Agent of Vengeance

by Scott M Neuman

  Joshua 74575 didn’t really mind the Jewish Sabbath. In fact, he found it a nice rest from the week’s back-breaking labor. Even if he was not allowed to eat or drink the entire time, Joshua was in any case used to getting by with a minimal diet. He didn’t even mind that he couldn’t evacuate his bowels if the need arose. He, like his fellow Jews, would just relieve himself in his pants, and after the Sabbath he would clean himself up.

  Just two things bothered Joshua about the Jewish Sabbath. One was watching what happened when one of the other Jews failed to stand at attention, usually because they fell from exhaustion. This was to be avoided at all costs, because the Germans would inevitably take them away for what they called “special treatment.” Many Jews never returned from special treatment. Joshua didn’t know what exactly special treatment was, but he could tell from the broken faces of the Jews that did return that it must have been horrible. As a result, Jews did their best to be compliant with the laws of the Sabbath.

  The second thing that bothered Joshua was that the Sabbath was when Jews had their Bar Mitzvah. Joshua still had terrible nightmares about his own Bar Mitzvah. Until he was 13 years hold, like all Jewish children, Joshua had only been referred to by the number tattooed on his arm: 74575. On the week of his 13th birthday, in the middle of the Sabbath education program, his number had been called out and he was instructed to step on to the wooden stage in the middle of Holle from which services were led. The SS Chief Education Officer read a passage from the Old Testament which was customary for Bar Mitzvah ceremonies. He then stopped and opened an ornamental black box, placing it on the ceremonial altar which was a wooden shipping crate.

  The officer then removed from the ornamental box a large iron cleaver. He faced 74575 and ordered him to lower his pants and place his penis on the altar. With no alternative save immediate execution, 74575 complied.

  The officer then raised the cleaver and shouted, “In the name of the Reich Gott, I name you ‘Joshua 74575.’”

  The cleaver dropped swiftly onto Joshua’s penis. A few seconds later he passed out from the excruciating pain. This was expected, so no punishment was instituted. When he awoke, Joshua found that he had been extraordinarily fortunate. The education officer had managed to do it right this time, removing only the foreskin. Many of his fellow Jews had not been so lucky on their Bar Mitzvahs.

  At the age of eighteen, Joshua was selected by the Department of Reproduction to become a breeder. A high mortality rate from work-related injuries along with Broder’s and Schreiber’s experiments created a continuous loss of manpower, and the breeding program was necessary to keep the Jewish population stable.

  When male Jews turned eighteen, their medical files were reviewed by an SS physician. Those who were seen as potential candidates were sent to the medical facility in East Clover for physical examinations. Despite inadequate nutrition and years of hard labor, Joshua 74575 had grown into a strong young man. He was now six foot two inches tall, with wide shoulders and curly red hair. After his physical, Joshua was certified as a breeder.

  Jewish female breeders were chosen at the age of sixteen. Those selected would be paired with a male breeder who they would remain with until the birth of their child. The reason for allowing the breeders to remain together was that scientists at the Department of Reproduction had determined that it significantly increased the rate of live births. They called this the “Happy Mother Effect.” A short time after giving birth, however, these happy mothers were almost always sent to either the Broder Laboratory or Schreiber’s Research Facility for their nefarious experiments.

  Miriam was chosen as Joshua’s breeding mate. She was five-foot-seven and weighed 110 pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes. It did not take many visits to Miriam before they fell deeply in love. Joshua tried hard to avoid thinking about what would happen after she gave birth and she was sent to be a test subject for Nazi experiments.

  Now that Joshua had been given breeder status, he no longer had to work in the coal mine. There, Jews were constantly being carried out of the shafts on stretchers due to heat exhaustion or lack of oxygen during their 16-hour shifts. Those who were determined to be working with insufficient enthusiasm were used as examples at the closing of Sabbath services.

  The SS Chief Education Officer would order them to enter a glass booth the size of a large van located at the side of the wooden stage. He would announce that everyone should observe carefully the fate of those who fail to contribute toward the welfare of Germany and the Fourth Reich. Then he would press a button releasing Zyklon B gas into the booth. The glass booth would fill with the poisonous gas while the crowd standing at attention were forced to watch the ghastly sight of their fellow Jews pound on the glass, scream out in agony, vomit, and finally die.

  Joshua was fortunate because now was among the few privileged Jews who worked outside the West Clover. For a few months he worked the garbage detail in East Clover. Then, he was informed by loudspeaker that he had been reassigned to North Clover. His new job was called by the Nazis the “Jew Keeper.”

  11

  Ronald Fletcher walked feverously up and down the Netanya beach, lost in thought, until well after midnight. During this time, his determination for vengeance in its most terrible form had solidified. There was no question in his mind that bitter retribution was the only appropriate response.

  As he paced along the soft sand, Fletcher mumbled to himself.

  “My wife was brutally murdered for absolutely no reason. Without Mary, my life has no meaning. My children are so traumatized they require psychiatric care. A selfless old man was ruthlessly killed for no other sin than trying to protect my innocent children.”

  “No one is more deserving of the fire and brimstone that I will personally rain down on the savages that killed my Mary. They will curse the day they were born, and their mothers that brought them into the world. I will drain their bodies of blood and stomp them into oblivion.”

  Fletcher knew the only cure for the burning poison in his veins was coldhearted revenge. But he also knew that in order to remain effective he would need a cool head. He called upon the considerable knowledge and expertise that he had gained over his many years of fighting evil in the world. Slowly, a plan of action emerged.

  Once Fletcher had decided how best to proceed, he walked down the boardwalk toward the center of town to hail a cab. Thirty minutes later he was in his beachside apartment in downtown Tel Aviv, only a few blocks from the U.S. Embassy. He went directly to his bedroom, not bothering to undress, and fell onto the bed. Within seconds he was asleep. It was an unsatisfying sleep, plagued by visions of Mary’s bloody, swollen face, crying, “Where were you? Why didn’t you save me?”

  Fletcher rose at seven. Driven by habit, he perfunctorily showered, shaved, and got dressed. Only upon entering the kitchen did he notice the dead silence. Mary was not cheerfully preparing his usual breakfast of toast with butter, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a piping hot cup of black coffee. The chairs where his children sat were empty. There was no smile and kiss on his cheek from Mary as he sat down to read the headlines of the International Herald Tribune.

  The dull silence triggered a swift return of the hatred that quickly rushed over him. He realized in an instant that his entire world had been destroyed. This time the feeling was so powerful that he began shaking all over, as if he was withdrawing from a powerful sedative. He felt painful, writhing knots in his stomach. Fletcher recommitted himself to the one-way-path he had chosen the previous night. He returned to his bedroom and began to prepare an overnight bag.

  When Fletcher finished packing, he called Mike Barnes and told him to meet him at the restaurant of the Dan Hotel in forty minutes. He grabbed his bag and went directly to the hotel’s second floor dining area, ordering its world-famous Israeli breakfast. This smorgasbord, comprising over fifty dishes, included a variety of breads, fruits, vegetables, juices, hard and soft cheeses, and eggs of various preparations. Fletcher had little appetite. Still,
he knew he was about to start a dangerous journey and it was best to do so on a full stomach. He filled his plate and took a seat at a window table overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. He ate his food but did not enjoy the taste. Fletcher’s mind was focused on his singular goal of revenging Mary’s death.

  Fletcher glanced at his watch and noticed Mike Barnes enter the room. He liked and trusted Barnes. They had served in Vietnam and came from the same world of elite combat soldiers.

  Barnes was the first to speak.

  “Ron, there’s nothing I can say. I am so sorry. If there’s anything that I can do, you name it, I’ll do it.”

  Barnes sensed what his boss was thinking. He knew that Fletcher could not and would not let such a grave personal attack go unpunished. Moreover, Barnes had also personally been affected by the tragedy. Fletcher’s wife had made him feel like part of their family. All Fletcher had to do is ask and Barnes would follow him to the gates of Hell.

  “Thanks, Mike.” Fletcher answered. “Listen carefully. I’ve got some things I have to take care of. I’m taking off for a few days. Exactly how much time, I don’t know. Cover for me as long as you can. Don’t ask me where I’m going or why. But while I’m away, I want you to look in on my kids at the hospital. Explain to them that their father is on assignment and that he’ll come visit as soon as he can.”

  “Sure, of course,” Barnes replied.

  Fletcher handed Barnes a torn page from a notepad. As Barnes read it over Fletcher said, “I need you to get hold of those items and bring them to me at Ben Gurion Airport in three hours.”

  Barnes understood immediately what was being planned. “Ron, please let me go along. I really want to. And you could use me.”

  Fletcher knew how useful Barnes would be on this mission, but it was impossible. This mission would likely involve flagrant violations of international law and ethics, unacceptable levels of personal risk to life, and a probable lifelong blacklist from intelligence agencies if revealed. Still, he appreciated Barnes’ willingness to put himself on the line for a friend.

  “Thanks, Mike, but this is something I have to do alone. Besides, I need you on the inside for intel. No matter what happens, you don’t know anything, got it?”

  Fletcher hated to say these last words, knowing that Barnes was a man of loyalty and would never do anything to put him at risk. Still, he wanted to emphasize the importance of total secrecy.

  As the two stood up to leave, Barnes, in a rare display of emotion, spontaneously hugged him. Afterwards, the two friends shook hands and parted.

  Fletcher went directly to the bank and withdrew nine thousand dollars in cash. Then he boarded a bus to the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station. At the station, he took a bus to Tzafria, a farming village close to Ben Gurion Airport, and then a different bus to the airport. In this manner, he was able to ensure no one was following him or tracking his movements.

  Upon arriving at the main terminal of Ben Gurion, Fletcher walked a random route to a restroom near the baggage carousel. There were two stalls in the bathroom. Fletcher put down the seat cover of the stall to the left and sat on it, placing a book on the floor next to the partition separating the two stalls. The book, a 1956 World Almanac, could be seen from the other stall because the partition did not reach the bottom of the floor.

  Seven minutes later, Fletcher saw his almanac being switched with a bulging black envelope by the occupant of the other stall. Fletcher opened it and began perusing its contents. First, he removed a French passport in the name of Claude Marchand. Then he removed a business class ticket to Athens, Greece on British Airways. Finally, he found a slip of paper marked “parcel receipt.” He placed all three items in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

  Fletcher then emptied the remainder of the contents of the envelope on to the floor of the stall. He shuffled through several intelligence reports and dossiers. There were a series of satellite images, air and ground reconnaissance photos, and three detailed topographical maps courtesy of Israeli Military Intelligence. Fletcher studied the material for nearly thirty minutes.

  When he finished, he returned all of the documents to the envelope and sealed it. Fletcher stood up and held the envelope by means of a plastic strap at its top. He lifted the seat and positioned the envelope above the open toilet. Fletcher then pulled a small tab at the bottom of the envelope. Almost instantaneously the inside the envelope began to emit heat and Fletcher felt a bubbling sensation reverberating through the strap. After a few seconds, the bottom of the envelope opened up, pouring its completely dissolved contents into the toilet. Fletcher then dropped the envelope itself into the toilet, and it too broke down upon contact with the water. He then flushed the toilet.

  Ten minutes later, Fletcher boarded a flight to Athens. Upon arrival at Hellinikon Airport at about 2:00 p.m., he walked directly to the Air France reservation counter and picked up his reserved ticket to Beirut, Lebanon. The flight was scheduled to depart in less than forty-five minutes. By five o’clock he was standing in the customs line at Beirut International Airport.

  Under a special agreement, intelligence agencies in France and the United States occasionally exchange blank passports. The NSA issues these passports for special operations that require perfect security, and Barnes had authorized the issuance of an authentic passport with Fletcher’s actual picture under a false identity which had been designed to facilitate international travel. Still, Fletcher was careful not to carry any illegal weapons or contraband in order to avoid any unnecessary attention. This was, of course, with the exception of the Death Pin, which even if examined would pass inspection given its benign external appearance. After stamping Ron’s passport, he was waved through customs.

  Fletcher proceeded to the airport’s hectic lobby where there was a row of car rental booths. He scanned the signs across the top of the booths until he saw Cedars of Lebanon Car Rental. After signing forms and paying two hundred dollars, he was told to exit the lobby and a shuttle would take him to a large concrete parking garage near the airport. There, he picked up the car reserved for him by Barnes, a nondescript ash-gray Peugeot 205. From there he headed east on Highway 51 overlooking the coast.

  Fletcher felt apprehensive being back in one of the most lawless countries in the world. As he drove, he reviewed his plan for the mission, step by step. Passing the U.S. Embassy in Beirut, he remembered his assignment there years prior. He had completed his tour without a major incident against U.S. property or interests. During his time working in Lebanon’s capital, he had always been cognizant of the danger his family faced and had acted accordingly. He had always ensured that at least two trusted Embassy guards accompanied his wife and children whenever they left their apartment. Fletcher’s thoughts drifted to remorse as he blamed himself for not having taken precautions to ensure his family’s safety in Israel in the same way he did when he was stationed in Beirut. He felt deeply depressed as he passed the Café de Paris where he had sat for hours drinking espressos with Mary.

  Exiting the highway, he drove through a seedy section of the city next to the Port of Beirut, finally arriving at a row of large, poorly maintained warehouses. Scanning the area, he spotted a small flickering sign which read “Middle East Storage Company.” Ron parked the Peugeot next to a ramp that led up to a double-wide loading bay. He walked over to the aging door below the sign and tried the shaky handle. It was open.

  Ron entered the building and walked up a short flight of stairs leading to a second-floor office. Behind the warped wood counter was a gray metal desk covered with stamping pads and official-looking forms in Arabic and French. The walls were covered with aluminum shelves holding empty cardboard boxes of various sizes.

  Fletcher took out the receipt Barnes had included in the envelope and rang a bell on the counter. Out from the back emerged a middle-aged man dressed in a tan suit with a red clerk’s vest. What struck Ron was his perfectly maintained and waxed handlebar mustache. After scrutinizing the parcel receipt, the clerk, speaking in French
, demanded payment of one hundred and thirty U.S. dollars for seven months of storage. Since Lebanese currency was constantly being devalued, U.S. dollars, though technically illegal to possess, had become the standard currency.

  Fletcher, who was fluent in French, handed three fifties to the clerk and told him to keep the difference. Appreciative of the tip, the clerk gave Fletcher a smile and instructed him to meet him in the loading area while he disappeared into the back to locate the parcel.

  Minutes later the clerk rolled a rusty old dolly holding a large wooden crate down the loading ramp to the Peugeot. Fletcher used a UV light to examine the several hidden seals on the crates to determine whether it had been tampered with. Ron was relieved to find that the seals were intact.

  This business, a favorite among international intelligence agencies, was not a typical shipping and storage facility. The proprietors, who were Syrian Christians, were specialists in the art of avoiding customs and security inspections. For the right price, any desired item could be safely imported into Lebanon or exported abroad without any questions asked.

  The crate was unusually heavy, so Fletcher helped load it into the hatch on top of the folded-down back seat. The clerk then shook Fletcher’s hand in parting, saying “God bless you” in Arabic.

  Fletcher was daydreaming while he travelled westbound on Avenue de Paris, fixing his eyes on the destruction caused by the Lebanese civil war. This area had been beautiful when he was working in Beirut, and now it had become a war-torn wasteland. He thought to himself that the Palestinian Liberation Organization had destroyed Lebanon just as they had destroyed his family. As he passed the U.S. Embassy, he teared up thinking about how Mary picked him up after work with ice coffees and sandwiches. He turned south down General De Gaulle Highway, passing the city’s most romantic landmark, Pigeons’ Rock. There Mary and Ron had spent priceless moments gazing at the rocky formations jutting out of the Mediterranean Sea.