Authors: Roni Dunevich
4 S
EPTEMBER
1943
I looked into the new commandant's eyes and saw dark, icy tundra. Since his arrival, the waves of arrests have multiplied alarmingly. The transports to the East are more frequent, and those who have been transported vanish without a trace.
5
O
CTOBER
1943
Jewish families are disappearing. Apartments are emptying out. An ill wind whistles through abandoned living rooms.
Today I baked croissants with Nazi butter.
6 O
CTOBER
1943
The commandant came into the café this evening, drunk with power.
Champagne! he cried. Champagne and six glasses!
A sign that he had sent a packed transport to the East.
7 O
CTOBER
1943
Yesterday, 967 of our children were transported. Tonight, I had to pour a rare bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape for the beasts from the SS.
I am the whore of merchandise.
There is no forgiveness.
The aroma of fresh espresso and buttery croissants rose from the kitchen. Paris had risen early. He was lying on the sofa in the living room, reading a book. Outside, the sky was clear.
Alex went into the kitchen, shading his eyes against the gleam of the white snow in the morning sun. Jane made her way downstairs and sat down at the breakfast bar. Alex dipped a silver knife into a pot of prune jam, spread the dark fruit on a piece of warm croissant, and placed it on the plate in front of Jane.
“More coffee?” Alex called out to Paris.
The Frenchman nodded, got up from the sofa, and padded into the kitchen on bare feet. He pulled off the end of a croissant and stuffed it into his mouth. Beyond the window, crows were pecking at the snow.
The BlackBerry in Alex's pocket beeped. Anxiously, he looked at the screen: Barcelona $.
“What's going on?” Jane whispered.
Alex turned the BlackBerry so Paris could see it. “What does it mean?”
“There's a message on the forum,” the Frenchman said. “May I?” He reached out and took the phone from Alex.
Paris went to crazyheli.com. “It's from Barcelona,” he announced. “It says, âI've got a live one.'
”
“How do we know someone didn't seize Barcelona and force him to reveal how he communicates with Justus?” Alex asked.
Paris and Jane exchanged a nod. “If Barcelona had sent the message against his will,” Paris explained, “there'd be an exclamation point at the end.”
“And what if it wasn't Barcelona who sent the message?”
“The sender has to enter his code a second time at the beginning of the message. You can't see it, but if it's not entered, the system automatically adds the exclamation point,” Jane said.
“Ask him when and where we can meet.”
“I already did,” Paris said, pulling on socks and shoving his feet into his shoes.
Alex nodded. “Do you want to stay here?” he whispered to Jane.
A delightful lemony perfume wafted from her neck. “This time I'm coming with you,” she said, standing up and grabbing her coat off the back of a chair.
“And you'll wait here till we get back?” Alex asked Paris.
A hint of envy flitted across the Frenchman's face. He swallowed. Finally, he nodded.
The warm Mediterranean sun thawed the Berlin frost out of him and charged him with renewed energy. On the northern edge of El Papiol, a mature chestnut tree cast its shade over an old stone house. Rusty iron scaffolding clung to the front of the building.
“Barcelona is expecting Justus, not us,” Jane said.
“It'll be okay,” Alex said, pulling up next to the scaffolding.
The ground was strewn with black buckets stained with dry plaster. A hoe and a pile of dusty bags of cement were leaning against the wall. A light breeze blew through the trees. The unfenced yard was covered in wild grass dotted with daisies. Alex knocked on the rustic wooden door while Jane shaded her eyes from the sharp arrows of light thrown by the sun.
They heard footsteps approaching. An ancient peephole opened and a pair of black eyes stared out at them. The peephole closed, and the door opened to reveal the barrel of a Sig Sauer pointed at Alex's face.
“Can I help you?” a woman asked.
Her skin was deeply tanned, her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her eyes bored into Alex and Jane. Dark armpit stains showed on her denim shirt and sweat dripped from her face, but she didn't bother to wipe it away.
“Justus isn't coming,” Alex said.
“Who are you?” She had a deep voice, almost a baritone.
“We'll tell you inside.”
“No.”
“Justus is dead. Thirteen Nibelungs have been killed. Someone knows about the Ring. You're in danger. We're the ones who sent the alert last night and got your message on the helicopter forum. We're here to help, but only if you let us in. Please.”
The barrel of the gun didn't budge. After giving Alex a quick once-over, the woman passed her eyes slowly over Jane, checking her out from head to toe.
“I'm London. They're after me, too. That's Alex. He's Mossad,” Jane explained.
A shutter creaked in the wind, and somewhere a dog barked. Barcelona opened the door and lowered her gun. The tough expression on her face was replaced by a look of wariness. “Come in,” she said, leading them into the dim interior of the house. Pencil drawings on parchment paper lined the stone walls. The mosaic floor was almost entirely occupied by models made from cardboard and wood. Barcelona brought them a carafe of water and two freshly rinsed glasses and placed them on a wrought-iron table. A ray of light seeping in through a high window painted prisms in the water.
“Where is he?” Alex took a sip of water.
“What do you know about me?” Barcelona asked guardedly.
“Nothing. Just that you're in danger.” He saw her looking suspiciously at the inflamed scars on his hands.
“Where is he?” he repeated.
“All I found on him was some cash and this,” she said, pulling a Third World cellphone from her pocket. She handed it to Alex.
There were pictures. One showed Barcelona beside a blue truck in front of the BasÃlica de la Sagrada FamÃlia. Another was a distorted face shot from too close up. Above the pictures was a
long series of digits: the number to which the photos had been sent.
They finally had a lead.
Alex called Butthead and told him to trace the number.
“Where did you take him down?” he asked.
“At La Sagrada FamÃlia, where I work. He was shadowing me. I knocked him out and brought him here.”
“Show us,” Alex said, appraising her with male eyes. She was fleshy and rugged.
They walked through a small bedroom to the rocky yard behind the house, grass sprouting between the stones. “He's over there,” Barcelona said, pointing to a small, windowless stone building.
A current ran through Alex's body, as tingly and stimulating as speed. He opened the rusty iron door, its hinges creaking. The dark interior was lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the puddle of dim light, a man in a gray suit was tied to a chair, a black plastic bag over his head. A hole had been torn for his mouth. The bag rose and fell in time with his breathing.
The prisoner sat up straight.
The walls were covered in gray egg-crate acoustic foam. In the corner was a worn black leather case and a music stand.
“I play my trumpet here,” Barcelona said quietly.
Jane closed the heavy door.
“Was he carrying a weapon?” Alex asked.
The bronze-skinned Catalan shook her head.
“Give me your gun.”
Barcelona reluctantly handed Alex her gun. The butt was warm.
Alex moved closer to the prisoner. His hands were bound
tightly to the arms of the chair with silver duct tape. Alex pulled the bag off his head. The man's face was pasty, his chin was slumped on his chest, his eyes were half-closed, and his black mustache was stiff.
He looked Turkish.
“What's your name?” Alex asked.
No response.
“Mute?”
No response.
“Deaf mute?”
No response.
A sharp slap landed on the prisoner's cheek. His head was thrown sideways.
There was a deathly silence. Jane lowered her eyes.
“Are you going to answer me?”
No response.
“I need a chair, a bucket of water, and some kind of club,” he said over his shoulder to Barcelona, sticking the barrel of the gun against the man's thigh. The prisoner's eyes bulged in fright. Alex was pretty sure the acoustic foam would absorb the noise.
He fired.
A howl of pain burst from the man's throat. The smell of gunpowder spread through the room. Fat globules of thick blood fell from the wound onto the floor: plip-plip-plip. The man fought for breath.
“You don't have much time,” Alex said.
“Where are you from?” Alex asked.
The bare bulb above their heads was reflected in the pool of blood collecting on the floor. The veins in the man's neck bulged. He clenched his teeth and breathed through his nose.
“Syria,” he croaked.
“Where in Syria?”
The man shut his eyes and coughed.
“I asked you where in Syria.”
“Idarat al-Mukhabarat al-Jawiyya,” he declared in pride and pain, spitting on the floor.
Syria's Air Force Intelligence Directorate has little to do with aerial intelligence. It is under the direct command of the Syrian president, Bashar al-Assad. Bashar's father, Hafez al-Assad, formerly the commander of the air force, brought its intelligence agency under his wing and used it to bolster his totalitarian rule. Ever since, it has been charged with the country's most sensitive covert operations overseas and plays an important role in safeguarding the regime.
“Are you killing our agents?”
The prisoner shook his head. Sweat dripped from his chin.
“We just gather information.”
“You're lying!” Alex thundered, sticking the gun against the man's other thigh.
Jane looked away. Barcelona watched, mesmerized.
“Information about who?”
“Everybody.” The man's face twisted, and his breathing became raspy.
“Who killed the agents?”
The Syrian gazed at him with tortured eyes.
Alex moved the gun to the man's temple. His finger on the trigger was taut. He leaned over the prisoner. He could see the blue veins in his eyelids. The Syrian had halitosis.
“I asked you who killed the agents.”
“I don't know,” the Syrian said pleadingly.
“Where did you send the pictures?”
“I don't know.”
Alex took the gun away from the prisoner's temple and used it to strike him savagely across the chin. Something broke. The man groaned. Blood flowed from his mouth, and he spit out splinters of broken teeth. Blood was still dripping from his thigh.
Jane turned her back and covered her ears with her hands. She was standing next to Barcelona, who was exhibiting increasing fascination with the scene.
“Where did you send the pictures?” Alex repeated in a whisper, his lips almost touching the Syrian's face.
Blood was spilling from his mouth onto his chin. “To the number theyâ”
“The Mukhabarat assassins?”
“No.”
Barcelona came closer and whispered something in Alex's ear.
The prisoner stared at them in alarm.
“The lady says you're not very good at surveillance,” Alex said.
The Syrian lowered his eyes. His shirt was stained with sweat and blood.
Without warning, Alex grabbed him by the hair. His eyes gaped wide in pain and his breathing quickened. He was as white as a sheet.
“Who sent an amateur like you on a covert op?”
“I work at headquarters . . . behind a desk . . .” the man said, sighing deeply.
“So why did they send you?”
“The agents were all in the field. . . . They didn't have anyone else . . .” he whined.
Alex retreated.
Watching the man crack and crumble was making him uneasy. He felt sorry for him. The Syrian was sitting in a pool of his own blood, his teeth were broken, and he was crying.
There was a cold lump in Alex's chest.
Alex went outside into the blinding sunlight. He was still holding the blood-spattered Sig Sauer.
He had to stop for a minute pull himself together and start thinking straight.
If the Syrian and his fellow Mukhabarat agents were just doing the legwork, gathering intel on the Nibelungs, who was attacking them?
He had no time and no other options. He had to ramp up the pressure. He went back inside the dark, soundproofed building, slammed the door, held the gun to the man's other thigh.
Bam.
A shriek of pain shook the small room and was swallowed up without an echo. The Syrian was seized by a fit of tears, gasping for breath as blood flowed out of him. “What do you want to know?” he mumbled from within the knot of pain.
“Who killed the agents?”
The prisoner shook his head slowly. His eyes were starting to glaze over.
“What did they do with the bodies?”
Plip-plip-plip. The man was sobbing quietly.
“Give me something that will persuade me to save your life.”
The man shook his head. His chin slumped to his chest.
“You don't have much longer to live.”
“I don't know . . .” the man muttered.
“As soon as you lose another quart of bloodâwhich won't be long nowâyou'll start to feel confused. To stay alive, you'll need twelve pints of salineâtwelve bags! That can only happen in a hospital. Are you ready to talk to me yet?”
The prisoner's face was ashen. Alex touched his brow. The clamminess was gone; the skin was dry and cold.
“In a minute or two you won't be able to talk, and I won't be able to help you.”
The odor of iron rose from the blood on the floor. The door opened and the room was flooded with dazzling light. Jane's silhouette vanished into the glare. The door slammed shut.
“Who are you working for?” Time was running out.
The Syrian's breathing was shallow. “Hattab . . .”
“Omar Hattab, the head of the Mukhabarat?”
The Syrian nodded weakly.
“On Friday . . . Hattab . . . is meeting . . .”
“Who?”
“In Zenobia . . .” he mumbled.
“Who?”
“Ten o'clock . . .”
“Who is Hattab meeting in Zenobia?”
“The Israelite . . .”
“What Israelite?”
Alex aimed the Sig Sauer at the Syrian's shoulder and turned his head away.
Bam.
Something struck the gun. Blood sprayed onto Alex. He swiveled his head around and looked at the Syrian. He was stunned. Half the man's head was gone. Alex's stomach churned. The bullet had missed the shoulder. “What happened?” he mumbled to himself.
“He shoved his head in front of the gun,” said Barcelona.
“Why?”
She rolled her eyes and then gave him a sour smile.
“Death seemed the better option.”