Ring of Lies (18 page)

“General Omar Hattab has been head of the Mukhabarat for seven years. He was a young air-force pilot during the Yom Kippur War,” Butthead read out to Alex from the profile. “His plane was hit and caught fire, but he didn't bail out. He insisted on landing it and suffered burns over most of his body. Since then, he has risen steadily through the ranks. He's sixty-three, married, yadda yadda . . . Here it is! Since he's been in charge, there've been some serious fuckups. There are details here from our operations portfolio: the bombing of the nuclear facility in Deir ez-Zor; the assassination of Imad Mughniyeh; the explosion at the chemical weapons factory; the car bomb in Damascus that took out a senior Iranian official, and there are more—”

“What do the analysts say?” Alex asked. “Why doesn't Assad get rid of him?”

“He's some kind of cousin. And he's a loyalist.”

The call was disconnected.

Under ordinary circumstances, Assad would boot him out, maybe even order his hanging. The Mukhabarat chief had a very strong motive to prove himself if he wanted to stay alive.

They walked into the wind blowing from the sea. A yellow roadster, its roof down, drove by, growling roughly. Even after it passed, Alex's diaphragm continued to vibrate.

“Did you hear me?” Jane asked.

“What?”

“I said I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For getting so upset. I'm not as tough as you anymore. My shell has gotten thinner. I lead a quiet life. I get action and stress no more than one week out of the year, and even that's just training exercises, or, as Justus used to call it, operating system updates. I'm already on my way out. You're still in the thick of it all.”

Traffic was clogged along Via Laietana. Brake lights painted the facades of the imposing Catalan Modernista buildings in red. Built at the beginning of the previous century, they mimicked the style of the buildings on the great thoroughfares of Madrid.

“Stay with me,” Alex said.

The streetlamps shone on a bare plaza with an abstract pop art sculpture in the center. Alex breathed in the bracing sea air. A flock of gulls flew over their heads, their shrieks carried off by the wind. Alex and Jane strolled on, their two bodies casting a single shadow.

Reuven called.

“Who do you think the Syrians are working with?”

“I have to go to Syria. The answers are there,” Alex said.

“The PM has you on the list of new appointments this summer. He won't let you risk your neck.”

“The Israelite will be there,” Alex said. “That's who they're working with.”

“Where are you?”

“The Israelite could be one of us,” Alex said.

“No way.”

Reuven hung up.

The waves lapped up against the concrete piers and retreated back into the sea. A field of masts and steel cables clattered in the wind. The air tasted salty and smelled of rotting seaweed. A dark-skinned man with a shaved head bumped Alex's shoulder as he passed. He didn't bother to apologize. When Alex turned his head, he was already gone, swallowed up by the other strolling people.

“We'll head back to Berlin in the morning,” he said into the wind.

Every time he uttered the word
Berlin
, the disturbing Time–Life album rose up before him.

They joined the long line outside Restaurante El Pulpo. Within a few minutes the doors opened and the crowd snaked into a cloud of garlic and melted butter, and the sounds of dizzying flamenco music played on an acoustic guitar. Yellow cloths covered the tightly spaced tables filled with eager diners.

Alex ordered a bottle of cava. The cork flew up to the ceiling, and the bubbling wine climbed to the tops of their narrow glasses.

A green salad with tuna was followed by thin slices of
jamón ibérico
. The lightly salted cured ham was delicious. The bubbly cava tickled Alex's tongue. Laughter came from the tables around them. The waiter placed a plate of
boquerones
between them. The white flesh of the anchovies was pleasantly sour and salty.

“You look sad,” Jane said.

“Worried.”

“You always are, a little.”

“A little what?”

“Sad.”

He refilled their glasses.

“All the people around us are happy,” she said.

Alex put down his fork. “Do you have a happy life?”

Jane chewed on an anchovy before answering. “You've never been happy.”

“Just drop it.”

“I read an article about the children of Holocaust survivors.”

Alex nodded with manifest distaste.

“You suffer from feelings of guilt and existential angst, and you have abandonment issues.”

“Guilt for what?”

“Maybe you feel guilty that you weren't able to save her.”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

“How could I?” he said quietly.

“You couldn't.”

The conspiracy of silence. The anxieties over food. The fear of what tomorrow would bring. The fragility of life. Survivor's guilt. Life in his childhood home had been grim. He couldn't afford to open that box right now. Not here. Not in his condition.

Distracted, he reached out for his cava glass and knocked it over. A dark stain spread across the yellow cloth. It reminded him of the pool of blood beneath the Syrian's feet.

“Let's try to enjoy ourselves,” he said sadly.

The waiter brought a large plate of black mussels and left.

The guitar quartet, decked out in frilly white shirts and heavy gold chains, was making its way toward them. The entertainers attached themselves to their table like leeches. Giving the couple a veiled look, the broad-nostrilled leader opened his mouth and began singing a treacly serenade. Alex glared at them. He pulled a two-euro coin from his pocket. The guitarists bowed and smiled before moving on, taking their irritating strings with them.

After a long pause, Alex asked, “Were you having an affair with Justus?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“When we found the skinny jeans in his closet, you tried to look surprised, but I had the sense that you were hurt.”

Jane examined her fingernails and then scanned the other diners. Her expression darkened. She remained silent for a long time. Finally she said, “I wonder how things would have turned
out if this crisis with the Nibelungs had never happened. I wonder if we could have lived a quiet life together.” She looked him in the eye. “Do you think we could have pulled it off?”

Alex groped for the passion Jane had once aroused, but his attraction to her now felt like a foot that had fallen asleep.

It was obvious that it was hard for her to be with him. She couldn't cope with who he was.

For a fleeting moment, he got a glimpse into his own soul and recognized the part he had played in his failed relationship with Naomi. Maybe he wasn't cut out for the sustained intimacy of being a couple. Maybe he could only find release in wide-open spaces, far from anyone else, alone on his barren inner tundra.

He covered his face with his hands. Between his fingers, he saw her doleful smile.

“Sometimes I think your job keeps you from having to deal with life,” she said.

On the way to the restroom, Alex bumped into a chubby waitress encased in a tight dress, nearly causing her to drop the heavy tray she was carrying. She flashed him a smile, revealing a dark tongue. In her deep cleavage, there was a gold cross.

A cross . . .

Christian . . .

Alex made sure he was alone in the restroom before calling Butthead.

“Find out about a racist group that calls itself Christian Identity.”

Alex had come across the name in a survey of far-right fringe groups and messianic cults in Western countries.

“What do you want to know?” Butthead asked.

“Who they refer to as Israelites.”

He returned to the table.

The waiter brought them a plate piled high with langoustines. Jane peeled the shell off one and placed the white flesh on his plate. Butter dripped from her fingers.

His phone vibrated.

“Sorry,” Alex mouthed.

“Christian Identity is a white supremacist religious movement,” Butthead reported. “They believe that white Europeans are the true Israelites and that the Jews are the offspring of Satan. All the rest are ‘mud people,' soulless human trash. They're affili
ated with racist organizations like the Aryan Nations, the Aryan Brotherhood prison gangs, the Redeemer ministries, the Phineas Priesthood, and the loony redneck militias in the American Midwest. According to these other groups, only Caucasians have souls and only whites go to heaven. The Jews are the descendants of Satan, so naturally we go to hell, and when Jesus is resurrected we'll all be exterminated.”

“What's their connection to neo-Nazis?”

“There's almost no connection. Most neo-Nazis don't want anything to do with them. They claim that Christian Identity is a Jewish invention.”

“So according to Christian Identity, the Israelite can't be an Israeli or a Jew,” Alex said.

“And he would hate Jews because they're the lowest of the low.”

“But we don't know if he's a neo-Nazi or not,” Alex added.

“Not yet.”

“Find out what links do exist between Christian Identity and neo-Nazis.”

A plate of squid arrived at the table, but Alex had lost interest in the food. The cava was making him feel sluggish. His mind was fighting a headwind.

“Sorry about all the phone calls.”

She nodded, but she seemed upset.

“The Israelite is probably a Jew-hating Christian,” he said.

“What about us?” she asked bluntly.

“We'll get through this,” he said, too quickly. “What do
you
want?”

“Where will we live?”

“We'll figure it out.”

“You're dreaming, Alex. I love you, but you're dreaming.”

“Would you come to Tel Aviv?”

“My life is in London. I'm in the middle of a research project that's going to keep me busy for years.”

The creases in her face grew deeper. The image of what she would look like as an old woman flashed through his mind. She would still be beautiful.

His phone vibrated. He dropped his shoulders in a show of despair.

She didn't reward him with so much as a nod. Alex glanced at her as he got up. Jane was deep in thought, staring at the screen of her phone.

He went outside.

It was Reuven.

“Christian Identity is an interesting idea, but it's not very likely,” his boss said. “Butthead just sent me a memo. It's a fringe group. The neo-Nazis among them are outside the mainstream. Mostly, they just make noise and pick on easy targets.”

“The Syrian said the man they were working with was called the Israelite,” Alex insisted.

“He could have been lying.”

“He said it at the stage when you don't lie.”

“Sorry, but I don't think you're on the right track. Try a different direction.”

“Okay. Don't hang up.”

“Who's hanging up?”

Alex surveyed the street and the alley alongside the restaurant. A row of different-colored recycling bins; a dog with its tail between its legs and fear in its eyes. He heard voices speaking English with American accents. A tourist walked by, a camera with a
huge lens hanging from his thick neck. Guitar music. The quartet of musical leeches was standing in the entrance to the alley. A white truck started backing into the narrow space. The guitarists went on strumming as they moved aside.

“Don't we have a source high up in the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution in Germany?” Alex asked.

“Parsifal? Not anymore.”

“He's dead?”

“No, Parsifal's not dead. He caused a major diplomatic incident between us and Germany. After that, he slammed the door in our faces.”

“He was an agent?”

“No, an asset. A Jewish psychiatrist who made his way up the ranks in the office. He passed on information that happened to cross his desk, and he didn't want any money for it. The Germans caught on to him in 2004. We offered to pay for an attorney and anything else he needed, but he couldn't take the pressure. He gave up his handler, our agricultural attaché at the embassy in Berlin, and they let him keep his job. The attaché was deported the same night, and Parsifal cut off all contact with us. We've tried, but he doesn't want anything more to do with us. He's retiring soon. Forget about him.”

“What put them on to him?”

“He wasn't computer savvy. He didn't understand that as soon as he switched from paper to computers, every keystroke was recorded. They had their eye on him for a long time. They suspected him of leaking information.”

“What's he doing these days?”

“He's a senior profiler in the unit that tracks extreme right-wing movements.”

“Neo-Nazis?”

“Them, too. But I don't believe neo-Nazis are behind this. They're nothing but simple-minded, marginal rejects. It's not them. The people we're fighting are powerful, organized, and professional.”

“We don't have any other leads,” Alex said.

“So keep looking. The answers aren't under our noses.”

“Give me Parsifal's phone number.”

“You're wasting your time.”

Alex waited. Finally he heard the familiar sound of Reuven's office safe swinging open. The chief read out the number and then hung up.

Should he go back inside, or call now? There was no point in going in and coming right back out again. Jane's patience had a limit.

Alex dialed the number. It went to voice mail.

Jane was going to be upset.

He dialed again.

“Ja?” said a polite German voice.

“Are you alone?” Alex said.

“Who is this?”

“Can you talk?”

“Yes, and I can sing, too. It depends on who you are.”

“Somebody from your past.”

The call was disconnected.

Alex redialed.

“A psychiatrist isn't supposed to be afraid of the past,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“Parsifal?”

The German hung up.

But Alex wasn't ready to give up. He called the number again.

“It won't be hard for me to find you,” Parsifal said. His tone had become aggressive.

“Don't bother. I'd be happy to come see you.”

“What do you want?”

“I'm looking for a man called the Israelite.”

He heard the German light a cigarette and inhale. He was stalling.

“Do not dare call this number again,” Parsifal said and hung up.

Alex walked unsteadily back inside. The odors in the restaurant were overwhelming. He passed a waiter carrying a tray loaded with steaming plates. El Pulpo was jumping, the atmosphere lively and buoyant. Five drunken men were roaring with laughter at a table near the door.

As far as he was concerned, they could pay the bill and leave. They'd take a taxi back to the hotel. He'd turn his phone off for an hour or two. The world could wait. It took him a minute to locate their table.

Jane was gone.