Blood Covenent, page 21
Lack of effort!
She had hardly left the lab in the last sixty hours. All she had done was eat, sleep, and work on the computer program as more surveillance systems came online. There were notes scribbled on little pieces of paper pasted along the side of her screen. A photograph of her parents standing in front of their village house sat on the shelf above her cubicle. The white picture frame was decorated and across the bottom was a handwritten note that read:We are so very proud of you! Love Mom and Dad. When her parents returned to their base at Ukarumpa, email messages between them flew across the Internet. They always asked how things were going. How could she tell them, things wereterrible ?
Programming is more art form than the logical progression of instructions fed to a mindless computer. The very best coders develop an intuitive sense about what works, and sometimes, even they cannot explain the difference between something working or failing. Janet suddenly stopped fidgeting, and said aloud, “You want results, Mister Feldman, well, then you’ll get your results.” She bit off the last words.
Janet brought up the main controlling procedure, and found the set of statements used to execute her second tier checks. With four keystrokes, she commented out the entire section. The effect was to eliminate the second tier checks—the huge number crunching portion of her code, and let the preliminary checks jump right to the final confirmation section. Three more keystrokes started the compilation process.
Forty seconds later, the screen reported the package was successfully installed. She smiled, and picked up her purse. It was the middle of summer, and the beach was not that far away. An afternoon away from this hideous lab would do her good. As she walked out the door she wondered if Feldman had enough paper in his fax machine.
CHAPTER 21
Tel Aviv, Israel
Monday, July 12, 1999
7:00 P.M. GMT +2
The three-vehicle convoy rambled down the dusty road. The vehicles were British Range Rovers, maintaining a tight formation. The lead vehicle carried two men from the MOSSAD’s most secretive division, officially called the Special Operations Division orMetsada, and unofficially known asThe Guys .The Guys take care of Israel’s messiest problems. Problems not solved by screaming air strikes or massaged into acceptable standards using diplomacy and statecraft.
When Gerald Bull discussed his plans for aSuper Gun , the Americans thought it sheer fantasy that an artillery piece could be designed, much less manufactured, that would throw a one-ton shell hundreds of miles. Israel took a different view since they were in the line of fire, and Gerald came to a sudden demise at his Brussels’s apartment in 1990. The Americans found theSuper Gun buried in the desert afterDesert Storm. Apologies were quietly offered.
The Guysset a honey trap for Mordechai Vanunu, a disaffected nuclear technician who decided to tell all to the London tabloids about Israel’s nuclear weapons program in the Negev. Mordechai became enthralled with a vivacious young woman named Cindy, and agreed to rendezvous with her in Rome for a romantic weekend. He foundThe Guys and an eighteen-year prison term waiting instead. Cindy is rumored to be selling timeshare condos in South Florida.
Not everything goes well forThe Guys. The botched assassination attempt ofHAMAS leader Khalid Meshaal led to the resignation of MOSSAD’s top spy, and diplomatic tremors across the Middle East. Israel was forced to releaseHAMAS founder Shaykd Ahmad Yasim as a move to placate the angry Jordanian Government on whose soil the mess occurred.
The second vehicle carried three Americans, the two men sitting in the front seats that were known to most people as Mister Smith and Mister Jones. They were required features any time Louis Edwards chose to travel abroad. Besides a rear area equipped to fight a small war, they had lightweight body armor, two-way radios, first-aid kits, and satellite phones to call for help should they run into problems. Smith and Jones never said very much, and they were never far from their charge.
The third man was Peter Barnes. He arranged for Bible studies, language training and just about anything else one could imagine for a community of Russian Jews in Philadelphia. The last time he had been to Israel was three years ago, when the authorities figured out he was an American missionary working for the American Messianic Fellowship. Officially, he was in country to teach English; it just happened that his primary teaching aid was a Bible.
Two days ago, Peter received a call from Louis Edwards. He started out the conversation by asking, “How would you like to return to Israel?”
Of course, he would. He and his wife had left friends and associates behind. Theirwork was incomplete, and while email and long distance phone calls helped, it was never the same as breaking bread together. Peter’s long association with Russian Jews taught him to look behind the gift and ask about payment. Very little came free, and as with so many things connected to Louis Edwards, this seeming gift had a price.
“I need a translator,” he explained. The explanation did not touch the paranoia Louis felt about employing somebody from inside the Company, or worse, a career busybody from State.SAMSON had frightened the Beltway elite. Israel was not one of the Administration’s favorite governments, and any leaks aboutSAMSON would bring certain retribution. He needed someone to talk to David Kudrik’s sister, Rachel.
Quietly, Louis arranged for a thirty-day visa, a first class ticket back to the States, and assurances that Israel’s religious authorities would refrain from restricting his movements. First, he needed a translator.
The final car carried Louis Edwards and Chaim Wanberg. Their driver was one ofThe Guys . Chaim ran a desk these days because of a plastic hip and a reconstructed knee complements of Arafat’s PLO. Chaim was not a bitter man, he simply believed that the territories—the Golan Heights, West Bank and Gaza—belonged to Israel. There simply was not enough land to ever satisfy the Palestinians, and the American idea of trading land for peace was lunacy. Give back the West Bank and the difference was a precarious ten miles between the Arabs and the Mediterranean.
Peter watched the landscape roll by his window. They had flown into Ben Gurion International Airport. TheGulfstream V never approached the customs terminal, instead it followed an Israeli Defense Force jeep to a quieter hanger. The four deplaned without speaking, and followed a soldier to a second plane. From there they flew north across theMegiddo , a plain in the Esdraelon Valley. He had never seen it from the air, but it is here where John’s Revelation promised thegreat day of God—Har-Magdeon.
From the second airstrip, they took the road that runs south of Nazareth towards Kibbutz Alumot. Ten kilometers south of Tiberias and three kilometers from the Sea of Galilee, Alumot overlooks the Jordan Valley and the Golan Heights. The three Range Rovers drove through the town to its eastern edge and came to a stop before a white stone house that looked like most of the other houses.
Chaim ambled out of the Range Rover, examining the house. “You are expected,” he told Louis.
Louis handed Chaim an envelope and said quietly, “This is everything we know.”
Chaim stared at the envelope and asked, “Why would this woman know anything?”
Louis smiled. “My masters would be very unhappy if they knew I was giving you this information,” he replied without answering Chaim’s question.
Chaim nodded.
“I don’t even know if you are a target, but the obvious places would he Haifa, Tel Aviv, and maybe Jerusalem. Although, I think they would avoid Jerusalem for the obvious reasons.”
“Arab unity.” He spat on the dust. “Louis, we have only twelve hundred people including the janitors.”
“Use them all, Chaim. I’ve seen the bomb. We had one in New York last week and my people found another one last Thursday. A three-kiloton blast could ruin your whole day.”
“It would be war, Louis,” he breathed.
Edwards nodded. “If I learn anything, I’ll tell you.”
Chaim nodded across the yard at Peter who was standing between Smith and Jones. “He’s not one of you.”
“No,” answered Louis truthfully.
“I pulled the file we have on him. He’s one of those missionaries you people seem to produce. Came to Israel as a language teacher bent on telling us we missed the Messiah,” he scowled. “An odd choice, Louis.”
“A safe one.”
“What will keep him from talking? He’ll hear things tonight,” warned Chaim.
Louis pursed his lips. “Do you remember Jim Harper?”
Chaim chuckled. “Who could forget your boy? We have a file on him too. What’s his connection?”
“Harper—” he paused searching for the word, “supports—gives money to this man every month. Penance, perhaps, for his earlier life. Harper gave his word.”
Chaim looked across at Peter Barnes. “A bold promise.”
“On such issues, I’ve learned not to question Harper.”
Chaim waved the envelope at Louis. “Take your time, my friend. I’ll read this while we wait. We can talk about it on the way back.”
Louis walked across the small lawn to the other three Americans. He knew the MOSSAD would be listening. Smith carried a black, boxy case. Jones handed a Kimber 1911 Style .45 ACP to Louis. He took the weapon and slid it into a skeletal holster along his belt. Peter politely declined the offer of an additional weapon. Jones shrugged, and stuffed the extra weapon into his back pocket.
Guns are not unusual features in Israel. Along the northern border with Lebanon they are as common as automobiles during rush hour. Terrorism and death are never far over the horizon. There had not been a successful school massacre in Israel in the last twenty-five years, because the Israeli’s chose to arm their teachers and make children a hard target. The culture of self-defense was driven home to the Israeli psyche after wars in ’48, ’56, ’67, and ’73, and countless skirmishes in between.
The front door opened to a graying woman, maybe five foot five in heels. Rachel Denisov looked at the four men standing in her yard exchanging weapons and beyond to the other two Range Rovers with secret policeman. She understood secret police. Fifty years inside the former Soviet Union developed her inner sense.
“You are welcome,” she said slowly in broken English.
Peter smiled and replied in Russian, “I will speak for them, there is no need for English.”
Rachel smiled and waved them into her home. “Your Russian is good but it has no flavor.”
“So I have been told.”
Smith walked over to a dinette table and opened his case. He pulled out a number of small gray boxes. He tossed a couple across to Jones, who set about positioning the boxes around the windows and doors. A solid green light glowed from the side of each box. They were electronic scramblers designed to keep the meeting private. Louis arranged a small tape recorder on the dinette table. Peter stood with his hands in his pockets marveling at the quiet efficiency.
“You’re not one of them,” observed Rachel.
Peter shook his head. “I’m just here to help the conversation. Along for the ride.” He smiled the way Midwesterners are apt to do when they are uncomfortable with small talk.
“No, you don’t understand what I meant,” corrected Rachel. “You do not have a gun, nor do you have thelook. You are not a policeman. These men, they carry guns, and they are comfortable with weapons. Living here one learns who is comfortable and who is not.”
Peter chuckled, “I wouldn’t even know how to hold one.”
Rachel settled herself in one of the four chairs around the table. “Then what do you bring?”
“Something far more important,” he said with more seriousness. “I bring the Good News.”
“What news is that?”
“That Jesus Christ died for your sins and rose again,” he explained without blinking. His eyes were watching hers and wondering what kind of life she had lived.
“Ah, a Believer,” she said knowingly. It was not clear whether she approved or disapproved. She turned her attention to Louis whose Russian was worse than Harper’s, and Harper had trouble withnyet. She could see no comprehension in his eyes. “An odd pairing—a policeman and a Believer. One doesn’t believe in anything and the other believes in something he can’t see.”
“God has a sense of humor.”
“Yes, I suppose He does. If you believe in Him,” she whispered. Her faith was as dead as Joseph and David.
They huddled around the dinette table. Louis told the tape recorder the reason for the recording, with whom they were talking and where they were.
“Mrs. Denisov, I am here to ask you about your brother,” Louis began.
Rachel glanced from Peter to Louis and asked, “David?”
Louis nodded.
“David has been dead these many years,” she protested.
“David told you about something calledSAMSON. ”
Rachel asked, “You’ve come for the covenant?”
Louis hid his confusion well. He kept his eyes focused on Rachel even though he had no idea what the covenant was. The strain of maintaining eye contact when conversing through a translator is difficult, but when the answers make even less sense than a language filled with guttural sounds, it is almost impossible. “Perhaps,” he began uncertainly. “I came for the story David told you when you visited him at Arzamas-16.”
“An evil place,” she spat. “They took my brother and turned him into an old man. They wrung the life out of him.” She paused, remembering her brother when he was young and strong, then the last time she had seen him. She looked from Louis to Peter and asked abruptly, “Believer, do you know what a blood covenant is?”
Peter started to translate, then stopped, considering the question. He ignored Louis and turned to her saying, “I only know of one blood covenant.”
“Yes,” she breathed, “Yes, I believe you do know. The policeman here will need to understand. In order to understand David, he needs to understand what a blood covenant is. You make him understand,” she warned. Her eyes returned to Louis and she began.
“My father’s name was Joseph. I’m sure you have that written down somewhere, Policeman.” Louis was certain he had never read the fact before. There was precious little written down regarding David Kudrik or his family. He was still wondering what a covenant was. “I’m sure you know more about me than I know myself, but…” She expected policemen to know more, and when they did not, then she expected them to lie. She tapped her heart. “I know about David, and he gave me the covenant.”
Louis leaned forward whispering, “What covenant?”
“In time,” she promised.
“As I was saying, Joseph was my father—did you know I survivedBabi Yar ?” Rachel shifted topics swiftly and Louis stumbled trying to keep up. Louis opened his mouth to reply, but Rachel continued. “I was a baby. David was three or four at the time. We huddled on a rooftop for three days and we heard their screams. I don’t remember it, but my father told us. He helped us to hear the screams and he held nothing but contempt for the Russians. When they took David away, it almost killed my father, Joseph. I remember those days. I saw the pain in his eyes.
“Joseph taught us to be Jews—People of the Book,”she explained proudly. Joseph’s failure was not in teaching his children forbidden lessons, but in leading them to a heart knowledge of God. “I came to Israel when the wall came down and the Soviet Empire collapsed. We Jews ran as fast as we could. Many went to America, but I came to Israel. David told me to come here as well, but I would have made the same decision.” She fastened her black eyes on Peter, announcing confidently, “Your kind believe my words, but the policeman doesn’t know what he believes.”
Peter translated the last, and Louis began to wonder if he had come for nothing. The woman was not making much sense.
“God gave us theLand. He made a blood covenant with Abraham, but God did something special. He made the promise to Abraham, and did not require Abraham to make the same promise. Here we are, thousands of years later, sitting in theLand God promised, a blood covenant. I can tell the story about the heifer and goat and ram and turtledove and pigeon in my sleep. Joseph told us over and over so we would never forget. He made usJews, not Russians.”
Louis looked down at the tape recorder. He might need to heavily edit the transcript. This was leading nowhere.
“Ah, you think I am a crazy old woman,” she snapped, recognizing the confusion in Louis’s eyes. “How often do I get visitors to talk about my brother? Policeman, you sit back, and you’ll get what you came for.”
“How do you know what I came for?” he asked.
“You told me. You came forSAMSON ,” she gave him a crooked grin. “It’s all in the covenant, and I thought David was crazy too. Crazy like a fox.” It seemed to Louis madness ran rampant in Kudrik’s family.
Did she know what SAMSON was?Louis wondered.
“Joseph us taught something else about life. The Russians were worse than the Germans. He taught us to hate.” She noted the frown on Peter’s lips. “Does this surprise you, Believer? Yes, we learned to hate Russians. David learned better than I did, but he had more practice.
“The last time I saw my brother was at a place called Arzamas-16. A disgusting man who smoked too much and cared nothing for any us came to fetch me. He was with the KGB. Oh, I know they are supposed to be gone, but a tiger can no more wash away his stripes than aChekist can love. He showed up at my door one day and announced he was there to take me to my brother. Major Yevgeny Yarovitsin thought he was God’s gift.
“The last time I saw David, he was an old man with watery eyes and thinning hair. They had aged him. I was there in his lab with all those computer parts and black boards and notebooks scattered about. He spoke crazy things, but the one thing he left me with was a coat. David insisted we go to the commissary and purchase me a new coat. It was a beautiful coat from Switzerland, and so very warm. I never had a new coat before.
