Back in his car, Hans tossed the tam in the back seat, put on a black baseball cap, carefully applied a fake nose, and stuck a hairy wart near his chin. He started the engine, swung the Mercedes around, and sped toward Geneva.
CHAPTER 3
Crushing the letter from Christies in his fist, he stood by the front door surveying the carnage he had just created. He reveled in the adrenalin surge that made his heart race and his lungs pound. His emerald wasn’t here. Turning angrily, Hans quickly left the farmhouse, the dangling cowbell over the door ringing in his ear. As he ran toward his car the country breeze across his face was suddenly sweet, the air pungent, reminding him of death.
He settled in the soft leather seat but with trembling fingers could hardly get the key into the ignition. He loved this feeling, his heart pumping, mind reeling, hair standing up on forearms, if it could only last forever.
Back out on the highway, he had to force himself to drive close to the speed limit, and he calmed noticed that the sky was slowly changing from bright blue to a lovely, muted purple. After a short drive, with Geneva hours away, he pulled in beside a small Gesthof with a lighted vacancy sign.
He pulled out his small overnight bag from the car trunk and out of habit felt to make sure his stiletto was in its sheaf behind his neck. Pushing open the heavy, scarred front door he entered a dingy bar smelling of spilled beer, cigarettes and supper cooking in a distant kitchen.
From behind the bar came, “Welcome Sir, would you like a drink, supper, a room or maybe more?”
Han’s eyes adjusted to the gloom as he walked up to the bar, sat and replied, “A large Cognac would do me well.”
“Oh, sir, I’m terribly sorry. We are a small, poor establishment, and all we serve is beer on tap. How’ bout a nice dark Bavarian lager?”
“If that’s all you have I guess it’ll have to do.”
The hefty barmaid took a stein from the back wall, and pulled a large porcelain handle filling the stein with an amber liquid to the brim and overflowing. Placing it on the polished bar in front of Hans, she smiled and asked, “What else would you like?”
“I’m afraid it’s been a long and tiring day and all the energy I have left is to climb the stairs to a room, if you have one, and fall asleep.”
With a nod of her pigtailed head and a disappointed voice she said, “We do have rooms available, keys are over there on the wall. Just take your pick, and sleep well,” and walked out of the bar into a back room.
The old uneven floor creaked as Hans walked down the dimly lighted hall, pushed open a door marked 3 with his overnight bag and tossed it on the bed. Being careful not to spill his second stein of beer he eased into the floral, sagging over-stuffed chair, pushed off his shoes, put his feet on the edge of the bed and drank from the stein he had been allowed to take to his room. Sipping the tepid amber liquid he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The warm buzz he felt was not so much from the two steins of beer as from the killing adrenalin still pumping through his veins. He knew this feeling didn’t come from the actual killing, but started during the remembered connection to his father as he carved the lightning flashes into each victim. He closed his eyes and as after each killing, his memory flashed back to the contorted face of his father dying on the street in Buenos Aires.
He walked proudly beside his tall father as they left the compound on Garibaldi Street and headed towards the bus stop in the next block. Crossing the street just before the green and yellow bus pulled to a stop, they waited as several people exited the bus, two women and a young man, neighbors of theirs. His father’s head turned left and right looking for anything out of the ordinary. He felt very proud that his father had been chosen to protect Herr Klement. Someday he wanted to do the same. Suddenly, a white haired, stooped shouldered man came down the bus steps, looked at him, and smiled. Hans waved excitedly, as he always did when he saw Herr Klement. The man walked toward them and gave a slight wave. The bus door closed and pulled back onto Garibaldi Street to continue its late afternoon journey through the streets of Buenos Aires. He and his father walked toward the man, who seemed older than he really was, shook hands, turned and started back to the Klement compound. It was then that he noticed a large black limousine parked beside the curb, its engine hood up and a man leaning over the engine. Father grabbed his hand quickly and pushed Herr Klement to quickly cross the street. The black doors opened on both sides of the car, men came piling out, guns drawn, shouting for us to stop. Father dropped his hand, reached for the Luger he always carried, but before he could get it out of his holster several of the men shot him. He was shouting as his father fell and crumpled to the pavement. Hans tried to get to the pistol that had fallen beside his father. His father covered it with his hand and shook his head. Hans knelt down beside him, gently touched his face, called his name, and knew he was dead. Then he felt bullets burning into his body. He fell back on the street, screaming for Herr Klement to run, run, run, but they grabbed him and shoved him into the car, and Hans couldn’t do anything to help him. The terrified young man looked up and saw a man, not more than two feet away pointing his gun at His head. Through his pain he saw the trigger finger begin to squeeze and then relax. His eyes closed to block out the searing pain. The people in the car were shouting, “Finish him, finish him”. Car doors slam and opening his eyes he saw the big, black car speed off, tires screaming, down Garibaldi Street. The last thing he saw was the man who almost shot him again, looking at him through the back window of the car, and he passed out beside his father.
Hans opened his eyes, trying to focus where he was, outside of his remembered past. Shaking his head, he got up, staggered to the bed and flopped on it fully dressed.
CHAPTER 4
The sun-toasted, long-legged blond, jogged toward him on the beach, her feet kicking up the white wash zone. Her skin tight swimsuit twisted back and forth struggling to cover her inviting body. He was running to meet her on the warm sand, their arms reaching out to enfold each other. Just as they were about to embrace his hopeful dream was shattered by the ringing of his bedside phone. The clock’s red digits showed five a.m. Who would be calling at this ungodly hour? Angrily He fumbled for the phone.
“Yes! Do you know what time it is?”
A voice full of gravel erased any further hopes of beaches and blonds.
“Get here as soon as possible. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Click! The voice was gone.
Sitting on the edge of the bed he tried rubbing the dream and last night’s single malt scotch out of his head. But when Levi said jump, he jumped.
Levi was a revered and legendary case officer, or katsa, within the Kidon, a highly secretive department of the Israel’s foreign intelligence service. It had a devious name that had little to do with its real mission. Those employed there only referred to it as the Office. In their training her agents were made to promise never to speak of its real name. David’s new katsa had the job of handling the agents or combatants, who carry out covert actions abroad against whoever was considered to be a threat to Israeli. David had only met Levi once, at his graduation from Kidon training in the Negev desert last year, however, the stories of this man’s exploits for Israel filled what little free time there was during that training. He had been the mastermind behind the tracking and killing of Ali Hassan Salameh, known as “The Red Prince”, the man responsible for the Munich Olympic massacre of Israeli athletes in 1972, and even today, 1994, Levi was still motivated by that shedding of young Jewish blood.