Matthew Emma
Moshe sat with his feet atop the wobbling, wooden desk inside the agency’s bunker office, well below the streets of Jerusalem.
“It’s a different assignment,” he said, as he adjusted a dark, blue yarmulke and ran the fingers of his left hand through a thick, more grey than black, beard.
“How?” I asked, as I pounced out of a chair and folded my arms.
He ignited a Cohiba Esplendido cigar, exhaled hard and created a smoke ring, like my grandfather used to, and grinned. As he leaned forward, I peered at the Medal of Valor he received for heroism during the Yom Kippur War that hung on the wall behind him.
“This’ll require significant infiltration,” he said. “Not just immediate elimination.”
After planting my rump back onto the grimy, white seat, I glared at him.
“You’ll have to get close,” he said.
“I can handle it,” I said.
He shook his head and sighed.
“May even have to express a little emotion again,” he continued to ramble. “I know it’s been tough for you since…”
“I’ll get it done,” I interrupted, as I catapulted myself back into the air and slammed my right hand against the side of the desk. “Always have. Nothing’s changed.”
He puffed on the stogie again, shifted his head back and sent another cloud of smoke airborne, prior to yanking a grey folder from a drawer.
“Most of the info’s in here,” he said. “The mark’s Wolf Hagen, an Austrian industrialist. Your cover will be as security chief at his Innsbruck mansion. You leave tomorrow, so read up.”
I shuffled towards the door.
“Good luck,” he said, while I entered the hall.
“Don’t need any,” I replied, as I veered around. “You know that.”
Towards the end of El Al flight 1214 from Ben Gurion to Vienna, I flipped through the folder’s contents. The operation was titled ‘Operation Rottmayr.’ Hagen was a major art dealer, who’d been rumored to have amassed his initial fortune by stealing paintings from wealthy Jews and selling a good number on the black market during and for several years following World War II.
While traveling the OBB’s Vienna to Innsbruck line, I threw on a creased, black jacket and tie, combed my brown hair and splashed old spice on my wrists. The picturesque capital of Tyrol Province was everything I’d read about and saw from books and on television. Beautiful, white capped mountains reflected the sun and brightened a city that had twice hosted the Winter Olympics. As I proceeded down the station’s platform, I noticed someone holding a sign that said Herr Dayan. I minced towards a smiling five foot eight inch, blonde, junger mann in blue slacks and a white collared shirt.
“I’m your guy,” I said.
He extended his right hand and we completed the formality.
“Avram Dayan?” he asked.
I eyed him.
“Please call me Avi,” I answered. “Herr Brautmann I presume?”
“Oh no sir,” he responded fast. “I’m Erich. Chauffeur for Herr Hagen.”
Although I didn’t request the favor, he lifted my white Samsonite valise and led me towards a silver, stretch limo with a huge scratch on its front passenger side door. He then pressed a button on the starter device, popped the trunk and positioned the suitcase inside.
“Hop in,” he said.
I’d never been in a limo, much less seen one this size. He opened a door on the automobile’s rear left side. I slid in and lowered my south end onto the left side of a shiny, black, leather seat in front of a bar. Though my mouth was wide open, I remained speechless.
“First time?” he asked.
I glanced up and smirked.
“That obvious I guess,” I said. “Usually travel in a tank or helicopter.”
“Sit back and relax,” he said. “Not expecting any combat, but I’ll try and fly there.”
His quip elicited a chuckle. I liked the affable nature of this guy, who couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five. Ten minutes later, we passed through a gate, pulled onto a road marked by a sign that read PRIVAT and traversed at least two miles, before an enormous white castle came into view. As we approached, I admired four huge, spouting waterfalls in the center of an expansive field of fresh cut grass. Two smaller, grey buildings were situated just off the main premises.
“What’re those places?” I asked Erich, as I pointed to my left.
“The staff’s quarters,” he answered. “You’ll be living in the larger of the two buildings.”
“Wow,” I said, growing even more flabbergasted.
Erich swung the Porsche-designed vehicle around a circular driveway that was the size of almost two hockey rinks. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the mansion’s gold-plated entrance that read HAGEN with the letters extending diagonally from top to bottom. Erich parked, raced over and held the door open as I inched out.
“After your meeting with Herr Brautmann, I’ll bring you to your apartment,” he said, as he led me inside, then exited and sped off.
The foyer had Italian marble flooring and was lit by several skylights and two gigantic chandeliers. Several seconds elapsed before the intense and voluminous sound of heavy footsteps clomped across the ground. A half-minute thereafter, a rotund, bald man standing more than six feet tall, wearing octagonal glasses and black boots extending almost to his knees, reminiscent of those worn by SS officers in old photos, entered my field of vision. I offered a slight smile. His fat, pale face remained expressionless.
“Avram Dayan,” he pronounced in a loud, scratchy voice, without extending his hand or even facing my way.
“Yes,” I responded. “And I prefer Avi.”
“Follow me,” he instructed.
“Okay, I answered, stressing the O and pausing before the kay.
I trailed him to a side room a few steps to the right of the foyer. He flipped the light switch and, at last, condescended to turn in my direction.
“Otto Brautmann,” he said about fifteen seconds later, but still refused to look me in the eye.
His office was small and furnished by a mahogany desk that housed a Dell Desktop. The walls were barren. He rested down on an ergonomic reclining seat and glared. I noticed a metal, folding chair in the room’s far right corner.
“May I sit down?” I asked.
“No, you may not,” he snapped back. “I neither know nor trust you yet. Comfort must be earned with me. “
I exhaled and laughed under my breath. In my earlier, more macho days, I might have already won this guy a long stay in the hospital. I bit my tongue, but not all the way.
“When you’ve served as an Israeli Commando, comfort’s an extreme luxury Herr Brautmann,” I retorted.
My purposeful sarcasm didn’t bring us any closer together. We stared each other down during a silence that lasted a full minute. A short time later, he flinched first and glanced at a bunch of papers.
“You’re credentials are impeccable,” he said, without glimpsing upward. “And your boss, Moshe Greenstein, provided a glowing reference. “You’re certainly qualified.”
He viewed me and smirked.
“Despite not being my first choice,” he added.
He then paused, which gave me the feeling another insult was imminent. I gritted my teeth in anticipation.
“But,” he continued. “I’ve only one remaining question.”
I shrugged my shoulders and threw out my hands.
“Yes,” I responded.
He ascended and closed in. We stood nose to nose after he placed his right hand on my left wrist.
“Why would an Israeli want to protect an Austrian?” he posed, as he proceeded to tap my chest with the pinky of his left hand. “Particularly one who’s been rumored, albeit without basis, to have ties to Nazi Germany.”
It was a legitimate question and knew I’d better answer with extreme simplicity and caution. As I glared back, my breathing increased. He pulled his hand away. I rubbed both of mine together.
“Herr Brautmann,” I huffed, having tolerated about as much as I could bear. “Please don’t put your hands on me again.”
He retreated a few strides.
“Now, to answer your question,” I continued. “I’m sent to protect people that ask for protection. It’s a job. That’s all.”
He nodded.
“Welcome aboard Herr Dayan,” he snarled. “Just know, however, I’ll be watching you.”
I grinded my teeth and cracked my knuckles in attempt to maintain as cool a demeanor as possible.
“Herr Brautmann,” I responded. “I’ve faced off against members of Hamas, Hezbollah, Al Qaeda and many other terrorist organizations. Pretty sure I can handle it from a middle-aged man dressed in an Armani suit.”
I regretted being so bold, but would be lying if I denied enjoying the chance to get a dig of my own in. To my surprise, he found the jibe amusing enough to offer a half-smile.
“All set,” he shouted into the receiver of an old-fashioned cordless antique a few seconds later.
He hung up and pranced to the door. I followed.
“I’ll introduce you to Herr Hagen now,” he said.
I trailed him outside and we stood atop a brick walkway. A few minutes elapsed before I noticed a black Mercedes crawling in our direction. It stopped a few feet from the edge of the first of five elongated stairs that led to the enclosed stoop. Emerging from the driver’s side was a white-haired man, who had to be at least six three with perfect posture and adorned in a grey suit with a miniature Austrian flag pinned to the pocket of his jacket. Brautmann bolted towards him and whispered in his right ear. Both the man, who had to be pushing ninety, and Brautmann plodded my way.
“Herr Hagen,” Brautmann said. “Please meet Herr Avram Dayan.”
Hagen leaned forward and offered a firm handshake. Despite his age, he displayed an impressive show of strength. His blue eyes stood out more than his hair. If The Fuhrer could have engineered the perfect Nazi prototype, Hagen would have emerged from the factory.
“Welcome to the team,” he said, in a booming voice. “Look forward to having someone of your stature and abilities guarding my back.”
Despite Hagen’s pleasant nature, he brought about queasiness and a thumping heart to someone who lost more than twenty relatives in Auschwitz.
As Hagen stepped back, I peeked up and witnessed someone sporting a Bayern Munich baseball cap skip out the front passenger side of his car. The individual shook the hat and out fell a head of straight, shoulder length, blonde hair. She had iPod buds in both ears, wore blue jeans, a New York Giants t-shirt and was barefoot. She eyed me for a second and smiled, before blowing a kiss to Hagen. Her swagger and strut distracted me, as I watched her march up the stairs.
“This rebelliousness pisses me off,” I heard Hagen mutter under his breath.
“Herr Dayan,” said Brautmann.
Her tight rear end and jiggling breasts made my stomach tingle. I still hesitated to acknowledge Brautmann.
“Herr Dayan,” he shouted this time.
I spun around. Brautmann leered at me.
“If you’ll follow me,” he said, in a very rude and abrupt manner. “Your quarters are ready.”
Instead of summoning Erich, he made me tail him and hoof it a half-mile. I thought I’d be given a dormitory style room, like I had during Army training. What I received was more akin to a suite at the Tel Aviv Hilton. The apartment contained a living room, accessorized with a fifty inch flat screen LG and Bose stereo system. The eat-in kitchen was equipped with a blender, fridge with an ice maker, coffee pot and some contraption I believed was an espresso machine. The bedroom was the best of all. I collapsed onto a king sized bed with satin sheets that induced an immediate, but quick snooze.
An hour or so later, I awoke and dumped a number of folders titled “case files” out of my satchel and onto the comforter. The first part of my assignment was to scope the property, locate the artwork, take photos and email them to Moshe for analysis. Part two of the initial phase was to find any possible evidence linking Hagen to the Third Reich.
My first stop the following morning was the gallery, which encompassed the entire second floor of the estate. I whipped out my iPhone and snapped shots at will. I wouldn’t know fine art from a basketball, so at least for me, it was a good thing each glass-encased painting was labeled. Famous creators like Monet and Rembrandt were on display, as were works from plenty I’d never heard of. After playing Matthew Brady for ten minutes, I hunted for Hagen’s private office.
The mansion had four floors. The top two were residential areas and, with the second housing the gallery, it didn’t take a genius to figure out it had to be on ground level. What I did need a MENSA member for was to count the number of rooms. I went from space to space, opened each door ajar and poked around using a tiny flashlight. After a half-hour, I stumbled upon an area furnished by a desk topped by a computer and several photos. I chose to gamble and investigate further.
I inched the door forward and was able to shut it without producing a sound. After rushing to the desk, I illuminated a lamp to the right of the Mac laptop. The young lass who emerged from Hagen’s car appeared solo in six of the framed portraits. There was one other, larger picture of her and a middle-aged couple. The walls were bare and the desk had three drawers. I sifted through the top one and found only a stapler, box of paper clips and a full, unopened package of ball point pens.
“Swing and a miss, strike one,” I said to myself, as I snaked open the middle compartment.
It squeaked as I pulled it to its limit, creating a high-pitched, rather unpleasant noise.
“Sssh, shit,” I uttered.
I reached my left hand inside, lifted up and flipped over a photo that had been positioned face down. As I brought it towards the light, my eyes locked in.
“Him I know,” I whispered, as I fixated on an image of what appeared to be a young, blonde-haired Hagen standing and smiling beside Reichsmarschall Hermann Goring, Hitler’s number two man during the Nazi regime. I snatched my phone and captured several pics of it.
“We got ourselves a little development here,” I said, in a very soft tone.
Satisfied I’d obtained the necessary information, I hit the lamp’s switch, clicked off the flashlight and attempted to mouse my way out. I rotated the knob at a deliberate pace until I was able to push the partition far enough to where I could peek to my left and right twice. Convinced it was safe, I lumbered into the hall.
“What’re you doing in there?” I heard Brautmann shout not more than a second after I stepped out.
His raspy voice echoed through the corridor. I closed the door fast and faced him.
“Familiarizing myself with the property,” I responded, sans hesitation. “If I’m to protect the man, I need to become familiar with the entire house.”
“Just get out of there,” he demanded. “That’s Herr Hagen’s private study.”
“Good to know,” I responded.
He leered at me as I marched down the expansive hallway. Soon thereafter, I came across a sign that said POOL in bold, black lettering atop a red arrow pointing right. I glanced in that direction and saw two small stairs that led to a door, before entering an Olympic-sized aquatic center housing both swimming and diving pools, in addition to three hot tubs. A sudden splash caused me to jump.
“Woo that water’s cold,” bellowed what sounded like a female voice.
I tiptoed towards the main pool for closer examination. Someone shot up like a missile leaving a launching pad, creating a huge splash that dampened a portion of my shirt. Once more, it was the woman from the car and desk photos. This time, she was adorned in a skimpy, white bikini.
“Hello again,” she said.
She lifted herself up and sat at pool’s edge. I admired her lengthy legs as droplets of water skied down her extremities and tumbled to the ground.
“Hello again,” repeated the lady, who was over twenty-one, but under thirty, in a louder tone. “You there?”
In an attempt to avoid gawking at her, I lowered my head and focused on the red and white bathroom-like tiling.
“Oh, hi,” I stammered. “Uh, just getting a feel of the place. This sure beats the Palm Cedar Rec Center outside Tel Aviv where I used to go swimming.”
She ascended and ran her left hand over the bikini bottom. I had to bite my tongue to keep it between my cheeks. Sweat soaked my clothes. I needed a swim to cool off. She tossed a towel with the words Osterreich Ski Team 2014 over her right shoulder.
“Got bigger ones,” she said, as she adjusted a top that only covered a small percentage of her large bosoms.
I stared ahead, as if I’d fallen into a catatonic state.
“Pools, I mean,” she rambled on. “They’re outside. I’ll show you.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, as I snapped out of the trance. “Not now. Um, maybe later.”
I positioned my hands behind my back to disguise their fidgeting state. It was time to escape and quick.
“Good day Fraulein,” I said, with a pause. “Haven’t learned your…”
“Lisl,” she interrupted.
“I’m,” I said.
“Avi,” she informed me, as my vocal chords were about to vibrate.
I sped towards the door.
“Don’t turn back,” I instructed myself.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she shouted, as I reached the exit.
I halted and rotated my head, but only to where she was visible through the corner of my eye.
“Guess so,” I hollered, as I sojourned outside.
The event she referred to was Hagen’s seventies bash, which served as the first actual opportunity to do my “job” since being “hired.”
Following the pool encounter, I headed home to catch a few winks. Just as my frame hit the mattress, Moshe sent a text confirming that a number of the paintings were indeed stolen during the Nazi plunder of Europe. His note also mentioned the picture of Hagen and Goring was significant in that the Reichsmarschall was the ringleader of a network of thieves who profited, by some estimates in eight figures, from stolen art.
“Great,” I pounded onto the phone’s keypad. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Moshe responded with a yellow thumbs up icon and the word “good” about twenty seconds later.
The gala was held in the mansion’s dance club, equipped with an old-fashioned jukebox that rocked tracks from the “Saturday Night Fever” soundtrack. Two hundred people, the majority of whom were adorned in bell bottoms and platform shoes, mingled in and out of a disco with a dance floor and full bar lit by spotlights the size of beach balls.
Less than a half-hour into the festivities, Hagen wandered outside. I tailed him. While he spoke with someone, I remained a few feet back, lit a butt and inhaled a few drags. A few seconds later, I felt a hard tapping on my right shoulder. I leaped back, reached into my jacket and clutched a loaded pistol.
“Relax,” a woman shouted, with exasperation. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I wheeled around and expelled a huge burst of air upon recognizing Lisl, who wore a simple, black cocktail dress and no bra. Her hair was braided. When she smiled, a sense of calm overtook me that no cigarette had ever provided.
“You’re not dressed in the usual seventies fare,” I remarked.
“That decade was a black hole for anyone who likes to think they’ve got style,” she responded.
“Oh,” I said, as my eyes focused on Hagen for a second. “I wouldn’t know.”
She tugged on my right arm.
“Who are you?” she asked.
I stopped and glanced at the waterfalls that changed colors every few seconds.
“You know my name,” I said.
“That’s not what I meant,” she continued, as she glared.
I knew this moment would come at some point.
“Herr Hagen’s new Security Chief,” I replied.
She nodded.
“Now, I’ll ask you the same question,” I said, with confidence.
“Herr Hagen’s old granddaughter,” she responded, without delay.
My stomach went into immediate knots. So many thoughts raced through my mind and none were positive.
“You could use her to get to Hagen,” said the older, professional assassin’s voice.
“Stupid idiot,” screamed the newer, human, more compassionate one. “You’re becoming attracted to a woman whose grandfather you’ll have to kill soon.”
She observed me. I ogled her cleavage. Oh the headaches.
“Um, Wednesday night,” she said. “I’d like to invite you to an event in town.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “And I’ll be there, but to work.”
I wasn’t told the particulars. The only information provided was that it was a black tie affair and Hagen would be leaving at seven o’clock. Hoping to have me blend into the background, Hagen had his tailor provide a tuxedo in my exact size of forty-two long. After struggling with the bowtie for more than an hour, I escorted Hagen outside at seven sharp. I glanced left, right, up and down before shadowing him into a white limo. Brautmann approached and stopped by the car’s rear left door. Out of nowhere, Lisl zoomed up the driveway in a 2013, grey Mercedes E Class convertible with the top down.
“Ride with me,” she yelled, as she waved and pointed in my direction.
I glimpsed up and caught the eye of Brautmann, who glared at me. Next, I viewed Hagen. He nodded.
“I’d feel more comfortable,” he said. “I cringe when she gets behind the wheel of that thing.”
Lisl licked her lips and revved the engine. Seconds later, she stepped out adorned in a sparkling, blue gown, white stockings and stilettos. I had to move around to ease the discomfort brought on by the expanding bulge in my pants.
“Oh Opa,” she shouted. “You’re just afraid of speed.”
“I just don’t need any more of my relatives dying in car accidents,” Hagen responded. “Ask Herr Dayan if he would drive please?”
She frowned, sighed, shut the car with force and flipped me the keys. As I strolled towards her, she flashed a huge smile. I vaulted into the front seat without using the driver’s side door. After placing key back in ignition, I positioned my right hand over the stick shift. She grasped and caressed it.
“She’s sleek,” Lisl said. “Think you can handle the design?”
My heart thwacked, as I kicked up the engine and proceeded into first gear.
“Fairly confident,” I said, as I motored onto the Wilhelmstrasse. “Where’re we going?”
“Down about a mile,” she responded. “Then, quick left onto the Templeplatz and it’ll be the first building on the left.”
We observed each other several times over the next few minutes, but neither of us spoke.
“Who in your family died in a car accident?” I asked, about ten minutes into the trip.
It wasn’t an easy question to pose, but I needed to change the focus of my attention. She sniffled and removed a Kleenex from a Louis Vuitton travel bag.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “That’s none of my business.”
“My parents,” she answered. “They were hit head on by a truck on the Autobahn in Munich last fall.”
An immediate feeling of intense nausea set in. A terrible, new thought registered.
“Great going Avi,” screeched those dreadful words. “Hagen’s the only relative she’s got left. You’re a man amongst men.”
“Mind if I play the stereo?” she asked, while she dabbed her left eye.
“No please,” I responded, with extreme haste.
Soon, the radio tuned to NRJ Innsbruck blasted the German artist Marteria’s hit tune “Marteria Girl” through two Bose subwoofers. About a minute or so hence, I guided the car into one of our destination’s two rear parking lots. My eyes opened wide after I noticed a huge Jewish Star emblazoned on the façade of the brick structure.
“Why’re we stopping at a Synagogue?” I wondered.
“That’s the event,” she said, as she wiggled her five ten, one hundred twenty-something pound figure out the passenger side door.
“Care to elaborate?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” she said.
I watched as she nudged the door closed with her left hip. It was hard to tell which stood more erect, the stick in neutral or the one residing a few inches below my belt. After the dog sat down, I put the top up, locked the car and traipsed towards the main entrance. I waited for Hagen’s limo, guarded him when he emerged and was accosted by a hoard of cameras, held out my right hand and shielded his eyes as I escorted him inside.
“Gluckwunsche,” men, women, young and old said to Hagen, as we made our way towards the sanctuary.
I had to push several well-wishers, who offered Hagen their congratulations, away. Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed a very old, tall, slim man with a grey beard and wearing a yarmulke sprint in our direction from the other side of the room.
“Herr Hagen,” he shouted. “Herr Hagen.”
When he closed in, those surrounding us moved back and observed the scene. This caused me to panic. I reached into my coat and, as I was about to remove the pistol, Hagen grasped my wrist and shook his head.
“He’s okay,” Hagen said.
The bearded man stood before us and smiled.
“Herr Rabbi Abraham Berger,” Hagen said. “Please meet Herr Avi Dayan. My new Head of Security.”
Flushed and sweating, I exhaled and offered my hand.
“Don’t I look like a fool?” I asked, as Berger shook it. “It’s a force of habit. Please accept my apologies Herr Rabbi.”
“None necessary,” Berger said. “I understand.”
Berger eyed Hagen.
“Showtime,” Berger said.
Hagen raised his right thumb. Berger strutted onto the stage, stood behind a podium, lifted a microphone and tapped on it. Loud chatter diminished as the reverberation screamed through four large speakers positioned in each corner of the sanctuary.
“May I have your attention please,” Berger said. “We’re about to begin our ceremony, so I invite everyone to move towards the stage”
Berger pointed at Hagen, who gripped Lisl’s hand and marched forward. I tailed. A woman I would have guessed to be in her mid to late eighties with a wrinkled face and hair whiter than Hagen’s appeared from behind the stage’s curtain holding a plaque. Berger glanced back and waved her forward. She soon joined us.
“Guten Nacht Frauen and Herren and welcome to Temple Emmanuel’s Man of the Year Award Presentation,” Berger proclaimed. “This year, we honor a very special man and, for the first time in our history, someone not of the Jewish faith. The 2014 honor goes to Herr Wolf Hagen for his tireless efforts in promoting harmony amongst Jews and Catholics. His many years of selfless work have helped turn Innsbruck and Tyrol Province into a shining example of what the rest of our nation could be.”
As a teary-eyed Hagen accepted the award, he was given a thunderous ovation. While he and Berger embraced, I stepped away.
“Wow,” I thought to myself. “The mess keeps getting dirtier.”
Kind, selfless and tolerant weren’t words that often described the many individuals I’d offed over the years. Following the ceremony, Lisl strode towards me.
“So what do you think?” she asked.
“About what?” I countered.
“All this must be pretty impressive to an Israeli,” she said, as she viewed me with those eyes that were a type of green the Crayola Crayon Company hadn’t yet invented a shade for.
To be honest, I was impressed. Hagen acted like and came across as quite an extraordinary gentleman.
“Well,” I began. “Certainly not what I expected.”
She slinked her way forward and faced me.
“What’d you expect?” she persisted.
“Nothing I’ve seen,” I answered. “That’s for sure.”
We studied each other, before she skipped away. I was relieved. It felt as if she was about to prod and try to lead me down a route I had no desire to travel.
Sunday, I was given the entire day off. As I loafed in ripped jeans and a Maccabi Games t-shirt, I heard a slight rap on the door. I rolled out of bed and answered it.
“Herr Hagen,” I said, with the suggestion of surprise in my voice.
“Didn’t wake you did I?” he asked, dressed in a brown suit. “We just returned from church.”
I shook my head.
“Please come in,” I said.
“Like the apartment?” he asked.
“No complaints,” I said.
I shuffled towards the fridge and snared a bottle of water.
“Would you like something to drink?” I posed.
“No thank you,” he responded, as he rested down on a stool by the kitchen’s center island.
It was obvious he wasn’t there to obtain my mother’s recipe for matzo ball soup.
“I’d like to invite you to a small, but formal dinner I’m holding this evening,” he declared.
I grimaced and rotated my head sideways.
“Not sure,” I said.
“There’s someone attending I thought you’d might like to meet,” he said.
I’d rather have received gum surgery in a minefield than attend such an event, but he was my “boss” and it would be rude and might very well arouse suspicions if I didn’t.
“Okay,” I said, as I sighed. “No tux though I hope.”
He arose and moved towards the door.
“Just a shirt and tie this time,” he laughed. “Seven-thirty okay?”
“I’ll be there,” I responded.
This dinner was held in what Hagen referred to as the mansion’s “intimate dining room.” Present were Brautmann, Berger, Lisl, Hagen and the woman who presented him the award at the Temple ceremony.
The guests weren’t in black tie, but a ten member, white-gloved wait staff was and served us champagne and finger sandwiches from silver trays. At a quarter-past eight, the headwaiter, who had thin, black hair and a thick mustache rang a tiny gold bell, while one of his female colleagues dimmed the lights. The other guests marched towards the table and occupied their seats before place settings consisting of fine china, sterling silver utensils and crystal glassware. Unsure of what was happening, I followed their lead. We had assigned seating and I assumed my place between Lisl and the mystery lady. The headwaiter stepped towards the middle of the room and dinged the bell again. The other guests sat at attention like enlisted soldiers when an officer enters their field of vision.
“Guten Nacht,” he began. “Tonight, the menu consists of leek soup, a kasespatzle appetizer with bacon and Emmenthaler cheese, the main course of sauerbraten, steamed carrots and fried potatoes and for dessert, apple strudel and Jacobs Gruening coffee.”
The woman, who donned a white dress, viewed me several times before grasping my right hand.
“Herr Dayan,” she said. “My name’s Toby Berger. The Rabbi’s wife.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, as I sipped another spoonful of the lukewarm, potato-like broth.
Not thinking her revelation was all that startling, I turned to Lisl. Though not standoffish or cold, she didn’t smile, wink, touch or gaze like she had during our previous encounters.
“Sorry,” she said. “Wished I looked better tonight. Vera Wang never brings out my best.”
I thought she shined in the green evening gown.
“I don’t see the problem,” I said, as I again ogled her chest.
Toby smiled, as she listened in on our exchange. Lisl arose, shuffled towards the other side of the room and struck up a conversation with Brautmann and Hagen, who had excused themselves and left the table when she did. Seconds later, Berger joined them. It was then I figured Toby must have been who Hagen wanted me to meet and get to know for some reason. My stomach bubbled a bit. Despite being a proud Israeli, I wasn’t a regular attendee of Friday night services, therefore I couldn’t imagine why it was so vital for us to engage in a discussion. I fixated on a piece of celery in my bowl.
“So,” Toby said. “Wolf tells me you’re from Israel.”
“Yes Frau Berger,” I said.
“Please call me Toby,” she said.
“Only if you call me Avi,” I responded.
We laughed at the same time.
“I spent several years in Jerusalem,” she said.
The surprises continued to sprout like mosquito bites the morning after a summer night hanging out in the backyard of my cousin, Tal’s Spring Valley, New York home.
“So how’d you end up here?” I asked.
Tears accumulated in her eyes, as she lowered her head. I sweated. Once more, the neophyte conversationalist asked the wrong question.
“Sorry,” I said. “Please forgive me.”
She gripped my right hand and squeezed it.
“Innsbruck was always my home,” she said.
My interest peaked. I leaned towards her.
“How long have you known Herr Hagen?” I asked.
“Since I was a young girl,” she said.
She wiped her eyes with a napkin.
“My parents loved it here,” she continued. “But after the Anschluss, we had to leave. Thanks to the Hagen family, we were fortunate to get that chance.”
I sat up straight and gave her my undivided attention. My breathing grew rapid and perspiration poured from my skin.
“A young Wolf and his family saved us,” she said, as she used both hands to cover her face.
She cleared her throat and exhaled.
“His father smuggled us to Palestine and brought us back to Innsbruck as soon as the war ended. Wolf, still a boy, wouldn’t let them steal a thing. When we returned, our home was still in-tact.”
My eyes burned. My burgeoning feelings for Lisl aside, it would be hard for any Israeli to justify murdering someone who saved Jews during the Holocaust. Perhaps I was getting soft, but for the first time in my career, severe reservations about completing a mission crept into my mind.
“My parents sent me to Israel in the fifties,” she continued. “Ironically, that’s where I met an Austrian and we returned in 1960. Abe’s been head Rabbi since 1972.”
It felt like my entire body was about to quiver. I never had such a strong urge to cry and couldn’t bear another word.
“You okay dear?” she asked. “Haven’t touched your soup.”
“Just a little tired,” I said. “You’re story was fascinating. I really enjoyed it, but I can’t keep my eyes open. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll head back to my quarters.”
I noticed Lisl observe me as I rushed out. As soon as I returned to the apartment, I huffed a pack of butts and downed a few shots of gin. After my trembling hands steadied, I snared my phone and contacted Moshe.
“I can’t do this,” I burst out, not wasting any time.
“Excuse me,” he said. “What’re you talking about?”
“The assignment,” I said. “He deserves to be sainted, not assassinated. I mean, you don’t know. He’s done good things. Call it instinct and experience, but he’s no war criminal. I just know it.”
I could hear Moshe’s breathing increase.
“I don’t give a shit,” he screamed, about fifteen seconds later. “He’s an enemy of Israel and to be eliminated. You don’t question, you follow orders. Understand?”
I activated the speaker mechanism and dropped the phone on the kitchen counter.
“Funny,” I said. “Didn’t they use that excuse?”
There was a long pause.
“I’m going to give you twenty-four hours to reach your senses,” he said. “By then, I hope you’ll be refocused.”
He cleared his throat.
“Look,” he continued. “I know Sarah’s death impacted you, but…”
I thrashed my right fist against the counter.
“Don’t you ever mention that name again,” I interrupted, with a loud scream. “Me, you and this got her killed.”
Another lengthy pause ensued.
“We’ll speak again tomorrow,” he said, this time in a softer voice.
The next thing I heard was a dial tone. As I pulled a few airline cart-sized bottles of brandy out of a living room cabinet, a forceful knock came to the door. It was two minutes to midnight. I answered to find Lisl adorned in only ripped jeans and a bra. She was barefoot, mascara ran down her cheeks and a strong odor of alcohol emanated from her breath. We stared at each other for almost a minute.
“Why’d you leave dinner early?” she asked. “Everything okay?”
I exhaled.
“Yeah,” I responded. “Just a little tired.”
She shuffled inside without being invited.
“Well, I’m feeling sad,” she said.
She surrendered to the carpeting and sobbed.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Had a fight with your boss,” she wailed.
“About what?” I countered.
“A man,” she answered.
I grabbed a paper cup from the top kitchen cabinet, stepped towards the sink, filled it with water and handed it to her. Nausea and a rapid heartbeat set in. I was never the quickest to pick up on signals women sent, but had a strong feeling the response “a man” was in reference to yours truly. I lifted her up. She struggled as I tried guiding her to the door.
“Throwing me out?” she wondered.
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “Wasted isn’t the best time to be impulsive. Trust me.”
We inched into the hallway. I reentered the apartment, but she stopped me before I was able to shut the door all the way. Those lethal eyes clubbed me like Derek Jeter did baseballs come October. I knew my next action would lead to major trouble, but did it anyway.
“Okay,” I said. “Come in.”
She smiled and leaped into my arms, before licking and slobbering over me like Hagen’s German Shepherd Rex.
“No, no, no,” I said, as I placed her on the grey, den sofa.
She pouted and hissed.
“I thought you liked me,” she said.
My hands quaked, as I snatched more liquor from the cabinet. I had no idea what I poured, but loaded a shot glass and chugged its contents nonetheless. My initial plan was to attack this with the rational strategy.
“Look,” I said, as my voice broke up. “I’m flattered. You’re so damn beautiful and I’ve been attracted to you since the day we met.”
That wasn’t anywhere near what I’d hoped to say, but my emotions hijacked my brain and voice box. She sat atop my lap, causing other problems to grow.
“I can’t,” I said, as I forced her down.
“Why?” she yelled.
“Well,” I began. “Don’t think this would please Opa.”
She grabbed my face and buried her tongue in my mouth. I pushed her back.
“Forget about him,” she said. “He still believes I’m chaste.”
I catapulted my frame into the air and sprinted towards the terrace. My skin was soused in perspiration, I was dizzy and felt lightheaded. When I stepped back in, I noticed she’d transferred herself to my bed. I stood in the doorway and watched as she removed her bra and chucked it to the floor. Next came a pair of jeans and pink panties. I shouldn’t have continued to observe, much less become aroused, but I did and was. With lessening reluctance, I minced towards the bed. She unzipped my pants, pulled out my erect penis and stroked it several times. I needed no further coaxing and, before very long, I too was naked.
“Why the hell not?” I thought to myself. “She’s beautiful, I’m horny and were both adults.”
I mounted her and we kissed. We then jumped up and I clutched her breasts. A few minutes later, I placed her down.
“You okay?” I asked her, when penetrating her for the first time.
I don’t ever remember asking one of my conquests that question, not even Sarah. For the next several hours, we sinned.
I awoke prior to her the next morning with the knowledge I’d turned an already bad situation into Armageddon, but didn’t care. It’d been the first time I’d felt a woman’s touch since losing my fiancé. As much I shouldn’t have, I was happy I did.
“Good morning,” she said, while gazing into my eyes.
I grasped her hand and squeezed it.
“You okay” I again asked, too elated to think of anything more intelligent to say.
“Sore,” she said. “Damn, you’re good.”
She smiled. I boomeranged one back. As she loped out of bed first and shuffled to the dresser, a phone vibrated. Before I could react, she answered it.
“Avi’s phone,” she said. “This’s Lisl. Can I help you?”
For some reason, she put it on speaker.
“You sure can dear,” said Moshe.
I vaulted up. She giggled.
“Would you mind telling him Uncle Moshe’s calling,” he said.
She turned around and lipped Uncle Moshe. I swiped the phone from her right hand.
“Be right back,” I said, as I rushed towards the bathroom, shut and locked the door. “Must be thanking me for his birthday gift.”
I placed the phone off speaker.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Well,” he said. “Now I see the real reason for this nonsense.”
Moshe was right. All I’d told him the previous evening about Hagen were contributing factors, but my growing adoration of Lisl was, like Reggie Jackson, the straw that stirred this emotional decision.
“Look,” I said, as forceful as possible without being loud enough to alarm Lisl. “Think what you wish. My answer’s still go to hell.”
“Don’t you ever return to Israel again,” he screamed. “You’re a disgrace to our people, our flag and the uniform you wore for so many years.”
He was still dressing me down when I hit end and dumped the phone on the counter. Although the mission was over for me, the same didn’t apply to the agency. Hagen was still in extreme danger, but I was too preoccupied to recognize it or care at that moment. When I reemerged, Lisl was dressed in jeans and one of my plain white t-shirts.
“Sorry to run,” she said, as she removed a set of keys from her left pocket. “Should move before your neighbors wake up.”
“Want a pair of my sneakers?” I asked, seeing she was still barefoot.
“It’s okay,” she responded. “Car’s not a long walk.”
She gazed at me again.
“Will I see you later today?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Accompanying Opa to Kitzbuhel. Be back late tomorrow.”
She blew me a kiss and darted into the hall.
“Can’t wait til ya get back,” she said. “Have fun at the Country Club.”
I was glad to be getting away. Things were moving faster than a Mig in a dog fight and I needed a day away to process it all. Upon returning the next night, I found a note pinned to the door of my apartment, which read:
“Tomorrow, your mission’s to protect me.”
Lisl
I didn’t know what that meant and suffered through a night of restless sleep. At seven o’clock, the doorbell rang. It was Lisl, adorned in a black t-shirt, black jeans and Skechers sneakers without socks.
“Well,” I said, as she moseyed inside. “Looking much better than the last time you were at the door.”
This time, I didn’t feel uneasy or offer any objection.
“So what’s the assignment?” I asked.
She wrinkled her forehead and squinted her eyes, as if I’d asked her a question in Swahili.
“What’re you talking about?” she asked.
I leaned my head forward and faced her.
“What’s going on?” I wondered. “Your grandfather didn’t mention anything about it.”
She descended to the floor, spun around and entered into a giggling fit. I huffed and paced.
“What’s so funny?” I snarled.
She covered her mouth, trying to hide the laughter.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I’m taking you out,” she said, as she sprung back up. “The protection bit’s a cover to get you the day off.”
I grinned.
“Wow she’s crafty too,” I said. “We could use you in the Army.”
She pulled out her keys and jangled them.
“Let’s go,” she instructed.
I trailed her outside. When we reached the car, she hurled them in my direction.
“Remember Herr Dayan,” she shouted. “There’ve been a number of muggings downtown. Please remain only a few feet behind me. Ten’s not close enough.”
Again, I had no idea what she was babbling about at first, but as we entered the car, she winked.
“We don’t want the staff whispering,” she whispered.
“That cover thing again right?” I asked.
She nodded.
“You’re a quick study Mr. Army Man,” she responded.
I again loped into the driver’s seat without using the door. She vaulted into the passenger seat as well. Soon we were traveling down the long private road. Once off the estate, she gripped my hand.
“Stop,” she ordered.
I slammed on the brakes.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’m driving,” she said. “Scoot over.”
I had no reservations at first, but as soon as she put the car in gear, she guided it like Al Pacino did the Ferrari in “Scent of a Woman.” It was clear why Hagen didn’t want her behind the wheel. She made several wide turns in excess of fifty miles per hour. I didn’t know whether it was grandstanding or a display of poor driving skills. Either way, I closed my eyes for the remainder of the trip and muttered in silent prayer. She caressed my hand several times over those ten minutes.
“Open em,” she said, as we came to an abrupt halt.
She pointed straight ahead. About a mile down the road stood a huge church.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked. “Innsbruck Cathedral.”
She traversed further down the Domplatz and maneuvered the car into a parking slot.
“You mind going in with me?” she asked.
“Of course not,” I answered, as we both leaped to the ground.
She led me into the Baroque-styled house of worship, lit a candle and minced towards a bench in the back. After she made The Sign of the Cross and sat down, I settled into the seat next to her. Having not struck me as the religious type, I was stunned she brought me to such a place.
“I love this place,” she said, as she brushed away the water that spouted from her eyes with both thumbs. “Come here to remember.”
I lowered my chin into my left hand and peered at her.
“My parents,” I said. “Miss them so much. Opa’s great, but.”
I gripped her hand.
“It’s good to remember,” I said.
The next thing I knew, she wasn’t the only one crying.
“I understand,” I wept. “My fiancé was killed about two years ago.”
She spun her head, positioned her left palm over her mouth, leaned over and rested her head on my left shoulder. I put my arm around her and we stared ahead for several minutes. We held hands while exiting. For the remainder of the day, we enjoyed iced coffee and strudel from a café nestled in the Alps that offered a panoramic view of the city.
“This’s unbelievable,” I said.
She gazed at me, as I got a better look through a scope. When I glanced around, she was still gazing.
“My view’s even more incredible,” she said.
I moved towards her. She arose. We embraced and kissed.
For the next week, Hagen neither held nor attended any events. I was stationed by the house’s entrance. It was pretty easy work. I only had to check and frisk the few visitors who dropped in. Otherwise, staying awake was the only prerequisite. Though I was bored during the day, the nights were more enjoyable. After eating dinner with Erich, I would meet up with Lisl around nine o’clock. She concocted a scheme where she’d tell Hagen she was visiting friends and appease him by having me drive her. In reality, we would retire to a remote mountain chalet and make love, sometimes well into the early morning hours.
I felt alive for the first time since Sarah’s passing.
I was called into Brautmann’s office on Monday afternoon the following week. He greeted me with his usual stern glare. Out of nowhere, I heard the sound of someone crying. I veered around and noticed it was Lisl, who sat at the edge of the folding chair rocking back and forth. Brautmann ascended.
“I always suspected it,” he said.
I minced towards Lisl, hoping to comfort her and find out what was happening.
“Stay away from her,” he shouted.
After glancing up and glowering at me, she dropped her face in her hands and sobbed. I turned towards Brautmann and watched him drop a small tape recorder on the desk. He leered at me again and depressed a button with force. I fell to the floor and placed both hands atop my head, while listening to a playback of my conversations with Moshe.
“Had your phone tapped,” he pronounced, with pride.
I was uninterested in Brautmann’s opinion, but yearned to explain the situation to Lisl. After rushing towards her, I descended to one knee and placed my hand out. She pounced up and slapped it.
“Get the fuck away from me,” she screamed.
“Lisl please,” I said. “I refused to do it. I fell in love with you and came to respect your grandfather. I can’t deny that’s why I was sent here, but you must believe everything else.”
She lifted the chair up and threw it across the room. Brautmann picked up the phone.
“Get out,” she shouted. “This’s unreal. After I opened up about my parents. How could you? I was falling for you.”
She darted towards the door. I snatched her right shoulder.
“Well, I’ve already fallen for you,” I yelled, as she broke my grip. “Lisl don’t.”
While she sprinted out, four men in black suits entered. Brautmann strutted towards me and sported a full toothed grin that I couldn’t wait to put a few gaps in.
“Herr Hagen has been informed and wants you to leave the premises immediately,” he said.
“Not until I’m given the chance to explain myself,” I responded.
Brautmann stepped over, grabbed my wrist and attempted to drag me out. I offered a half-assed giggle and introduced my right palm to his face, breaking his nose and knocking him to the ground. The suited men zoomed towards me. After a few crescent kicks to their guts and Krav Maga chops to their nether regions, three of them were writhing in agony. I broke the right arm of the last one, brought him to his knees and positioned my pistol inside his mouth. A bloodied Brautmann sprung up.
“I’ll get the entire Innsbruck Police force and half the Austrian Army in here if I have to,” he bellowed, as he squeezed his nose. “Leave. Right now.”
Having no desire to cause any further trouble, I placed my hands up as if a cop yelled freeze.
“Okay,’ I said. “I’ll go.”
I legged it down the private road and eventually caught a cab. About a half-hour later, I was sitting inside Innsbruck Cathedral. When I peeked at the row of candles in the church’s rear, I bawled. Several minutes later, I slogged outside and gaited across the Domplatz. The second I planted my south end on a bench, my phone chimed. It was Moshe. I jumped up.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Heard you’re unemployed again,” he said, as he emitted a belly laugh.
“How’d you find out?” I wondered.
I thrust my derriere on a different bench and stamped both feet into a huge puddle.
“That obnoxious Brautmann phoned us expressing his disappointment and threats,” he said. “Doesn’t matter though. I told your replacement to add him to the list.”
“My replacement,” I answered.
As I pounced into the air again, my heart fluttered.
“You might how him by his nickname” he said. “The Hebrew Hammer.”
Thirty seconds of silence ensued.
“See you’re impressed,” Moshe rambled on. “He’s gonna take out Hagen, Brautmann and your Lisl for all the hell that little vixen’s put me through. I’d hoped you’d be the extra pickle to accompany this stuffed pastrami sandwich, but, oh well, can’t be too greedy.”
Oren, “The Hebrew Hammer” Krayzelstein was the LeBron James of assassins in terms of efficiency and the Jeffrey Dahmer of contract killers in the ways of insanity. The most startling example of this came during a 2005 raid on the Gaza Strip during which our commando unit eliminated several members of Hamas. The Hammer hovered over the deceased terrorists, brandished a pocket knife and proceeded to slice out their tongues. I and several of my compatriots were sickened by it and attempted to stop him from continuing the grotesque act.
“No,” he shouted, as his face grew red and he pointed his Gilal Arm at each of us. “I’ll do it to all of you fucking pussies also.”
Upon learning this disturbing news, I wasn’t about to waste any more time chatting.
“We’ll see about that asshole,” I said, as I ended the call.
I tucked the phone away and started to run. A few seconds later, I came to a quick halt. Confusion set in like a migraine.
“Should I steal a car?” I asked myself. “How am I gonna get back to the estate?”
An extreme attack of queasiness caused me to vomit. My hands trembled. A sudden, sharp pain in my ribcage forced me to lean over. When I caught my breath, I glanced up and recognized the silver limo with a scratch mark on the passenger side. What a break. It was Erich! I raced towards the car. As I closed in, he stepped forward carrying several shopping bags, but didn’t notice me.
“Erich,” I shouted.
He glimpsed up, dropped the bags and flew in the other direction. I tracked him down within seconds and snared his right arm.
“Get off me,” he said. “They said I can’t talk to you anymore.”
“I know,” I said. “Look, you must take me back.”
He whirled around.
“Herr Hagen and Lisl are in serious danger,” I yelled. “I’m the only one who can save them.”
He stared at me. I didn’t want to use strong arm tactics with the kid, but each second that passed, brought Hagen and Lisl closer to a brutal death.
“Listen young man,” I said, as I grabbed his hand and squeezed it with enough strength to force him to the pavement. “You’ll take me there. Understand? I don’t want to, but you know the pain you feel in your hand?”
He nodded at a quick pace.
“I could provide further demonstrations?” I asked. “Is that necessary?”
He shook his head faster than he nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “But Brautmann sent me out for several hours. If I’m back early, he’ll be suspicious. He monitors traffic in and outta here on camera.”
“Just put me in the trunk,” I said. “I’ll worry about him when I have to. Let’s just go.”
I hopped in the trunk. Erich heeded my warning, skidded out and sped off. At regular speeds, it would have taken about fifteen minutes from downtown. At the rate he was going, I estimated it would be about seven or eight. About six minutes in, the car came to a stop. Two minutes passed. Erich didn’t let me out. I started to kick the trunk cover when I heard a door slam.
“I know I’m back early,” Erich shouted.
“Damn you Brautmann,” I muttered to myself.
This time, I didn’t plan on being as gentle, but having to tangle with Brautmann or anyone else he brought for backup would waste time that neither I, Hagen nor Lisl had. The trunk flew open. I sprung out and noticed Erich, who was alone, had parked what I guessed was about halfway down the entrance road.
“Where’s Brautmann?” I asked, as I glanced around.
“Probably his office,” he answered, as he deposited his cell into the pocket of a white-collared shirt. “That’s why I didn’t go all the way in. Sure you can save them?”
“If I get there in time,” I said.
He extended his left hand.
“Then go do it,” he said. “I’ll take the heat for bringing you back if it comes to that.”
I placed my right hand out. He shook it.
“You’re a good man,” I said, as I raced towards the property.
Thanks to Erich, I didn’t have to worry about Brautmann, but wished the same could be said of The Hammer. I panted and trembled as I snuck in to the mansion through a side entrance near the indoor pool complex. As I perused the first floor, I noticed the door to Hagen’s study was ajar and the room was lit. Not taking any chances, I rushed over, thrust the door forward and pointed my pistol. Hagen placed his hands up and leered at me.
“Here to finish the job?” his voice quivered.
“No,” I responded. “But someone else will be soon.”
In an attempt to reassure him, I lowered my pistol and tucked it away.
“Herr Hagen,” I began. “If you and Lisl hope to survive, you must do as I say.”
He eyed me and laughed.
“After everything I’ve learned,” he said. “How can I trust you?”
“Because there’s no other choice,” I responded.
The phone on his desk rang.
“Where’s Lisl?” I asked, hoping to God she was off the premises.
With trembling hands, he lifted the receiver.
“Hagen,” he answered.
He squinted his eyes and placed the phone closer to his ear.
“Erich,” he said. “Relax. I can’t hear you. Slow down.”
I knew The Hammer struck, but prayed Lisl wasn’t the nail.
“Put the phone on speaker,” I instructed.
Hagen placed his right hand up, suggesting I should wait.
“Now,” I shouted.
He followed my orders. Erich was crying and inaudible.
“Erich,” I said. “It’s Avi. Calm down and tell me what’s going on.”
A several second pause ensued. Erich’s fast and loud breathing echoed through the speakers.
“Uh, uh,” he stuttered. “B B Brautmann’s dead.”
Hagen positioned both hands over his face. My heart thwacked and I sweated like I was sitting inside a sauna.
“After I let you go,” Erich stammered on. “I I d d drove to the front to make sure you’d gotten here and that’s where his body was. On the driveway. His throat was slashed and both his eyes were gouged out.”
I paced and expelled several bursts of air.
“Fuck,” I screamed.
Silence ensued again.
“Erich?” I asked. “You there? Hello.”
The phone was dead. Cut off transmissions and isolate. The first rule an assassin’s taught. The Hammer knew and perfected them all. Hagen stared at me.
“What’s happening?” Hagen asked.
“You need to phone Erich back,” I said. “Right now.”
“Why?” he asked.
I stormed towards the desk, placed my hands atop it and glared at him.
“Don’t argue,” I yelled. “We’re all in extreme danger.”
Hagen pounded his cell’s keypad.
“Shit,” he yelled.
“What?” I asked.
As he arose, his hands trembled.
“The damn thing’s busy,” he replied.
“Then text him,” I instructed.
Hagen followed suit. A minute later, Hagen’s cell vibrated. He glanced down and then viewed me.
“It’s Lisl,” he said.
I released another tremendous amount of air thinking she was off the estate.
“Thank Heaven she’s not here,” I said.
The phone continued to vibrate. He glimpsed up.
“Yes she is,” he said.
That sigh of relief morphed into labored breathing and a jackhammering ticker.
“Told me she was going to the pool,” he said.
I saw horrible premonitions and pleaded with the Lord to erase them.
“Answer it and place it on speaker,” I ordered.
Hagen did as instructed.
“Lisl,” he said.
There was a slight pause.
“Lisl,” he repeated.
“Listen carefully,” said a deep male voice, with a broken English accent.
I whirled around and stepped towards the desk. It was critical I informed Hagen he was speaking with The Hammer, but if there was any chance to save either him or Lisl, I had to surprise my adversary. Hagen’s hands again quaked. I grabbed a pen off his desk and wrote “do exactly as he says and don’t tell him I’m here” in an open notebook.
“I hear you,” Hagen said, as he scanned my words and nodded.
“Good,” replied The Hammer. “Now, if you want to see your fine piece of tuchas granddaughter again, bring your Nazi loving ass to the pool. You’ve got five minutes. A second later, you won’t recognize her.”
The call ended. Hagen surrendered to his knees and sobbed.
“He’s gonna kill her,” he said, as he grabbed his phone. “I’m calling the police.”
I snatched the Samsung Galaxy out of his hands, tossed it across the room, grabbed his face, stood nose to nose with him and glared into his eyes.
“Listen you foolish old man,” I yelled. “We’ve already wasted ninety seconds. You must follow me now.”
I dragged him out by his wrist and we sped towards the aquatic center.
“What’re you planning to do?” his voice cracked.
“You’re gonna go in the main entrance,” I said. “I’ll sneak in through one of the side doors after you’ve gotten his attention.”
We reached our destination. Hagen entered.
“Freeze,” shouted The Hammer.
Hagen positioned both his hands over his head. Part of me was afraid to peek in any further, fearing Lisl might already be dead. Much to my relief, she was alive, but had a knife pressed against her throat by the bald, six foot monster with Star of David tattoos up and down his arms. I tiptoed through one of the side entrances a few feet down the hall. I was grateful the door didn’t squeak, as it had several times I’d used it.
“Wolf and Lisl Hagen,” The Hammer shouted. “The Israeli government finds you guilty of crimes against the Jewish people.”
A sightline came into view. I removed my pistol and aimed it at the target. I had a clear shot at that second, but was too afraid to risk it. If The Hammer or Lisl moved an inch, it could have missed him, or worse, hit her. I thought of another approach.
“I’m here to kill you,” he continued, while he pointed his gun inches from Hagen’s face. “Do you have anything to say?”
“Why don’t you let them go?” I interjected, as I approached the pool.
The Hammer veered around and increased his grasp on Lisl. She whined, winced and trembled like a candy wrapper in a tornado. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying. A pale-faced Hagen stood erect with his eyes transfixed on Lisl.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
Our eyes met. We glared at each other for a full minute.
“If it isn’t the great Avi,” he said. “How’s Sarah?”
He giggled. I clenched my jaw and fists.
“Don’t have much luck with women,” he continued on. “Do you?”
I desired to charge him with the speed and anger an angry bull might display in pursuit of runners in Pamplona, but knew he held all the cards. Plan B was an all or nothing gamble, but gave me, what I believed, was the most realistic chance to save Hagen and Lisl. I only prayed The Hammer would be enough of a soldier and even more of a man to go along with it.
“You know you’re gonna have to go through me first,” I declared. “Why not make it nice and simple? Let’s have a good old-fashioned draw.