Ring of Lies (9 page)

Alex took refuge under a linden and filled his lungs with bracing air so cold it made his chest shudder. As he gazed at the dark forest, away from the foreign legion that had invaded the house, the memories came.

A five-year-old girl, all alone and shivering in fear, hiding in the forest in the middle of the night. It was his late mother, whom he couldn't save. Shrapnel from the stories of her early life tore at his heart.

In his mind's eye, they were always there, those Germans.

His chest rose and fell with an inner churning. He was consumed by sorrow for her lost childhood and his own sterile youth, strangled by the heavy onus of guilt.

The wind blew over his moist eyes. The bare branches of the linden tree above him creaked. Beyond was only black sky.

Alex tightened his arms around his chest, refusing to allow himself any consolation. He stood that way for a long time.

A gentle touch.

Slender arms embraced him from behind, and Jane leaned her head against his back. The cold had sent the bugs and crickets into hiding, and the silence was unbroken. His conscience gnawed at him.

She held him until his breathing slowed and they were enfolded in a calm stillness. Then they walked back in through the kitchen.

“Where've you been, Alex?” Ancona called from the sofa in the living room. The safecracker was standing beside him, holding a magnifying glass.

“Tell him what you told me,” Ancona ordered the chubby man.

The safecracker pointed to the monumental picture on the wall and announced in his soprano voice, “It's a top-quality replica of a real Rothko. He must have the original someplace, but he wouldn't keep it in his house. We're talking seventy million dollars! And the little Jackson Pollock in the study—and it's very rare to find one that size—that painting alone is worth at least eighty million dollars. You with me?”

Stunned, Alex merely nodded.

“Giacometti's
Walking Man
is another one hundred and twenty million dollars! That's a small fortune already. And there are dozens of other drawings and lithographs, and the bronze sculpture outside is an original Henry Moore. Henry Moore!” he sputtered excitedly.

Stolid, modest Justus Erlichmann had an art collection worth hundreds of millions of dollars. The originals were tucked away somewhere. Maybe they were in the vault that the key they'd found in the safe opened.

“Ancona!” somebody called from upstairs.

Ancona jumped up and took the stairs two at a time on his little feet, with Alex right behind him. In the workroom at the end of the hall they saw a man standing on a ladder and pointing at the large-scale model plane hanging from the ceiling. “A Messerschmitt, the Luftwaffe's main fighter craft. Do you recognize the pilot?” he asked Ancona.

The balsa-wood figure had high cheekbones and flowing blond hair that stuck out under the helmet.

Ancona nodded. “Erich Hartmann, a hero of the Luftwaffe and the greatest ace of all time. He shot down three hundred and fifty-two enemy planes. Whoever carved his face was a fan. You can see it in every detail. Just look.”

The pure Aryan face was radiant and arrogant.

An eerie chill went through Alex's body. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Look at the tail,” the man on the ladder instructed. “This wasn't a kit. Every single part is handmade.”

There was ice in his veins. Here in Berlin, it was a thousand times more horrifying.

A swastika.

24 J
ULY
1943

There is no longer even a single glass of milk to be found in Paris. The bounteous udders of our homeland have dried up.

I am having trouble finding coffee beans. Across the street, at Hector's brasserie, they serve a hot drink made of acorns. Hector is a gentile and gives me looks.

26 J
ULY
1943

The sky is black now, and no hope is visible.

All that is left for us is the Resistance.

28 J
ULY
1943

Before dawn, when the sourish smell of fermenting yeast fills the air and the bread and pastries are slowly turning golden in the oven, I slip away down the hidden metal ladder that leads to the secret cellar and choose an expensive bottle of liquor for the commandant.

Rare bottles, bottles of freedom and life, guarantee our existence.

Your numbers are diminished.

6 A
UGUST
1943

I worked up the courage and asked the deputy commandant to help me obtain the ingredients that are essential to my baking.

He said he will see what he can do.

That SS officer has good eyes, but I must not be misled.

He is SS.

Although the giant model was meant to be a precise replica of the Messerschmitt, Alex wondered whether the hand of Justus Erlichmann—the man whose father had been named a Righteous Among the Nations—had shaken when he painted the swastika.

Justus was a creature of contradictions.

The first row of trees in the forest beyond the intimidating fence showed clearly in the harsh lights on the lawn. It was already morning, but it was still dark outside. Berlin lay deep in winter.

The group of searchers gathered in the living room. Their faces said it all. A whole night of searching was drawing to an end, and there was a bitter taste in their mouths. They hadn't found what they were looking for.

“Did you look in the garage?” Alex asked.

“We pulled it apart, broke down any piece of the Mercedes that could be used as a hiding place. We even took apart the bikes, both the road bike and the mountain bike. Nothing,” Ancona said. “If we had a few more days . . .”

“It's here,” Alex said. “It has to be here. When we finally uncover it, we won't understand how we didn't find it sooner.”

Ancona headed back up the stairs.

Jane's eyes were drooping. “They looked everywhere, Alex,”
she said. “They dismantled everything that comes apart. Maybe he didn't keep it here?”

Alex wanted nothing more than to close his scratchy eyes and get some sleep, but he shook his head. “We have to think.”

“Alex!” Ancona shouted from the floor above.

He dragged his exhausted body up the stairs as quickly as he could. In the master bedroom, one of the two lamps with linen shades was spread out in pieces on the wide bed.

“It was in the metal base,” Ancona announced, handing him a BlackBerry identical to the one Justus had been carrying. “This must be what we've been searching for!”

Ancona pressed the power key. Nothing happened. He passed the phone to the chubby safecracker, “Check it out.”

The man took the back off, pulled out the battery, and licked it. He made a face. “The battery's charged. The phone isn't working.”

“We'll give it to the lab techs in Brussels,” Ancona said.

“Can't you solve the problem here?” Alex asked.

“It could be secured, programmed to lock or wipe the memory if anyone fiddles with it,” the man said. “We've seen it before.”

“It's easy to steal a phone,” Jane said. “Justus wouldn't use it to keep his most closely guarded secrets.”

The group fell silent.

Alex said, “They weren't his most closely guarded secrets.”

The first light fell on the lawn. The forest was wrapped in mist. The spindly trunks of pine trees stood out in the glare of the strong garden lights. Ancona and his team were gathering up their equipment. Jane was asleep on the sofa, curled up in the fetal position. The contour of her curvaceous hip aroused a pleasant memory. Alex sat down on the sofa opposite and watched her sleep. Then he passed his eyes over the massive library.

He nodded off several times before he stopped fighting his exhaustion and sank into a dreamless sleep.

When he awoke,
it was twenty past ten. The house was empty. Ancona and his voles were gone. Jane was still sleeping, her limbs now stretched out loosely. Alex went to sit beside her. Her feet touched his thigh. She was shifting in her sleep. He placed his hand gently on her shin and felt the warmth of her body. Her eyelids twitched.

“Come on, it's time to get up. We'll have some coffee and then fly to Davos,” he whispered in her ear.

She cracked her eyes open, smiling at the feel of his hand on her face. “Davos?”

“Gunter.”

“Let me talk to him first.”

“To who?”

“He might remember me. He recruited me.”

“Gunter?”

“In '86. He's a very imposing man, an almost-extinct species. Have you ever met him?”

His phone vibrated.

Reuven.

“I've got the lab results from the blood you found at the cemetery,” he said, exhaling loudly. “It's Justus's. He's dead.”

He hung up.

Alex filled Jane in immediately.

With glistening eyes, she said quietly, “I prayed all night that you were wrong, that he was still alive.”

Alex leaned over and hugged her to him. She brushed away a stray tear. “He was always there when I needed him.”

Alex thought about enigmatic Justus, dead Justus.

They locked up the house and hurried to Tegel Airport.

They were going to try to draw water from a dry well.

A pair of F-16s flying in formation over Masada.

The PM at the head of the March of the Living in Auschwitz, carrying a wreath.

Signed photographs in silver frames graced the walls of the holy of holies of Israeli politics.

The prime minister kept his distance, essentially barricading himself behind his massive desk. He looked tired, perhaps the result of his visit to Paris.

“We're getting very disturbing reports about our relations with Turkey from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs situation room. And it's still in the early stages. I understand that you lost your most critical asset, Justus Erlichmann,” the PM said, raising an eyebrow.

“
Our
most critical asset, sir. Yes.”

The PM looked around the room, checking theatrically in the corners and behind him, and then looked piercingly at Reuven. “Ours?” With a fake smile he asked, “Do you see anyone here besides you?”

It was as if a ninja star was flying around the room, and the two men were doing their best to duck. It's called an election year.

Reuven hadn't been born yesterday. Or the day before. He'd been speaking spin from birth, and he knew very well that a successful Mossad op meant press photos of the two of them smiling,
shaking hands, and patting each other on the back. But if something went wrong, heaven forbid, the head of Mossad wouldn't get any farther than the PM's secretary.

“There is a serious leak in the Nibelung Ring. We have to consider the possibility that the whole Ring has been blown and we'll have to shut it down. The Justus Erlichmann I knew couldn't have been the source of the leak,” the prime minister said, taking a breath before going on. “Find the rotten apple, Reuven, before it spoils the whole barrel.”

Reuven remained silent.

A short, thin man, the prime minister raised his shoulders in an effort to appear more daunting. He played with a gilt letter opener, testing the sharpness of the blade.

“What's the connection between your man in Istanbul and the spice warehouse in Bolu?” he asked.

“There's no connection,” Reuven fired back, feeling an irritating itch in his nose.

The PM nodded deliberately.

“As far as Justus Erlichmann and the Nibelung Ring are concerned, nothing gets leaked to the press. It never happened. No leaks, no spins,” the PM ordered.

“Alex is handling the crisis, sir.”

“Coward,” the PM muttered, as if talking to himself. “You should be handling it yourself.”

The last time Reuven had seen Justus was three weeks ago. They met in the Grunewald forest at night in a heavy rain, sitting in an armored car that belonged to the Israeli embassy in Berlin. Their conversation was somber. Justus looked pale, and one of his eyelids twitched.

“You still with me?” the PM snapped, interrupting Reuven's reverie. He glanced at the digital Breitling watch on his hairy wrist. “Okay, it's decision time.”

Reuven held his water glass up to his lips. It was empty.

“In view of the attacks on the Nibelung Ring and the painful fact that Mossad's protective shield has been breached, we may be forced to shut the Ring down. Do whatever it takes to keep the situation from snowballing out of control.”

“But Mr. Prime Minister, sir—”

The PM raised a hand to cut him off, then used it to straighten his blue tie. “It's all yours, the authority and the accountability.”

“That's not entirely accurate, sir,” Reuven said. The leather couch creaked beneath him.

“My dear Mr. Hetz. Perhaps I haven't made myself clear. You chose to fill me in on the crisis in Turkey only after it had grown to monstrous proportions. You screwed up badly there. You lost a highly regarded senior agent and the Istanbul Nibelung. After that, you lost another Nibelung in Lisbon, and Justus Erlichmann himself. You gave yourself the authority. Accountability goes along with it. And don't wave the Nibelung charter in my face. That document is sealed, and it has been locked in the safe of the prime minister's office since the sixties. It's never been opened. Nor has the third copy, held by the government's legal adviser. The guidelines for the Ring are nevertheless clear.”

“But, sir—”

“I'm not done!” the PM silenced him, raising his voice.

Reuven stared down at the tips of his black shoes and the carpet beyond. He felt like a snake trying to swallow a goat.

“As of this moment, if another Nibelung disappears you are to disband the Ring immediately.”

“Sir, there's something I have to say.”

The PM walked to the door of the office and opened it wide. He was clearly determined to deny any responsibility, at all costs.

But Reuven wasn't here to crawl or kiss ass. “The Nibelung charter specifies explicitly that the prime minister alone has authority over the group's activities, sir,” he said. “My job is merely to coordinate with the Ring when necessary and use its services as I see fit.”

By the time he finished, he was nearly shouting. A small spray of spittle flew from his lips onto the PM's immaculately pressed white shirt.

A heavy silence fell over the room.

“Reuven,” the PM said, bringing his bald head closer and speaking barely above a whisper. “A little bird told me that you said—off the record, of course—that Israel needed a prime minister who had experience as head of Mossad. You mentioned, if I remember correctly, Vladimir Putin, who used to head the FSB, and George H. W. Bush, a former CIA chief. And you hinted at this coming November.”

In a country where the carcass of an ideology lay rotting for all to see and opportunism and cynicism ruled, Reuven felt he had something to offer in the political arena. A lot to offer, in fact. An eager expression spread across his face. Just a few nights ago he had dreamed he heard the chanting of a crowd, gaining in strength until it became a roar:
Reuven Hetz, the next prime minister!

“Reuven,” the PM barked. “I can see that you're lusting after my seat.” With a sinister smile he added, “Maybe you haven't noticed, but it's already taken.”

Reuven left without saying good-bye.

Later, sitting in the dimness in the backseat of the Volvo taking him home, he felt as if the car was falling into a sinkhole.