The devils shepherd, p.23
The Devil's Shepherd, page 23
“No need,” said Max.
“Israelis do not leave the weak to the wolves, Jan,” Benni added. “Especially not children.” He sighed, pressed his palms to his knees, and stood up, perusing the huddle of men. It was a thin plan, so few combatants to cover so much area, and they all knew it. “That’s it, then. To your posts.”
“When they come,” said Krumlov. “They will come like the Mexicans at the Alamo.”
Benni dusted off his hands and lifted them. “Then we will pray that history does not repeat itself. Now, move please. It might not happen for days, or it might happen within the hour.”
“Tally ho.” Manchester hefted his Sterling and marched off like one of the Queen’s own guards toward the gate. Debay shook his head as if he was in the company of glib amateurs, and he headed off to wherever he had stored his precious cache of heavy firepower. Krumlov put his hands on his hips and slowly turned, perusing his meager fiefdom.
“Well.” He sighed. “I suppose I should go make amends with my nurse. Hers will be the most difficult task.” He turned to Max. “Shall you join me, Doctor?”
“Certainly,” Max nodded. “I’ll just get the medicines.” As Krumlov strode away, the Israeli surgeon lifted an eyebrow at Eckstein, who pursed his lips and nodded with a frown as if being nagged by Simona to perform an unseemly domestic task.
“What was that all about?” Benni asked when he and Eckstein were alone.
“What was what?” Eckstein was squinting off toward the entrance gate of razor wire, where Manchester and Bernd were performing the standard preparations of soldiers about to suffer an assault. The large German was piling broken stones into small mounds for firing positions, while Manchester loaded spare weapons magazines and checked the heads on fragmentation grenades.
“That little eyebrow thing that you usually receive from stewardesses.”
Eckstein did not laugh. His back was turned to Benni and he kept his voice low and spoke in Hebrew.
“You know who Max is?”
“A special ops surgeon, ex-Mat’kalnik. I’ve seen him at Tel Nof.”
“He showed up with an order from Ben-Zion.”
Benni felt his shoulders bunch in reflex to Eytan’s tone and the mention of an order from the general. “Which is?”
Eckstein turned to him. “We’re to say kaddish for Jan, here in Africa.”
Kaddish was the Hebrew prayer for the dead, but no matter how poetically you phrased it, it was obviously a kill order. Yet in so many years of service Benni had long ceased to be surprised by such turns of events, alliances, or moralities. However, he already sensed from the roiling conflict in Eckstein’s posture that the major was not at all convinced of the order’s validity.
“It must have been a cabinet-level decision,” said Benni. He searched his pockets for a cigarette, found one battered Rothmann in a crumpled box, and lit up. “But the reasoning had better be sound. I’m not so sure we can pull this off without him.”
“You’re taking this very well,” Eckstein said sarcastically, but Benni was also used to his major’s personal tortures when it came to the “wet work.” He had just killed two men, and they were not his first, but thankfully his young partner had not yet lost his soul and Benni was actually relieved each time he witnessed Eytan’s quandaries.
“Just give me the facts, Eytan. Then, if need be, I’ll salve your conscience.”
Eckstein sighed, found a cigarette for himself, and relayed the alleged logic behind Krumlov’s impending doom, as well as the details of his own failed protests to Ben-Zion. When he was done, he expected Benni to agree that the decision was reflexive and ill-considered, but Baum gave him no satisfaction. It was not his job to pave Eckstein’s path to redemption. Benni’s curriculum vitae was replete with enough mortal sins of his own.
“Sounds sound to me.”
“Oh, really? And what if he really has the goods? Suppose there is a second mole in that photo? Who’s going to pick him out for us?”
“I suppose we’ll leave that to Shabak.” Benni shrugged. “Or maybe we can shake it out of him first.”
“Water torture, Benni?” Eytan’s voice was filled with disgust. “Matches under his fingernails? Or should we just put a gun to Dominique’s head and make her kneel in front of him?”
“Look, Eytan . . .” Benni stepped forward and placed a hand on Eckstein’s shoulder, but the major shook it off.
“I’m not doing it, Benni. I’m not.”
“Look, Eytan.” Benni dropped his hand on Eckstein’s shoulder again, but this time he gripped him hard and fixed him with that gaze that had often made captured terrorists foul themselves. “I’ve heard all this before. Every time you’re briefed for a hard assignment you always whine and resist and struggle with your demons until I remind you who you are and you remember and then you accept it. This time I’d like to cut to the chase, if you don’t mind. We’re under assault in fucking Africa and we just don’t have the time.”
Eckstein was about to resist further, but he knew that Benni was right. It was just a mental game, a way to be able to tell himself that at least he was a reluctant assassin. He slumped a little until Benni relaxed his grip, then he took a long drag off the cigarette and looked up at the stars.
“I just don’t want to end my career this way.”
“But it’s not about your career. Is it? We’re protecting the plans for an anti-ballistic missile system. If the Syrians get them, the Russians get them. If the Russians get them, they sell them off to the Chinese. Then the Chinese just modify the rockets they’re selling to Baghdad, make them corkscrew or some goddamn thing so nothing can knock them out of the sky, and the next time Saddam gets a hard-on Tel Aviv is fucked.”
“Exactly! So, suppose he’s genuine? Suppose it turns out that his information was fine, and we’ve just tossed him in the grave for nothing?”
“And suppose he’s still working for the opposition? Suppose it’s all a ruse and you wind up escorting him and his poison back into the bosom of your own family? You talk about ending your career with a distasteful deed? Do you really want to be remembered as a pathetically emotional officer who opened the gates for the Trojan Horse?”
Eckstein thought about all of this long and hard. He looked out across the darkened compound, at the small fires being extinguished by Debay’s boots and handfuls of earth from the mercenary’s callused hands. He thought about Krumlov and Niki and the way the Czech, no matter what he was or had done before or really harbored in his soul, showed genuine concern for the children and their nurse, even though he was using them and his secrets for his own safe passage. It was true that Eckstein had always twisted himself into emotional knots at the precipice of any mission that required the spilling of blood, but in the end he had followed orders, and God alone knew how many mourners still cursed the unknown face that was his own. And now he might play this hunch incorrectly and deliver a virus to the body of his country, but he could live with that. What he could not do was to kill again. Not this way.
“Well, I’m not going to do it,” he said quietly to Benni as he shook his head. “My gut tells me he’s clean. I won’t be a the killer of a prophet.”
Benni smoked, squinting through the dark haze at his major. He could execute the order himself, but where would that leave Eckstein? Insubordinate? Disgraced? Primed for court-martial, or worse? And what if he was right, his instincts on the mark? Their careers were nearly over. Would they exit apart, one stage right, one stage left? Benni had his own grown sons of whom he was sufficiently proud, yet his chest swelled with Eytan’s integrity no less than if the man was his own flesh and blood.
He decided to respect his decision and stand by him as equal partner, as they had always done for each other.
“Fine,” he said. “So you won’t be the prophet’s murderer. But just be prepared, my son, because you may discover that you’ve become the devil’s shepherd.”
“I felt my ears burning, gentlemen.” It was Krumlov’s voice, and Benni and Eytan spun to him, having been so engrossed in his fate that they did not sense his approach. “Not that I comprehend a word of Hebrew.”
Benni smiled, but without his eyes. A good intelligence officer could speak your language fluently and not give it away for years. The American chiefs of station in Israel were like that, cornering you at their farewell embassy barbecues and suddenly breaking into stunning Tel Aviv street Hebrew over a Texas drawl.
“Well, Jan, you are correct,” said Benni. “We were discussing a delicate situation.”
Eytan stiffened, but said nothing. He did not know where Benni was going with this, but he knew when to stand fast and observe, carefully.
“The situation is certainly delicate,” Krumlov agreed. “Deadly might be a more accurate description.”
“Yes,” Eckstein muttered. “Deadly.”
The Czech looked at him and his thick eyebrows furrowed. His blond hair was matted with African dust, and sweat rivulets had made strange tracks along his tanned cheeks like trails of tears.
“I’m going to lay it out straight for you, Jan,” said Benni. He looked over at Eckstein, locking his eyes for a moment, and Eckstein trusted him as always and nodded imperceptibly.
“First of all, allow me to introduce Major Eytan Eckstein. It is not a cover name.” The gesture was meant as a trust-buyer, but it had no effect and Krumlov just glanced at Eckstein and waited. Benni carried on. “Second, Jerusalem has not purchased your product.”
The vocabulary was the same throughout all intelligence services. Benni meant that his commanders did not believe Krumlov’s story about the mole. The Czech nodded, sighed, and looked around for a place to sit. He backed up and lowered himself onto a large rock, letting his legs splay like a child’s, and he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his stained shirt pocket, and Eckstein wondered if all soldiers and spies were intent on self-destruction.
“I am not surprised,” said Jan as his match flared and he looked up at the two Israelis. “They only have half the picture, so to speak. But when I am there and can actually point out to them . . .”
“You will not be there.” Benni cut him off curtly. Eckstein looked at his colonel. Now he was lost, he had no idea where Baum was going with this. Krumlov stopped halfway through a drag on his cigarette.
“What do you mean?”
“You are not going to Israel, Colonel Krumlov,” said Benni in his darkest tone of finality. “We have orders.”
The Czech’s face twisted, the muscles around his mouth contorting, and he pressed his hands to his knees and stood up. “That is foolish.” He tried to control his trembling voice. “Then they will never know what I know.”
“They will,” said Benni. “One way or the other. But you will not be coming out with us. You will not set foot on Israeli soil.”
“Damn you!” Krumlov jabbed his burning cigarette at Benni’s face. “What the hell happened?! You mean to tell me that you’ve gone through all this for nothing? You expect me to survive all this, knowing that I could have left Niki comfortably in her Balkan hellhole, but at least alive? You don’t want the vital information that can save your own country? We had an agreement!”
“Jerusalem’s ‘agreements’ shift like the winds of a desert hamsin,” said Benni, “in case you haven’t been reading the papers.”
Krumlov stood there quaking, but he put his fists to his hips and rooted himself like a marble statue. “You cannot stop me. I’ll go without you.”
Benni cocked an eyebrow and turned to Eckstein. “Tell him,” he said.
Eckstein hesitated for a split second, but then he just gave in to Benni’s ploy, even though he had not yet worked it out. “We’ve been ordered to eliminate you.”
Krumlov’s mouth fell open, and he cocked his head forward as if he could not possibly have heard correctly. “What?” he whispered.
“Yes,” said Benni. “But we can also offer a deal.”
This should be interesting, Eckstein thought. It was like writing a soap opera via modem with a distant partner and never knowing where he was going to take the plot.
“What deal? Why the hell do they want me dead, for God’s sake?”
“You know I can’t tell you that,” said Benni. “But it does not have to happen. You will just tell us which person in your photo is Bluebeard, and you will help us get the children out of here. In turn, we will become pathetically incompetent as you escape from Africa.”
Both Eckstein and Krumlov looked at Baum as if the burly colonel had just conjured a unicorn out of thin air. Brilliant, Eckstein thought, and so simple. Why the hell didn’t I come up with that? Jerusalem would have the information they needed, and then Shabak could do with it as it wished. Krumlov would have his life, and if he was smart and took Dominique with him, he might have quite a nice life after all. So what if it wouldn’t be on the beaches of Netanya?
But Eckstein started as, inexplicably, Krumlov slapped himself on the forehead and began to laugh. Benni and Eytan watched the Czech as his body convulsed with it and he arched his head back at the star-filled night. He sucked in a stream of smoke and blew it into the blackness.
“Oh, you fools!” He had trouble producing the words through a sour laugh that sounded like sobs. “You damned ignorant fools!”
He reached into his trouser pocket and Eckstein’s fingers twitched toward his pistol, but the Czech threw something to the ground at Benni’s feet.
“Pick it up, Baum.”
Benni looked down. It was Niki’s blood-spattered journal.
“You’ve watched it and wanted it, haven’t you? Now pick it up.”
Benni bent and retrieved the notebook. Yes, he had wondered if the journal held some vital secret, some key to Bluebeard or the Czech’s true motives for defecting.
“Do you read Czech?” Krumlov sneered.
“Slowly,” Benni said. “It takes me time.”
“Well, you can borrow it. It’s fine reading, pages and pages of love letters to me. She wrote every day, Baum.” He nearly choked with the image of it. “Every day.”
Eytan was barely breathing, for watching the flood of Krumlov’s grief was immeasurable torture.
“But just read the last page, Baum. Just those three lines.”
Benni slowly opened the journal. The pages were crowded with very fine script. He turned to the final page, but Krumlov already knew it by rote and he saved Baum the trouble.
“I loved you with all my heart, Jan,” he recited in a hoarse whisper. “And I must come to you to kill you, my love. But I will not try until I am sure to fail.” His voice deserted him as the tears streamed down his face.
Benni slowly lowered the notebook. “We are so sorry,” he said.
Krumlov waved it off furiously. “You see? She committed suicide for me. She only tried to do what she was forced to do when she was sure that someone like Michel Debay would stop her. And do you know why? Because Niki knew the truth, she knew my dream, she wanted me to have it.”
The Czech began to pace back and forth, gesticulating wildly and giving full voice to his own bitterness.
“You think I’m just some Slavic salesman of secondhand secrets? You think all I care about is a villa on the Mediterranean and a big-breasted sabra girlfriend? That’s what you think this is all about? I’m like the old white hunter tired of the chase and looking to settle in the velt among the pretty brown natives, right?”
Eckstein and Baum just watched him, transfixed like an audience to a televised moon landing. He stopped pacing and turned on them, jabbing right and left fingers toward the chests of the two Israelis.
“I am no less than you are, my secret friends,” Krumlov hissed. “No less. My father was a Czech partisan during the war, and when he came out half alive the communists made him a general. A general, a rank that none of us will ever see, I assure you. And all throughout my fine Catholic childhood, which was itself suppressed by the party, I wanted nothing more than to be like him, a hero of the state, an StB officer par excellence. And it never occurred to me that my beautiful blond Polish mother was anything other than what they both claimed, an immigrant from Warsaw who had found her white knight on his sweaty mount in 1945. I never imagined that the terrible scar on her forearm might be a self-inflicted wound to conceal her tormented past. But it wasn’t until after his death that I discovered the truth. She was an immigrant, all right. A refugee, and he had found her half dead in a ditch while she was trying to walk to Prague. From Auschwitz.”
Krumlov was trembling now, his whole body resounding with twitches of emotion, and Benni and Eytan found themselves also trembling as they listened, knowing what was coming, not believing it, but believing every word of it. Krumlov stopped shouting and his voice grew quiet, but it was another voice, full of liquid and the blood of his torn heart.
“Oh, I will tell you who your mole is, my friends,” he whispered. “But I will tell you in Jerusalem.” He hurled his glowing cigarette to their feet like the gauntlet of an enraged knight. “You see, I am a Jew. Just like you.”
And he turned and disappeared into the night of the doomed camp.
Part III
Saviors
They showed you a statue and told you to pray,
They built you a temple and locked you away,
But they never told you the price that you pay,
For things that you might have done . . .
Only the good die young.
—Billy Joel
13
Vienna
May 7
ECKSTEIN HAD ALWAYS loved Vienna, but he did not understand what the hell he was doing there.
He stood alone in the huge public park called the Prater, its greenery lush and its sodden black trees glistening while a steady drizzle fogged the cool summer air, and he put a hand to his forehead and gathered his brows together, trying to remember. There had been a satcom contact from General Ben-Zion, some sort of argument in which Eckstein insisted on a face-to-face before he would carry out the general’s latest orders. And, of course, Itzik had refused.
