Double Exposure

DOUBLE EXPOSURE

Ralph Young

Copyright © 2012 Ralph Young

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

For Leif Skoogfors

—photographer, journalist, friend—

who helped inspire this book

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

CHAPTER ONE

Bremen, Germany — 1 May — 22:00

Khalil Bassan glanced affectionately at his two sons. Pillows bunched up behind them, faces alive with anticipation, they sat up in bed on either side of him, looking at the comic book, hanging on to every word as he read to them.

He smiled and turned the page. It had been a perfectly wonderful day. Relaxing and peaceful. A rare day off that he, like all the other workers at the Haake Beck bottling plant, had sorely earned. Khalil looked back at the page and resumed reading, keenly aware that he was happy. Happier than he had been in months. Both six year-old Martin and eight-year old Benni, loved Asterix and they listened, as always, with deep, undivided attention, giggling frequently at the humor Khalil was only just beginning to understand himself. In spite of living in Germany for ten years, Khalil’s German was still so flawed that the boys took great delight in correcting his pronunciation as he struggled through the text. It was a game they played to see who would be the first to point out his mistakes. If only he had more time to read aloud to the boys his German would improve. But there was never enough time.

He finished the story, kissed the boys good night and turned out the light. Yes, he thought crossing the hall to the girls’ room, it had been a great Mayday. Picnicking alongside the Werdersee, playing soccer with the boys, laughing at his two daughters’ ecstatic reaction to the golden retrievers that had sprinted up to their picnic site. The dogs’ owner repeatedly threw branches into the Werdersee which the retrievers repeatedly hauled back to shore, dropping them on the grass nearby and shaking the water from their golden coats in glistening, spinning pinwheels of light. Anya, Khalil’s five-year old, pleaded with him for a dog. He said perhaps for her birthday. The daffodils were in full bloom and the fragrance of spring had filled the air.

He poked his head into the girls’ room. They were already sound asleep. He leaned over their bed and kissed them. He must make a better effort, he thought as he straightened up, to spend more time with them. But even as he resolved to do so he shook his head. It was so hard. For ten years, from the day he arrived in Germany, he had worked seven days a week. First at the Tchibo coffee plant and now at Haake Beck. He needed the overtime. There was no other way to make ends meet and have a little left over to send some money to his mother back home in Istanbul. Funny. He still considered Istanbul home even though all four of his children had been born in Bremen. Well, one day, maybe, Bremen would feel like home.

Ready for bed? Tubah, his wife asked as he entered their room. She was sitting up in bed with a paperback. She closed the book and dropped it on the lamp table.

Yes, he plopped down and kicked off his shoes. I’m exhausted. I don’t know where they find all that energy. Especially Anya.

Tubah squeezed his arm. The children love it when you have time for them. They need to see you more.

Yes, I know, Khalil said, slipping under the covers. As soon as we get a little money saved up I’ll start taking off on Sundays.

Tubah switched off the light and snuggled up to him. Her thick black hair brushed against his cheek and he kissed her forehead. She tilted her head and opened her mouth seeking his lips. She slid her left hand down over his hairy chest.

* * *

22:10

Jürgen Fürst shuffled along the pavement on the east side of the street staying in the shadows away from the streetlamps. A few of the lights in the row houses were still illuminated, but most people in this mixed working-class quarter had already retired for the night. The six o’clock shift meant they had to be up and about by five a.m. Nearing the end of the block Fürst slowed his pace again and stared angrily at the third house from the corner. A light in an upstairs window had just gone out. Fucking Turks, Fürst muttered under his breath. Too many fucking Turks.

Hastening his pace he strode around the corner and crossed the street. Franz Podein and Adolf Maurer were leaning back in the seats of the VW Golf, smoking and listening to the radio. Even through the hazy cloud of cigarette smoke that filled the car Fürst could see the glow of a streetlamp gleaming off their shaved heads. As he approached, Maurer lowered the driver-side window. "Was gibt’s?" Maurer asked through the swirl of smoke that billowed out the window.

They’re in bed, Fürst said. Finally. I was getting so fucking tired of walking around the fucking block I wanted to do it now whether they were in bed or not.

Don’t be stupid, Maurer said, Wenders isn’t even here yet. Besides, it’s always better to wait. More chance of success. He flicked the butt of his cigarette in a long arc away from the car. Our missions must always be successful, he said in a patronizing tone, failure is not tolerated.

"Ja, ja, ‘failure is not tolerated,’" Fürst mocked Maurer’s Leipzig accent. Even though they were comrades, even though they belonged to the same cadre and worked for the same goal of Aryanization, he still loathed the fucking Osies. Sometimes he wished that the fucking Wall had never come down. The Osies might have the right ideas about cleaning out the scum that was ruining Germany, but they were hardly any better than the fucking foreigners in the first place.

Wenders’ll be here, he glanced at his watch, at ten-thirty. After that we’ll wait another half hour. We want to make sure they’re asleep.

Christ, Fürst mumbled, wait, wait, wait. That’s all we ever do. He stomped like a sulking child around to Podein’s side and crawled into the back seat. Give me a fucking cigarette, he growled.

* * *

22:25

Tubah, her black hair matted in damp streaks against her face and shoulders, rolled off him onto her back. Khalil, she sighed, Khalil. He slipped an arm under her neck and held her close as she snuggled comfortably against him. The sweat on her breasts mingling with the perspiration on his chest. She kissed his shoulder lightly, tasting the salty tang of his sweat. Khalil was already breathing heavily and regularly. Contentedly, Tubah closed her eyes and pulled the covers up to her chin.

* * *

22:30

The black Mercedes drifted up behind the VW Golf. The driver cut the lights, but left the engine running. Maurer stepped out and walked back to the Mercedes.

In the duffle, the man in the Mercedes motioned with a nearly imperceptible sideways movement of his head to the bag on the rear seat. Passports, three .45s, and the two bundles.

"Klasse!" Maurer said.

The driver held out his hand, narrowing his intense gray-blue eyes—the color of a silver bullet—at Maurer.

Maurer dipped his hand into an inside pocket and withdrew a manila envelope. It’s all there, he said, twenty-five thousand. You want to count it?

I don’t need to, the driver said, taking the envelope and tossing it nonchalantly on the passenger seat. If it’s short I’ll find you and collect double.

Maurer swallowed. Very little ever frightened him, but Adolf Maurer knew, in his heart of hearts that Ralf Wenders wouldn’t have a second thought about killing him if he deemed it expedient. It’s all there, Maurer repeated.

Wenders nodded and pressed the button raising the automatic window.

Maurer opened the rear door and extracted the duffle. As he closed the door Wenders shifted into gear and eased away from the curb.

For several seconds Maurer watched as the Mercedes hummed down the street, turned left and disappeared. Then he went over to the VW and placed the duffle in the trunk.

* * *

23:00

Covering their shaved heads with navy ski caps Podein and Fürst got out of the car. They strode briskly around the corner to the house and immediately set to work with the aerosol paint cans. They painted broad, red swastikas on the walls, on the pavement leading up to the steps, on the door. Intermingled with the swastikas were a few of their favorite phrases. "Gastarbeiter go home! Der Führer Lebt!"

It took less than two minutes and just as they were finishing the VW Golf came around the corner and coasted to a stop outside the house. Maurer popped the trunk and Podein picked up one of the two C-4 bombs they had purchased from Wenders. Hastily, he duct taped it to a brick while Fürst did the same with the second bomb.

Podein flicked his BIC.

The two men held the fuses over the flame and waited for five seconds after they ignited.

Ready? Podein looked at Fürst.

Fürst nodded.

"Los!"

Podein raised the bomb over his head and threw it with all his might through the ground floor window.

Fürst, taking careful aim, tossed his through the upstairs window. A clean shot.

The two men leapt into the car and Maurer stepped on the gas. They were less than fifty meters away when the explosion rocked the street.

* * *

Khalil and Tubah jerked instantly upright as glass from the shattered window rained down on their bed.

What the . . . ? Khalil shouted throwing his feet to the floor and starting toward the window. He screamed in pain as he stepped on the shards. He balanced himself against the bedpost and pulled a sliver of glass out of his foot.

What is it? Tubah asked, her voice quavering.

A brick, I think, Khalil said, someone’s thrown a brick through the window.

He took another cautious step forward but before he could put his foot down

a sheet of flame flung Khalil back over the bed and simultaneously the room blew apart.

* * *

"Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler! they screamed repeatedly through gales of laughter as they tore down the street, arms thrust out the windows in defiant Nazi salutes. Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!"

Maurer swung the wheel sharply to the right and they careened around the corner heading for the Autobahn entrance.

"That’ll teach those fucking Gastarbeiter, Fürst said, his face lit up in a broad smile. Teach them to stay the fuck where they belong." He pulled the ski cap off and tossed it on the floor.

Maurer steered up the southbound Autobahn ramp and accelerated into the left lane.

* * *

My God, my God, Tubah moaned as she scrambled naked out of bed. There were flames everywhere. Flames and dense smoke. Khalil? Where was Khalil?

Choking, she crawled toward the door.

Something warm and wet was under her hand.

Khalil.

Khalil! She reached out for him, but what she touched did not feel like Khalil.

Oh my God, she moaned as she probed the raw flesh under her hands. She pressed her face against his chest and fought against the sobs that welled up in her.

He was dead. Of course he was dead. It was only his torso. The arms. The legs. They were gone. Khalil’s body had taken the full force of the blast.

The children! She must get to the children.

Sobs wracking her, screams exploding unbidden through her lips, blood streaking her face she pushed through the shattered door and ran on broken wood and shards of glass toward the children’s rooms.

Mama! Mama! Anya called out from the nearest room.

Black smoke and a sheet of flames shot up the stairwell scorching her left side. She raced into the girls’ room and pushed Anya out into the corridor. The boys came running through the thickening smoke toward them.

Mama! Mama! Benni shouted, his eyes wide with fright. Where’s Papa?

She grabbed his hand and pushed him toward the stairs. Take Martin and Anya and run. Run downstairs as fast as you can. You must get out to the street even if it means running through the flames! I’ll get Sofie.

Benni grabbed Anya’s hand and Anya grabbed Martin’s. The three started toward the stairs and then stopped.

It’s too hot, Mama! Benni said, trying not to shout, trying to be brave.

Go! She turned, darted over to the bed and grabbed Sofie. She was still asleep. How could Sofie sleep through this? Tubah held the three-year-old tightly in her arms and ran toward the stairwell. The other three children were on the first step, too petrified to move. Go! she roared. Go! Don’t worry. Mamma’s right behind you!

Benni, tugging on Anya’s hand, began to move quickly. Come Anya, he said, run." And then together they started down the stairs. Into the inferno.

The three children were halfway down when, with a deafening crash, the stairs collapsed. Tubah screamed in anguish as the children disappeared. Embers and sparks erupted from the inferno, the smoke thickened dramatically. Choking and gasping for breath, she fell to her knees. They were trapped. She clutched Sofie tighter and crawled along the floor where the smoke was less intense. But still her lungs were aching, screaming for air. Fighting the nausea and the dizziness she crawled back into the girls’ room, heading for the window. She must get to the window. Must get air. And she must take her chances and leap to the concrete below. She took a deep breath, but no air entered her lungs. Only smoke. She had to breathe. Had to. Suddenly she looked up through her tears and saw Khalil coming toward them. How could it be? The smoke cleared away and he stooped down to lift them up. His naked body still glistened from the sweat of their lovemaking and there was a contented smile on his face. Tubah, he said, Tubah, my love. And there was the sound of a mockingbird singing from the branches of the linden tree overhead, and the splash of a golden retriever plunging into the Werdersee, and the laughter of her four young children.

Khalil, she smiled and reached out her hand for him.

And as she slipped into a blissful unconsciousness, still reaching, the smile seared forever on her face.

CHAPTER TWO

Like the final measures of Beethoven’s Ninth there was an inevitable, relentless quality to the sound. The high-frequency whine of the turbine engine coupled with the distinctive squeaking of the metal treads swelled in a grotesque crescendo as the tank advanced on the town square.

Suddenly, with an indignant flapping of wings, three crows angrily ascended from the gnarled branches of a nearby oak, their protesting caws muted by the dissonant cacophony below. The left tread reversed and the fifty-seven-ton M-1 lurched and pivoted on the cobbles into a tight ninety-degree turn.

Terrific, Leif Nielson muttered as he framed the scene through the Canon EOS 5D’s viewfinder. A fleeting image of a Robert Capa photo of the American advance into Germany in 1945 flashed through his mind as he held down the shutter. What would Capa have thought of the miracle of autofocus? And digital photography? Letting the camera dangle from its strap Nielson aimed through the 24-millimeter wide-angle lens of a second 5D and snapped off another dozen pictures. The shots would be perfect, he thought, perhaps one would serve as the lead for the article. Except for the 2004 Audi parked at the corner, and the modern M-1, the photo might have been taken in 1945. The timeless universality of the shot would captivate Newsweek’s readers.

As the M-1 roared by the oppressive heat wave from the exhaust of its 1500 horsepower engine swept over him. Recoiling, he moved quickly to his right averting his face from the blast of heat. As it subsided a second M-1 came into view around the corner. He planted his feet again and took several shots switching back and forth between the wide-angle and the 85-millimeter lens of his two 5Ds. After the second tank he shot the four Hummers and eight armored troop carriers that completed the convoy.

It had taken more time for his agent to sell Newsweek on the relevance of the project than the six weeks it had taken for him to complete it. The images would accompany a probing essay criticizing the vast amount of money it still cost the American taxpayer to maintain the 60,000 U.S. troops still stationed in Germany ready, at a moment’s notice, to be shipped off to whatever hotspot next becomes the focus of the Administration. Though military specialists have argued that missiles, supersonic bombers, and troops can be just as easily and speedily deployed from the homeland, Congress was still appropriating vast sums of money to maintain a U.S. presence, not only in Iraq and Afghanistan, but also in Germany, Korea, Okinawa, and scores of other bases around the world. Leif hoped that his photos and the article would put the issues in their proper perspective.

He packed the Nikons in the heavy-duty Halliburton aluminum case and stowed it in the trunk of his rental car.

Driving through Bad Kreuznach he felt sentimental about finishing the job. He glanced at the dreary gray mortar utilitarian structures housing the American troops on the Post as he drove by, vigilant MPs standing guard at the gate, several off-duty GIs clad in fatigues and combat boots shooting baskets at a netless hoop near the mess hall. Yes he was going to miss some of these characters he had been photographing for the past week. Something that rarely happened no matter what his assignment. He had photographed Lech Walesa in Poland, Somoza and the Sandinista insurgents in Nicaragua, Ian Paisley railing to a frenzied mob in Belfast, Palestinian refugees in Lebanon and Jordan, Gorbachev, Yeltsin, and Putin, George the first when he was a White House pool photographer—George, Barbara and Millie—as well as the Clintons—Bill, Hillary, Chelsea, and Monica—and seldom did he ever think about his subjects after the job was over. Perhaps, he thought, it was because this German base was one of the last visible vestiges of the Cold War. Yes, this struck a deep chord. Early childhood memories infused with the visceral fear of the communist menace flooded through him. Fear of Russia. Fear of Red China. Yes, he was a product of the Cold War and ever since the rules had changed when the Berlin Wall went down he had been forced to reexamine his own assumptions. Despite the nuclear threat the Cold War had indeed been a time of relative security. He found himself yearning for the good-old days, for the Berlin Wall, for the clear-cut rules of diplomacy and warfare, when the world was a safer place.

His stomach growled. A dull throbbing behind his eyes portended a headache. He was hungry. He needed a beer. Another 68 kilometers to his hotel room in Frankfurt. He could wait a little longer for the beer, but not for something to eat. It was probably the Swedish genes in him that made him a slave to clockwork rituals. If he skipped a meal he invariably developed a headache. Near the autobahn entrance at Algesheim he stopped at a Schnell Imbiß long enough to wolf down a greasy bratwurst and pommes frites.

* * *

As was their daily ritual, Ed Carlton from AP and Charlie Watson from Reuters were in the hotel bar when he arrived. Carlton was very tall—at least four inches taller than Leif’s 6’2"—and, in spite of his beer habit, very thin. He had played basketball for St. John’s, but was not quite good enough to be drafted by any of the pro teams. Occasionally, though, he liked to brag that several teams, including the Knicks and the Sixers, had shown an interest in him. But this was only after quite a few beers had gone through his system. Watson, on the other hand, would never be mistaken for an athlete. He was pale and rotund with the dissipated look of a heavy drinker. An unhealthy, younger Robert Morley. Carlton and Watson’s animated discussion in itself was not particularly unusual, but there was a tangible excitement in their otherwise jaded faces, a sense of gravity in their flatulent eyes that Leif immediately recognized as indisputable evidence that they had been stationed at the bar for some time. They were soused.

Leif sidled up to the bar. It was a modern, clinical bar. Like a brigade of Prussian soldiers eagerly awaiting orders liquor bottles stood at attention at the base of the mirror on the wall behind the bartender. Recessed spotlights on the ceiling threw dim columns of light onto the immaculate, polished surface of the counter at precise intervals.

We were discussing, Watson responded in his characteristic condescending tone he had learned at Harrow, those blokes who blew up the Federal Building in Oklahoma back in ‘95.

McVeigh and Nichols?

Yes, Watson intoned, and a possible German connection. Ed and I were just hashing out some ideas about doing a series of articles delving into the International Internet connections of Fascism.

Leif signaled the bartender for a beer.

Remember that skinhead trial a few years back in Rostock? Watson went on. It came out that the fuckers who blew up those Ethiopian students got the recipe for the bomb through the Internet from the Michigan Militia. The very same paramilitary group McVeigh and Nichols were connected to. American right-wingers and German Neo-Nazis have been exchanging munitions information over the Internet right from the beginning. Well, perhaps the connection is more than just talk. Perhaps there is an actual affiliation between the groups.

Has any of the Michigan Militia ever visited Germany? Leif asked.

Watson shrugged. Who knows? But it would be a bloody good story if that could be established.

I wonder, Leif mused softly sipping his Kaiser Pilsner, I wonder how much of a connection there’s been. If any. He set the bottle on the counter and glanced into Watson’s eyes. Jaded. As usual. And dull.

Watson turned the palms of his pale, fleshy hands upward. I should think these nuts are too paranoid to align themselves with other groups. But who knows. I must say I was rather surprised that they had sufficient intellectual skills to communicate with each other through the Internet. He sneered. Nuts on the Internet. Internuts. He chuckled, pleased with his pun.

You’re right, Leif said reflectively, more to himself than Watson, it’s a good angle. A change of pace from all the Al-Qaeda, Hamas, Hezbollah shit. It’d be a good story to distract us from the Mideast. For several years he had been intrigued by the flood of Neo-Nazi organizations that had crawled out of the woodwork since German reunification and had often thought of doing a story on them. But the idea that there might be an alliance between the Neo-Nazis and the American Far Right instantly struck him as a story worth pursuing. Was there as much interaction between European and American right-wing groups as there had been between European and American Leftist groups back in the sixties and seventies? It struck him that this was worth checking out especially since just about every correspondent he knew had tunnel vision only for Al-Qaeda network stories. This story would be wide open for him.

Leif took another thoughtful sip of beer. Rostock. Maybe he should go to Rostock and get an interview with the punks who had been convicted of the bombing. Or there was that recent bombing in Bremen. He doubted he would be able to establish any kind of meaningful link between a Neo-Nazi group and American rightwingers, but still it would make for a fascinating report to investigate if there is a relationship.

Leif knocked off the rest of his beer, barely listening to the Watson’s and Carlton’s conversation, which had shifted from the Neo-Nazis to a lively discussion of sex on the Internet (Carlton’s and Watson’s perennially favorite topic), and went up to his room.

Sitting on the edge of the bed he reached for the telephone and called Maury in New York. Maury Speart was a genuine one hundred percent pain-in-the-ass, but what the hell, wasn’t that what agents were for? To light the proverbial fire under his ass. He never liked Maury’s perpetual hounding to come up with fresh ideas for a project, but he always appreciated it when Maury’s needling got the creative juices flowing. Something positive always resulted. Like the time in Nicaragua, before the fall of Managua, when Maury urged him to go into the hills to photograph the Sandinista rank-and-file. Not only did Maury sell the photos to Newsweek, but it was a foot in the door with Newsweek, which had subsequently resulted in scores of jobs. More importantly the Sandinista project back in the seventies taught him that it was only in hazardous situations that he did his best work. There was something about the prospect of danger that really got the creative juices flowing, and only when he felt creative did the dull ache of everyday existence abate. Nielson was glad that his agent understood this aspect of his personality as well as he recognized his hunger to succeed, to make it big in the world of photojournalism. In other ways Maury understood Nielson better than he did himself. Leif never missed an opportunity to disparage aesthetic dilettantes who argued that photography was an art. The photographer, he insisted, is no more than a documenter of reality. To call him an artist is pretentious snobbery. To Nielson photography that aspired to be art was, invariably, contrived. But Maury (as interested in making a buck as the next guy), despite Leif’s disclaimers, saw the artist in him. Leif’s photographs intimated more than the mere depiction of reality. His work penetrated the subject and revealed something more, something transcendent, something profoundly and ineffably human. To Maury this was art. More to the point it was art that sold.

The receptionist’s voice, when it came over the line, politely informed him that Maury was out. Leif left a message that he had finished the shoot and would be emailing him the final shots in the morning. In the meantime he had an idea for a new story and he’d be in touch soon.

CHAPTER THREE

Wetzlar

Yitzhak (Zack) Galili dolefully contemplated the television screen over the neck of a bottle of Euler Dom Pilsner. Another burned-out building, swastikas obscenely scrawled on the walls, rescue crews digging through the rubble looking for the six missing victims of the firebomb. Four of them children. Turkish children. Gastarbeiter. But they weren’t Turks. They were German children, born in Bremen of Turkish parents. Non-Aryans. What was the world coming to? He thought he had seen everything, but since the end of the Cold War it seemed that a primal madness had arisen from some deep recess in the human psyche. A reptilian mentality that mankind had failed to discard when it crawled out of the primordial ooze. The blood-lust in Bosnia-Herzegovina and Rwanda and Darfur, the suicide bombs in Tel Aviv, the sarin attack in Tokyo, the destruction of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, the assassination of Rabin by a fellow Jew, the Al-Qaeda attacks at the American embassies in Africa, then…September 11th and the madness unleashed by Osama bin-Laden and all his minions. Madrid. London. Bombay. No place was safe. No peoples were exempt.

He shifted uneasily in the threadbare overstuffed armchair that his meretricious landlord had taken great pains to single out as justifying the extra ten Euros a month he charged for the furnished flat and took another swig of beer. As it did in most Israelis a veiled but nagging fear lurked in the recesses of his mind. A fear, he knew, that was shared by the French, the Poles, the Brits, indeed, most of the peoples of Europe where memories of the Second World War refused to die—even among those who were too young to remember. A fear mitigated for decades by the realities of the Cold War. It could never happen and thus the dread remained safely dormant. But since reunification, the emergence of skinhead Neo-Nazi groups that were increasingly active in attacking immigrants, and increasingly featured in the news coverage on the Tageschau, breathed new life into the specter. The specter of a new Reich rising in Germany.

Of course commentators and news correspondents, politicians and academicians were always quick to reassure the public that these groups were inconsequential, consisting primarily of drunkards and losers living on the fringe of society. Their appeal was only to an insignificant minority of Germans. But, Zack thought, who could forget that Hitler had seized absolute power with the support of an insignificant minority?

He hit the power button and tossed the remote onto the coffee table.

Unlike most Israelis, however, Zack Galili was in a position to have some influence on world affairs. He had been working for eight months, under the cover name of Hans Lieberthal at Harz GMBH in Wetzlar, gathering information for his actual employer—Ha Mossad, le Modiyn ve le Tafkidim Mayuhadim. The Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations. No one in authority in the Israeli government ever openly referred to The Institute’s existence, but many of the Mossad’s celebrated exploits were frequently and prominently heralded in the world’s press. Galili himself had played a support role in one of the more notorious incidents, the 1976 storming and liberation of Flight 103 at Entebbe. More covertly, in Athens in 1979, he had tracked down and personally eliminated Bashir Diab, one of the perpetrators of the Munich Olympics massacre, whose death warrant, along with the death warrants of thirty-four other members of Black September, had been secretly signed by then Prime Minister Golda Meir. But since then the bulk of Galili’s assignments were short on excitement and danger and long on tedium and monotony—tracking suspected Hamas and Al-Qaeda operatives living under assumed names in various German cities, verifying addresses, watching their movements, compiling dossiers on their contacts, most of which he considered as only marginally more interesting than watching grass grow. Occasionally, back during the Cold War, a quarry would travel to East Berlin and disappear for several days before showing up again in the West. And Zack would have to speculate about the probability that the subject had made contact with his Stasi or KGB control.

Since 1995 he had spent more time in Germany as a field operative than he had in Israel. His parents, German Jews who had fled to England in 1944 and then later to Brooklyn (where Zack was born), only spoke German with Zack as he was growing up. Even after the family had migrated to Israel in the late sixties they continued to speak German at home.

Though he detested the Germans almost as much as the Arabs he had no problem blending in with his fellow factory workers. With a barrel chest and growing beer belly that was deceptively muscular, a thin dark mustache, close-cropped gray hair, expressionless brown eyes in a deeply lined face, and thick, calloused worker’s hands he looked the part. Years of a dedicated daily regimen with free weights, sit-ups and pushups had made him far more fit than the average fifty-nine year old man. Inwardly, however, he often felt twice his age. The acute pressure of years of living on the edge, always looking over his shoulder, had taken a psychological toll that he had only recently begun to recognize. Each morning, standing before the bathroom mirror, lathering his leathery face with shaving cream, he was forced to acknowledge the ravages of stress.

His assignment in Wetzlar was to check on the validity of reports coming into Tel Aviv that the Harz Fabrik was, in spite of international restrictions, manufacturing poison gas for export.

Back in January 1989 a story had first appeared in The New York Times about West Germany’s role in the construction of Muammar al Kaddafi’s chemical weapons plant at Rabta. Even before the Times’ revelations Mossad, the CIA and the West German Intelligence Service (BND) had secretly informed Bonn that Imhausen Chemie and other German companies were helping Kaddafi build the factory under the guise of a pharmaceutical plant. Bonn, however, dismissed the high-resolution satellite photographs supplied by the three intelligence services and shrugged off the allegations. The Chancellor contended that there was no real proof that the pharmaceutical plant was capable of producing chemical or biological weapons and, in any case, no West German laws had been broken. But when William Safire, in another Times article, dubbed the Rabta plant Auschwitz in the Sand, the subsequent uproar in the German press and in the Bundestag proved to be such an embarrassment to the government that Chancellor Kohl was forced to apologize and call for stricter export controls.

Of course, Mossad, congenitally incapable of ever trusting the Germans, neither believed in Bonn’s sincerity nor its willingness to enforce stricter regulations. Mossad informants discovered that although German technical advisors had been withdrawn from Libya and the manufacturing supplies designated for Rabta had been impounded several German firms found a way around the constraints during the years after the furor had subsided. The ingredients for the nerve gas sarin that was to be produced at the Rabta plant were instead manufactured in Germany, shipped to a letter-box company in Hamburg and exported, as pesticides, to a fake end-user destination. What this meant was that the shipment left Hamburg for the legal destination of Hong Kong. Once at sea the ship was simply diverted to Libya.

Within weeks of Galili’s hiring at Harz as a forklift operator he was able to verify that Mossad’s intelligence about the connection back then was genuine. And it was still going on! The irony, of course, did not escape him that the country responsible for gassing millions of Jews, his own grandparents among them, was still actively supplying Israel’s sworn enemies with the same lethal capability. He often wondered if any of the retired members of the board at Harz had been involved with marketing the same product in the 1940’s. Probably they had.

Galili’s most recent communiqué detailing the vast quantities of methylphosphonofluoridate, isopropyl alcohol and isopropyl amine, the primary ingredients for sarin, being readied for export to unknown persons—presumably Al-Qaeda operatives—somewhere in the Middle East, raised serious concern in Tel Aviv. The fact that a German firm was clandestinely preparing to sell a highly toxic nerve gas to Al-Qaeda, or an affiliated group, led to only one conclusion. Bin-Laden, or perhaps one of the multitude of Bin-Laden wannabes who had been spawned in the aftermath of the American invasion of Iraq, was planning a major new offensive.

Tel Aviv’s decision had been clear. The shipment must never reach its destination. The only variable had been when the Mossad was going to make its move. When the order came Zack would be ready.

He drained the last of the beer and switched off the TV. For several minutes he sat in the dim silence of the room staring at the carpet. A particularly large grease stain on the carpet captivated his attention. It struck him all of a sudden that it resembled the Sinai Peninsula. An omen? A harbinger of some dreadful event? He tore his eyes off the spot and pushed himself out of the chair. He threw on his coat and the navy-blue North Sea sailor’s cap he always wore and headed out to the call box on the corner.

* * *

Berlin Station was located in the heavily fortified cellar of the former Israeli Embassy in Berlin. All embassy officials deferred to the Mossad officers in their midst and the Head of Station, David Weir, outranked even the ambassador himself. Like every other Mossad station throughout the world, the Mossad controlled all communication going into and out of the embassy be it mail, telephone, radio, electronic or diplomatic pouch. The Head of Station commanded a staff of over twenty agents, who in turn supervised every activity from operating embassy communication systems to outfitting safehouses throughout the country, supplying weapons and matériel to field officers, and running a modest network of sayanim, local civilian Jewish volunteers. The sayanim in Germany, for obvious reasons, were not nearly as numerous as in other European countries, but still they were a highly dedicated group of ordinary citizens who were always willing to assist when the Mossad asked.

Yehuda Elten picked up the phone on the first ring. "Ja," he said. Elten spoke six languages fluently and could get by, he loved to boast, in another six. Although at nearly seventy he was overdue for retirement he resisted every suggestion from headquarters that it was time to retire gracefully to his waterfront condo in Tel Aviv. He had been a Mossad case officer, katsa, for over twenty-five years and nothing in life gave him as much fulfillment as his job. Sure, he acknowledged, there were long periods of utter tedium as well as moments of excruciating anxiety and dread, but in spite of the personal fear, perhaps even because of it, his life had a purpose. Besides, he often wondered aloud, what would he do back in Tel Aviv? Lie on the beach? Spend all his time with his wife? He would go crazy. She would too. No. It was better to continue working as long as he could walk and think and act effectively. He did not want to atrophy. Besides he was thoroughly enjoying his stay in Berlin as the katsa for Operation Babylon.

Ah, Zack, Elten said when he heard his favorite field operative’s gravelly de-scrambled voice coming through the line, I’m afraid I still don’t have the go-ahead for you. Tel Aviv’s sure taking their time on this one.

Humph. Well, if they don’t send me in soon it’ll be too late. The shipment will be gone.

I’ve told them.

"I’ll call back in twenty-four hours. Shalom."

"Shalom," Elten said but the line had already gone dead.

Yehuda Elten took special satisfaction that he and Galili were working together on the current project, after all Galili had been his finest student. Years before, when Elten was working in Tsomet, Mossad’s recruitment branch, word of Yitzhak Galili’s outstanding score as a sharpshooter in the youth brigades had been brought to his attention. The fact that Galili was also fluent in both German and English convinced Elten personally to monitor his development during his two years in the army. Galili was an exceptional and devoted soldier who never questioned the authority of his superiors. When Elten interviewed him at the end of his tour of duty and offered him the opportunity to become a Mossad cadet Galili accepted without the slightest hesitation. He scored high in the entrance examination as well as in the barrage of psychological tests given each applicant.

The curriculum at the Cadet Training Academy on the outskirts of Tel Aviv was divided into four specialties: communications, military, security and cover. Although cadets spent many hours attending lectures the bulk of the course work was devoted to exercises. Scenarios were invented and each recruit had to perform as if it were a real operation. The Mossad had early discovered that the best way to develop successful agents was through the hands-on instruction of other agents. After all, each operative’s life depended on the training and seasoning of his colleagues. Elten worked a term as an instructor at the academy guiding the cadets in their cover drills. He was gratified to learn that his intuition about Galili had been correct, for the young man had an instinctual and highly developed feeling for self-preservation. Zack was the consummate actor, always perfect in creating and maintaining a cover story, even developing the chameleon-like ability to shift skillfully from one cover to another. Anything less than perfection during these exercises, as many a cadet discovered, resulted in swift dismissal from training, for anything less than perfection in the field would inevitably end in death or capture.

Zack Galili had been one of Mossad’s most successful field operatives for two decades, but rarely had Elten had the opportunity to work with him. Now he was Zack’s katsa. His control. And Operation Babylon was the most vital clandestine activity undertaken by the Mossad since the successful conclusion of Operation Sphinx in 1981. Years of meticulous work by the Mossad had revealed that the 1974 agreement between France and Iraq to construct a nuclear power plant near Baghdad had in reality provided Iraq with enough enriched uranium to manufacture several atomic bombs. Operation Sphinx resulted in the brazen June 1981 Israeli bombing raid that destroyed the Tamuze 17 nuclear plant.

Now it was Germany who continued to supply Israel’s enemies. And not just by exporting the technology to produce nuclear, chemical and biological weapons, but also by actually shipping particularly lethal ready-to-use binary chemical warfare agents. Zack had reported that with each passing month more and more orders were coming in at Harz for large quantities of nerve gas.

This time, however, Tel Aviv was not going to wait until the weapons were in place before launching a pre-emptive air strike. The only question was at what point after the nerve gas was shipped would the move be made. When Tel Aviv next contacted him, Elten knew, it would be the go-ahead to send Zack in on the most audacious sabotage mission in the Mossad’s history.

CHAPTER FOUR

Berlin

Jeff Powell’s face brightened the moment he saw his friend standing in his doorway. A smile, originating as a spark in his dark blue eyes, quickly spread to his mouth. What brings you to Berlin?

You, Leif said stepping inside. The two men embraced, patting each other’s shoulders, before heading up the stairs.

Jeff had a full, untrimmed beard and straight, brown hair that just reached to his shoulders. Though at forty-nine he was only three years younger than Leif, he looked no more