The Great Deception (11 page)

Alfonso let her make enough progress before
he took up pursuit. He didn't worry about losing her.

That'd be hard to do with how quickly she
moves
, the sarcasm registered.

The German woman's vector changed as she
headed for a little cafe situated at the corner at the bottom of
the descent. Confident he hadn't been made, Alfonso followed her in
five minutes later. He had to count on a disruptor which the
Germans would use to defeat listening devices. The Mossad agent
grabbed a table within earshot of Amalia.

While he waited for the other person to show
he sipped a warm latte with cream and mocha at the top. Five
DigiCoin for an overpriced coffee drink was a small price to pay
considering the potential Intel he would glean from the careless
Germans.

The door to the shop jingled. It could have
been just another customer. The place had good business. Or with
any luck, Wendel made good on his appointment with Amalia.

Alfonso detected a man walking up the aisle
near where he sat. The shuffling feet stopped short and a distinct
German greeting reached his ears. Then the official excused himself
for a moment to order his drink. "Can I get you anything?" he
kindly asked before leaving.

A Dutch Low Sax dialect. Interesting
,
Alfonso mused.

Alfonso spoke many languages. German being
one of his strong suites. Most other agents in the field had to
wear a special universal translator earpiece. Amalia politely
declined the offer but thanked him anyhow.

Her date returned momentarily wearing a big
smile and carrying a scone and chi tea in both hands.

She barely waited for him to sit before

launching in. "Are you as concerned as I am
over..."

"Hang on one sec," Wendel interrupted
her.

Alfonso keyed in on the sound of a plastic
device clunking against the wooden surface: the device he had
counted on them using. This made him feel all the more smug. Their
scant precautions against eavesdroppers left something to be
desired. Their mistake.

"Like I was saying," she picked it right up
once again, "with us being so close to, you know," she let him fill
in the blanks, "we can't afford to take the chance of allowing the
Israelis or anyone else to learn of our plans."

No, I don't know,
Alfonso thought,
disappointed in the woman's cryptic language. Whatever she didn't
say he figured it had to be big.

Wendel gave his nonverbal agreement with a
low tone in his throat. "I concur. We're still not out in the clear
on this one though. Still plenty of time for the infidels to screw
everything up."

"We can't pussyfoot around with that shifty
character in Barcelona." She was referring to the governor, Carlos
Castell.

Again, her partner followed her
perfectly.

"He knows too much."

"I've got Sofia's ear on the matter."

"Oh really?" Wendel sounded surprised. He
made a slurping noise with the steaming little china cup held close
to his lips. Amalia hadn't even touched her coffee the whole time.
"I've convinced her to cut to the chase and just expedite the
process with Spain. But I'm afraid there are other
Spains
out there. We just don't know it yet." "The sooner we know the
better." For a moment neither one spoke.

"How do you feel about a new world order?"
the low, formal female voice inquired.

"I think it certainly can be for the greater
good. Think of what could have been accomplished at Babel....When
we're (the human race) united, there's nothing too far above
us."

So that's what this is about. Nothing to
do with nationalism...the
other
-ism.

Globalism.

As interesting as the conversation was,
Alfonso still waited for any actionable Intel that could be useful
to the agency. If Mossad and the rest of the good guys were dealing
with a ticking time bomb, they needed to get at the bomb makers,
make them talk. There were several issues though. Right off the
bat, Agent Marcello had no idea what the conspirators' plans were,
but he was pretty sure Wendel and Amalia were players. Just how
much they knew and how deep their involvement? Only one way to
know. He could bring them in for interrogation. No doubt the option
crossed his mind. However, being the smart agent he is, he decided
to wait on any hasty plans and just hear if the two had anything
more to say.

Then the tone of the talk took a sudden
excursion. A rather intimate one at that. "With all the work
lately, you ever get out much?" Wendel wasn't shy about making a
move.

Amalia's previously taught face smoothed
out, brightening. "I catch a few winks of sleep here and there,
maybe a girl's night out, a few cocktails and a terrace view of
Berlin." Although Alfonso didn't know their ages, he would put the
German male at five years Amalia's senior. His guess:
forty-five.

"Sounds like you beat me in that department.
Some would consider my life to

be rather dull."

She chuckled. "Dull can be good
sometimes."

"I don't see how," he admitted. He secretly
wondered if his drag of a lifestyle made him ineligible.

"What's say we change that."

"Change what?" his voice rose with
expectation building. Just a moment ago he was having a
professional conversation with a state secretary of the Interior
Ministry. How quickly things could flip-flop. A mischievous look
played across the secretary's face. "You know...." Her foot
traveled underneath the table into his territory. It hit the
mark.

Wendel's lips turned into a squiggly line.
He involuntarily shuddered.

Alfonso rolled his eyes.
Cut the crap and
get back to business
, he thought.

"You wanna grab a drink tonight?" the
commissioner sounded surprised those were even his own words. He
didn't ask women out on dates very often, much less agency power
women. There was always a first for everything though.

"I'd like that," she confirmed, trying not
to sound overly excited at the prospect. The German really quick
went to work to pen his number on stationary.

"Here's how to contact me," he awkwardly
handed her the note.

"Great! We'll get in touch before then," she
said rising from the table.

Well this conversation is over.

He reached across to gently shake her hand
and for a moment the two locked eyes. "See you tonight," he told
her while holding the coffee shop door open like a gentleman.
Amalia left first, with lover boy Wendel in close pursuit.

Alfonso sat at his table for a little longer
than necessary to nurse his latte. To him, the glass was half full
on his prospects. He'd get in touch with the agency, then order a
team to pick the love birds up on their date and take them in for
interrogation.

It will be a night to remember for you
two.

The wicked thought pleased him very
much.

--

The next class didn't rock his boat.
Pre-cal. He didn't have a phobia to the subject unlike many of his
fellow classmates. It bored him, more precisely. Not much of a
challenge.

The teacher took attendance at the
beginning of the hour. Not to his surprise four kids were absent.
Three knocks on three separate occasions interrupted the lesson

flow...tardies.

"Get out your textbooks," he said with his
back turned to the students while he wrote something up on the
board.

Azriel didn't turn
anywhere. Instead he watched the man's loopy cursive spell out the
words,
Pop Quiz
. Ordinarily it might have given him the jitters to read
that.

Certainly he'd be exempt from today's quiz
though--no need to worry.

A few more heads in the room also noticed
the message on the board. "If you've found your spot, than we can
go over any questions you may have from last night's homework. Yes,
there's a quiz following that." It gave him great pleasure to say
those words.

Many dug out three ring binders or spiral
bound notebooks with their homework from the previous night. Most
of the students hurriedly flipped through pages as if a timer
ticked down to the start of the quiz.

"Show of hands, how many actually did their
assignment from yesterday?" A look around the room revealed most
everyone chose not to slack off and do the coursework this time. A
rarity.

"Good!" the teacher
praised his class. "Then you should have no problem with the quiz
over polynomial functions then, am I right?"
The faces that stared back looked less than certain. Finally
a girl who sat in the front opened it up for questions on the
homework.
Azriel didn't pay any attention
to the back and forth student teacher interaction. It didn't
concern him all that much. When the same girl that asked the first
question became a repeat offender with another one, Azriel
impatiently piped up with the answer.

The teacher looked down in the answer
guide.

"Why, that's correct Mr. Markov."

"Of course it is," the boy quipped.

"Is there something
you'd like to tell me right now young man that you haven't
before?"
"Meaning what,
exactly?"

"Why you're here?"

His quick tongue didn't
have a speedy reply for everything. This caught him off
balance.
The math teacher continued,
"Today is the first day I ever see your face, you walk into my
class, having taken no pre-requisites to this class to my
knowledge, and you're answering questions to the homework that
you've never even done?" "So?"

"So?" The remark sounded even more stupid
than before being parroted back by the teacher. "In all my years of
teaching, I've never witnessed a case like today." "Then what are
we gonna do about it?" The Jewish boy defiantly stated, ready for
anything.

"You'll be taking that quiz, just like the
rest of the class," came the ultimatum. Followed up by,

"Now close your books and let's get
started."

Several faces turned to glare at Azriel for
cutting short their last-minute preparation before taking the
impromptu quiz.

He pretended not to notice. He was good at
that.

--

Psychological warfare. No one knew much
about it. Each of the five guys at the safe house had always dealt
with real enemies, real bullets...death. Not chasing ghosts.

…

The sound of an idling
engine being cut aroused the sleepy, nonetheless alert
agent.
"Are we expecting visitors?" Seth
asked anybody listening.

A short stocky man with a body builder's
frame joined Seth. His face had sharp features, high cheek bones,
and a small pointed noise. The guys called him Baruch. Whether that
was his real name or not, no one knew.

Baruch ignored the question and drew his
gun. If there were prowlers traipsing around the premises of a
Mossad safe house at midnight, they would pay for it. He motioned
Seth to take up a spot by the entrance into the house while he
snuck around to the back.

Seth stuck his toe out and halfway pivoted
around the doorframe using his right shoulder to push the screen
open a little. Straining his ears to hear, light footfalls treading
the blades of grass came through loud and clear. Just one
person.

Enough time had gone by he figured Baruch
had to be in position.

Then he heard the safety
click off and the firm words, "Put your hands behind your
head."
Seth moved across the threshold to
where the switches on the wall were. He flipped the one that
activated a flood. Now the front yard was awash in the yellow glow.
What he saw greatly surprised him.

An African-American
dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket stood erect, with his
hands out, a gun in the non-offensive position pointing to the sky
in the palm of his right hand.
"Drop the
weapon!" Baruch said a little louder than before.

The man with a gun
pointed at his head did as he was told. The pistol landed a couple
feet away.
"Now put your hands behind
your head and interlock your fingers!"

When he complied the Israeli agent rushed
up from behind and patted him down. After he decided there were no
more weapons he asked the obvious, "What are you doing here?"

"That man right there can identify me," the
stranger pointed straight at Seth who now stepped off the
porch.

Agent Markov instantly recognized the raspy
smoker's voice. It hadn't changed much all these years later from
the night at the bar.

"Put your weapon away Baruch, he's no
threat."

But he didn't react. His
pistol's line of sight aimed to kill if the intruder made a
move.
"We can make this quick," Seth
said. He walked the rest of the distance to where the black man
stood. "Lift up your shirt."

The man unzipped his coat. Looked Seth in
the eye and raised the fabric of his tshirt just enough to reveal a
Star of David tat on his left hip. Agent Markov raced forward to
embrace the man. "Tyrone Banks!"

"Seth Markov!" Tyrone thumped his old
friend on the back.

"God, where have you been old man?" he
stared into the stubble complexion of an agency man worn thin like
an overused eraser from years of service.

"I'm not with Mossad
anymore, Seth. These days, I'm non-government. But pro-
Israel! Make no mistake about that."

Seth holstered his gun and put his hands on
his hips. "So what brings you here?

Moldova isn't exactly your backyard."

"And how did you know we were here?" Baruch
still had an edge to his tone. "I have my sources," his
non-committal answer hung in the air. No one questioned so he
continued.