Authors: Roni Dunevich
“I'm sorry if I offended you,” Alex said, breaking the silence in the car.
Orchidea stopped the Land Cruiser on the gravel path that ran down the middle of the farm and looked him straight in the eye. “You did,” she said.
“I need answers. I leaned on you too hard. It's been a hard couple of days.”
“I understand, but Justus is gone. I don't know what Justus you met, but the man I knew wasn't capable of such horrible things,” she said, fighting back tears.
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Absolutely.”
“Isn't it possible you put your trust in the wrong man, that Justus is behind everything that's been going on?”
“Why? What would he gain from it?”
Alex didn't answer. She took her foot off the brake, and the SUV edged forward along the path.
“I've given the best years of my life to the Ring and the Hothouse and the Orchid Farm. Then catastrophe strikes and you show up out of nowhere and you're suspicious of me and you make accusations against Justus. And you won't even let me in on what you're thinking. You're a brute.”
Her face twisted in a grimace as she swerved to avoid a body sprawled on the path.
“You went into the Cube just before you came to meet me. You were late. Then you ordered chocolate cake to draw our meeting out. It's the perfect alibi. At that very moment, someone was breaking into the farm and knew exactly what to do and where to go. So, yes, Orchidea, it definitely looks suspicious.”
Her face grew grim.
Alex's phone vibrated and the screen lit up.
Outside the SUV, the fucking rain wasn't letting up. His clothes were drenched. A sudden gust of wind sent a chill through him. He felt like he was in a car wash. What he wanted most of all was to snuggle under a thick blanket in a warm bed.
Behind him, the door of the SUV opened and closed. Alex felt a hand on his shoulder and swiveled around. Orchidea motioned for him to follow her.
“What's up?” he asked.
She led him to a windowless concrete building with a reinforced door and keyed in a code on a tiny panel. A buzzer sounded softly.
She pushed the door open and smiled. “It's dry inside. I'll wait out here.”
The door closed behind him. He was standing in a small antechamber in front of a second door. He pushed it open. The space was dark and humid, and the air was thick with intoxicating fruity fragrances, reminding him of the perfume floor in a classy department store. Life buzzed around him. Something flitted across his cheek, humming faintly like a power line. Insects swarmed around him, and glowworms twinkled in the dark.
“I'm in the prime minister's office, Alex,” Reuven announced. “You're on speaker.”
This was his moment. He had nothing more to lose. “Tomor
row morning in Damascus. The head of the Mukhabarat is meeting the man the Syrians are collaborating with. They call him the Israelite. He's responsible for the assault on the Ring and the theft of the virus. We have to be there.”
“Alex, I expected you to be more responsible,” Reuven scolded. “Forget your personal interest in Damascus. That's not what matters now.”
“The answers are there.”
“Bullshit!” Reuven cut in.
“If we have people in place, we'll be able to find out where the virus is and what happened to the Nibelungs.”
“No, we won't!” Reuven barked. “You only want to go because of Jane.”
“Who's Jane?” the prime minister asked.
“Jane Thompson,” Reuven said quickly, “the London Nibelung. She disappeared in Barcelona last night.”
Alex paced impatiently back and forth on the dark walkway. A light mist sprayed down on him from above. A buzzing insect passed too close to his ear, making him shiver. He was standing in water.
“What's your connection to Jane Thompson?” the prime minister asked Alex.
“She's his lover,” Reuven said before Alex could answer. “That's not a good enough reason to risk the lives of our people on a fool's errand in Damascus.”
“Is he right?” the prime minister asked.
“She isn't my lover, she's a good friend. And, yes, among other things, I'd like to find out what happened to her, but it's more important to find the guilty parties, make them pay, and recover the virus. The Syrians are involved, but they're not the ones getting
their hands dirty. The Nibelungs have covered for us on hundreds of operations; they're our own flesh and blood. At the very least, Israel owes it to them to make an effort.”
Standing in dripping clothes, Alex felt the full weight of the fatigue that had been building for months.
“Okay, Reuven,” the prime minister said firmly. “I think we've found the man with the proper motivation.”
“Pardon me?” Reuven said.
“Alex, as of this moment and until you hear otherwise, I'm putting you in charge of the Nibelung Ring. But on one conditionâyou don't go to Damascus.”
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Reuven objected, “that goes against the Nibelung charter!”
“Sending Alex Bartal to deal with the crisis instead of going yourself also goes against the charter. And as you said, ReuvenâI alone have authority over the Ring.”
Alex heard Reuven step back and state for protocol, “Mr. Prime Minister, I consider this a dangerous and unjustified decision.”
The dog could go on barking, but Alex now had the authority to issue orders to the Nibelungs without needing anyone else's approval.
With a sense of foreboding, Alex stepped out of the darkness of the rainforest and covered his eyes. He climbed into the SUV. It was cold in the car, cold and wet, and Orchidea looked despairing. Morosely, she said, “The farm was broken into, the virus is gone, Justus is dead, the Ring has been crushedâit's all over.”
With a hopeless shrug of her shoulders, she added, “What am I supposed to do tomorrow morning?”
It was time to take a gamble. “You're going to Damascus.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Tonight.”
“Whatâ”
“You said you'd do anything.”
“Damascus?”
If she was part of the conspiracy, he wasn't telling her anything new.
“There's a meeting in Damascus tomorrow between the head of the Syrian Mukhabarat and whoever they're collaborating with, the man behind the attacks on the Nibelungs and probably the theft of the virus as well. When we find out who he is, we'll have our answers.”
“Will it be dangerous?”
“You'll be risking your life.”
Orchidea lowered her eyes. Her eyelids were translucent. “How much of a life do I have anymore?”
Her words hung in the damp air. The rain drummed on the roof.
“We have to do something with the bodies,” Alex said.
“Lance can put them in an empty refrigerator in the Cube. When I get back from Damascus, we'll take care of them.”
How could she be so sure she'd make it back safely?
“You're coming with me, aren't you?”
“Where?”
“To Damascus.”
He shook his head.
“It's my birthday tomorrow,” she said.
“Would you rather not go?”
“It's just kind of weird celebrating my birthday in Damascus.”
“What's that place I was in before?” Alex asked.
“The paphs greenhouse.”
“Sorry?”
“Paphiopedilum. It's a genus of orchid that produces some of the most amazing varieties in the world.” The light was back in her eyes. “Like the ghost orchid. It can sell for more than fifteen hundred euros.”
“Who pays that kind of money for a flower?” Alex asked, thumbing through the list of contacts on his phone.
Orchidea smiled.
He wondered how she would function under threat on enemy soil.
“What are you doing right now?” Alex asked into the phone.
“Waiting for you to call,” Paris answered with a chuckle.
Alex told him about the break-in at the Orchid Farm.
“Can you go to Damascus?”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Alone?”
“With Orchidea.”
“From the Hothouse?”
“That's right.”
“You're out of your mind. She doesn't have any field experience.”
“You do. Are you in?”
“What do I have to do?”
“Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock local time, the head of the Mukhabarat, Omar Hattab, is meeting with the man behind the assault on the Ring. We want to know the man's identity. Take pictures, try to get ears on the conversation. Then stay on his tail until you find out who he is. He might be armed, and he's dangerous. They call him the Israelite.”
“He's Israeli?”
“God knows. Take a flight to Brussels and go see the head of our station there, Sammy Zengot. He'll tell you what to do and fit you out with the gear you'll need. I'll call him right away.”
“I told you we'd screw the motherfuckers in the end. I'm happy to do the honors,” Paris said.
The call was disconnected.
“You mentioned somebody named Lance,” Alex said. “Can he stay here until the security guards from Brussels arrive?”
“He went to the supermarket in Genas. He should be back by now. He's the only one left.”
“Except for you.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That if you want, I'll drive you to the airport.”
She gave him a long, piercing look. She was a worthy woman.
“I need a few minutes to get organized and pack. Come onâin the meantime you can see where I live,” she said, opening the door of the Land Cruiser.
Alex heard his internal brakes squealing.
“I'll wait here.”
“How did we wind up in this ugly mess?” the prime minister asked, getting up and pacing the floor.
“Sir, if you so wish, I will tender my resignation immediately,” Reuven said, pausing before he added, “but, of course, then the media will start rooting around in
your
backyard.”
“I'll try to keep that in mind, Reuven. But let's focus on the real problem. What can we do right now to get the virus back?”
Reuven scratched his head and brushed his shoulder. Then he kept silent.
“Are you saying there's nothing we can do?” the prime minister protested, straightening his tie.
Reuven felt as if the ceiling were descending on him. “We don't have the thousands of operatives it would take to search all over Europe for the stolen inhalers. And they could already be on another continent.”
“Pretend for a moment that you are prime minister, Reuven,” the PM said with a cynical smile. “Just pretend.” He paused to let the words sink in. “And you're responsible for the Nibelung Ring and the Hochstadt-Lancet virus. What would you do?”
Reuven was a cunning rat and a master of devious tricks. He wasn't tempted by the smell of the cheese in the trap.
“I understand,” the PM said.
Muffled voices came from beyond the thick door. A telephone rang.
“With all due respect, Mr. Prime Minister, if I understand correctly, you're telling me that you are authorizing the insertion of our agents into Damascus?”
The prime minister licked his pale lips. “Yes.” Then he added, “Why? Do you have some objection?”
“No, sir. I trust your judgment implicitly. It's your decision to make.”
“Exactly.”
“And at your behest, Alex Bartal is now in charge of what's left of the Nibelung Ring?”
“Yes, Reuven,” the prime minister said, dismissing him coldly.
Later, in the
backseat of the Volvo taking him back to his office, Reuven turned off the tiny recorder he had concealed in the pocket of his suit jacket.
“Had Justus seemed unusually tense lately?” Alex asked her on the way to Saint Exupéry Airport.
“Maybe a little. But once it was over between us, he kept his distance.”
“How long has it been since he ended it?”
“Two months and six days.”
The rain was finally letting up. The truck in front of them sprayed mud onto their windshield.
Alex switched on the radio and searched for a station that was playing soothing music. All he found was cacophony and the shrill voices of announcers on speed. He turned the radio off.
In the ensuing silence, she said, “I told you. He wanted me to have a family.” She bit her lip. “Aphids destroyed more than half of the greenhouse. I didn't catch it in time. We had to burn orchids worth almost four hundred thousand euros. Justus was furious. The farm isn't insured. He didn't say anything, but he couldn't forgive me. Five days later, he broke it off.”
In the rental car parking at the airport she said, “Maybe we'll meet again, at a better time.” Reaching out a cold hand, she stroked his face, then leaned in and hugged him, her eyes gazing into his. Taken by surprise, he froze, confused by the quiver of lust that ran through his body. Her breath smelled fresh. She was so young. He wanted to bury his head between her breasts.
“Thank you for giving me the chance to make things right. I won't forget it,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the lips.
Alex's heart pounded. Orchidea released her embrace, got out, and walked away, disappearing into the sea of cars.
He sat there for a long time without moving.
Standing in front
of the flight departures board, he couldn't remember where he was supposed to be going.
There was no reason to rush off anywhere, no place he had to be, no one waiting for him.
The Grunewald house was empty. There were no direct flights to Berlin, and the next flight to Zurich left in four hours. He bought a one-way ticket and at a bookstand found a detective novel with a lurid cover. Leaving the crowds behind, he took a seat in a quiet corner of the terminal. He looked around him. He was alone. He called Sammy Zengot in Brussels. They discussed the details of Paris and Orchidea's mission in Damascus.
“What's their cover?” Alex asked.
“False identities similar to their real ones. The trip is a surprise for her birthday. They leave tonight. Where will you be?”
“Damascus is dangerous, Sammy. It could be her last birthday. Buy her something.”
Sammy chuckled. “We'll look after her.”
Alex hung up.
He searched his mind for Jane, but the cells that stored her memory had clouded over. Orchidea intensified the sense of loss. He opened the book he'd bought, but after no more than half a page he realized that the words weren't sinking in.
His phone vibrated.
Parsifal!
The German said in his deep voice, “I've decided to tell you about the Mud Man.”
“Does he have a name?”
“No.”
“Is he connected to the Israelite?”
“Both terms come from Christian Identity doctrine. I don't know who he is, but I can tell you that the Mud Man is a sociopath.”
“Have you penetrated his organization?”
“We sent in two undercover agents,” Parsifal said.
“What did they find out?”
“They disappeared. We never found the bodies.”
“How did you learn about him?”
“I interviewed him. They wanted my opinion as a psychiatrist. There was a black screen between us. I never saw him, and they never showed me his file or picture. Nothing.”
“What did they want to know about him?”
“Whether he was reliable. Whether he could be trusted.”
“And what was your conclusion?”
“That even the opposite of what he said was a lie.”
“Give me something I can use to find him.”
“Be careful with the Mud Man, Alex. At the age of eight he was sent to a reform school in Nuremberg. One night they found him wandering around the dormitory, totally naked. All he had on was an armband he'd made from toilet paper. It had a swastika on it.”