Ring of Lies (17 page)

Alex looked down at his hand holding the gun. It was spattered with blood and fragments of broken teeth.

Outside, Jane was crouched down beside the tree, vomiting. He moved closer, putting his clean hand on her shoulder. She straightened up and retreated from him, then hurled again.

She shouldn't have come.

The silvery olive-tree leaves glittered in the blazing sun. No wind was blowing.

Rage was building inside him.

Jane was still crouching, spitting on the ground. Her eyes were red and there was a sour expression on her face. Once more he tried to touch her, but the look she gave him was stony.

“Why did you have to torture him?”

“What would you have done, asked him nicely?”

She remained silent.

“It's easy to watch from the sidelines and pass judgment,” he said. “You left the dirty work to me. We're out of time.”

Jane didn't respond. All of a sudden, the years showed clearly on her face.

Alex walked away. His finger was still frozen on the trigger. He relaxed his hand and returned the Sig Sauer to Barcelona without wiping it off. It had been repulsive and unforgivable, but eventually she might understand that he'd had no choice.

“You have so much anger,” Jane called after him.

His figure cast a harsh shadow on the rocky soil. He felt his heart clench. He was sick and tired of his thankless job. Without turning to look at her, he shot back, “Why are you taking pity on him? His friends killed the Nibelungs. They killed Justus.”

Alex called Butthead.

“Find Zenobia. It's a place. Start in Syria. I also need a profile of Omar Hattab, the head of the Syrian Mukhabarat. Just the highlights.”

“Will do. You asked me to trace a number. It's a prepaid SIM, no way to identify the owner. We tracked its location. For the past seventeen minutes it's been in the Syrian Air office.”

“Where?”

“Berlin.”

Very good. Berlin. Justus Erlichmann. Omar Hattab. Mukhabarat . . . As soon as he had a moment of peace and quiet, he'd try to connect the dots.

Who was the Israelite?

One of theirs? Someone in Mossad?

Maybe he wasn't Jewish. Alex knew a person who fit the description. A German who secretly donated money to a neo-Nazi organization and had recently been killed.

He called Butthead again. “We're looking for somebody called the Israelite.”

“There are millions of them.”

“We can't be sure he's Israeli. It might be a code name. Cast your net as wide as you can. Try associative searches.”

“Anything else?”

“A log of the incoming and outgoing calls from the cellphone in the Syrian Air office in Berlin.”

“How far back?”

“Start with the past week.”

Alex's next call was to Reuven. “The Syrians are involved. But they're not working alone. They're surveilling the Nibelungs. Somebody else is orchestrating the attacks.”

“How do you know?” Reuven asked.

Alex told him about Barcelona and the Syrian prisoner.

“Two days from now, Omar Hattab, head of the Mukhabarat, is meeting with someone called the Israelite. Butthead's checking into it. I need people in Damascus and a team in Berlin. There's a link to the Berlin Syrian Air office.”

“The Syrians wouldn't dare do something like this on their own,” Reuven said. “They'd be too afraid of the consequences. Assad's regime is hanging by a thread. But they wouldn't mind helping out, as long as somebody else paid the bill and took the flak in the end. Get as much as you can out of the Syrian.”

“I already did.”

“Get him to spill what's going on in Berlin.”

“He's in no condition to talk.”

Reuven hung up.

Alex caught himself before he threw the phone against the wall.

A second later, the phone vibrated in his sticky hand. It slid out of his grip onto the grass. Butthead would have to wait. Alex was beginning to disgust himself. He had to wash his hands.

Barcelona strode across the yard without a glance in his direction.

“Where can I wash myself off?” he called after her.

After a deliberate pause, she stopped and pulled a pale rubber hose from the long grass. She handed him the cracked end and went to turn on the faucet. A spray of warm, murky water burst
from the hose. Alex waited until it flowed clear and cool, darkening the soil. Then he rinsed his hands. Bloodred strands floated in the silvery flowing water.

Once his hands were clean, he splashed some water on his face. The gentle breeze that had started up cooled his wet skin. Finally, he drank from the hose. Butthead called back.

“Zenobia is apparently the name of a park in the Abu Rumaneh section of Damascus. It's a high-class district, lots of embassies, fancy homes, government offices.”

“Sounds right,” Alex said.

Alex had seen
Jane stumble in the direction of the front yard. He circled the old house and found her leaning on the rusty scaffolding, drinking from a tall glass of water. She was pale. Barcelona was standing next to her, an arm around her shoulders, stroking her head.

“What are you doing?” he heard himself say.

Barcelona gave him a contemptuous look.

“I'm comforting her.”

Jane was as neutral as Switzerland. She handed the empty glass to her new ally.

The unbound breasts under Barcelona's shirt swung lazily. Alex could see her bare flesh between the buttons, but it didn't arouse his interest in the slightest. The Catalan had elbowed her way into the gap that had opened between him and Jane.

Jane gazed at his wet hands. He came closer, but she shied away from him. The glass fell from Barcelona's hand, shattering on a rock. Frightened pigeons flew out of the eaves of the house, flapping their wings noisily.

“Give us a few minutes alone,” he said quietly to Barcelona.

The Catalan didn't move.

Jane rested her head on the strong shoulder of her new friend. The women held each other. Barcelona stroked Jane's face, and Jane closed her eyes.

“Leave her alone,” Barcelona said. “Leave
us
alone.”

Alex felt a flash of jealousy. Salty sweat dripped into his open mouth. He bent over and spat it out.

Ashamed of what he was feeling, Alex turned and walked away. He called the Brussels station. Sammy Zengot was unusually cooperative. A team of six men would soon be in the Wilmersdorf district of Berlin, maintaining round-the-clock surveillance of the Syrian Air office at 20 Bundesallee. They'd be listening in on conversations, snapping photos, and intercepting messages. Most important, they'd find out whether the seemingly innocent airline office was a front for a Mukhabarat station.

Butthead called next. “In the past week there've been two hundred and ninety-six calls from fifty-one different numbers to the Syrian Air office. All incoming, no outgoing. All the numbers are European. We're tracing them, but it'll take time.”

“See whether any of the calls came from Israel or Berlin.”

He couldn't wait
to get away from here. Just climb in the car, get on a plane, and vanish. Leaning against the olive tree, he closed his eyes.

“What are we going to do with the body?” Barcelona demanded, breaking into the rare moment of silence. Alex looked at her. Her eyes were averted. Jane was hiding behind her. How long had it been since he'd shut his eyes?

He wasn't going to make it easy for her. “Dump it somewhere far away and get rid of the gun,” he said.

At least she wasn't questioning his authority. Time was slipping away. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and the scene grew somber. The wild grass in the yard became darker, and the edges of the sharp shadows softened. A cool breeze sent a shiver along his skin.

After a while he hardened his heart, pulled Jane roughly from Barcelona's side, and shoved her into the car. In the rearview mirror he saw the Catalan watching them with her penetrating eyes as they drove away. Her figure gradually grew smaller. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned on the radio, exposing them to an assault of blaring ads.

In the dim light of dusk, he examined his hands on the wheel. He didn't see any blood. In a conciliatory tone he said, “Don't be mad at me.”

Jane didn't respond.

“The Syrian wanted Barcelona dead, just like Berlin and the others,” he went on.

He recalled the terror in the prisoner's eyes.

“I'm having trouble coping right now,” Jane said in a weak voice. “All the violence . . . the brutality.”

“I get it. But if I hadn't applied pressure, he wouldn't have talked.”

“Did you have to shoot him again and again?”

“What would you have done?”

“I don't know. I guess I'm not as tough as I thought I was.”

The countryside was growing darker, the blue sky gradually turning black. The day was drawing to an end. They crossed Barcelona on Avinguda Diagonal, the street that cuts through the
city from northwest to southeast. Alex placed his hand over hers. She cringed and hunched up against the door.

“What's wrong?”

A heavy, desertlike silence hung between them. Alex suddenly realized that he was in love with the woman she used to be. Time had polished his memories, rounded off the sharp edges. He'd allowed himself to be drawn into an illusory cocktail of fantasy and nostalgia. She had changed over the years. Now he couldn't predict her reactions. In the dark car driving through the center of Barcelona, she whispered, “That part of you, Alex . . . It scares me.”

“Your assassin was taken out in Tuscany by his target, Alex Bartal, who flew to Barcelona this morning with Jane Thompson, the London Nibelung. It appears that your team didn't manage to finish her off, either,” says the tall man in the gray raincoat and black woolen cap. His face is badly disfigured. When he talks, he gestures with his left hand alone.

The wind angles the rain into his eyes. The asphalt on the broad street is slick. There were clear skies in the morning, but that feels like a long time ago. Now the weather is wet and stormy and he should be inside, at home. But home is far away.

“Where are we going?” asks Disfigured Face.

“Trust me,” says the man in the black cycling suit. The tight pants accentuate the thick mass of quads in his thighs.

“Where?”

“To one of my favorite spots,” the cyclist says.

“Did you bring proof?”

“Stop fretting.”

“Did you?”

On the seam between the two halves of the city, traffic is heavy. Dark umbrellas sail past. People are in a hurry.

The cyclist takes a brown envelope from his black nylon jacket. “In only one week, they lost more agents than ever before. Can you believe it?” His eyes shine with self-approval. “In a day
or two, the Ring will be history. We are making history. Are you trying to make history?”

“I'm just doing my job,” says Disfigured Face, moving aside. He opens the envelope and studies the document. His face goes white, and the pale lips under his mustache open. The teeth aren't his. They're implants.

The cyclist scratches his ear. “Did you know that you have to boil a noose for an hour and then stretch it out to dry to make it lose its flexibility?”

The Disfigured Face hardens. “If you wish to see your partner again, you had better stop trying my patience.”

The cyclist bursts out laughing. “You're threatening me? You are, aren't you? You just threatened me!”

“I have come to thank you for your part in Stage One.” He looks like he is being forced to chew on a dead cat. “The boss has given the order to move on to Stage Two.”

“That's all?” the cyclist says derisively.

“We have to agree on the terms for Stage Two.”

“Payment?”

“Terms. We only pay for goods on delivery,” says Disfigured Face as if he is speaking to someone mentally challenged.

“Forget it,” says the cyclist, coughing up phlegm and spitting a green wad onto the dark pavement. “Did you know that if the rope is too short, you don't lose consciousness? You die of strangulation, very slowly.”

Disfigured Face stops short. “Then there is no deal.” He knows he cannot go home without concluding the transaction. He thrusts his hands into his coat pockets. Even his nearby hotel room is too far away. He needs to scrub himself down in a steaming hot shower to get rid of the filthy residue of this meeting.

“Did you know that if the gallows floor is too high, you get decapitated?” the cyclist says.

“You are a sick man,” says Distorted Face. “You need help.”

The rain starts coming down harder.

“Payment up front—or you lose your head,” says the cyclist with a chilling smirk.

“You will get your money in cash when we have proof of completion and it is reported in the press.”

“It's been nice knowing you,” the cyclist says dismissively. “We both know that you can't go home without closing the deal,” he adds, chuckling with self-satisfaction. “By the way, did you know that there are no eyeholes in the hood they put over your head? It's pitch-black and stifling underneath. You can't see a thing.”

“No payment until delivery. It is not open to negotiation.”

“I expected you to be more appreciative,” the cyclist spits. “We saved you and your fucking prosthesis from the noose.”

Disfigured Face bites down on his pale lip, pulls at what is left of his nose, and gazes into the distance. Then he turns his eyes back to the cyclist. “You did your job and you got paid for it. Take your medication and shut up.”

They reach a crosswalk. A black Volkswagen Touareg passes them, driving slowly.

In its tinted windows are reflected the concrete slabs of the Holocaust Memorial.

The hair dryer roared behind the closed door of the bathroom in the Claris Hotel.

When it was his turn, Alex got into the shower and scrubbed his fingers raw. The hot water washed the putrid refuse of the day off his body. Within minutes, the bathroom looked like a steam room.

There was nowhere to rush off to, nowhere to fly to. They could take this night to rest and shore up their strength. Alex still cherished the hope that the precious hours of quiet ahead would bring them close again.

The water was soothing and purifying.

Buzzing.

He turned off the water and pulled the shower curtain aside. His phone was vibrating on the marble countertop, inching its way to the edge of the sink. Butthead had the profile of Omar Hattab.

“I'll call you back,” Alex said, preparing to step back into the shower. Then he stopped in his tracks. In the silence, he could hear her hoarse voice on the other side of the door.

She was talking on the phone.

Flight.

London.

As soon as possible.

Despite the friction in El Papiol, the fragments of conversa
tion he overheard were cutting and painful. He fled back under the stream of hot water, desperate to escape his thoughts.

A knock on the bathroom door.

“Alex?”

He turned off the water.

“What?”

“I'll be in the lobby.”

He heard the hall door open and close.

Alex shaved. Wrapped in a towel, he sat down on the lid of the toilet. He'd taken on the odious part of the operation, and now she was mad at him. Or maybe he was mad at her. He wouldn't get another chance.

He left the bathroom, dressed, and splashed cologne on his smooth cheeks.

The decor of the lobby was a bizarre cocktail of New York and the Middle East: a mix of ancient Egyptian artifacts and Andy Warhol lithographs. She was sunk deep in the cushions of a brown couch, staring out at the street. He walked over to her and leaned down. “You smell wonderful,” he whispered.

She recoiled. He sat down beside her.

A young mocha-complexioned woman with generous curves stepped out of the elevator. The lights of the lobby were reflected in her dark eyes. She smiled, revealing perfect teeth.

“What did I do?” he asked.

Jane shook her head. “I'm sorry.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“You've changed.”

“How?”

“You're harder.”

“Because of my interrogation techniques?”

“Crueler.”

Alex folded his arms over his chest.

“You didn't have to kill him,” she said.

“He committed suicide.”

“If you'd been in his shoes, you would have, too.”

“I aimed for his shoulder. He stuck his head in front of the gun.”

“And you didn't see him do it?”

“He wanted to die.”

“You didn't see him do it?”

“I turned my head away.”

“Why?”

“I'd seen enough.”

Jane shifted her eyes back to the street. He wasn't going to get her companionship tonight.

“You know very well that the Nibelung Ring isn't devoted to saving the whales or rescuing pandas. We were covered in shit, and somebody had to clean it up. You ran, and your friend Barcelona rolled her eyes.”

“Barcelona has nothing to do with it. Leave her out of this.”

“Do you want to go back to London?”

Her face froze.

“I'm sorry,” Alex said. “I was wrong to get you mixed up in this.”

“You didn't get me mixed up in it. I'm part of it.”

“I'll finish it on my own.”

“That's it?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

“What do you mean?”

“We go our separate ways?”

He could easily fall asleep right here on the brown couch. But when Jane put a gentle hand on his arm in the middle of the
bright, bustling lobby, he was caught in her web once again. He shook his head.

“This is who I am now. It's what I've become,” he said. “It's not easy for me.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. He moved closer, feeling exhausted and drained. “You need time to recover,” he said.

She nodded. It was the first time they seemed to be in sync since that morning.

“Maybe it's best if we try again some other time,” he heard himself say. “When there's a chance we can make it work.”

“We have to stick together,” she replied. “Together we can get through this. It's the only way.”

Hesitantly, his lips reached for hers. They kissed, but with a trace of desperation.

“Let's go outside, where there's more life,” she said. “Barcelona is waiting for us.”

Alex froze.

“The city,” she said with a smile. “Barcelona the city.”

They went out onto the street, their arms intertwined, and were instantly absorbed into the high spirits and vivaciousness of the Latin city.

He'd never held her in public before.

As she walked beside him with her arm around his waist, he finally felt her softness, and she smelled wonderful. He made an effort to erase the memory of the events in El Papiol.

“Are you ready for a good meal?”

She nodded.

“There's a great place for tapas and seafood on the beach,” he said.

“It's only a quarter to seven. The restaurants are still closed. Let's take a walk first.”

“Are you up to it?”

“Yes,” she said.

His phone vibrated.

“Is now a good time?” Butthead asked.