Ring of Lies (29 page)

Gerard Trezeguet's body was thrown backward, hitting the cage. He clutched at the netting, tearing the top from the wooden frame. The cage cracked and collapsed, and he slid to the ground.

Orchidea spun in the direction of the open doorway to the stairs, where the shot had come from. Dropping and rolling across the roof, she fired two shots at the head of the broad figure she saw, followed by two to his midsection. The shooter slumped to the floor, and the gun fell from his hand. She went over to the cage, retrieved Gerard's flashlight, and examined him. “No!”

The Frenchman's breathing was shallow. His hands were pressed to his chest in an effort to stop the bleeding. She unzipped his fleece jacket and raised his shirt. Blood was bubbling from an entry wound near his heart.

She'd been relying on him to get her out of Damascus, and here he was, lying wounded and bleeding. She stroked his head and bit her lip. When the initial wave of panic subsided, her mind started racing. After the noise of the shots, the whole world would come running; they had to leave—now. She called Alex and told him that Brunner was dead and the Frenchman was injured.

“Why did he stab him?”

“He said something about his father . . . their family . . . murder. I didn't understand it all.”

A gunshot wound to the chest meant that she had to get him to a hospital. But a hospital was out of the question. “What should I do?”

There was a pause.

“Take him to Dr. Abu Luka in Maaloula,” Alex said finally.

2 A
UGUST
1944

He taught us the train routes and departure times, and the vulnerable spots along the tracks. He participates in every operation and saves Jews.

Such is the deputy commandant.

Yesterday we stopped a train that had departed from the Bourget-Drancy station. During a brief battle, we—a handful of Resistance fighters—succeeded in killing a dozen SS men and saving 278 children who were on their way to Auschwitz.

I couldn't save my own children.

3 A
UGUST
1944

My embraces are empty. No trace is left of my family, no portrait, no smile or utterance. I am alone in the world, and my loneliness is beyond measure. Every thought of my loved ones floods my eyes with tears.

Justus Erlichmann was sitting in front of the camera in a white T-shirt, spilling everything about the makeup of the Ring and the identities of the Nibelungs: addresses, phone numbers, meeting places. He divulged details of his special relationship with the Israeli prime minister and the head of Mossad, the Hochstadt-Lancet virus, the design of the Cube, and how to arm the inhalers, with an appalling nonchalance and outrageous composure.

In one scene, speaking directly into the Syrians' camera, Erlichmann talked about the plans for the Bolu operation, including the abduction of the Iranian general, the location of the spice warehouse, and the identity of the Nibelung assigned with the task of getting rid of the body.

So the Syrians had known about the mission well in advance, but they had only passed the information on to the Turks after Istanbul was taken out, presumably hoping to spark a crisis between Israel and Turkey.

Justus had managed to fool the polygraph, Reuven, and everyone else. He had been collaborating with Alois Brunner, which explained the large sums he'd transferred to the neo-Nazi group. It seemed that the swastika had always been carved into his heart, but unfortunately Israel had never bothered to rummage through his activities.

The Nibelung Ring was history. The Syrian Mukhabarat had marked their targets and surveilled the Nibelungs. Then the
Mauser brothers—the Stasi twins—had gone from city to city, strangling their victims to death.

Her, too. Jane, too.

Despicable neo-Nazi house.

He struggled to put his thoughts in order. Alois Brunner was the Israelite. Was Justus Erlichmann the Mud Man?

Had Justus orchestrated the assassinations and hidden the bodies? Where? Why did he decide to kill his own people, the people he himself had recruited and trained?

And what about Brunner?

Alex had heard the story of the escaped Nazi war criminal early in his Mossad career. Alois Brunner had vanished after the war, turning up later in Egypt and then moving to Damascus in 1954. It was said that somewhere along the way, he had worked for the CIA. Six years after he arrived in Syria, he was arrested on suspicion of drug trafficking. As soon as he identified himself as a high-ranking SS officer, he was released.

Brunner taught the Mukhabarat the art of torture. His technique employed a modern version of the rack, born more than five hundred years ago in the dungeons of the Spanish Inquisition.

Israeli pilots who had been held captive in Syria spoke of ordeals similar to the ones described by survivors of the Drancy internment camp, over which Brunner had presided.

Brunner had also brokered a deal with the Stasi for the sale to the Mukhabarat of thousands of miniature listening devices. That was the start of the unholy trinity between the Nazi fugitive, the East German Stasi, and the Syrian Mukhabarat.

For decades Brunner had been in hiding, protected by armed guards, giving rise to the belief that he was dead.

The first letter bomb exploded in 1961 in a post office in Damascus, killing two Syrian postal workers and taking out one of Brunner's eyes. The second package was sent in 1980 by the German Society of Friends of Medicinal Herbs, and took off four fingers of his left hand.

But Alois Brunner refused to die.

The debt was still outstanding.

Along with the video, Orchidea had sent him two phone numbers she had found scrawled on a scrap of paper on Brunner's desk. Alex called Butthead and requested an immediate trace.

Then he called Reuven.

“Paris killed Alois Brunner, but Paris was shot by one of Brunner's guards. It's serious. Orchidea took out the guard. They're on their way to Dr. Abu Luka in Maaloula, but he can't do much more than bandage the wound. We have to get them out of there immediately.”

A bottle was opened.

A drink was poured.

Sipping.

Pitiful.

Swallowing. A deep breath.

“Will you organize the extraction, Reuven?”

“It's too risky.”

“They're our people.”

“That's just it. They're not.”

Alex disconnected.

His call to the prime minister's office was answered immediately.

Paris's gray jacket was stained black with blood, and his eyes were squeezed shut. Blood dripped onto the whitewashed roof. Air entered his chest through the hole, making a whistling sound. She knew that a punctured lung meant that his condition could deteriorate rapidly, and she knew what she had to do. She sat him up on the creaky wooden stool. His body swayed.

Clenching her jaw, she pulled the knife out of Alois Brunner's body and wiped the blade on his coat. She cut a five-inch square from the dead bodyguard's shirt and then ran down to Brunner's apartment and grabbed the first-aid kit and the tube of Vaseline from the bathroom cabinet.

Returning to the roof, she held the flashlight between her teeth as she lifted Gerard's shirt from behind. Damn! It was so dark. She felt around for an exit wound and finally convinced herself that there was none. Thank God.

His breathing was shallow. The light from the stairwell fell on his face. He was turning blue and shifting restlessly. The ominous trill of a muezzin's call rose into the night air.

She glanced at her watch and counted thirty-four breaths a minute. Way too fast. The injured lung could collapse. She disinfected the wound with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol, spread a thick layer of Vaseline around it, and placed the square of cotton over it, holding it in place with Band-Aids in three sides. The one-directional valve she had improvised should let out the air
trapped in his chest without allowing new air in. The bandage rose and fell with each rasping breath.

After a few minutes, she noticed a slight improvement. Gerard was breathing noisily.

“Can you stand up?”

He nodded. She helped him up from the stool. He was heavy. She shoved her shoulder under his arm to support him and led him to the stairs, and he leaned on her, gritting his teeth in silence. They descended slowly, one step at a time.

He skipped a breath.

Her heart skipped a beat.

The stairs seemed endless. He sent a silent kiss into the air, managing to smile through his pain. His eyes sparkled bewitchingly. Hers, filled with tears.

The trek down the stairs went on and on. At last they reached the entrance, her blouse stuck to her back and her knees nearly buckling under her. She sat him down on the ground, leaning him against the wall just inside the iron gate.

“I'll be right back.”

She raced to the Nissan. She could already hear the wail of sirens approaching, rapidly growing louder.

She drove the car onto the sidewalk in front of the gate. The veins in his neck looked a little less swollen, but his lips were purple. She counted eighteen breaths a minute. Better.

She sat him down in the backseat and buckled him in. His movements were lethargic. Sitting up meant that his internal organs wouldn't press on his diaphragm, making it easier for him to breathe. But Gerard was slipping away.

There was a blood smear on the door of the white Nissan. She wiped it away with her sleeve and jumped in.

She drove down Hadad Street and turned left into Al-Mahdi ben Barakeh, which cuts across Damascus diagonally toward the northeast.

The cursed Jabal Qasioun was up ahead. She was going in the right direction. She had to pass the mountain to the east, and then, if she was lucky, she'd make it onto the M1.

She looked for a sign pointing the way to the highway but didn't see one. She didn't look back. Nothing good could appear in the rearview mirror.

Police sirens shrieked nearby. The back of her neck went cold. She glanced at Gerard. He was quiet. She prayed for him to hold on.

Ben Barakeh Street was congested. Grasping the wheel with her left hand, she reached back and touched his face. It was cold and dry. Drivers honked incessantly. A shadow of despair fell over her heart.

“Why didn't you tell me who he was before we went up there?”

He coughed wetly and said hoarsely, “I wasn't positive . . .”

She didn't reply. After a long pause she said, “I'll get you out. You'll see.”

“I'm sorry . . .”

In the north of the city, the traffic eased a bit, but time was against them.

“There's a morphine injector in the bag,” he said.

“I have to ask the doctor.”

Dr. Petrus Abu Luka picked up on the fourth ring. Sudden anxiety showed in his voice. He would make preparations for their arrival, and no, she shouldn't give morphine if there was a lung injury. It could suppress his breathing.

“It won't be long,” she said to the dark interior of the car. Gerard's breathing was becoming more rapid. He slumped sideways on the backseat, twisting into an unnatural position. He could no longer restrain his groans.

Don't cry
, she urged herself.
Keep it together.

At Al-Sades min Tishreen, the road opened up, but not enough to allow the speedometer to climb past fifty-five. A flashing blue light would mean interrogation rooms, torture, and the gallows.

A large junction was coming up. She passed through it going straight, following the sign to Homs and Aleppo. Once again, traffic piled up, slowing her down. Maaloula was still far away.

Too far away.

14 A
UGUST
1944

I am diminished, my actions are limited, my time is allotted, and my room is cramped. Nothing remains of the objects that once filled my life.

I bake in someone else's boulangerie, and the mistress says that my croissants with berry jam are snatched up. Her face is always flushed. Perhaps she is trying to ease my suffering.

I want to father a child. So someone will remain after I am gone. So people will believe that I was here.

16 A
UGUST
1944

The Resistance is growing. The buds of freedom are blossoming, and the air carries an intoxicating scent. The Allied forces are making their way to us, to Paris.

Yesterday, Parisians sunbathed on the sun-drenched banks of the Seine.

Paris will be liberated. Paris must be liberated.

24 A
UGUST
1944

My comrades in the Catacombs beneath Le Meurice Hotel on the Rue de Rivoli can hear the Germans packing up. A lookout saw senior SS officers abandoning their headquarters and fleeing for their lives. The fountain pen shakes in my trembling hand. It is coming.

Paris will be liberated. Paris must be liberated.

25 A
UGUST
1944

I was sitting alone in Arsène's café near the Champs-Élysées. On the saucer, next to the small cup, the spoon suddenly began to vibrate.

Later, I learned that tanks and armored vehicles from General Leclerc's Second Armored Division had swept through the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Élysées. Crowds cheered, and “La Marseillaise” echoed in the adjacent streets. There was an explosion of joy. Someone thrust a bottle of champagne to my mouth.

Dead people do not drink.

If only we had restrained ourselves. If the deputy commandant had waited a bit, Jasmine, Sophie, and Albert would be with me today, the café and the boulangerie would be bustling, and I would not be dead.

At Nazi headquarters in Le Meurice Hotel, General von Choltitz signed the surrender documents.

The foul-smelling jackboot has been removed from our faces. Here in Paris, the war has ended and the Germans are fleeing eastward.

I saw Parisians lynch a Wehrmacht soldier whose hands were raised above his head. He wept and pleaded for his life, and they ripped the flesh from his body. They did not heed his pleas, even as he was being torn to pieces.

Did the commandant hear the pleas of my loved ones?