Alexa - Legionnaire : Training an Assassin: Prequel to Alexa - The Series (2 page)

The GLD needed a computer and mapping software to locate the agent. And Bruce, who was not a strong believer in technology, had neither. He made up his mind and jumped into his Jeep; Zachary had a computer at home.

He arrived at Zachary’s home a couple of minutes later. Something was wrong. The front door stood open, and splotches of blood were visible on the white pebbled pathway.

Bruce crouched next to the open door and peered inside. Sarah lay naked on the ground, a pool of blood spreading beneath her disheveled hair. He bolted inside and kneeled beside her. Her throat had been slit, and her breathing was labored and shallow.

He barged into the kitchen, filled a jug with water, and splashed it over the wound. The carotid artery had been severed. He gently lifted her head. Judging by the amount of blood, her throat had been cut a couple of minutes ago. He dialed 102. The operator answered. “This is Esra speaking, what is your emergency?”

“I have a woman with a fatal neck wound, I need an ambulance!” Bruce shouted, groping for the severed artery then pinching both ends with his thumb and forefinger.

“Certainly sir. We’re in luck, I have a unit on standby at Ben Gurion.”

Thank God. “Patch me through to them.”

He heard a click, and after a short silence, someone answered, a wailing siren in the background. “I need to speak to the medic. I’m with the patient,” Bruce said.

“Hello, Seidmann here. You're with the patient right now?” the paramedic asked.

“Yes, severed carotid, two pints of blood lost. I have managed to stop the bleeding, but hypoxia will set in within a few minutes.” Bruce held his ear to her mouth, clutching the phone to his shoulder. “She’ll be brain-dead by the time a surgeon tends to her.”

“Right, we’re close to you. I’ll radio Dr. Goldblum, our vascular specialist.”

Within five minutes, the paramedics arrived. One guy was clutching a two-way radio to his ear. “Uh-huh. OK, OK, OK got it. We’ll have her in ICU in ten minutes.”
 

He nodded at Bruce and knelt next to Sarah. “I’m going to insert a stent to stabilize the blood flow. The doctor is waiting at the hospital.” He looked up at Bruce with pursed lips. “You a doctor?”

Bruce ignored the question and shifted his focus to finding a computer. He ran upstairs to find Zach’s office in a mess. Empty floppy disk boxes and CD cases lay scattered everywhere. Drawers had been pulled out and tossed to the ground; their contents lay strewn throughout the room.

Bruce wiped his bloodied hands on his trousers, picked up the phone, and dialed Zach’s mom. It rang twice before Ruth Cohen answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Ruth, Bruce here. Is Rebecca with you?”

“Yes, why? What’s—”
 

“Stay there, lock the doors. I’ll see you soon.”

He disconnected the call, then he pulled the PC towards him and plugged the GLD directly into the serial port at the back. He opened a command shell and launched the mapping application. A minute later a satellite image appeared, a blue blip flashing in the center of the map.
 

“Got you.”

June 16, 1992

Jaffa, Israel

17:29

Zach squinted and opened his eyes. He was still in the car, speeding and rocking along. His head was pounding. He squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed. Sarah was dead. He lashed out, kicking the side of the car and screaming. He slammed the back of his head into the floor of the trunk and blacked out again. A minute later he came to and whimpered. It was his fault; he had screwed up. He swallowed, trying to control his breathing. How could this have happened?

Thursday date nights, that’s how. Never, ever establish routine, the academy had taught him.

He grinded his teeth. “Shit, no!” he shouted, slamming his feet into the side of the trunk. “Someone, get me out of here.”

This wasn’t helping. He steadied his breathing, trying to swallow away the bile in his throat. He relaxed, remembering how it had all begun.
 

In his teens, his parents used to go out on Thursday nights. Every Thursday night, they never skipped a day. He remembered how it had disgusted him. He used to think they were too old for that crap; they were shirking their responsibility towards their kids.
 

Once he had mockingly asked his father about the Thursday night ritual. “You’re too old for all this lovey-dovey crap, Dad,” he had said, trying to get some sort of reaction from the older man. Any kind of reaction would have been good.
 

David Cohen had scowled at him for a long while and then looked away, staring at the horizon. “I guess it’s a natural law.”

“What?”

“Sons are put on this earth to trouble their fathers.”
 

Zach remembered it was a year later when he called his father outside. He had turned twenty-two, and he had wanted to ask his father a serious question. They settled on the porch, sipping a beer and enjoying the sunset.
 

“Do you remember Sarah?” he asked his father.

“The Rodberg girl? You brought her over during spring break.”

Zach nodded.

“Pretty girl. A good family,” his father said, looking at the horizon, as was his manner.

“Well, I’m finishing with school next year, and I was thinking of doing my military service here in Israel.”

David Cohen turned to face his son. “That’s good, Zachary. You have a moral responsibility,” his father said with a faint smile.

“Sarah and I are in love, and we want to get married before I join the army,” he blurted out.

David Cohen studied the label on his beer bottle, contemplating his answer. This was the moment Zach had dreaded; he wouldn’t be able to reconcile with his dad if he didn’t give him his blessing. After a long while, David Cohen looked at him, fixing his eyes on him. “You ready to become a man, Zachary?”
 

“What do you mean, Dad?” Zach asked. “I
am
a man.”

David Cohen narrowed his eyes. “You’re a man when I say you are.” The older man stood and placed his beer on the porch then disappeared into the house. A while later he came back holding two pairs of boxing gloves. “Here, put them on.” David pulled the gloves over his own fists and tightened the laces with his teeth.

“Why, Dad? Do you want to fight me?” Zach scoffed.
 

“Yes, son, I do. I want to beat the crap out of you.”

“You can try, old man.” Zach pulled the gloves on then danced around his dad, trying the fancy footsteps he had seen the boxers do on TV. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”

The punch was telegraphed and slow. David Cohen threw a whopping roundhouse right-hand that connected solidly to Zack's chin. While he had seen the punch coming from a mile away, he couldn’t believe it. His dad was the most good-natured person he knew. Zachary slumped to his knees, the earth spinning. He tried to shake the blow off.

“What was that for?” he moaned, moving his jaw.

His father towered over him, poking his fist in his face. “For all the derogatory remarks I had to endure from a snot-nose kid like you. I’ll tell you what happens on Thursday nights,” he said, clasping his son’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “Your mom and I fall in love again. We talk about anything but kids or homework or work or you, you damn smart aleck.”

Zach stood groggily, shaking his head.
 

“Look at me.” David Cohen connected with an uppercut to the solar plexus.
 

Zach fell with a grunt, clutching his stomach.

“We remember what made us fall in love with each other in the first place. And now, thank God, you’ll be moving out of the house, and we can go back to the way things were.” He roughly tapped the back of Zachary’s head with a gloved hand. “We can fall in love again. Hopefully Sarah will be as good to you as your mom is to me, then you’ll understand.”

David Cohen sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, then stuck out his hand. “Stand up; I feel better.”

Zach allowed himself to be pulled up. “Geez, Dad, I didn’t know you were upset about the things I said. Why didn’t you tell me to shut up?”

“Because you were a child. Today, you’re a man; it's different.” He pulled the glove from his hand and placed his hand on Zach’s shoulder. “Let me give you a piece of advice, boy. One day you will be wiser, and then you need to reach out to the person who cares about you. Your spouse. Not kids, not family. Your wife, she is all who matters in life.”

“So I have your blessing?” Zach asked with a grimace, out of breath.

“You do. If the wedding is in Jaffa. And your mom gets to choose the dress.”

The older man then turned around, shaking his head. “Hopefully they teach you some boxing skills in the army . . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zach was shaken awake from his daydream when the car swayed once more and slowed to a screeching halt. He swallowed at the lump in his throat. His dad had been right. A part of him was gone, like his heart had been ripped out. He didn’t want to live anymore.

June 16, 1992

Jaffa, Israel

19:15

Zachary Cohen was tied to a chair with his head slumped, his chin resting on his chest. His eyes were puffy and swollen shut. It felt like he had been dragged around by his hair. Fresh blood streamed from a cut on his cheekbone, down his neck, and soaked his white shirt a crimson red.

Someone sloshed a bucket of icy water over Zachary’s head. He spluttered and coughed, lifted his head, tried to focus through swollen eyes. He was in what looked like a hotel room, an ancient and ramshackle place. He panned around the room. No bed. Faded wallpaper hung in strips from the wall. A metal table stood in the center of the place.
 

His kidnapper casually sat on the table. He had one leg off the ground, the bucket on his lap. “Wake up, little man.”

Whatever, Zachary thought. He wished they’d kill him already; he had no reason for living anymore. Zachary giggled. “Yes, sir, on the double, sir,” he said, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
 

The man strode over and punched Zachary in the stomach. “I want the name for the agent who tried to kill my partner.”
 

Zachary bent forward and coughed, spitting blood from his mouth. He glanced at the man with a grimace. “The reason I’m still alive is because I know the answers to your questions. Why is this important to you? Who are—“

A man sauntered into the room. He wore a black pinstripe suit and a silky blue cravat which covered his chest and throat, tucked into a crisply-pressed, light blue shirt. “My dear,
dear
Captain Zachary Cohen.”
 

Zachary swallowed. “Callahan? You—you’re alive?”
 

Callahan stood in front of him, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Your agent attacked me with a garrote and left me for dead.” He spoke with a wheeze and stopped to swallow after every couple of sentences. Callahan nodded towards the ponytailed man. “Perreira managed to revive me. I couldn’t swallow for a month, crushed trachea, you see?” He sauntered over and stood behind Zachary. “This has become personal.” He squeezed Zachary’s shoulders. “There was a mole, you have his name.”

“Screw you.”

Callahan sauntered to Zachary’s front, then he grabbed the armrests of the chair and leaned forward, his face close to Zachary’s, their noses touching. “Captain, we’re counterintelligence operatives. Many people could die.” The smell of stale tobacco smoke lingered on his breath. “If you have a mole, I need to know who it is. We’re on the same team here.”
 

Zachary snorted. “OK, go ahead, amuse me with your bullshit.”

Callahan stood up and fiddled with his cuff links. “All right, here is the truth. The British employ me to spy on the Cubans. I have other, let us say, less official duties, as well.” He stood straight and shoved his hands in his pockets, pacing the room. “They compensated me well. I had an open checkbook, and we had made a bit of money on the side by siphoning some of these funds to our personal accounts.” He turned around to face Zach. “Someone must have known about this; why else would they have ordered a hit on me?”

Zach smiled. “Would you like to revise your story?”

“What?”

Zachary sighed. “Would you like to change your bullshit story, Callahan?”

Callahan frowned but said nothing.

“You’re leaving out pertinent information,” Zachary said, licking his lips.
 

Perreira cast a questioning glance at Callahan. “What has he left out?”
 

“The contraband. The tons of shit Platinum Private were shipping to Cuba on a weekly basis. Paying for it with British defense force funds,” Zachary said with a grimace, changing his position in the chair.
 

Perreira sniggered. “Ah, that.”

Callahan waved a hand. “Look, we need to know if the mole is on your side. And you must know. You managed to find me.”

“How do you know he didn’t order it?” Zach asked and pointed his chin at Perreira.