Ring of Lies (24 page)

As the plane made its way from Zurich to Berlin through a dark sky, Alex's body tingled. At last, Mossad was silently reaching out its long tentacles to squeeze the life out of the demon.

Below, lights flickered in the distance.

Germany, the black box; the eye of the storm; the axis of torsion. Its dark past pulled at him, undermined his foundations. At times he felt that if he could only look the evil in the eye, he would be healed.

Germany had cleaned itself off and moved on. But he was still caught in the web of his fixations, held back by his insistence on delving into its crimes, like a creditor who refused to forgive a debt.

The plane touched down.

Grunewald was covered in ice. Behind the bars, the windows of the house were dark. He got the Glock from the doghouse, where he had stored it, and slid a round into the chamber. It was snowing lightly.

The drawn gun made its way into the silent space, where the smell of thyme and grilled meat hung in the air.

A chilly welcome: the heating wasn't on. He tried everything he could think of, but it didn't do any good. Then he checked the fuse box. Everything was in working order. Dammit, there must be a fault in the heating system.

He checked the ghostly house room by room, stunned again by the works of art.

The living room was dimly lit by the outside lights. The thin legs of the
Walking Man
cast a long shadow.

An empty house is a dangerous house.

Zengot called from Brussels.

“They're taking a Turkish Airlines flight at 23:30. It lands in Damascus at 1:30.”

“What are their chances of making it out of there alive, Sammy?”

“We did what we could in no time. Their cover is too thin.”

Alex banged his open hand on the glass wall. His fingers burned.

Paris was a street cat. Even if you threw him off the roof of a nine-story building, he'd land on his feet. Orchidea wouldn't. The thought of her made Alex regret his decision. He'd taken advantage of her weakness.

Even a good night's sleep wouldn't cure his fatigue. But his body was on fire, his muscles ached, and the madness would start in the morning. The bedrooms weren't safe. He'd be too exposed.

The deep cupboard in the pantry smelled of onion and garlic, but it was a good place to hide from the nasty cold. The bottom shelf was empty. It was about five feet long and two and a half feet wide. He folded his body into it, covering himself with his jacket and a woolen blanket he found in a closet. Exhausted, he sank into a troubled sleep.

About half the women were wearing hijabs. Some had their faces veiled. The men were all dressed in cheap suits. The cabin of the 737 reeked of pungent body odor. Paris seemed to be the only man without a mustache.

The lights of the hostile city twinkled like bait on a hook.

Zengot's deep voice still echoed in her ears, raising the horror of underground torture chambers and dungeons in infamous Adra Prison to the north of Damascus.

The line at passport control didn't move. The air stank of cigarette smoke. The portrait of President Bashar al-Assad looked down from every wall, as was only proper for a dictator under threat.

At the last minute she found an empty stall in the ladies' room. A hole in the floor. She vomited up her meager dinner.

The Nissan Primera they rented had seen better days, about sixty thousand miles ago. Paris was driving. Antiquated yellow cabs raced along the brightly lit road, and dozens of minarets pierced the night sky.

They cut around Damascus from the east, passing the poor tin shacks of the Jaramana refugee camp, where a stray dog was rummaging through an overturned trash pail. The wind carried the smell of burning garbage.

Damascus receded behind them until its lights vanished, and they entered the moonscape of the M1. The countryside was silent and desolate. On their left were the Anti-Lebanon Mountains. Yellow lights flickered in distant towns.

Paris was shorter than she was and not very attractive, but he was solid and well-built, with narrow hips and a broad chest. He wasn't arrogant or patronizing or full of himself.

But he was hiding something.

He smiled at her.

Orchidea tried to smile back, but her face was frozen. And she was dying of thirst.

The road rose slowly to a barren, rocky plain. The Anti-Lebanon Mountains still towered over them imposingly on the left.

Paris glanced at the dashboard. “Seven and a half miles to Al-Qutayfah. The turnoff is just past it.”

The asphalt illuminated by their headlights was swallowed beneath them.

Finally the lights of Maaloula, situated on a steep hillside in the Qalamoun Mountains, flickered above them. The houses clinging to the scarred land looked as if they had been built one atop the other. They entered the town, its empty streets dimly lit by weak streetlamps. Pistachio trees grew everywhere. A tired mule raised its head and gazed at them indifferently as they passed.

The crosses and domes of ancient churches appeared around every corner. Religious murals adorned the front walls of the houses. Zengot had told them that some of the locals spoke modern Aramaic, the language of Christ.

“The house is on the outskirts of Maaloula, about half a mile after the last building on this street,” Paris whispered. “Look for a stone house that has arched windows with bars on them.”

An icon on a tiny church showed the Virgin cradling Jesus, a baby with a golden halo. Paris sped up, turned into a narrow alley, and switched off the engine. He checked the mirrors. After a few minutes he reversed, turned around, and drove into the black night with the lights off, going so slowly that Orchidea barely felt the car moving. He kept a close watch on the numbers on the odometer.

Orchidea opened the window, letting in the sounds of insects buzzing and whistling and crickets chirping. The calm was seductive—and deceptive.

The Nissan wheezed, its springs creaking on the dirt road. A row of pistachio trees on the right was heavy with green clusters of unripe fruit.

A red cross with the word
Doctor
below was painted on a white tin sign on a low stone fence. The word was written in English, French, Arabic, and some unfamiliar language, maybe Aramaic.

Paris stopped the car and turned off the engine. The radiator fan continued to roar for a few seconds before switching off. Somewhere, a dog barked. After that, there was silence. They got out of the car. It was cold on the mountain.

Orchidea knocked on the door. The metal was icy.

Lights came on in the house. The silhouette of a man with a huge potbelly moved past the big windows, a bolt slid aside, and
the heavy double door opened. Light flowed out onto the path. The potbellied man filled the doorway, throwing a large shadow on the front yard.

Breathing heavily, Dr. Petrus Abu Luka held out a small, clammy hand and moved aside to allow them entry. He smelled of cigarettes. In his fifties, with one leg shorter than the other, he walked with a pronounced limp. He was dressed in a white
jellabiya
sheer enough to afford a clear view of his underwear.

They crossed the modest living room and entered the doctor's office, with its distinct medicinal odor. The walls were painted a pale blue, and the meager furniture consisted solely of a desk, three chairs, a gray tin cabinet, and a narrow, battered examination table. On the wall was a clock with a tapestry face, an embroidered inscription in Aramaic, and a diploma from Damascus University.

Begging their pardon, Dr. Abu Luka left the room. They looked around themselves and then at each other. The sound of the doctor's limping walk echoed through the high-ceilinged living room. Their host returned carrying a hammered copper tray with three small cups of coffee.

He then locked the door and closed the shutters. He gave them a meaningful look and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling before taking out of the cabinet a cardboard box with the Bayer logo.

They heard a noise above them. The doctor froze.

Orchidea stared at the locked door.

“Passports,” the doctor whispered abruptly.

They handed him their passports. He paged through them, looking for the secret mark. Finally, the worry lines vanished from his brow. Dr. Abu Luka's face glowed with perspiration. He
removed the contents of the cardboard box and arranged them on the desk like a display of spoils of war.

After transferring the items into a gray nylon carryall, the doctor got to his feet. They followed him to the door. As they were leaving, he patted Paris on the shoulder, his round face dripping with sweat, and handed Orchidea a small white box.

“What's this?” she asked.

“Freshly baked
kanafeh
. My wife made it this evening.”

He sent them on their way.

23 M
ARCH
1944

The deputy commandant has good eyes. Resolve shines from them.

Tonight, it cracked.

2 A
PRIL
1944

The deputy commandant said that Germany would regain its honor through occupation and force, but not by extermination of the Jews. Not for that did I join the army of the Reich, he said.

Are his eyes truly good, or is he laying a trap for me?

3 M
AY
1944

My children are still small, and Jasmin and I are young. We have our whole lives.

I hope the German is not luring me into a trap.

17 M
AY
1944

He knew that I was Resistance. He knew that I'd know how to take him to the Catacombs. He knew that we are Jews and that our papers were forged.

So why didn't you turn me in, I asked.

Because you suit me.

18 M
AY
1944

He signaled me with his eyes to follow him to the toilet. My body
grew terribly cold and my heart was pounding. He stood at a urinal and urinated.

I remained at a distance.

He gestured for me to approach.

I was embarrassed.

I have decided to desert, he whispered.

20 M
AY
1944

The monster could pursue you for the rest of your life. Are you prepared? the deputy commandant asked me tonight.

I nodded unhesitatingly. He is likely to do that, he added. The commandant will never forgive you, and he will hunt you down until one of you dies.

I nodded again.

Finally, I saw a spark of hope in his eyes.

21 M
AY
1944

The deputy commandant said that the commandant had worked with a man named Adolf Eichmann. He is in charge of the extermination of millions.

Millions of what? I asked.

Jews, millions of Jews.

He must have been exaggerating. Perhaps he'd been drinking.

Every sound sent a chill down Orchidea's spine. Every approaching vehicle made her seize up.

Jabal Qasioun overlooks Damascus from the north. Muslims believe that it is the place where Cain killed Abel. Red lights flickered on the peak. The face of Assad was plastered everywhere, screaming:
Don't forget who controls you; don't forget who controls Syria
.

They entered Damascus through Al-Sades min Tishreen. Since 1973, everything has been called Tishreen: Tishreen Park, the
Tishreen
newspaper, Tishreen Street.
Tishreen
means October, and October 1973 marked the first victory over the Zionists after a long line of humiliations.

Paris turned onto Al-Tawara Road. They passed through three tunnels that crossed the northern sectors of the city and turned west onto Al-Ittihad Road. It was the middle of the night, but the Sunni capital with its thousands of mosques was buzzing with life.

The fronds of the short palm trees on Shukri Al Quatli Street flapped in the wind. The street runs alongside the Barada River, which flows through Damascus, held in check by concrete embankments.

Le Méridien Hotel has always been a favorite of the Syrian government. Some say that the government actually owns the hotel. Not long ago, the name was changed to Dedeman.

They took their trolley bags with them, leaving the black duffel bag they got in Brussels and the gray carryall they got from Dr. Abu Luka in the trunk of the car.

They were greeted by a doughy reception clerk who was barely awake. Paris handed him their French EU passports. The man's ears were as hairy as a squirrel's. The portrait of Hafez al-Assad peered out from between the pages of one of the passports, gracing a thousand-Syrian-pound note.

The ceiling of the lobby was supported by marble-faced columns in alternating vertical stripes the colors of maple syrup and tahini. Their room on the seventh floor, designated the Royal Club, had a pale parquet floor and peach walls. The balcony afforded a view of Jabal Qasioun.

“Do you want to wash up?” Orchidea asked.

“You go first.”

Both of them noted the single king-size bed.

The hot water was soothing. She hadn't thought to get her pajamas out of her suitcase, and now she would have to come out in her underwear. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her breasts moved under the thin white T-shirt. Treacherous nipples.

She opened the bathroom door. Paris was sitting on the bed in his underpants. He rose, grabbed his toiletry kit, and walked past her, taking care not to brush against her. His body was even more solid and muscular than she had imagined.

Paris whistled in the shower. Orchidea smiled as she looked through the glass door of the balcony at the prestigious Abu Rumaneh district. The dark triangle of Zenobia Park stood out clearly. Beyond it were the houses of the Al-Muhajireen sector, clinging to the slopes of Jabal Qasioun.

Paris came out of the bathroom, lay down on the bed on his
side, and turned off the light. It was dark in the room. He'd used the tiny bottle of soap provided by the hotel, and he smelled like an apple orchard in full bloom.

Hostile Damascus was right outside. It had all happened too fast. Justus was killed, the Orchid Farm was broken into, the inhalers were stolen, her staff was murdered. Orchidea wrapped herself in her solitude, sinking into a bout of birthday blues.

Paris was still awake, his breathing steady. She was too restless to sleep, and anyway, morning was only a couple of hours away. Everything seemed so hopeless.

“Hold me,” she said.