Disappearance (45 page)

"Sounds mighty risky to me," Davidof said.

"You live for risk, Arti.  That's how come you got so much money."  Lambert said half-jokingly, knowing that despite the great responsibility bestowed on his friend's shoulders, he had a weakness of turning gung-ho once in a while.

"This is different, Eddy.  George lost his life for this.  This is playing with fire.”

Lambert played his trump card.

"This could bring Langone down," he remarked, knowing the great hatred that existed between the two rival firms.

Davidof smiled.  "It could clear up a big chunk of the market, can't it?"

"Oh, much more than that Arti," Lambert acknowledged, "if we play this right, you may even get all of Matlock.”

-------

Yossi Gadot drove his new Renault to the familiar gate with a growing sense of apprehension.  He felt his stomach knot as he rolled down his window to identify himself and state his business to the armed sentry, who gave him an arrogant look and retreated to his hut to verify the credentials and check for clearances.

A minute later the red and white painted metal arm lifted simultaneously with a dusty metal stopper which disappeared into a slit in the asphalt, clearing the way into the acclaimed Shabac headquarters.

They were waiting for him.

He had asked, or more accurately, insisted on a hearing with his old boss, refusing to discuss the matter until they gave him a high ranking deputy who Yossi knew could reach Resnik. He knew his name would create a pile of speculation; his intention was to create enough panic in the system for the chief to be forced to handle the matter himself.

In his briefcase, he had a dossier with such destructive potential that no one, not
even the almighty head of the Shabac, could ignore. He was reasonably confident he would attract the proper attention and had just gotten his proof by being admitted into this most guarded of complexes faster than any Ministry of Defense employee with clearance.

He followed the familiar narrow path up a brief incline between two columns of eucalyptus trees to where the road widened into a small parking lot, and found a vacant visitor parking space, right up by the entrance to the old and graying, British-built, fortified, three-storey building.  He sat in his car for a brief moment to gain some composure then forced himself to step out and vigorously climb the few steps to the building's entrance, where he was frisked by a second armed guard then buzzed into the main lobby.

He looked around the familiar place.  Even as an operative he disliked the detached gray painted walls, unpadded benches, and generally speaking, military typesetting without a hint of color or feel.

His briefcase was checked for firearms by a military policewoman seated behind a metal desk next to an x-ray machine. She slammed his briefcase shut and pointed him to the waiting area where he sat uncomfortably on a wooden stool, observing the orderly commotion for a few minutes before someone appeared to escort him.

As he followed the man up the stairs he could not help but envisage his brother climbing these same flight of stairs on his way to confront the same people he was about to confront.  He vividly recalled himself sneaking into the underground garage of this very building to look for the Volvo and the ensuing meeting with his brother at the Haifa central bus station, the last time he would see him alive.  He recalled their last phone conversation, his brother waiting at a Haifa cafe for his information about ex-Mossad agent, Dan Hasson.  He had scolded himself over that reckless endeavor for years, allowing his brother to confront those ruthless characters, and had managed to come to terms with it, but as he made his way up the stairs behind his bulky escort, on his way to confront these same people, his guilty conscience returned with surprising force.

They reached the top floor and walked along a busy corridor to the director's suite, entering a lavish reception area that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the building.  An arrogant looking, tall secretary with a trendy hairdo, pointed them to a small conference room; without as much as a word as she barked instructions into a phone that looked to be glued to her shoulder.

Yossi was led into the room by his escort who remained waiting by the entrance until Resnik stepped in through an obscured sliding door directly from his chambers.

The Shabac director seated himself across from Yossi, throwing open a file he had in his hand, dismissing the escort with a nod of his head. He silently leafed through the file then raised his head to glare at Yossi.

"Refresh my memory," he said with a menacing glare. "I'm a little rusty on these ancient details.”

Yossi felt the bubbling anger rush to his head and the years of grief and frustration jar his sense of reason.  With great effort he managed to stop himself from lashing out at his former boss and said in a choked voice: “Do you really need me to refresh your memory, or is eliminating police captains is a trivial matter to you?"

Resnik's stare turned icy.

"If you’ve got something solid say it, otherwise don't waste my time!"

"I'll do even better than that chief," Yossi spat, "I'll spread my claim over every goddamn tabloid from here to New York and then we'll see how you fare.”

"Don't threaten me with media, Gadot," Resnik hissed. "You ain't the first to walk in here with these types of threats and you won't be the last to have them stuck back up your ass.  If you got somethin' to say then say it, otherwise this meeting is over.”

"As you wish, chief," Yossi muttered and threw open his briefcase taking out the file he had prepared.

"First, let me say for the record and for whatever surveillance equipment you have taping this meeting, that I hold you personally responsible for the death of my brother," Yossi began, opening his file to a marked page.

Resnik did not flinch, but his eyes were focused on the dossier as if trying to read it up-side-down.

"But we'll get to that later," Yossi continued, "right after I tell you everything you ought to know about the Karen Glass affair you so effectively managed to cover up.”

Resnik sat back and folded his arms.

"And one more thing before we begin, just in case you're wondering how to get your hands on this file.  I can leave it with you once we're done.  It will tell you only what I want you to know.  Everything else is safely tucked away in the hands of some pretty competent people who will not hesitate to come after you if anything happens to me.  Now let's begin.”

Yossi pretended to study his notes for a minute then declared: "I, and those competent people I was just referring to, know who kidnapped Karen Glass.  We know why she was kidnapped and who's responsible and we also know why you, on behalf of our righteous country, felt the need to cover up this sorry affair.”

Gadot paused for effect then went on. “Most importantly though, we know Karen's alive and where she's being held.”

"Sounds quite interesting," Resnik said mockingly, rocking back in the swivel chair. "I'd certainly like to know all this myself.”

"Let me tell you what you should know," Yossi hissed back at him, feeling his anger well up again.  "You should know that behind every person you throw in a dungeon, beat up, or eliminate, there exist people who care, who are willing to stand up to people like you and not just sit there and take the abuse. You should know that this position you hold does not give you the right to treat people like trash, and you can be certain that one day, someone will stand in your way and make you pay.”

Resnik did not reply right away but Yossi could tell he was fighting to keep his composure.  He was still rocking back in his chair, his hands still folded across his chest, but his jaws were clenched and his eyes were ablaze.

"You're obviously quite distraught," he finally said slowly, his voice trembling with suppressed anger, "but let's cut the emotional crap.  You should know better than to insult me in my own office.  You're obviously here for something so get to the fucking point.”

"The point is this, Chief: I could accuse you and Chief Tavori of covering up this investigation.  I can produce a letter, left by my brother just hours before he came here to see you, outlining the facts and suspicions about your stinky cover-up.  I know all there is to know about Dan Hasson/Arbel, the portable anti-aircraft missile project he was sent to impair, and him turning double agent and blackmailing his own country. I can create the biggest stink this country has ever seen and all you have to do is tempt me.”

Resnik remained silent.  He had stopped rocking his chair and was now sitting upright, his arms propped on the conference table, his face conveying subtle concern.

"But I'm here for the sake of the living," Yossi continued, breaking the amassed tension.  "You see, Chief, my brother's been dead for three years and nothing can bring him back. But there's a girl whose life has been ruined for three and a half years by people like you who consider human lives expendable in the face of higher causes.  She, her family, and her friends have suffered long enough and are now in a rare position to get her back alive, and I intend to see this through with your help.”

"You're obviously well-prepared," Resnik commented, looking more than a little relieved, "but the way it works around here is that you present your case, then I make the decision whether this bureau gets involved or not.”

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Chief," Yossi said with a smile, "and I intend to tell you what I have in mind, just as soon as you get us some coffee.  This ain't any way to treat your guests, especially ones you now need.”

CHAPTER 44

The phone rang before Stana had a chance at a first sip from his mug of morning coffee.

"It's Langone," his secretary announced in crispy French through the intercom.

Stana picked up the receiver.

"Hello Edgar," he said in his German-accented English, "you could at least let me get through my first cup of coffee, no?"

"No time for that Karl," he heard Langone say urgently, "we may have another buyer.”

Stana sobered quickly.

"Come again?" He said seriously.

"Bradley called me yesterday; said somebody in England wants the missiles.”

"Just like that?" Stana asked, surprised and more than a little concerned. "Are we on mail order now?"

"We checked him out. Looks pretty legit," Langone said. "How does he know about the missiles?"

"He doesn't," Langone said.  "A rep met him at an industry convention in London.  They got to talkin' and it turns out he needs exactly what we got.”

"Was he told about the missiles?"

"Nope! The rep called Bradley in Dayton.  They had the information verified then Bradley called me.  I had my people double-check Bradley and we came out with identical findings."

"Which are?" Stana asked, still skeptical.

"Not over the phone Karl," Langone said, "I'm on my way to the airport.  I'll be in London around six in the evening your time. Can you join me there?"

"Do I have a choice Edgar?"

"You really don't Karl, not unless you trust me to work it alone.”

"You know I don't Edgar.”

"Well, there ya' go," Langone said cheerfully, "we're meeting at the London Hilton at nine.  I'd like to meet an hour or so before, so I can fill you in, but just so you know, the name of the firm is 'Vitcon Partners' and we'll be meeting the chairman and CEO, Scott Vitcon.  They're a private holding company for various firms that are in the business.  Bradley has done business with at least one of their companies in the past and...”

"Wait a minute," Stana cut him off, "is one of their companies called Sigma Shipping …Sigma Lines... 
Sigma something? I seem to recall that Vitcon name from when I was working in Greece.”

There was a pause on the other side.  Langone was checking his notes.  "I got nothin' Sigma here, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.  Our investigation was quite preliminary and it won't hurt to do some more checkin'.  I'm sure we did not cover everything.”

"I'll certainly do that," Stana said, scribbling some notes on scrap paper.

"See you at the Hilton then," Langone said, sounding eager to get on his way.

"I'll be there at eight," Stana said and hung up.  Settling back in his comfortable office chair, he suddenly realized how tense the conversation had gotten him.  He reached for his mug and gulped down his now lukewarm coffee.  The name Vitcon was obstructing his thoughts.  It sounded familiar but he could not yet place it.

At fifty-three, Karl Stana had been working at Krausse-Hauser for twenty-two years, starting out as a financial specialist but soon shifting to program management.

Aside from his fierce competitiveness and dedication to the company, he had two specific traits that made him a much better program manager than a financial talent. Those were his exceptional organizational skills and his ruthlessness, carrying him up the chain of command and eventually earning him the position he now held, Senior Vice President for Special Affairs.

He grew up in Munich, where his family owned and operated a small hotel.  His parents both managed the hotel and it was there that he acquired his organizational skills joining in the family enterprise at a very early age and working his way up to shift manager before he turned seventeen.

Fed up with tending to guests by the time he had reached age twenty, he was looking for a change of venue, when his father suggested he go to study in the US and young Karl jumped at the idea.  He spent the next year perfecting his English then was accepted to New York State University at Stony Brook as an economics major, where he spent the next six years completing his Bachelor of Arts and Masters degrees.

He worked for a small broker's firm on Wall Street for the next
three years, specializing in commodities then returned to Munich upon his father's request to help run the hotel which had been oscillating between the red and black for a few years. After tending to the family business for two years, helping to sustain the negative trend and turn it around, he left again and landed a job as an analyst with Krausse-Hauser.

His program managing skills were discovered when he presented a report on a failing enterprise, including some operative suggestions of his own on how to reorganize the business.  His supervisor suggested he carry out his own revival plan and Stana found himself managing a small rifle factory, turning it profitable in just two years.  It was there that he was first exposed to the arms industry and it was there that his superiors had first marked him as a special programs expert.

Several years later, in the midst of a 'must win' competition for a torpedo contract in Greece, his ruthless personality became fully apparent.  As the program supervisor on behalf of Krausse-Hauser it came to his attention that one of his crew had been supplying their main rival information about their every move.  He used the 'mole' to their advantage, feeding him false information, and eventually overcame the obstacle and won the contract.  His shrewd handling of the crisis earned him his superior
s’
utmost confidence and he was eventually given a Vice President Position for special affairs; affairs best kept away from the public eye.

The name Vitcon had been etched in his mind from his Greek days, connected to the name Sigma that had something to do with shipping lines but he was unable to jar his naturally decaying memory, so he rang his secretary instructing her to fetch his 'Greece' file from five years back and book him a seat on a flight to London.

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Martha sat under the plastic canopy of her improvised studio amidst her plants and painting gear, facing the Conejo valley, lost in thought.

The news of her daughter being spotted alive elated and terrified her at the same time.  She had remained numb long after parting from Lisa, trying to fill the void with rational thoughts, but none came.  She drove aimlessly for a while, then went home and took to a bottle of gin she had kept hidden for just such an occasion.  It did little to ease the pain, contributing a piercing hangover to the misery of the subsequent morning, adding reason to remain locked in her room the entire day.  Realizing the magnitude of the betrayal by her husband of twenty-five years, the father of her children, and the man she had once loved, caused her grief beyond compare so she forced herself to try and paint, but the tears blurred her vision.

The release came at night in the arms of Estella the maid, as she came in to help with the mess.  Martha broke down in her arms and cried herself to sleep.  When she awoke to a reddening sky of another California winter morning, she felt surprisingly ready to fulfill her promise.  After the initial turmoil, she figured she would take a practical approach and do her part to help without putting much faith in anything until she got to see her missing daughter in the flesh.

That meant confronting her husband.

As she sat above the darkening valley, oblivious to the view she frequently relished, she unsuccessfully tried to prepare herself for the dreadful encounter.  Though they still shared the house, they rarely met nowadays, and now that she knew the truth, the mere thought of facing him made her nauseous. What plagued her most was her own blindness and ignorance of the man who had shared her life for so many years. Thinking back, she now realized that the indications were always there, if she had only chosen to look at them, but she had preferred to stick her head in the sand and now she and her daughters were paying the price.

Her mind strained and buckled, mixing guilt with shame, anger and disgust at her own incompetence, with only one thought keeping her from entirely blaming herself: never had she known, seen, or heard of such betrayal by a father of his kinship.  She had never been aware of an affair quite like theirs.  It was monstrous to abduct your own child but even more so to be able to go on living with one’s own family believing the child to be dead.

How
could a human being survive, living such a lie, she thought as she began recalling some of the scenes she had suppressed for so long and flashes began to appear of their nightmare.  She replayed his riveting speech at the Kibbutz Geffen guest house, the Israeli media hungry for drama; she standing by his side while he vowed never to leave his daughter.

How could anyone be so cruel? She shook her head in resignation. How could she have been so blind?

She heard footsteps and turned to see Estella poking her head through the bedroom glass doors. 

"He's here Miss Martha," the maid said in broken English.  Martha glanced at her watch. It was five past six; surprisingly early for him to show up.

"Thank you Estella.  Could you please ask him to come see me in ten minutes?"

Estella nodded and disappeared.  Martha hurried into the room to
put on fresh clothes and freshen up.

She was seated on the bed when he silently walked into the bedroom.  Heart pounding, mind reeling, she stood up to face him.  He had his suit jacket slung over his shoulder and was loosening his tie, looking at her inquisitively.

"I know about Karen," she said in a trembling voice, consciously moving her feet apart a little to steady herself.

Glass raised his eyebrows, registering mild amusement.

"Oh?" he murmured, being non-committal.

"I know she's alive and I know you're responsible for her disappearance," Martha accused, unable to control the trembling.

There was a long pause as Glass appraised her decisiveness.  Martha could see his expression change from amusement, to surprise, to disbelief, to denial, then anger, before registering stunned comprehension.  They stood facing each other for a long moment, each holding his ground before Glass turned and walked out of the room.

She heard his car pull up a few hours later, his silhouette reappearing in her doorway soon after.  She sat up in her bed, wide awake, and turned on the bedside lamp.

"I'm sorry," he said remaining by the doorway.  "I truly am sorry."  His voice was weak and hoarse.

She felt no sympathy.

"You're sorry for what?" she asked bluntly.  "For ruining whose life? Karen's? Lisa's? Mine?"

He did not respond remaining crouched by the doorway.

"How could you live with yourself?" she spat in open disgust.

"I've been thinking that of late," he said.

"Sure you have, now that the truth is out.  But you had no trouble living with yourself so far.”

He remained silent, and she continued vehemently. 

"You had no intentions of ever saying anything to me, did you?  You bastard!  You just went on living life as usual with a wife believing her daughter was dead.”

"It was meant to be only temporary.  I was protecting the both of you.”

"You were protecting your goddamn company, that's who you've been protecting.  We were just pawns in the overall scheme.  You ruthless bastard! You ruined your own family to get what you want.”

"It was impossible to turn around once it happened…"

"Don't talk to me about impossible Paul.  From where I stand it looks quite impossible to be able to live such a lie for three and a half years, yet you managed it quite well.  With one swing of the bat you managed to ruin the lives of your daughters and me without as much as a side effect…"

"That's not true Martha," he pleaded, his voice hoarse, "I've been paying the price.  Look at me.  I'm a wreck.  I've been a wreck ever since this started…"

"At least you knew she's alive!" Martha cried in a flurry of anger and emotion.  "You let Lisa and me mourn her! You jeopardized your own flesh and blood, putting her in the custody of savages!  And you took away the best years of her life…"

Martha buried her face in the palms of her hands and sobbed fervently, panting in short gasps.  Glass began to walk toward her but she jumped away, snake bitten.

"Don't you dare... you monster..." she hissed at him, her tear stricken face gravely alarmed.

He halted in mid stride.

"Martha, please…"

"Don't even think about it," she spat, "not now and not ever. As soon as we find Karen, you'll never see us again.”

Glass snapped in one startling instant.  Thinking he was about to strike her, Martha watched him take a few more steps toward her. Fists clenched, his face twisted in an odd expression, he suddenly convulsed, his knees buckling to the carpet, he began rocking back and forth, weeping, his hands covering his face.

Martha leaped back on the bed.  Pulling her legs underneath her, she watched her agonizing husband drown in sorrow. She felt peculiarly detached, the wretched figure below a far cry from the man she had married.  Never, in her darkest dreams, could she imagine such a twisted fate; the once handsome, well-bred, optimistic executive, turning an emotional cripple, smothered in a heap of self-destruction. The sight of him drained her anger, leaving only pity for the man who had betrayed her trust and ravaged her life.  He was no longer a factor in any future plans, with one exception: She still needed him to help release her daughter.