Ring of Lies (3 page)

With a sense of urgency, Alex shoved warm clothes into a black duffel bag, almost forgetting gloves and a scarf.

The house was quiet. The windows were shut; everything was locked.

The fraction of a second between the time he turned off the lamp in the dining room and when he slammed the front door was enough for the dead Naomi, the black-framed photograph, to throw him a scolding look:
You can't escape. You won't be able to forget.

Later, at Ben Gurion Airport, the Gulfstream raced madly down the runway, its engines screaming, the terminal and waiting planes blurred through the windows.

Alex took his first deep breath since leaving the war room that morning.

Text message: Meeting set for 16:00 in the Bebelplatz, Berlin.

He looked at his watch and did a few calculations, then got up and touched the pilot's shoulder. The pilot turned around and removed his headset, revealing two round monkey ears. His breath smelled of eggs.

“We're making a stop in Florence.”

The pilot nodded. “How long?”

“Up to three hours.”

The pilot nodded again and replaced his headset.

Alex walked back and sank into the tan leather seat. He looked
up at the ceiling, at the approximate spot where two Glock 17s, bullet clips, stun grenades, first-aid supplies, and a sterile emergency surgery kit were hidden.

The malicious final moment of his meeting with Reuven echoed in his mind. He thought about his daughter, Daniella.

Last December, right after she finished basic combatant training, Daniella was sent to London on her first operational mission. She was abducted by the Quds Force, Iran's unit for secret extraterritorial operations. Alex had rushed to London to rescue her. Out of options, he contacted Jane Thompson, a British former Mossad agent. Together they launched a predawn raid on the Iranian house, and after a bloody gun battle Daniella was freed.

Daniella was wounded and had to undergo surgery in a nearby hospital. While he, Jane, and the male agent were sitting in the hospital waiting room, Naomi, Alex's wife, suddenly appeared.

Eventually Alex realized that the person responsible for Daniella's abduction was sitting right beside him.

The man pulled a gun.

Reuven arrived in the midst of the fight between Alex and the traitor. Reuven reached for his gun, shot the traitor, and killed him. A stray bullet from the traitor's gun hit Naomi. She died almost at once. Alex would never forget her last words to him.

Later, he found out that Daniella had been tortured and raped.

For the last six weeks, she'd been on a remote farm in eastern Tuscany. He made sure to call her regularly. She made sure to keep the conversations short.

He remembered Daniella in the recovery room, still woozy from the anesthesia, asking, “Where's Mom?”

For a moment, he couldn't speak.

“What happened, Dad?”

“What?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“She was here . . .”

“When?”

“During the operation.”

“So why'd she leave?”

“She didn't leave.”

“Where's Mom?”

“She was shot.”

“What . . .”

“Mom is gone.”

The secure satphone buzzed.

Reuven Hetz. “The Turkish media is boiling mad. The Ankara police just announced that they found the body of the kidnapped Iranian general and arrested a female Mossad agent carrying a forged Dutch passport.”

“That's it?” Alex asked.

“I wish. The Turkish prime minister said that Israel has flagrantly crossed all the red lines and violated Turkish sovereignty. The Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs announced that Erdoğan ordered his ambassador in Israel to return immediately to Ankara. Ahmadinejad was quoted as saying that Iran will avenge General Karabashi's death with blood and fire.”

“As expected. Did the Turks say anything about Galia's injuries?”

“She suffered moderate injuries.”

Should that make him happy or sad? “They didn't mention Istanbul's disappearance?”

“He didn't disappear, he's dead. And, no, they didn't say anything.”

Alex was silent.

Reuven hung up.

Text message: Are you okay?

Sent by Jane Thompson. Her name on the screen awakened a small bird from its deep sleep.

He considered calling her, but he heard the pilot say, “Two minutes to touchdown!”

The Tuscan countryside appeared below between white clouds, followed by the centuries-old red-tiled roofs of Florence. The Gulfstream's landing gear dropped down with a thump. The pressure in his ears grew. Butterflies swirled in his stomach. Soon he would see Daniella. Fear gripped him. How would she react?

Just to hold her in his arms.

To feel that he belonged to someone.

Awaiting him at the end of the highway, past the string of semitrailers crawling along like snails, was a terrible conversation with Daniella. He slammed the steering wheel with his open hand. He had to tell her that he was coming.

The road was wet, and the trucks' wheels sprayed mud onto his windshield. Then traffic began to flow, and the green road signs slid past in a blur.

He exited the highway at Valdarno. The rolling hills of Tuscany were a patchwork of bare vineyards and olive trees. The waters of the Ambra rushed by. Cars climbed the narrow winding road to Bucine.

He had a thick, rough espresso at a roadside snack bar at the entrance to the town. A dying neon light flickered on the red-and-white Kinder chocolate wrappings. A slot machine clattered somewhere. He put the small empty cup on the counter and left.

“Signore?” a woman called after him.

He looked for her, ready with an apology. A tiny woman, she was hidden behind the cash register, wrinkled and old, dressed in black, her thinning hair pulled back tightly in a bun. She smiled at him, rubbing her thumb and index finger together.

He hurried back and paid her, adding a one-euro tip. “
Mi dispiace
.”

After passing a row of village houses, he turned right into a
wooded area. The winding, bumpy road was covered with morning fog. The road descended, then climbed again, revealing an elongated vineyard with blackened, ropey stems. The horizon was lined with snowcapped blue mountains.

He followed the road into a forest, where the sun glimmered through the sparse treetops. Silvery spiderwebs clung to spindly, brown, leafless trees, and the rotting ground was strewn with pine needles. He opened the window and slowed down, listening to the wind and the twittering of the birds.

The dense woods thinned out, and vestiges of frost glittered on wild grass. A large puddle reflected a mass of heavy clouds, close, threatening the sun.

A muffled shot rang out.

He braked and tensed.

A pair of birds flew off in alarm. The sky darkened, casting the woods into shadow.

Another shot, thick and blunted, from a hunting rifle.

Strange. Hunting was prohibited in early spring.

He continued down the dirt road. The acrid smell of smoke came in through the window. Orange flames rose from a pile of dry branches on the edge of the vineyard. The road to the farm was lined with olive trees.

This was where Daniella was supposed to be.

He pulled into the carport, his tires crushing gravel, and parked behind a jeep.

A lovely piece of land, rich and peaceful, that was not meant for him.

The stillness brushed his ears like soft down. He had come here from the midst of a terrible noise that enabled him to shut
out the voices that had been drumming at his heart for the last few months.

Time passed slowly here. Dammit, the bombshell would have to wait. He would just see her, hug her, stroke her face, and say nothing for the time being.

His phone was already in his hand. What would he say?

Finally, he called.

A call-waiting beep went on and on.

“Yes?”

He choked up. That was how she always answered the phone.

“It's Dad . . . How are you, dear?”

“Hi, Dad. Where are you?”

“In Italy.”

“Where?”

“Milan. I want to come see you.” Coward. Pathetic liar.

“Where—here?”

“I want to see you.”

“When?”

“Today.”

“You're not busy?”

“I'm dying to see you.”

He heard her deep breathing. “It's not such a good idea . . .”

His heart dropped.

“A quick visit, just to see you.”

She took a deep breath. “I still need to be alone . . .”

Through the phone, he heard a door close and footsteps going down stairs.

The long silence was discomfiting. Suddenly he saw her, and his breath caught in his throat.

She was walking alongside a red mountain bike, the phone was at her ear, and her face was gaunt and sad. She didn't appear to have seen him.

“I love you, little girl . . .”

“I know . . .”

He wanted to cry but couldn't. He yearned to open the car door and run to her, but his body stayed glued to the seat.

She disappeared behind a wall of cypress trees.

“Later, Dad.” She hung up.

“Yes, later,” he said to the air, and leaned his head back.

With her uncompromising gentleness, she had driven a wedge between them.

He waited to be sure their paths wouldn't cross, and then he sped back down the winding road, his teeth clenched.

The weather along the short flight path from Florence to Berlin was turbulent. The plane bobbed like an empty bottle in a stormy sea.

Reuven called on the secure satphone. “Turkish Prime Minister Erdoğan called a press conference and demanded that Israel apologize to Turkey and Iran for its crimes. He announced that he's ordered the expulsion of our consular staff from Ankara. Are you in Berlin yet?”

“Soon.”

“We found a lawyer to represent Galia, but the Turks won't let him see her in the hospital. He believes he's been hired by a Dutch human rights organization. The Turkish media reported that soldiers from the Turkish antiterrorism squad are guarding the hospital. We managed to get a photo of her medical report. It's blank. They didn't even record her temperature or blood pressure.”

Alex felt as if someone was hammering a nail into his head.

“We're fucked, Reuven.”

The chief was silent.

“I'll get whatever I can out of Justus,” Alex said. “I'll see you in the office tonight and think about what to do.”

Reuven still said nothing.

Keep silent, deny, ignore. In retrospect, sending a Mossad team into the heart of a country as problematic as Turkey had
been a big mistake, even despite the valuable intel that General Karabashi had given them.

Reuven hung up.

Now the PM and Reuven were going to hide themselves behind the defensive shield known as “no comment.” No admission of guilt—no responsibility. And with no responsibility, they could keep their jobs.

Though he was exhausted from the sleepless night, he was too upset to doze on the plane. His thoughts went to Galia, her isolation, her distress, her pain. He tried to remember whether Turkey had capital punishment.

The growing pressure in his ears interrupted the mounting anxiety of his thoughts. The pilot descended, landing at Tegel Airport.

He usually managed to avoid Berlin. He'd had to go there twice. First in the early '80s, on the hunting expedition where he met Jane. The second time was about two years ago, when he'd spent only a few hours there.

Alex disembarked from the plane on shaky legs.

A limousine whisked him to the modern terminal. A stone-cold voice announced the last call for a flight to Moscow. A chill went through his body. The guttural sound of German filled his mouth with a metallic taste.

The rubber stamp came down on his forged passport.

A taxi took him into the most scarred city in the world.

Here the Third Reich was born, and here Kristallnacht took place. Here blood-soaked World War II was launched, and the final solution to Europe's Jewish problem was plotted. Here an empire was created and then razed to the ground. Here Adolf Hitler flourished and then took his life. Here the dividing wall
between the East and the West was erected, and the Cold War broke out. Here the Stasi unleashed its reign of terror, and here the Wall was torn down and the two Germanys were reunited.

Outside, an ominous winter day. Minus nine, said a billboard. The streets were covered in fresh snow and the sky was leaden. Just a faint bluish light.

He got out of the cab on Unter den Linden, and the cold lashed at his face like a curtain of needles. His feet crushed the coarse salt and pebbles that had been scattered on the ice.

He had fifteen minutes until the meeting. Germans wrapped in hats and scarves hurried past him. Bebelplatz was close. He recognized the impressive Humboldt University building. A sudden gust of wind sent a shiver through him. He made his way carefully along the icy path.

Bebelplatz was flat, rectangular, snowy, and empty. He looked for the monument buried in the cobblestones. He saw pale light coming from a bare, square window in the center of the ice-covered surface. He approached and looked down into the space. It was about fifteen feet square. Its walls were lined with empty bookshelves painted white.

Here, in 1933, the Nazis had burned twenty thousand books written by Jews, Communists, and liberals who refused to accept Nazi principles.

The whispering monument was bloodcurdling.

It was as if it were murmuring,
Your mother is dead
.

Alex's eyes were fixed on the empty bookshelves. The cold seared his mouth and windpipe.

Reflected in the glass floor beside him was a large image of someone else. He hadn't heard any steps approaching. Alex turned and examined him. The tall German had a large, strong build.

“You are the emissary,” the man declared, the wind playing with his mane of white hair. Alex recognized the dolphinlike forehead and nodded.

“So the boss is too busy to see me,” the German added, slightly offended. A moment later, he decided to smile and reached out to shake Alex's hand. His own hand was encased in a fine-quality glove. His grip was warm and strong, but his bottom lip drooped as if he'd just gotten bad news.

“How are you, Justus?”

“Spring does not arrive here until a month after it reaches Munich in the South,” Justus said.

“What happened to your man in Istanbul?” Alex asked.

Justus smiled mischievously. “What's your rush?”

“In one hour last night we lost the Istanbul Nibelung, and the leader of our operational team was wounded and captured. Even if she's released, she's burned forever. Do you still insist on foreplay?”

The German's smile flew off, gone with the wind. He shook his head.

“Could Istanbul have betrayed us?” Alex asked.

“No chance,” Justus said.

“So why are the Turks only talking about a female Mossad agent and not saying a word about him?”

“I do not know yet,” Justus said. “But I know my people very well. I promise you, Istanbul was no traitor.”

“Based on what?”

“I can read people like an open book.”

“Really?”

Justus studied him. “You are too close to your operative to handle this matter with the good judgment it requires.”

“Really?”

“You are a man of nearly endless patience who is at the end of his rope.”

Another gust swept across the empty plaza. Alex felt as if he'd been stripped of his clothes. “Why did you want to meet here?”

“Why not?” Justus asked.

“Is this your favorite spot in Berlin?”

“One of them. I love books. For me, this place is like the mouth of a volcano. Lava seething with hatred flows under our feet, threatening to erupt. Here, you can actually see it. If you are looking for beauty, go to Paris. People come to Berlin for its scars. Do you read German?” Justus tightened the gray cashmere scarf around his neck.

Alex nodded.

“There is a quotation from the Jewish poet Heinrich Heine engraved in the bronze tablets buried in the snow right under the soles of your shoes.” His face was enveloped by the white breath coming from his mouth. “
‘This has been just a prelude. Where they burn books, they will ultimately burn human beings, too.'
”