Good and Dead (An Avner Ehrlich Thriller Book 2) Read online

  ***

  01:09. The command pit of the IDF Air Force in Tel Aviv.

  “Good work, friends. Blessed work. Thank you,” says the Prime Minister.

  “I anticipate serious trouble over that Ilyushin,” says Froyke.

  “Why?” asks the PM. “They know who hit it.”

  Moshe intervenes – “Benny, Dovik, what do you think?”

  “I don’t see why this should be an issue,” says Benny.

  Dovik glances at me, expecting my opinion.

  “I think there was no actual tactical reason to send up that plane. And we know the Syrians coordinate everything with them, which means that either someone made a serious slip-up – one they’ll never admit to – or even worse: someone higher up arranged for this plane to be shot down, intentionally.”

  Moshe looks at me inquisitively, then at Froyke. The PM waves his hand dismissively, and says, “I find it hard to believe they don’t know who’s responsible. Anyway, I’m talking to Putin tomorrow.”

  “Good luck,” I say.

  ***

  01:05. Moscow.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, Mister President, but the Israelis have shot down one of our planes. An Ilyushin II-20 in Latakia. Fourteen crew members are dead.”

  “The Israelis fired at our plane?!”

  “They might as well have, Mister President. They attacked the Iranian missile pads – an unjustified, unprovoked attack, if you ask me.”

  “Did they coordinate with us?”

  “Yes, Mister President. Our plane was looking for a comfortable vantage point. The Israelis didn’t like that. One of their F-16s made a low approach toward the missile batteries, drawing their fire, then flew straight towards our Ilyushin before gaining altitude and escaping. The Ilyushin doesn’t have the maneuverability of a fighter aircraft; it took direct fire and went down.”

  “And I suppose, Yuri, that you’d like authorization to sell the SA systems to the Iranians?”

  “Yes, Mister President. The Iranians and the Syrians.”

  “Four hundred million dollars a pop! Start tomorrow morning. Let’s strike while the iron is hot.”

  “Yes, Mister President. Good night.”

  “Good night, General Rasputin.”

  “Are you giving me a promotion, sir?”

  “For that kind of money, you deserve one.”

  “I’m afraid I must decline, Mister President.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “As you know, Mister President, every now and then I simply must go out into the field,” says Rasputin, and smiles thinly.

  “I’m glad to hear you keep an active sex life, Yuri. Just try not to overdo it, will you?” the President smiles, and hangs up.

  27.

  I started reading Jo Nesbø’s Macbeth, and made it to about page thirty. Verbin was sleeping like a baby, her chest peacefully rising and falling. Good, I though. This is exactly what her body needs – time to recuperate and rebuild. At least, that’s what Limor told me when I asked if ten hours of sleep were normal.

  I wore the new PoolMate Verbin had bought me on my wrist and jumped into the pool. My goal was four thousand yards in seventy-five minutes, according to the Ironman regimen. As I sliced through the water I was somewhat concerned about a repeat of my right arm’s odd behavior in the plane, but nothing happened and my arm was fine.

  Garibaldi and Adolf, who normally patrolled around the pool during my swims, were standing near the corner and licking one another – a behavior that, according to Verbin, they had adopted during my latest absence.

  I came out of the water and put on a robe, took the Cohiba that Be’er had given me, and went down to Eran’s grave.

  The glass of Macallan I left him yesterday was empty. I sniffed it. Garibaldi. The big guy was evolving a whole new personality. I lit the cigar, looked at the grave and thought about the miscarriage.

  I was astounded by Verbin’s courage, by whatever inner strength allowed her to pursue the idea of trying again. As for me, I wasn’t sure I could handle it. Eran was dead, our fetus was dead. Luigi, ‘Loco’ Moshiko and a great deal of others – all dead. A terrible thought suddenly gripped me, too terrible to consider. I got up from the grave and came inside just as she woke up.

  “Will you make me a ristretto, honey bear?”

  This was a good sign. Throughout the pregnancy Verbin would drink nothing stronger than a macchiato or a latte, and I had a feeling that returning to the short and strong ristretto was a sure sign that she was getting stronger. I went to make us two ristrettos with the Blue Mountain grains that Kahanov had somehow procured, and I turned on the machine, Bella called to see how she was doing. I told her Verbin was better. A second after I hung up, Froyke called. “Boris and Nora made some good progress. But it can wait till tomorrow,” he said.

  I hoped they had finally located Hamdani, but assumed they hadn’t, because if that were the case Froyke probably wouldn’t have waited.

  “Okay. I’m at home today, let me know if anything else comes up.”

  “Give the Doctor my best. And take care of her.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  When I got back to Verbin I saw that she’d also started the Nesbø but fallen asleep soon after. I placed the hot ristretto on the dresser and stroked her hair. I felt restless. I called Nora and asked what progress she and Boris had made.

  “And Albert,” she added. “Mostly Albert, in fact. We found out that RET is signing Yuri’s paychecks. That’s Yuri Bogdanov, Ali’s bodyguard.”

  That certainly is progress, I thought. Why would RET pay for Ali’s bodyguard unless his father was around? It made perfect sense – if there was anyone in the world who could arm those missiles, it was Hamdani. And if there was anyone who could – and would, happily – sell him a bunch of plug-and-play nuclear warheads, it was RET, the largest conglomerate in Russia, consisting of the nineteen plutonium, weapons, aircraft, and vehicle manufacturers. And if Albert had by some miracle found a backdoor into RET’s database… well, there were all sorts of places he could go from there.

  “I remember. Excellent work, Nora.”

  The hysterical barking from the gate announced the arrival of Limor and Kahanov.

  “Alright, I have to go, we have company.”

  “Kisses.”

  “For whom?”

  “Whoever,” she said, and hung up.

  Limor let herself in, woke Verbin, and examined her at length. There was apparently some informative conversation going on as well, because they both seemed especially cheery when they joined us on the porch.

  “Our patient is recovering. Next week she can come back to work, and this week – she gets to eat,” said Limor, and presented four foil-wrapped pitas from Eshtanur Falafel. When we were done, Kahanov logged into his Kodi account on the TV and we looked for something to watch. I wanted to see Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, but the only available downloads were shitty quality, and Limor said that she wasn’t really a fan of Tarantino’s “aggressive, exhibitionistic cinema” anyway. I wanted to ask if she knew of any cinema that isn’t exhibitionistic, but decided not to. Eventually we saw Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, one of those movies that prove that properly executed cinematic prose can be even more moving than written prose, even if it isn’t written by Tarantino.

  At the end of the evening, as we were saying our goodbyes, I praised Limor’s choice of a driver, and she suddenly snapped – maybe she felt I was intruding on her privacy, maybe it was something else that triggered her, but instead of replying she turned to Kahanov, and her voice was nervous when she said, “Ami, this can’t… I can’t do this, I’m sorry, but I don’t need another Great Israeli Hero, another alpha dog who thinks he’s God’s gift and whose life is a goddamn Mortal Kombat session with no respawns.” A small, nearly unnoticeable twitch went through her face,
and she angrily wiped away a tear. In lieu of a response, Kahanov went down on all fours, saying “No, I’m nothing like that! I’m not an alpha dog, I swear, I’m a little beta poodle – look –”

  He poked a wiggling finger out from between his legs, like a Boxer’s docked tail, and started whining miserably. It was like that bit with Elliot Gould in Altman’s California Split. We all laughed at the pitiful sight of him walking in circles and wagging his tail.

  Limor reached down and helped him up. “Let’s go, funny man. And for the record, I am less than thrilled about the fact that you know how to make a scene.”

  After they left, I made Verbin a new coffee, and she took it outside to drink it on the porch. Pretty soon she was yawning and saying she needed to rest again, but not before telling me that Limor lost her father, a fighter pilot, and her mother, who killed herself.

  Verbin leaned against me, then changed position and placed her head on my shoulder, stretched out her legs, and fell asleep almost immediately. She didn’t wake when I picked her up and gently placed her in bed, so I went back outside to get my head straight and plan the next day.

  I lit what remained of Be’er’s Cohiba, opened my laptop, and prepared tomorrow’s schedule.

  04:00-05:00 – Swim at least 3000 yards. It’s still pretty hard on me but I have to, otherwise it’s a slipped disc disco.

  05:05-06:30 – Healthy breakfast for Verbin and Paleo eggs and bacon for me.

  06:35-07:00 – Drive to the office. Take Highway 383, cigar and Pavarotti – Tuscany all the way.

  07:05 – Coffee with Bella. Remember to sic her on HR – still haven’t gotten that raise they promised.

  07:15 – Staff meeting at Froyke’s. Hamdani is coming closer – or, I suppose, we’re getting closer to him – and from here on, only God knows, and we all know what His opinion’s worth.

  I closed the laptop and went into the kitchen, placed my empty tumbler in the sink, took wine glasses and Eran’s favorite bottle – Suson Yam’s 2012 ‘Antoine’ – and went down to the grave.

  I sat there for a while and couldn’t see Eran. I decided to go for my swim, and jumped in the water just in time for the two monsters to start patrolling around the pool.

  After the swim I went inside and started setting the table. I washed cucumbers, tomatoes and parsley, and peeled an onion, and was about to start chopping, wondering what else I should make. She came out of bed, smiling broadly, then glanced at the vegetables and laughed voicelessly.

  I leaned in to embrace her, but Nora’s ringtone suddenly blurted out of my phone.

  Verbin’s smile disappeared at once.

  “Yes, Nora?” I answered, not even trying to hide my disappointment.

  “Aren’t you happy to hear my voice?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  “Boris is requesting a meeting with Dr. Schultz.”

  “I see. Thank you, Nora.”

  Verbin gave me a worried look as she brought the coffee mug up to her lips.

  “This is important. Babe, can you manage if I leave for twenty-four tomorrow?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’ll consider it,” she said, disheartened. “Is there anything for breakfast other than scrubbed vegetables?”

  “Good question,” I said, and looked at her helplessly. I sipped my coffee and texted Nora:

  Boris will get his meeting.

  I got up and started chopping the vegetables thinly. I took out eggs, cheese, bacon, cream cheese and a few slices of Italian bread. I opened the window and put on some Pavarotti. Only when I finished setting the table did I notice that Verbin was no longer in the kitchen.

  28.

  Coffee with Bella took a bit longer than I’d planned. She explained that she was responsible for the delay of my raise according to the new agreement, since she would not stand for the attempt to replace my salary during the suspension by redeeming my vacation days.

  “Excellent,” I said, kissing her on the cheek, despite my very partial comprehension of whatever complex maneuver she was engineering.

  I went into Froyke’s office and he pointed me to the chair. “I’m making coffee. You can sit here and go over the clusterfuck your friend made.” He gestured at the pile of newspapers laid out on his desk.

  “A NEW MIDDLE EAST,” read the front page of Ha’aretz. “AERIAL UPHEAVAL,” in Israel Hayom. Other headlines were similarly alarming, and all of them cited the Special Advisor to the Prime Minister, who apparently spoke yesterday at the graduation ceremony of the IDF’s Senior Officer School. According to Be’er, the entire territory of Israel is within range of the radar systems of the S-400 missile batteries that are currently on their way to Syria – this total coverage will prevent any future attempt by the Air Force to operate within Syria without coordinating with the local Russian authorities.

  “What do you say?” Froyke sighed, and placed a cup of coffee in front of me.

  “All is not lost,” I said, and pointed at the final paragraph in the Ha’aretz article, which read, “The professor’s appointment as the new head of the NSC has been delayed due to objections by the Civil Service Commissioner.”

  “But this is where it gets interesting,” I said, and read aloud, “’The Russian system provides a decisive response to the American F-35 and F-22 stealth aircraft.’ He sounds like a sales rep. Not just this sentence, either – the whole speech is constructed like a sales pitch.”

  Froyke raised an eyebrow at me, and Nora, who had just joined us, asked if that wasn’t a bit of a stretch. I continued to read through the article, pointing out mentions of the multiple magnificent features of the Russian system. “It isn’t a stretch,” I concluded, trying very hard to not look at her cleavage. “This is basically an ad.”

  Froyke rubbed his chin. “You might have a point there,” he said. “But what would be his motive?”

  “Maybe the PM sent him to scare the treasury, pave the way to another budget raise?”

  “I honestly think he’s just a self-promoting putz,” said Nora. “Golomb from the Air Intelligence Group told me that the S-400 is an impressive system on paper, but ultimately it’s just a rehash of the SA-6; the same system that they had back in ’82 when the Air Force destroyed all of the Syrian anti-air batteries and about sixty MiG 21 and 23s. So, like you said, all is not lost.”

  “You drink some sort of vegetarian coffee, right?” Froyke asked.

  “Decaf please, thanks. The blue capsule.”

  Froyke seemed pensive as he went back over to the coffee machine. “While your contact in the Air Force has a point,” he said, “keep in mind that we only gained those abilities in ’82 after losing dozens of pilots and aircraft in the Suez Canal in ’73. The only reason we got a chance to take them apart and study them properly was that General Avraham Adan took the Armored Corps and the Infantry and conquered the bases where these batteries were stationed. It was a big deal – the failure of this defense system is often listed by historians as one of the reasons for the collapse of the Soviet regime.”

  “I’m not sure I see how the two are related,” asked Nora. “Can I have a splash of milk in the coffee?”

  “For milk you go to Bella,” said Froyke.

  “Bella imparts her favors only to Ehrlich,” she teased.

  “How would that contribute to the fall of the Soviet Union?” I asked.

  “Many of the Warsaw Pact countries felt they were not as well-protected as the Soviets said they were.”

  “And cut their payments to Moscow,” I said, deciding to conclude the history lesson. “It always comes down to money. Shall we get to work?”

  Before they could reply, Albert came in – his earpiece sticking out of his head like a plastic tumor – and told us that the Russians were sneakier than we thought, because unlike Faiza and Ali ‘Hamdanov,’ the
re was no professor with that name listed in their passport registry, or in Moscow University, or in any other database that they’d managed to breach. The trace on Faiza’s phone had likewise revealed no contact with her husband.

  “Despite that, I’m still fairly certain Ehrlich was right about Hamdani,” Albert said. “I compared Yuri Bogdanov’s salary – Ali’s bodyguard – to the other bodyguards employed by RET, and his paycheck is double the rest in every clause, including vacation days and vehicles.”

  “Interesting,” said Froyke. “Ehrlich?”

  “I think Ehrlich needs another ristretto to start up his analytical bits,” said Nora, and turned to me. “You must know him better than the rest of us – it’s obvious from your choice of t-shirts that the two of you are kindred spirits.” She pointed at the Che Guevara print on my shirt. “What is it with you and that anarchist? Refill on the coffee, by the way?”

  Albert said that as far as he knew, Che Guevara wasn’t an anarchist but a physician, a romantic, and a bona-fide killer. Nora handed me a cup of coffee.

  “Just like Ehrlich, without the doctor bit,” she said, sitting down, and turned to Albert again.

  “So we now know that RET is paying a bodyguard for an off-the-books project? I agree, sounds likely that it’s Hamdani.”

  “I’m meeting Boris tomorrow,” I said. “His Chechens have been spying on the entrance to the Hamdani/Hamdanov residence for about a week, as well as the RET facilities, the Iranian embassy, the University, even the research institute where he got his PhD. I have a strong feeling that he’s there, and that because of the kid he hasn’t even gotten plastic surgery. Just smart enough to hide in plain sight – or close enough. Boris is preparing a query for the face recognition software, filtering by height, bone structure, and I think gender.”

  “Why gender?” asked Nora. “I mean, the last time he got away…”

  “You’re not wrong, but his facial hair grows very quickly, so presenting as a woman would mean wearing a burqa, and the police in Moscow…”