closer to his objective, he couldn’t figure out why he felt like some kind of shit. Yes, you can, he admitted to himself.

  * * *

  David couldn’t remember a nicer diving day: The weather was perfect, the seas calm, the underwater light clear and bright, and the drowned ruins of a Roman-era seaport spectacular. Judith had had no problems with her dive gear or her quick refresher course, and David’s biggest problem now was keeping his eyes on the underwater scenery and not on the two heavenly bodies swimming ahead of him. Judith was in a peach-colored, clingy maillot, and the tour leader, a twenty-something beauty, could just as well have left her suit behind.

  With Herod’s colossal breakwater now in ruins on the seabed, there was a current running, strong enough to swirl the sand. Their little threesome was not the only group out there. There were single individuals and even larger groups, including a gaggle of snorkelers that created a moving shadow across the underwater area. Having already done the tour dive once, David had told the guide he might wander off the prescribed route of the underwater museum. She had been okay with that but told him not to get out of sight.

  As the two of them kicked down to look at the Roman shipwreck, David threaded his way between two tilting ashlars. The giant blocks of stone had been spilled onto the seafloor sometime in the first century A.D. by an earthquake, which had ended Caesarea’s usefulness as a protected seaport. David ran his hands over the surface of the stones, where one could still feel the marks of the chisels, even after nearly two thousand years underwater. How had they moved them onto the breakwater, he wondered. He’d learned earlier that the Romans had used a special hydraulic cement, made from volcanic ash from the fields beneath Vesuvius, to tie the blocks of stone together.

  He felt a slight pressure wave above him and looked up. Another diver was about fifteen feet overhead, swimming just over the tops of the ashlars. He was in a full wet suit, all black, and he appeared to be carrying something. David couldn’t see his face, but the man waved at him when David looked up. David waved back and went on with his exploration of what he was calling the ashlar canyon as he threaded his way between the cubes of stone littering the bottom. In some cases he had to make ninety-degree turns to make his way through the maze. As he was coming around one of these tight turns he felt something touch his neck. He stopped and tried to look to his left, but the stone face of the ashlar was too close.

  There was definitely something above him, something big enough to block out the ambient light.

  When he finally managed to turn his face he was startled to see a stainless steel cylinder, the size of a shotgun shell, pushing toward his neck. Just beyond the cylinder he found himself looking
into a face mask, and the dark eyes behind the mask looked like the eyes of Death himself.

  Before he could register his shock, another diver came through the tight channel between the huge stones going the other way and literally collided with David’s face mask. The diver was a largish woman who put up her hands defensively when she banged into David. At that instant, she looked up and behind David, giving him a full view of the expression on her face, which was suddenly one of total surprise, then fear. A large bubble escaped her mouthpiece as a black-suited arm reached over David’s head and pushed the cylinder on the end of the stick against the side of the woman’s face. There was a nasty thump and then the side of the woman’s head dissolved in a cloud of bone, blood, and a pink galaxy of bubbles.

  David recoiled down into the sand at the base of the stones, trying instinctively to turn upside down so he could defend himself. When he finally succeeded, he was face-to-face with the swimmer in the black wet suit. Then the other man reached down and clawed David’s face mask right off his head.

  David was blinded instantaneously by the sudden loss of his mask as he felt the man kick upward. Then he was gone. David caught just a blurry glimpse of a black swim fin disappearing over the top edge of the ashlar, some fifteen feet above him, pursued now by the expanding cloud of blood and bubbles streaming from the sagging, inert body in front of him.

  David’s head began to pound, reminding him to suck in a deep breath from his mouthpiece, and then a couple more. He was still trying to comprehend what he’d just witnessed. He could breathe, although the saltwater was stinging his eyes. He knew what that stick was—it was called a bang-stick, used normally as a last line of defense against an attacking shark. Two to three feet long with a 12-gauge shotgun shell contained in a small, waterproof power head at one end. You made sure the head was in solid contact with the shark and then you fired it. Then you got the hell out of there before his buddies showed up for lunch.