Good and Dead (An Avner Ehrlich Thriller Book 2) Page 18

  “The ones from information systems and security should have all the electrical company’s codes. Don’t you feel like blacking out Moscow? Could be big fun, yeah?”

  “Well, who can say no to big fun? I’m not a monster. Go for it.”

  “I’m on it, boss. Been on it for a week.”

  * * *

  26The liquidators were the soldiers, firefighters and political prisoners (mostly Chechens) who were forced to evacuate and clear the Chernobyl reactor after the explosion. Nearly all of them were subjected to ionizing radiation and died as a result of it.

  30.

  A pleasant morning sun warmed the broad central lawn of the Tel Aviv University campus.

  “Psychology Department?” asked Ami Kahanov, and the girl raised a lazy arm and said, “No, this is Sharett. Psych is the building on the left, it’s written on the front.”

  “Thanks.”

  Groups of students clustered on the lawn like splashes of paint. Some were reading, others were chatting or sunbathing, building up a tan that’d serve as a buffer throughout the winter. A pale kid in white-guy dreads smoked a miniature pocket-hookah. A petite, bespectacled girl in a tank-top that covered hardly anything was passionately kissing a much taller girl with red hair in a short, masculine bob. A skinny guy in Birkenstocks was walking around collecting paper coffee cups into one bag and plastic bottles into another.

  When Ami was studying for his bachelor’s, he didn’t have parents to pay his tuition, and this was before the days of the military discharge grant. He took a student job, working insane hours in the Service operations room, attached to the combat units, after school hours. He finished his degree in mathematics and statistics in two years, just as he’d set out to do.

  When he walked into the small lobby of the staff offices, a young woman leaning against the wall looked up and gave him a curious stare. He quickly straightened up and squared his shoulders. He nearly asked her if she thought he looked like Harry Hole27 – apart from the bald head, of course – but thought better of it. Instead he asked,

  “Excuse me, do you know where I can find Professor Ayalon?”

  “Straight down, first door on the left.”

  “Thanks.”

  He went down the hall and found the office. The door was open; he knocked on it lightly and went inside.

  “Hi, Professor Ayalon? I’m Avi Garfunkel. we spoke on the phone?”

  “Yes, right,” said the professor, a paunchy, graying man of about fifty. “Please, sit down, I’ll be right with you, just finishing up here. Remind me, what paper are you from?”

  “Systems Journal of the Ministry of Defense.”

  “Right,” said Professor Ayalon, and closed his laptop. “We checked, there aren’t any reporters there by that name. Nor is there a Press card registered for it. So, to what or whom do I owe this honor? And close the door behind you, please.”

  Kahanov, somewhat taken aback by the elegant assault, closed the door. He knew this was a misstep in their little duel for control of the conversation, but the door needed to be closed either way. He went inside and presented the professor with his actual ID.

  “I’m Ami Kahanov, of the General Security Service. Sorry about all the deception. I didn’t want anyone around here to know about our talk – a precaution I’m sure you’ll understand once you agree to talk to me and sign an NDA.”

  Ami reached out his hand, but remained standing, forcing the professor to stand up as well in order to shake it. He did, and smiled, saying, “You’ve obviously been well-trained. How can I be of assistance to the Shin-Bet?”

  Ami sat down and said, “You know Professor Be’er, the PM’s special advisor and candidate for Head of the NSC. This is a really just a standard security check – every candidate for such a sensitive position has to go through this.”

  “I find it hard to believe that Yashke put me down as a reference.”

  “Yes, but of course, if we only talk to the people the candidate wants us to…”

  “Ah,” Ayalon sighed. “So you need me for the opposition.”

  “I mean, we are after the truth. All of it, and nothing but.”

  “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “I’d love some coffee. But first I need you to sign this NDA.”

  Kahanov handed him the document, and Ayalon went over it with impressive speed, somehow managing to read the whole thing. He signed it and gave it back to Ami.

  “Just out here,” he said, and Kahanov followed him out of the room.

  As Ayalon waited for the water to boil, he looked curiously at Ami, who smiled awkwardly. After looking around to see that no one else was around, Ayalon asked why send a senior agent “such as Mr. Garfinkel” to handle a simple security investigation, when normally these things are handled by students or rookies.

  “When it’s a position as high up as the Head of the NSC, you want it handled by someone who’s at least finished basic training,” Ami smiled.

  Ayalon nodded in agreement, and they returned to the small office of the Head of Cognitive Psychology.

  “So how long have you known each other? You and Be’er.”

  “You tell me, Mr. Kahanov.”

  “Ami is fine.”

  “Tell me, Ami, if you didn’t get my name from Yashke, how did you know to come speak to me? I haven’t seen him for years, ever since Moscow University, and even then only, well…” he trailed off for a moment, then said, “and not at all since coming to Israel.”

  “Then I can only assume that whoever put you on the list checked the records from Moscow University. You both moved there from Leningrad, is that right?”

  “So you have access to the university’s student records?”

  “Your words.”

  “Yes. And yes – we’ve known each other since we were kids, our parents also knew each other, we were neighbors growing up in Leningrad. Both our parents were active Refuseniks, so we saw each other quite a lot, and afterwards we went to the same university – different departments, as you know, but still. A couple of zhyds…”

  “You say zhyds. Were you victims of hate crimes? Subjected to antisemitism?”

  “Interesting question. Look, antisemitism was always lurking there, like herpes, waiting for an opportunity. Actual assaults? I was; him, not so much.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Ayalon smiled. “Why’s a bad question.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t have an answer for it.”

  Ayalon lowered his head, touching his chin to his chest, and started massaging his temples.

  “You know, maybe I do have an answer,” he said after a moment, smiling shrewdly. “You know what Yashke’s superpower is? He has this… survival mechanism. He knows to get close to the people who matter. He’s that kid who runs to the school principal and tattles, getting his foot in the door, using it later to help his buddies. Everybody’s happy.”

  “Is that little anecdote something that actually happened, or just a hypothetical?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re trying to make a point about something you feel is important.”

  “I wish my students were more like you. You’re right – not only did it happen, it happened a lot. That’s how I remember him, always trying to curry favor with the people who seemed like they would be worth it. That’s who he is – a pleaser. Pleasing anyone with power or who might someday have power. My father once got a puppy from a friend, adorable little thing, but it was a Caucasian Shepherd, which is a huge, vicious animal. Yashke never came to our house without a little morsel for the dog, saying that when the dog got big, it’d remember who gave it meat. You can treat this kind of behavior with contempt, and many of our people did. But then – this sort of survivor mechanism is instinctive. Look, when we were ten years old, Russia was
still Soviet. Our parents, like I told you, were Refuseniks. His father was arrested and sent to a Siberian labor camp. And Yashke? He joined the Komsomol. You understand? The goddamn Komsomol! We barely saw him after that, he didn’t even come to the synagogue for the high holidays. When I did meet him some time later, he told me that he’d joined them to try and improve his father’s sentence.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Of course not. His father disappeared. Like a million others.”

  Ayalon interlaced his fingers and stretched them, and then cracked each of the knuckles in turn. This took a while, during which Kahanov tried to think of what to ask next – but Ayalon seemed eager to keep talking.

  After he finished cracking, he sighed and said, “I suppose you’re looking for evidence to any loyalties. Rest easy, he has none. Apart for one, maybe – his mother.”

  “His mother?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know if she’s still alive, but back then Yashke stopped at nothing to get her sent to America or to Israel for a kidney transplant – she was on dialysis for years, they didn’t perform transplants in Russia yet. It’s possible he only came to Israel so his mother could get a new kidney. She came to his PhD graduation ceremony in a wheelchair, and he literally prostrated himself in front of her and kissed her feet. Look, Ami, strength comes from weakness, from adversity. Maybe the greatest strength. Look at the Blacks in the US. You have to be an outstanding athlete to get out of the ghetto, so all of the best athletes are Black. Look at us here, a tiny speck surrounded by huge enemies, all shaking in their boots because we had to develop nukes. Stephen Hawking, you know what his deal is? He hasn’t got any more gray matter than you or I. He just learned to use it better because he’s stuck in that damn chair all day.” Ayalon fell silent and stirred his coffee, staring at it for a while, before eventually looking up at Kahanov.

  “So what is it that you’re trying to find out here? Is there a chance that Yashke is a traitor? A Russian spy? Can he lie without batting an eyelid? Yes, of course he can, but so can many others – it’s hardly a noteworthy matter, honestly. Now, does he have the courage? Does he have the balls, as you people are so fond of saying? Not unless he had a ball transplant. He’s a spineless worm. Trust me.”

  Kahanov waited another moment, as if considering what he’d heard, then said, “Thank you, professor. You’ve helped considerably.”

  He stood up, shook Ayalon’s hand, and added, “Please forget me, and this meeting that wasn’t.”

  “Of course. I always forget things I’m ashamed of,” said Ayalon. “Now, go away.”

  Kahanov nodded, left the room and closed the door behind him. The young woman he saw leaning against the wall earlier was just coming out of the kitchenette with a cup of tea. He moved to let her pass and smiled at her. She rolled her eyes and went into one of the offices.

  When he came out of the building he looked longingly at the lawn again: the petite girl in the crop-top was still making out with her tall redhead, the white Rasta was still smoking his hookah. Kahanov stopped and looked at the carefree students, wondering for a moment if he’d made the right choice. All he remembered from his time at school was the endless stress, the work shifts, the exams and papers. He didn’t have a single fond memory of relaxing afternoons on the grass. Suddenly he noticed Professor Ayalon coming out of the building. Not wanting to be seen by him, Kahanov quickly looked away and hurried toward the main gate. Only when he got there, he looked back again – Ayalon wasn’t there. He breathed a sigh of relief and went out through the revolving gate.

  * * *

  27The main character in a series of crime novels written by Norwegian author Jo Nesbø.

  31.

  I was on my way home when the bad thoughts came, as they often do, in a barrage, like auto-fire; quick split-second bursts one after the other. But this time it was different, as if the hidden director of the movie in my head had decided to try his hand at slow motion. Little Ali’s face filled the screen, contorted in fear, the red bindi in the center of his forehead, lingered there, allowing me to soak it up completely. My Eran came next, but he was walking away. I wanted him to stop so badly, but he kept moving away from me, and a thick darkness remained where he had been.

  I turned on Waze. It chose the faster route – Highway 1 and then 38. It wasn’t my favorite route, but it was certainly better than the one my thoughts had in store for me. Professor Hamdani and Rasputin came in and out of my head like small, dark waves lapping at the shore, lapping and falling away, like one of Marlow’s descriptions in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Later he says, ‘And this also has been one of the dark places of the earth,’ and it fit perfectly, because it was such a dense, deep darkness that Eran left behind. It was one of the books my father left me, along with the Von Kleist novels and Hermann Broch’s Sleepwalkers trilogy.

  When I got to the front gate I was damp with sweat, and the dogs were not there to greet me. This wasn’t a first; ever since the miscarriage they hardly ever left Verbin’s side. Her Beetle was parked near the house, but I couldn’t find Verbin, neither in the house nor out on the porch. She wasn’t by the grave, either.

  “Hey, honey bear. Up here,” I suddenly heard.

  I went up the stone staircase leading to the roof, left by the original owner, whose children probably live in Balata or Jabaliya. I found Verbin on the roof, lying on an old mattress, looking at the stars. She handed me her glass of wine.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re not hungry?” She widened her eyes and said she’d be sure to note the date in the Ehrlich Annals. I sat beside her, swirling the wine in the glass, and brought it up to my nose.

  “Good nose,” I said, knowing it would make her laugh.

  She didn’t laugh. I sipped and rolled it across my tongue.

  “Chardonnay? Not Sphera’s, definitely, or Suson Yam’s, but it’s good.”

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  “Sounds serious.” I put down the glass and looked at her.

  “I’ve decided to accept the invitation from Johns Hopkins, and I want you to come with me,” she said, and looked into my soul, leaving me no place to hide.

  “We’ve already agreed that you can’t miss this opportunity. Why now? And why with me?”

  “With you because size does matter, and you’re the biggest prick I know. And now because I’m suffocating, honey bear.”

  She placed a finger on my lips. “Be quiet now, and let me finish without cracking a joke for once. I saw you left your laptop open with that article on the symptoms of post-miscarriage depression. It wasn’t the most recent data, by the way – it’s sixty-five percent of women who become traumatized after. And it’s not just that. It’s so many things that keep adding up every day. It’s my little brother Gili who died, and Eran who died, and Luigi who died, and Froyke who isn’t really getting better no matter what we do, and you who almost died on me several times this year. And back in April, you saw how the security staff was looking through people’s things, hunting for chametz? What the actual fuck, honey bear! I need air, I have to have some air so I can breathe, and the air here’s getting thinner every day.”

  I started to say something, but she shut me up with a raised finger, and said, “And maybe this is all bubbling up now because we lost our child, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. By the way, Abrasha called earlier.”

  “What did he want?”

  “What he always wants. You, or a piece of you. So I asked him. Why he’s in Larnaca rather than here.” She spoke with her eyes closed. “He started babbling about internationalism and tax things and eventually he said that he needed a change of air, that he’d had it up to… that he was suffocating, but he didn’t want to stray too far from his grandkids and his HMO.”

  “Did he say it was urgent?”

  “No.
we talked for a while. He told me about the day Eran was killed. And he wanted me to tell you to call him back.”

  “He can wait. What else did he say?”

  “That we should hurry up and have another child, that we shouldn’t wait. For anyone.”

  “He’s right. But what I was going to say is… yes. We’ll go.”

  I placed a finger on her lips, this time, and told her what Bella had told me in secret. “Another five or six months. Everything is pretty much settled. I’ll move to the States, if we want, as an emissary. Froyke is still working on it – a new position, probably. CIA liaison. Ami will come live here and look after the dogs.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “I’m serious.”

  Verbin burst into tears and hugged me tightly. “I love you so much.”

  “Close your eyes,” I said, and kissed her eyelids.

  “You promise you’re serious?”

  “I am. Yes. I promise. But now I need to call Abrasha.”

  I took the glass with me and went down to the staircase and called the old man.

  “What’s so urgent, Abrasha?”

  “Get your oversized ass in one of those shitty little Cessnas you got down there and get over here. The old man who tried to sell me stuff about Rasputin called in a panic. He said he has the intel and he feels they’re on him. And this guy’s not some scared rookie, he’s a pro. At least he used to be. So I’m guessing he knows what he’s talking about. Oh, bring that bombshell with you – what’s her name? Rona? Nora?”

  The dirty old man will never change, I thought. I downed the rest of the wine and said, “From one to ten, how urgent?”

  “Thirteen. Get the fuck over here.”

  There were very few people that have earned my blind trust. Abrasha was one of them. If he said thirteen, it was a thirteen. Still standing on the staircase, I called Froyke, then Nora and Operations. After a few minutes Bella called with the details of my flight. I went back up to Verbin and poured her another glass. I saw in her eyes that she knew she’d be sleeping alone again tonight.