The Great Deception (18 page)

"13, ma'am."

She laughed and told him to call her Stacy.
"You're a little young to be going to high school."

Esther cast a wistful glance at the Jewish
boy before answering her mom.

"He's smart. He could skip a few grades and
still be in good shape." "My, my!" Stacy gasped. "Who are your
parents? If you don't mind me

asking."

"Seth and..." his voice trailed off,
"Jessica Markov."

His eyes remained on a fixed point on the
floor while he said this. Suddenly a warm hand rested on his
shoulder which caused him to swivel. Her blue eyes stared into his
soul. Esther reached in and tugged on his heart strings. The love
in her beryl eyes communicated to him everything would be okay.

The hurt of uttering his mom's expired name
left him.

He shared her same smile and forgot for a
moment how much his personal space bubble had been invaded.

Esther's mom kept a wary eye on the young
people in the back as she stayed vigilant at the helm of the flying
shuttle. Something in

the boy's reaction to asking about his
parents told her to not ask any more questions and leave well
enough alone.

Some time went by minus any additional
probing questions on her part. She began to bank sharply to the
right before speaking up, "You said Park Tzamaret is where you
live?" "Yeah," Azriel mumbled.

Esther inconspicuously glimpsed where they
were. Her posture suddenly stiffened a little. The trip was
over.

They weren't at Park Tzamaret.

--

Barcelona, Spain

A rickety steel blade lazily rotated in the
AC wall unit. It functioned better as a noise maker than an air
conditioner. One lone light chased out the darkness in the cramped
interrogation chamber.

A wood grain table took up the center of the
room. Behind it, two metal folding chairs faced the only exit
straight across the way. That night two German BfV diplomats were
the distinguished guests of honor. Their interrogator would walk
into the room at any moment.

When they were led into the chamber in the
first place, they had hoped the cuffs would finally come off. They
weren't going anywhere after all--prisoners to their present
circumstances. No such luck however. The man that disposed of them
in the holding cell thought it best to tie their hands behind their
backs. Strong tape kept their mouths sealed shut, too. There would
be no need for chitchat: not until the interrogator asked his
questions, that is.

Amalia could only share her worried eyes
with her date sitting next to her, who happened to mirror worry
right back. How sorry she was to make him endure the same fate she
did. She knew it wasn't her fault, that it encompassed something
bigger than the both of them, but that didn't make her feel any
less responsible.

She wondered how Wendel must've felt. On the
surface he didn't appear to be an overly emotional type of guy. Nor
did he come across as withdrawn, indifferent to the world around
him. In a word? Balanced.

Surprisingly intimate for a male, but at the
same time nowhere near emasculated.

A new noise filled the room causing the two
prisoners' heads to snap up. A dark, poorlydressed individual with
an unimpressive stature and little bulk in the areas where it
counted cracked the door open wide enough for only someone his size
to slink through. He glanced in the Germans' direction and noticed
the wide-eyed surprise in their eyes.

He got that a lot.

Agent Marcelo quickly discerned his new
surroundings to be a bit warmer than the last time he had the
pleasure. Off came his floral button-down, leaving him with only a
sweatstained wife beater on--one size too small at that.

Amalia caught herself in a deadpan stare at
the inked arms of whom she presumed to be the interrogator.
Something seemed to be missing from his ensemble though and it
bothered her. She had seen torture scenes from TV shows and usually
the inquisitor brought with him the tools of the trade to extract
answers from his subjects. This guy looked out of his element. She
knew not to make snap judgments on individuals though. Perhaps his
appearance was by design she reasoned...get the guard down and hit
'em when they're most vulnerable.

Wendel sat there wringing his hands in
angst. His handcuffs were beginning to cut off circulation to his
wrists, too. He used that as an excuse to convince himself he
squeezed his hands to get the blood flowing again and not to
mitigate the turmoil within. His eyes dwelled on the air bubbles in
the painted cinder block wall in front of him. Up until now, dread
had successfully penetrated his permeable mind.

Wendel closed his eyes and silently exhaled
through his nose. All the fibers in his being premeditatedly braced
for the worst that could happen to him in the hours to come.

A fourth person had entered into the room
undetected. He positioned himself directly behind the detainees'
heads. Upon being given the subtle signal from Alfonso, the man
with the invisibility cloak sprang into action. Wendel and Amalia
suddenly pitched forward so hard that their foreheads smacked
against the table in front of them.

Alfonso didn't wait for them to recover
either. He motioned to his incognito helper to continue his
work.

Next, the victims were grabbed by their hair
and sharply jerked backwards to an upright sitting position. Amalia
yelped, but Wendel barely grunted. By now both victims were seeing
through glassy red eyes at their interrogator who seemed ready to
ask his first question.

At the last possible second Wendel noticed
a distortion in the space around his mouth. He accurately guessed
what would come next. Whatever facial hair he might have had got
painfully plucked out by the duck tape that slowly peeled away from
his face. The German grimaced.

Amalia received the same treatment after her
partner got his.

Alfonso smiled like a shark and said rather
snarkily, "Now tell me, what's the real reason

for your visit to lovely Barcelona? The lady
first."

"Uh
―
" her voice
wavered. "
―
business..."

"What kind?"

Wendel shot her a cross look.

Alfonso didn't wait around before saying,
"Don't force my hand. I always get what I want."

Amalia looked miserable already. How much
longer could she play the martyr for Germany? For Scorpion?

When neither one volunteered an answer to
the current inquiry, Alfonso shook his head.

"Flagellation it is."

Amalia began to whimper a little.

"You have something to say?" the Mossad
agent extended a little grace.

In an instant the woman's fragile features
went from broken to tough as Teflon.

Alfonso recognized the stubborn streak and
reluctantly nodded to his assistant. The blows came hard and often
with hardly any time in between. The resolve the Germans showed
didn't surprise Alfonso in the least. He had a whole show lined up
for them--and they were still in the opening credits.

--

Ukraine

Tyrone's hulking black SUV with fake plates
came to a stop on the side of a rural highway. Baruch demanded they
pull over after four hours of driving so he could take a leak. No
one else had to go but him.

The mile markers couldn't have gone by fast
enough for Seth on the twenty hour road trip.

A light breeze trickled into the cabin from
the cracked windows. He glanced out the passenger side window to
check on Baruch's progress. What he saw was a man rather clumsily
slide down the embankment and nearly loose his footing at the
bottom of the stopgap latrine.

Baruch tossed out a few curse words as he
let the juices flow.

"Does he normally drink so much?" Tyrone
referred to the man taking a piss. Seth, caught off-guard by the
question hemmed and hawed a bit. "I--I don't

remember him ever being a drinker, come
to

think of it."

"Can we count on him to get it together down
the stretch?"

"Without a doubt. There's not a better man
to go with me on this mission than that guy out there."

Seth grew thoughtful and wondered about the
veteran next to him. "You stay single all these years?"

Tyrone had to think about it before
answering. Obviously he had a two-part answer because of how he
dawdled. "My track record
―
almost
perfect,
”
he said while making a hand
gesture.
“
I was on a streak until....I
fell hard," his voice grew faint. "Ah!" Seth's eyes shone brighter.
"I knew you weren't cut out of that cloth." Tyrone knew his friend
to be talking about singlehood by his reference. He balked anyhow.
"How you figure that?"

Seth glanced in the side mirror. Baruch had
nearly made it back to the vehicle already.

Light poured into the backseat. Highway
noise commingled with it until the Mossad man put an end to the
outside influences by shutting the door behind himself.

"Ready to go?" he called from the rear.

"Next potty stop won't be for a while,"
Tyrone said turning around to address the agent.

"Yeah, yeah."

"You don't like me, do ya, son." It was more
of a statement than a question. "He's like that with everybody,"
Seth explained. "Baruch only knows how to get along when lives are
on the line. In every other situation he's a complete douche."
"Thanks partner."

"I've got your back."

More sarcasm. "Yeah you do."

"Did you forget about my question?" Tyrone
reminded Seth.

"I won't answer until you get us back on the
road and are doing a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour."

Tyrone activated auto pilot with adaptive
cruise control. Set and forget driving at its best. He made a
clicking noise with his tongue.
“
Better?
”

Seth made a face. "Suffering succotash, I
must give it to you straight." He slurred his s's like a pro.

Baruch howled in laughter. "I've never heard
you do that before!"

"I bring out the best in him," an
equallymystified Tyrone muttered.

…

Two hundred miles later, after lengthy
conversation the three men confined themselves to silence.

"We couldn't get anything faster than this?"
Seth complained with his face to the window.

"Hey, my pockets aren't as deep as Mossad's.
You're just gonna have to make due."

"Who's our target?" Baruch asked.

"Thought you'd never ask," Tyrone smiled.
"I've got your mission packets in the center console. You can read
all about it."

Since Seth sat the closest to it he opened
up the compartment and found two tablets waiting there for him. He
tossed the one back to his partner. Both men were grateful to lose
themselves in the digital world and for a moment, get their
restless minds off the never-ending road that stretched on before
them.

"Sofia Keller? A woman?" Baruch said after a
little while.

"What's the matter? You have some kind of
code that doesn't permit you to target members of the opposite
sex?" Tyrone teased.

"No," Baruch replied. "I was hoping for

somebody a little higher up in the German
hierarchy is all."

"That goes for me, too," Seth admitted,
feeling the same disappointment. "I had really hoped to read Lothar
Kirsch's name instead." "Him?" Tyrone crinkled his nose at the
mention of the Fourth Reich's corrupt leader. "He's on a short
waiting list. He'll get what's coming to him. Don't you worry."
"He'll get my bullet," Seth uttered through gritted teeth.

Baruch felt the same anger towards the
German leader as his partner did, yet he said nothing of it.

"So who ordered the hit on Keller?" Seth
wanted to know.

Tyrone disengaged from the road and turned
in his seat to face Seth.

"Mossad, of course."

"C'mon. They're doing the job for someone
else. I'm not gonna ask again."

"Well shoot junior, you're not half bad.

You're right. The local government

Berlin set up to oversee Spain has fallen in
on hard times."

"Meaning?" Baruch pressed.

"Sofia Keller has led a witch hunt against
Governor Castell and his administration." "This Castell guy,"
Baruch began, "he somehow connected to Mossad?" Tyrone nodded. He
was pleased by the man's deduction. "Bingo. He's very pro-Israel,
hates those nazi bastards...blah, blah, blah."

"Sounds like a guy I could like," Seth
remarked, thinking of his own hatred towards the Germans.

Tyrone looked at Seth and saw a man roiling
like a kettle over raked coals. He knew Seth Markov's heritage,
knew how passionate he was about protecting the homeland. Which was
precisely why he recruited him into Mossad without hesitation more
than a decade ago.

Tyrone felt the need for a subject change.
There would be plenty of time to revisit the Germany topic and
their reason for being there. Later.

"You have a son, right?" he casually
asked.

Seth's eyes moistened a touch. Jessica and
Azriel were the only two people in the world capable of making him
feel emotions.

"Yeah," he responded.

"When was the last time you--"

Seth cut him off: he knew the question. The
answer didn't come easy, nevertheless. "Five years."

Tyrone let out a low whistle.

Baruch decided to participate in the
conversation and join with the question,

"How old is he now do you think?"

"He's a full-fledged Markov man by now.
Eighteen, I reckon," Seth reflected.

"Damn," Tyrone said. He didn't know what
else to say. He never got to experience the joy of having a kid. As
he sat there and watched the broken yellow lines on the road go by
in a blur, all he could do was imagine the pain that must have been
there for Seth having missed most of his son's teenage years.