Ring of Lies (33 page)

A sudden gust of icy wind. Leafless branches swayed wildly. The air was charged with electricity. A bolt of lightning cut through the black sky, blinding him and lighting up the parking lot. A waitress in a white apron locked the front door of the restaurant from inside, turned off the neon sign and the lights on the first floor, and then disappeared down the stairs.

Moonlight shone on Wannsee's large lake. Cracking chunks of ice floated on the surface like sleeping animals. The narrow bank was crowded with boats wrapped in protective tarps. Mounds of dirty snow were piled up alongside the footpaths and roads.

Hunched down in the backseat of the Mercedes, Alex kept his eyes on the restaurant. The staff had finished their shifts and were exiting through a back door, puffing on cigarettes; the wind swallowed up the smoke. The last five cars pulled out together.

Only the white Porsche remained.

Alex called Butthead. “Block cell transmissions around the restaurant and cut off the landlines.”

“For how long?”

“Just do it.”

Alex got out of the car and listened to the night. The strong wind roared and a loose sheet of metal banged against a wall. There was a hum in the air as the storm gathered force. He pulled his jacket tighter, made his way to the restaurant, and began
searching. On the other side of the door, everything seemed dark and lifeless.

He didn't see any sign of an alarm system or security cameras. The stairs going down to the back entrance and the kitchen were slippery with ice. The door was locked. He climbed back up and stopped next to a windowless structure about forty feet—the size of a shipping container. He checked the door. Locked.

The entrance to the restaurant consisted of two sets of doors with a small vestibule between them. The interior doors were locked. He took out the tools he had collected from Justus's workroom, chose two small screwdrivers, and started fiddling with the lock. The tools kept slipping from his fingers.

At last, he heard a click and the door opened. He froze and held his breath, listening for sounds from the sleeping restaurant. He pulled out a flashlight, held it with the Glock in a combined grip, and went in.

It was dark inside. The rough wooden floor was still damp from the mop. In the beam of his flashlight he saw wood benches upturned on the long tables.

Suddenly he heard a strange gurgling coming from the direction of the bar. He spun around, his finger tightening on the trigger, and walked quickly toward the sound.

No one there.

More gurgling. It was the movement of air in the beer taps.

He passed the beam of light over the bare brown brick walls and the large wine cooler with its heavy lock.

The stainless-steel counters in the kitchen gleamed. Blasts of cold, dry air washed over him as he opened the refrigerators. Slabs of pink meat were hanging silently from sharp hooks. The
fire was out in the long, freshly cleaned grill. He rested his palm on it. Lukewarm.

The restrooms were painted mustard yellow and reeked of air freshener. He found a shiny black door he hadn't noticed before and aimed the Glock straight at it. The flashlight's reflection was blinding. He kicked the door open, burst in, and quickly scanned the room: desk, office chair, adding machine, files, documents, telephones, and a letter opener. Everything was in perfect order.

The remains of Rosemarie Landwer had been scraped from these walls.

Dozens of photos of grinning diners were pinned to a large corkboard, some of them obviously drunk, their nostrils flared. They had all been caught in the merciless glare of a camera flash. The pictures had been taken here, in the restaurant. Including one of Oskar Schlaff, Gunter Erlichmann, and his son, Justus. The old man seemed detached from his surroundings.

Where was Schlaff?

Alex climbed the stairs and exited the building. The white Porsche was still in the parking lot. He hid behind a row of cypress trees and examined the restaurant roof.

His heart stopped.

Smoke was billowing from the tall chimney.

The prime minister was buttoning his jacket, although the heat in his office was on high. He didn't offer Reuven a seat.

Reuven closed flaps and steeled himself.

“I have been informed by a member of your organization that you received one million, two hundred thousand euros from Justus Erlichmann. Unless you can provide a satisfactory explanation, you are officially under suspicion of accepting a bribe,” the PM said, pausing meaningfully before continuing the attack. “Mr. Hetz, do you understand the gravity of your situation?”

Reuven didn't respond.

“The man from whom you took the money is a traitor whose actions have had catastrophic implications, on both the intelligence and operational levels.”

Reuven didn't respond.

“Your silence is an admission of guilt?”

That was transparent. Reuven didn't respond.

A green vase with an enormous bouquet of red roses stood on a side table. The perks of power were so seductive.

“Since this crisis began, we have lost more agents than in the whole history of the country. We have lost the protective shield around Mossad, and Israel itself,” the PM said, keeping up the assault.

Reuven didn't respond.

“I know you, Reuven. You're a cold fish. But you're not a trai
tor.” Retreating behind his desk, he added, “Considering your fantasies of a career in politics, I tend to believe that the money was meant to fund your political campaign. I assume that you set up Dopo Domani Holdings to funnel questionable donations. Am I wrong?”

Reuven didn't respond.

“As head of Mossad, you are forbidden to accept gifts of any sort, anything that could be construed as a gift, or any sum of money from anyone who is not a member of your immediate family.”

The motherfucker had spoken with his legal advisers.

“In view of the timing of the payment, it appears to be related to the Ring crisis. Perhaps you smelled a rat, and Erlichmann bought your silence? Perhaps he heard that you were hoping to occupy this office in the near future—and he pushed the button? Justus was a man who knew what buttons to push. He could always put his finger on the motive driving the person he was dealing with. He'd find it and use it to his advantage.”

Reuven didn't respond.

He gazed at the photo of the F-16s flying over Masada and remembered the words of Eleazar ben Yair, the leader of the Sicarii rebels, during the first-century siege on the fortress: “Let us die unenslaved by our enemies and leave this world as free men.”

Then, in a pragmatic frame of mind, he decided he would choose different pictures: high-tech, solar energy. Something green, up to date.

“If you wish to preserve what remains of your honor and ensure that your dirty laundry is not aired in the media, you must resign immediately; naturally, I will accept your resignation. You
will be forbidden to enter politics, or to return to your office. Agreed?”

“Or else?”

The PM looked surprised. “Or else you will be held on suspicion of treason and will most likely face charges for compromising tens of Mossad operatives during a time of war, in exchange for money. If I am not mistaken, that alone is enough for several consecutive life sentences. I trust that you used the time it took you to get here to hire a good defense attorney?”

“I can see that you're scared to run against me in the next elections,” Reuven said.

“Reuven, there is a neck under the guillotine and it isn't mine. For your own sake, you have to start thinking realistically.”

Reuven remained silent.

The PM gave him the sort of look you give a rebellious teenager. “Okay, Reuven. Go wait outside. Think about it for two minutes and come back with your answer.”

Reuven didn't nod. Instead, he moved closer to the PM and stood facing him, straight on.

The PM sniffed the air.

Maybe he smelled the whiskey on his breath. Who cared. It was his turn to talk.

“Mr. Prime Minister, you bear sole authority for the Nibelung Ring. It says so in the Nibelung charter. I presume you've never read it. I suggest that you use the two minutes you have left in this office to do it. I'll be outside.”

The PM's face went red. His eyes narrowed with the wariness of a snake eyeing a mongoose.

Reuven smiled. “Either you deny the item about corruption
and stand behind me before the press, the attorney general, and the police, or I go to the media with the story of how you screwed over the Nibelungs. And that's without even mentioning how your incompetence enabled the Hochstadt-Lancet virus to fall into enemy hands, exposing Israel to the threat of another Holocaust. Do you think two minutes will be enough, Mr. Prime Minister?”

Leaving the safety of his hiding place, Alex made his way to the meat locker. He stuck the pair of screwdrivers into the lock. His heart was racing, his fingers were stiff, and the lock was stubborn. Time dripped by, burning his skin like hot wax.

Where was the smoke coming from?

A silent delivery vehicle was parked in the back—a white truck. He remembered his fruitless search of the white truck outside Girona. He should have stripped them all down—the truck, and the albino driver, and the idiot sitting next to him—and then fired a flare at the two motherfuckers and watched them burn. They had been hiding her somewhere in the truck. He might have been able to save her.

The wind whipped at his face. Lightning flashed from behind ominous clouds, and his fingers refused to do his bidding. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down, or, at the very least, to stop his hands from shaking.

There was a loud rumble of thunder, and a car alarm somewhere began blaring. Finally the lock gave way. He opened the heavy stainless-steel door. A neon light flickered on automatically. Inside, the sickening smell of dead flesh hung in the air. Dozens of headless half carcasses of pigs were hanging from steel hooks in the ceiling. He checked between the cold slabs of meat and scanned the floor the whole length of the meat locker. No one there.

Two sealed cartons were standing at the far end. He opened one, and the light sparkled over shiny, dark calf livers. The other contained pale pig toes.

On the floor beside them, barely visible, was a trapdoor the size of a suitcase, with a ring embedded in it. He pulled on it. The trapdoor opened.

He thrust his Glock into the opening, followed by the flashlight: a flight of stairs.

His body heavy from exhaustion, he lifted the trapdoor until it was leaning on the wall. Shining his flashlight into the hole, he saw a short corridor at the bottom of the steps. It led to a closed door.

There was a lump of ice in his chest. He could still leave and call Brussels for backup. And then wait for hours for the team to arrive? No. Every minute was precious.

Alex descended the stairs, hugging the wall, and aimed the Glock at the door in front of him. He pressed down on the handle. It resisted for a moment before opening. A light came on automatically, and he almost let off a round.

Another fucking corridor, about ten feet long. The walls were covered with white tile.

The door behind him suddenly swung closed, and bolts slid into place. Alex tugged at the handle. It was locked.

In front of him was another door with a protected peephole in the center. Something moved behind it.

He leaped at the door. Too late. He was locked in. A fucking trap!

He heard a hiss, and something slightly sweet sprayed on his face.

Then everything went black.

He hadn't been knocked out. It was a tight loss. But it was just the first round.

Even if he was ultimately forced to resign, he'd made it clear to the PM that he'd be going down with him.

“Get me a glass of ice water,” Reuven ordered the secretary without a glance in her direction. He settled himself in the anteroom.

He had only one goal—to save his political career.

He used the couple of minutes he had to play a familiar game: actions and responses.

Then he went back into the PM's office.

“What's your decision, Reuven?” The PM's jacket was off now, relegated to a hanger together with his officialdom. He was looking for a political solution, and that was no actions and responses. It was haggling.

“I'm not resigning. You will not fire me but will ask me to stay on until the end of the year. You're going to promise Alex Bartal the directorship, but you and I are going to handpick his second-in-command, someone we can control. Nobody holds that post at the moment. Naturally, when the press asks for your comment, you deny everything.

“In return, I won't run against you in the next elections. That way, you'll have a fighting chance of keeping your job. Do you need time to consider it, or do you agree that this is the perfect solution?”

The PM's lips moved, but no sound came out. His face went red and he raised his shoulders threateningly. “How dare you!”

Reuven pulled the tiny recorder from his pocket. “Remember our last meeting, Mr. Prime Minister? You confirmed your responsibility for the Ring and ordered the insertion of two of our people into Damascus. Would you like to hear it again?”

The PM's face dripped with loathing. “You're filthy, Reuven.”

“And you're the one who invented bleach.”

“The public isn't sophisticated. They can only digest simple messages. If the media tells them there was a fuckup involving Mossad, they'll want the head of Mossad, not the prime minister. That's Mass Media 101.”

“The judges who sit on the High Court of Justice are no fools,” Reuven said.

“We both know that it will never reach the court,” the PM cut in. He turned to look at the pictures on the wall. After a lengthy pause he said in a quieter voice, “What about the inhalers?”

Reuven's face broke into one of his rare, cold smiles.

“What inhalers?”