In the closet, he found multiple uniforms neatly hanging, with the stripes of a sergeant.
He drank a lot of water straight from the tap, lay down on the bed and fell asleep immediately. At seven in the morning he woke up, shaved, and put on the uniform. The man was asleep and smelled of urine. Giora hesitated for a moment and then left the door of the house open, went out and walked away quickly. Even if the man were to be discovered soon, it would not change anything for him.
He entered the base in a van driven by a young female airman, who gave him a ride and, to his delight, did not ask anything or speak all the way. She stopped at one of the first offices, where he got off, thanked her with a wave of his hand and started walking to H-36.
The B-24 hangar was guarded by an airman who hadn’t been there the previous weekend. His uniform was new and his rank trifling. He was nineteen years old at most. White, a virgin, probably uneducated. A typical recruit for maintenance and guard duty. He would be a lifer, serving until the age of fifty-five. He would at best achieve the rank of staff sergeant, but not master sergeant. For Giora’s purposes, it was a relief that it wasn’t someone who’d been stationed there to watch the warheads in particular. Unless that was his purpose…?
“Spot-check inspection,” Giora announced while presenting the NCO certificate of the man he’d left tied up. The airman saluted and let him in without hesitation.
"There’s only one warbird in there,” he said with a grin. “Something historical.”
Giora did not answer. The hangar gates were closed, so he entered through a side door which he quickly closed. He found the light switch and turned it on. The plane stood there in majestic splendor, a pampered queen. After a few long and desperate minutes, he found in the bathroom floor, at the back of the hangar, a hatch leading to the sewage system below, as he had guessed. The pipe was clean. From here, his path was easy. The sewer system below the base branched off and overlapped the upper structure of the streets above. In three directions, the pipes were blocked by mud and dirt. Galveston was a regular flood zone. Heading southeast, where the warheads’ hangar was, the pipes were was clean and dry; but to his dismay, he discovered the clear tracks of truck wheels on the surface. Had he arrived too late? The missiles had already been transferred. The only question now was whether the information he had about the schedule was correct. A simple misdirection could mean that the missiles had not only arrived, but had departed as well, on their way to the launch base in Florida. Unless… he returned nervously to the ladder and quickly climbed back to H-36.
With a mixture of satisfaction and panic, he decided to confirm his suspicion. The conspirators had transferred the warheads to H-36. There was no conceivable place in the open in the hangar to house the warheads. All that remained was the Big Bird, the huge Liberator.
After more long, frantic minutes, he found what he was looking for: six Minuteman missiles in the refurbished bomb bay of the antique plane. Now came the critical stage.
He had not defused an explosive device since 1980, when his unit had been charged to recover a real-life example of the system used by the Syrians along the border fence, the new Chinese Fibimiba mine. The story here was completely different. Each fuse was screwed into the missile and reinforced with security pins. All that was left was to arm the fuses, which was the function of the platform the missiles were to be launched from. Every fuse had an iron safety, from which a bright red plastic film protruded. In order to arm the fuse, the safety had to be removed and the fuse had to be turned three hundred sixty degrees, until a click was audible. Then the warhead would detonate when it struck the ground — unless activated otherwise. Giora had no option of removing the fuses. He pulled the safety from the first missile. There were several other security mechanisms that protected the base from ascending heavenward in a cloud. He wiped his sweaty face with his shoulder.
From his shoulder bag, he pulled out a long screw and began to screw it, with the help of a Swiss Army knife, into the hole of the safety he had removed. When the screw was properly inserted, he pulled out the saw in the pocketknife, and with quick movements he cut off the head of the screw. Anyone who wanted to arm the fuse now would need the services of a workshop.
He looked at his watch. The process had taken him twelve minutes. Five more bombs, another hour. The darkness in the belly of the plane was similar to that moonless night in the Golan Heights, but unlike the terrible cold of January on the plateau, the heat in the Liberator’s belly was almost unbearable.
As he was sawing the last screwhead, the door opened. He hurried back on all fours, like a frightened mouse, to the back of the bay, squeezing from there into the tail, hoping not to be caught. From the direction of the bomb bay, he heard excited, nervous noises.
Through the transparent Plexiglass, he saw a fuel tanker, which had been opened like a suitcase. So that was the method: transfer the missiles by tanker to the launch base in Florida. The airman, who had been allowed to enter earlier, was now standing by the plane, examining the gaping tanker with interest. The cab was huge and impressive, painted in metallic blue. The exhaust pipes, in bright and shiny nickel, rose above the cab like twin flags.
There was no way of knowing who was cooperating voluntarily, who for pay or who for the sake of ideology. They had in their hands six warheads whose fuses had been sabotaged. The chance of the bombs being detonated was nil. He was ready to lie on the hangar floor and fall asleep for two days in a row, but something would not let him do that. He had to get out of the United States, but before that he had to complete his work on this complicated and difficult case. If he failed to do so, the gang of Third Temple lunatics would remain intact and active. He had to go on with the warheads and put an end to the entire affair.
He pulled on the emergency exit; opened the hatch; and crawled quickly, in the dimness of the hangar, to the tanker. The cab door was open. The crisp airman paced nervously on the other side of the tanker. From his shoulder bag, Giora took out the thick pencil-like neutron bomb, effortlessly lifted the cab upholstery, put the item under it and put the seat cushion back in place.
Just as the airman began to approach from the other side, Giora climbed up quickly and hid himself under a sheet in the sleeper compartment.
57.
“Where is he now?” Barkat barked, while I tried to digest Laure’s betrayal, for the second time. Where had Michele, the girl of my old life, comfortable and harmless, disappeared to? I should have never fallen in love with Laure.
Barkat kicked me in the ribs, the only part of my body that had not been hit yet. “Where is he now?”
"Where’s who?” I coughed, and he kicked me again. He would pay dearly for it.
"You know exactly who. Where is Giora?”
"Conducting interviews."
"Interviews?” It did not seem to me that a sense of humor was Barkat’s strong point. Lore stood, pale, in the corner.
"Interviewing your mom!” This time he didn’t kick me.
“Throw me the gun!” I heard Laure’s voice, but I could not even see her because I was already stretched on the floor. I turned around with great effort just in time to see Barkat knocking the gun from her hand, at the same moment messing up her face and her hair. Suddenly, she was on the floor too.
“At long last, we can settle our account and get going,” he murmured to himself contentedly.
"You’d make a great accountant,” Lore said quietly from the floor. Barkat, with an ironed Yves Saint Laurent shirt, looked at her with murderous rage, wanting to kick her, but he stopped himself. Laure did not move.
"What a hero,” she said, in the same quiet tone.
"From the beginning, you have never understood anything. I was wrong about you.” He sounded like a disgruntled child. “You could have been a queen.”
Suddenly a sharp ringing filled the room. He pulled out a heavy and cumbersome cellular phone from a special h
older on his belt and listened patiently. He said yes several times, hung up and returned the phone to his belt.
"So we’ve solved one problem,” he said contentedly. “Your good friend Giora is with us. Caught in Galveston.” He grinned. “Saves us a lot of inconvenience. We can finish everything tonight, as we planned.”
He bound me with a telephone cord that he pulled from the wall in the back room of the Cadillac, lifted me with surprising ease and threw me in the narrow space behind the front seat of a black-and-red Dodge pickup whose hood was adorned with large gold wreaths, which I remembered very well. I managed to hear him say to Laure, “Now you have received your life as a gift.”
My view of the journey to the Galveston from the floor of the pickup was a blur of yellow lights. I was in infernal agony from my shoulder and ribs, as every little bump on the road jolted me. I was also suffering from terrible nausea. I vomited three times, but Barkat did not bother to stop.
"We will bring the matter to an orderly conclusion,” he vowed.
We stopped at a gas station I couldn’t identify and he pulled me out and set me on my feet. The far end of a parking lot was not an ideal place to settle accounts. A fuel tanker was parked next to us and three people were standing next to it.
First I noticed Giora, in a USAF sergeant’s uniform with an idiotic mustache. His hands were bound behind his back. Next to him stood an airman. The third figure was somewhat shorter, his head tilted diagonally, with a large skull and sparse hair. He scrutinized us and moved impatiently in his place. Another piece of the puzzle was falling into place.
"You!” I yelled at Hinenzon, fuzzy from pain and blood loss, completely stunned and also very angry. “What are you doing with them?"
“‘The Lord is a god of vengeance.” He grinned.
58.
The weather in Jerusalem was heavenly.
It was a cool June morning, the sky was clear, its azure hue particularly deep. In the government complex, there was a faint scent rising from the Knesset’s rose garden. The prime minister, who got out of the Chevrolet Caprice and entered the lobby of his office in Givat Ram, did not notice any of this. He was returning red-faced and furious from a lunch at his home on Balfour Street with U.S. Ambassador William Gray. One on one, no assistants, no stenographers. Literally tête-à-tête.
"Get me the GSS chief on the red line!” he told the secretary after sitting for a few minutes in his chair and staring out the window at the ugly edifice of the Bank of Israel.
"The head of the GSS is on the red line,” announced Haya, his veteran secretary, on the internal line. The prime minister picked up the red phone and signaled to his chief of staff to sit down.
"So we lost our Quill?” he asked, with his chief of staff sitting there with a beatific look on his face. A sign that he was concentrating.
"Negative, sir,” the GSS head replied.
"We’ve already talked about Sasson’s story.” The prime minister found it difficult to talk about classified issues, even on the secure line.
"Now that’s something else. Less problematic,” the GSS head replied.
"Have you taken any new initiative in this matter?”
"Negative.”
"I dined today with William.” The prime minister spoke in a monotone, but it was clear to both listeners that he was annoyed. “There is a request from the FBI to start interrogating more Israelis in Houston. They say about a series of killings. Next week, a new round of strategic talks is supposed to begin. Don’t ruin it for me.”
"What did you say to the American?”
“Nothing. They will wait another two days for the situation to calm down. It is very uncomfortable for them too. The secretary of state loves the FBI even less than us, but he will have no choice. They may want a little prey. Symbolic. Where is Porat?”
“Our line of communication with him has not yet been restored. "
There was silence on either side of the line.
"Rami?” asked the prime minister.
"This business is about to end,” the GSS head said.
"With a whimper or a bang?”
"The former, sir. I’m going out there now. In twenty-four hours, we’ll know.”
"I hope so. Because if not, I will stop all other activities there tomorrow. After that, it will be very difficult to resume them.”
The prime minister slammed the phone down.
"The shit hit the fan,” the chief of staff said, further irritating the prime minister.
“Not yet,” said the prime minister. “But close.”
59.
“You?” I challenged Hinenzon again. “You’re part of this? How could you? You’re a religious man?!”
“So what? What does religion have to do with it? Why must you bring this up all the time?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You do not understand. None of you understand,” he dismissed me. “All the young people, just selfish. Thinking only of themselves. And who do you suppose will look after the public interest? For the benefit of all? For the forces of light?”
Hinenzon carelessly held his gun, looking at it as if he himself did not believe.
"The forces of light? Two people are dead, maybe three or four, depending on how you count. For what? Messianic visions? Doomsday weapons? What do you have to do with that?”
"You do not understand,” repeated Hinenzon, chuckling in disbelief. “Do you think it’s all my idea? I’m working for the country, boy. Why have I been working for the State of Israel for thirty years. What would you know about it? Do you not realize that with these warheads, our strategic position grows stronger? What do you think we are serving the country for?”
"Not for murder just like that.”
"So some people were killed. So some gave their lives. There is no price too high for the state. Hundreds of thousands will be saved in return. This is how we sanctify the name of the Lord, don’t you understand?”
"Come on, Azriel,” Barkat calls out to Hinenzon.
"I don’t get it.”
"You’re a Markovsky. There’s no way you’d understand. Maybe if I were a Markovsky — affluent, pampered, spoiled — I wouldn’t care either.” Hinenzon grinned to himself, a moment away from starting to hum again.
"So now you’ll kill us too?” Giora asked quietly.
"Who asked you to intervene at all?” Barkat barked at him. “We only kill if we have no choice. You could have joined our side, both of you.” The parking lot spun around me, and I tried not to collapse.
“Sit down over there!” Barkat ordered me. He instructed the airman to tie the two of us around a fencepost. There were no cars around. It was close to two in the morning. They wouldn’t find us until the sun came up. By then, the tanker would be well on its way to Florida. I could only try to delay them.”
“Laure told me a lot about you,” I taunted Barkat.
"She hasn’t told you anything,” Barkat stated and got into the cab of the tanker. “Come, Azriel,” he urged Hinenzon.
"Let them,” Giora whispered to me. “They’re neutralized.”
"They’re murderers!” I whispered fervently, no longer sure if Giora was right and whose side Laure was really on. We sat on the ground, bound at our wrists. The tanker’s engine turned over, spewing exhaust, and the truck began to move.
"The warheads!” I moaned in horror.
"They are neutralized!” This time Giora repeated it loudly and impatiently. “Take the keyring out of my fingers.” He spread his fingers apart, and as I sat with my back to his, I tried to fish out the keys he was talking about. After a few seconds of fumbling, I found the keyring.
"Now what?” I didn’t understand.
"Can you feel something boxy on the keyring?”
I could, but I had no idea what it was.
"It’s a remote. Press th
e button. Now!” Giora’s voice rose in excitement.
"What is it?” I asked.
“Push it!”
“Will it kill them?”
“Just push it!”
The tanker was approaching the edge of the parking lot.
“I don’t know…”
“Fucking push it!” he screamed, then more calmly reassured me, “It’s okay. We have no choice.”
I pressed the button, but nothing happened.
“Again!” Giora begged me. “You have to aim it at the truck.”
How was I supposed to know how to aim something I couldn’t see? But I tried anyway, pressing the button once, twice, three times.
The tanker slowed down and stopped, and I was sinking into another world.
“Okay, fine,” Giora said. “The late Jeremiah Moses at least knew how to do something right. Start cutting the ropes with your keys.” I dimly heard his voice, but I was fading quite quickly.
60.
Yehezkel Gelber woke up with a terrible headache and knew immediately that he was in trouble. He vaguely remembered the previous night at the Beatrice. Elroy and his assistant Moti had dragged him almost against his will to this dubious location, with an S&M sign proudly flashing over the door. It was intriguing and interesting, but he preferred to celebrate his minor and specific predilections in privacy. Neither Elroy nor Moti were really close to him, so he immediately settled in a far corner and followed the girls with curiosity and even a little excitement.
“God! The blonde!” He was suddenly struck by realization. He was in a king-size hotel bed, alone fortunately. The blonde had known the quick way to seduce him. “I want you,” she whispered as she sat down next to him, and due to exhaustion and perhaps the unbearable tension, he agreed. Perhaps she reminded him of his friend Rachel the manicurist from Kiryat Menachem, who always knew how to comfort and pamper him in difficult times, of which there had been many.
The Consulate Conspiracy Page 29
