David’s feet hit the floor; he groped for the switch on the lamp by the phone before aiming for the shower. Minutes later, awakened by the stinging cold water, he pulled on chinos, slipped a tee shirt over his uncombed black hair, jammed feet into cowboy boots, grabbed his NY Yankee baseball cap and slammed his apartment door.
Taking the elevator down to the underground parking garage, the Israeli ex-paratrooper ran toward his beat-up jeep, climbed in and fired the engine. The roar of AMC-401 under the hood killed the early morning silence and echoed through the cavernous garage. Pushing the remote button the wrought iron gate began its slow retreat across the exit. Jabbing the gas peddle, the jeep chased the echo of its engine up the slope from the garage onto the street in front of his apartment building.
No one else was crazy enough to be up at this time of the morning and he cruised quickly through the familiar streets of Tel Aviv heading toward King Saul Boulevard. The glisten of last night’s rain on deserted streets added to the mystery of the urgency. David flashed around the dog park at He Be’Lyar Circle on two wheels, and headed down Weizmann Street, wishing he could stop and get a cup of his favorite Turkish coffee at the corner café, as he cut a fast right onto King Saul Boulevard. Just past the Israeli Opera House he honked two long and one short. Jacob, in The Office parking kiosk, looked up from the paperback he was reading, recognized the Jeep careening down King Saul toward him and quickly pushed a red button and the concrete crash barriers slid down into the pavement.
David, screeching to a stop, grinned at Jacob, “One of these days I’m going to sneak up and surprise you.”
“Yeah right! I could hear you coming a block away. No way could you sneak up on anyone in that pile of junk. No one’s snuck past me into the Office yet,” Jacob fired back.
David smiled back and rolled into the parking garage. The building under which he parked his Jeep housed the headquarters of the Mossad, officially known as The Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations. However, David and the others who work for this agency call it just — The Office.
This semi-secret agency is responsible for intelligence collection and covert operations which are suspected to include targeted killings and paramilitary activities beyond Israel’s borders, and protecting Jewish communities worldwide. It is one of the main entities in the Israeli Intelligence Community, along with Aman (military intelligence) and Shin Bet (internal security), and its director reports directly to the Prime Minister.
After parking close to the elevator door in the mostly deserted garage, he got out and pressed a remote in his pocket that shut off the gas flow to the engine — a safety check he had installed since it was virtually impossible to lock a Jeep with canvas side curtains. His pass card slipped quietly through the building’s magnetic slot, the door opened, and he took the stairs three at a time without pausing to the fourth floor. His boot heels clicked as he walked down the deserted corridor knowing that the only others in the building at this time in the morning were probably a few in the communications room in the basement level. He finally stopped in front of an unmarked door of the corner office. The incense-like aroma of Latakia tobacco seeping under the door told David that the person in the office had gotten up even earlier that he had. Standing a little over six feet tall he took a deep breath, turned the bill of his NY Yankee cap around to the front and knocked.
The gravely voice bid him enter and as he shut the door he saw Levi in his typical, often washed but never ironed, campaign shirt, shoulder epaulets unbuttoned, stoking his ever present, yellowed meerschaum pipe. However, there was another person in the room. A slender, black haired, attractive female, in army fatigues, back to David, was staring out the window.
“Took you long enough getting here.”
“Good morning to you too, Levi.”
“I want you to meet Lieutenant Miriam Wagner.”
David was startled. As she turned he remembered her well from training at the Henzelia pistol range, near Tel Aviv. He’d seen her scores. She was an exceptional shot and the image of her, eyes focused and intense, beneath the yellow-lensed glasses, her short hair puffed out comically around the thick ear protectors, flashed into his brain. Then his mind flew to the final proficiency exam with the Galil sniper rifle when she graduated with the best score in his battalion. His ego suffered a hit that day as she replaced him as top shot in their training class. He remembered hearing that she credited her high scores to the times she spent hunting in Africa with her father. They had also been together when sent to a special camp in the Negev where they had learned to kill in a dozen ways. In the midst of the heat and dirt of the desert their competiveness seemed to grow and fester.
She had always been an exciting and frustrating challenge for David.
Moving with graceful economy of the leopards she hunted with her father, she sat on Levi’s battered leather sofa, curling up her long legs under her. Giving David a quick, denying glance, her fine silky eyebrows rose a little and she drew her lips in a tight smile.
“Hello Lieutenant, remember me?”
He stopped, trying not to look at her legs. “How can I forget? How have you been, Miriam?”
“Oh, you remember my name?”
“Sure, none of the guys in my outfit would let me forget it. Where did you learn to shoot so well?”
“Growing up, my father taught me to use an old Syrian AK-47 that he captured during the 6-Day War. It was easy to convert that training to the Galili and Uzi.”
Levi, lifting a match to relight his pipe, looked at the pair sitting before him and noticed their uneasiness.
“Enough of this chit-chat. Let’s get down to business. Since you both know each other I guess I don’t have to introduce you, but just to be formal, Miss. Miriam Wagner, this is Mr. David Bernstein. And, by the way, since you’ll be working under me, no more Sergeant Wagner and Lieutenant Bernstein, is that clear?
In spite of that, I want you to become a new Kidon team for me. Oh, I know most teams have three members, but I think with the assignment I have in mind for you, you should be able to utilize others in the field to fill in for assistance. What I’m mainly interested in is finding a certain Hans Huber.”
“So who is this person, Levi?” asked Miriam quickly, before David could open his mouth.
“Let me back up a bit before I answer that question, Miriam. You may or may not know that over the last few years there have been quite a number of Jews murdered in Europe, all very wealthy, I might add. Until recently these crimes have been investigated simply as single occurrences, but recently investigators in Switzerland have uncovered a possible connection between them. A friend of mine, Inspector Servette, of the Police Department, in Geneva has asked for our help. It seems that there has been a murder of an elderly Jewish couple living in Switzerland. The evidence from that crime seems to connect with other murders in Germany and Switzerland. However most of these crimes have grown cold and Servette, in a conversation asked if we could possibly investigate. Since this would be your first assignment as Kidon, I have decided to give the case to you.”
“What’s the evidence that seems to connect these murders Levi?” David responded.
“All I know is that whoever has committed these murders seems to leave a calling card behind.”
“His calling card!”
“Yes, it seems that after he kills his victims he carves a lightning-like slash on arms or legs.”