The Falstaff Enigma (40 page)

"Hurry up, damn it." The young senior lieutenant was usually very relaxed. His men liked him because he never reported any of their frequent encounters with alcohol. But the officer had changed, and that change had occurred within the last week. He could not understand why he suddenly reacted to the slightest error with extreme intolerance. Or why he had punched a frightened 18-year-old draftee for not fixing his jammed weapon from the previous night. He did not have an answer for why he had called a midnight inspection and smashed every bottle of vodka he found with the butt of his rifle. He was not sure if the tension of his men was in reaction to him or because they felt the same sense he had been feeling. He did not know what caused his anxiety. He had never before experienced the feelings of war.

The technician crawled out fro
m underneath a metal desk frame. "I think it will work now, sir," he said as he scrambled to get back into his chair. They were part of a communications unit and the truck they were in contained very sensitive, although not very well maintained, equipment. The technician put on a pair of oversized earphones and, while lowering his left hand, diverted it just long enough to rotate a small knob to the "on" position. In front of his face a small circular screen blinked to life, containing at first only a few shades of green. As the image intensified it became a single white line running horizontally across the cathode ray tube.

The technician leaned over to his left and pressed a yellow button on a different and more modern looking device, signaling it to begin pulsing a short wavelength beam against their target, standing over five hundred meters away. The man's eyes concentrated on the oscilloscope image as it immediately reacted to each pulse of power. After a few adjustments he looked at his superior. "Tell them now."

The senior lieutenant lifted a microphone to his mouth and depressed the transmit switch. "Clearance given, clearance given." A kilometer away, in the military control tower of Minsk airport, a controller began to issue apparently routine commands over a seldom-used air force channel.

The technician leaned again to his left and began pressing the pulse button. The oscilloscope reacted as it had before and then instantly changed to a new, weaker pattern. After ten seconds the original pattern resumed, and a second later the officer tapped the technician's shoulder, signifying the end of the rigged flight instructions. The technician quickly pulled off his earphones and looked at the senior lieutenant. The technician calmly nodded his head.

"Confirmation. Landing to take place as scheduled," the officer said into his microphone.

Inside the tower, a
captain cursed under his breath and then gave his orders. "The landing commences now," he said into his radio handset. He looked down at a fuel tanker as five soldiers crammed themselves into the cab. His gaze was attracted back to the tarmac. The morning sun had emerged from the clouds for the first time, bathing the camouflaged transport plane in a reddish glow. The plane stood alone at the end of a row of helicopters. It had flown in just after midnight, quickly unloading part of its cargo of spare parts. All had been very routine, except that the pilot had orders to wait in Minsk until told where to go next. That small oddity, which would have gone unnoticed only a week earlier, was enough to make the captain curious, his suspicions having just been confirmed.

The tanker truck
, which carried no fuel, approached the transport plane as a commercial jet passed overhead on its way to a landing on the civilian side of the airport. The driver stopped under the port wing, the truck's nose facing out, away from the fuselage. The read of the truck was as close to the plane’s fuselage as the driver could maneuver. The driver opened his door and stepped onto the concrete taxiway, still wet from the nighttime dew. He left the door open, providing the four others with an exit that faced away from the cockpit. He then walked to the rear of the truck and began unwinding the fuel hose as his eyes scanned the length of the fuselage, searching for some clue to the location of the hidden compartment that had to be there.

He saw it.
About seven meters behind the cockpit was a group of sheet metal panels where the paint was just a little darker than the rest of the olive drab portions of the camouflage pattern. The panels pointed sideways, exactly toward the control tower. The driver stepped back along the left-hand side of the truck, out of view of the aircraft fuselage. His four colleagues were out of the cab and crouched beside the truck. They had propped up a submachine gun against the large rear tire for the driver.

"Midsection, under the wing bracing," the driver
said in a whisper. "Go." He walked back into the sightline of any possible peepholes, stretching out the hose behind him. Two of the other soldiers ran around the rear of the truck and had to bend over slightly to run underneath the fuselage until they were under the cockpit.

Directly beneath the cockpit was an escape hatch, to serve this time as the point of entry, not exit. One man tested the hatch but it was locked from the inside with no emergency release. The man was prepared. He reached into a loose breast pocket with his right hand as he rested his gun's extended metal stock on the concrete with his left, leaning the weapon's muzzle against his thigh. He pulled a plastic container from his pocket and quickly opened it, now having both hands free. He removed a small square chunk of plastic explosive and began to roll it between his palms until it assumed the shape of a half meter cigar. He looked up and pressed the dangerous putty against the hinges of the escape hatch. From his right breast pocket he removed a detonator and pressed it into the explosive. The two men walked back
along the length of the fuselage until they could take cover behind the truck, trailing the detonator's wire lead. One of the pair that had stayed behind held a battery in his hand. He took the two wires and held one against the positive end of the battery with his thumb. He moved the other wire slowly toward the negative pole of the battery.

"To victory," said the man just loud enough for the driver to hear and take cover
behind the truck. The sound of the explosion was deafening to those in the area, but it did the job. The hatch door had been blown inward. "Now,” screamed the man as he ran around the rear of the truck, under the fuselage and went to one knee directly underneath the now breached hatch. The other three followed right behind. As each man reached the spot under the steaming hatchway, he placed a boot into the cupped hands of the first man and was lifted into the cockpit. The three men were inside the plane in quick succession. The first man, the strongest of the group, then lifted himself through the hatch. The driver took cover behind the rear corner of the tanker, in the process picking up the submachine gun that had been left for him.

As expected, t
he lead man into the plane found an empty cockpit. He quickly moved to the rear of the cockpit and used his left hand to open the door that exposed the rest of the plane's interior. He stepped through the doorway and into a narrow alley formed by crates on his left and an aluminum partition on his right. His index finger tightened around the trigger involuntarily. The only sound he heard was his own breathing, which was fast and seemed to be amplified within the dark interior.

A door opened on his right
about a gun's length in front of him. He noticed only the blur of some motion, bathed in a light red glow from the now revealed room.

The sudden sound was overwhelming, ye
t seemed to the man to be a kilometer away. His heart hesitated, unsure of its unconscious role. Blood spattered onto his face and a young body fell forward into the small alleyway, its head unrecognizable as human. The shots had come from the second man in the group of four, who was now pushing his leader the short distance toward the wide open door.

The leader
reached the door and started to squeeze his trigger early, before he had rounded his body in the doorway. But he held the trigger firmly until he had swept the small room from one end to the other. Sparks and flesh exploded into the musty air and two more men died, each seated in front of now distorted electronic gear. The 9 millimeter hollow point rounds killed effectively but lacked the power to punch through the planes exterior.

The leader's magazine was empty but his finger did not relax. His eyes finally focused on the carnage in front of him. The body to his left was slumped forward with two dark red holes at about the center of the victim's shoulder blades. The young Russian still wore a pair of headphones. The other body on the leader's right was turned 90 degrees to the control console and was almost facing its killer. This man's jaw hung down from the right side of his face, as if some demonic force had ripped the jawbone away, only to stop halfway, out of whim. Blood still streamed out of the wound and was being soaked up by the man's shirt. The leader looked at the man's left arm, which was resting on his left thigh. The arm began to move. It slid off the leg and the leader heard the sharp clang of metal on metal. His mind hesitated an instant and then reacted. "Out!
Gren …"

The grenade exploded, its body disintegrating into a hundred deadly, twisted projectiles. The leader fell backward, his back hitting a large crate behind him. He slid down, his posterior coming to rest on the legs of the first man who had died just seconds before. He looked at the lower appendages that formed his legs. They were dotted with fresh holes, his
left calf muscle torn away from the rest of the appendage. His right knee lay exposed, the white of its intricate bone structure now being hidden only by blood. The pain hit. The screaming quickly followed.

Outside, the driver climbed into the truck's cab and picked up the microphone of his transmitter. "The plane has landed. The plane has landed."

"Yes," said the captain to himself. He lowered his binoculars and turned to one of the controllers in the tower. "Get fire trucks out there now, you idiot."

"Yes, comrade c
aptain."

The commander turned to another controller. "Inform the marshal that his departure is secure and his transport is waiting."

David Margolis paced excitedly across the short bedroom floor. His heartbeat surged, propelled by the incessant pulsing of adrenalin through his body. He looked up at the wall just above the room's only door. A large, round 24-hour clock ticked on relentlessly, its small hand indicating the approach of ten o'clock in the morning of Monday, June 19. The Israeli’s body was slowly being covered by a thin film of sweat, despite the cool temperature of the underground room. In two hours the world would pass the point of no return on a path to complete annihilation and only he held the knowledge that could stop it. The holocaust would prove only a foreshadowing. But he was a prisoner in the middle of an enemy labyrinth. Built into the sole of his right shoe was a small transmitter. With it he could record a message up to one minute long that would be transmitted in a burst lasting only a fraction of a second. KGB receivers stood ready around the outskirts of Minsk to record the bursts of radio energy. But the device was worthless unless he could get aboveground.

David walked over to one corner of the room and examined the two separate air supply and retrieval vents in the wall. He paused for a second and inhaled the constant stream of fresh air through the supply vent, which was just under the room's short ceiling. He looked at the vent coverings, hoping that somehow the two vents would have magically grown. But the inspection only confirmed what he had learned the last two times
he checked: the vents were too small for him to squeeze through.

He returned to the center of the room to continue pacing. He thought about his options, reviewing his strengths in this situation. The Soviet soldiers throughout the complex would all be vigilant for an American named Thomas Berkshire. But Tom Berkshire spoke not a word of Russian, a fact that was undisputed in the minds of his captors. And it was that flawed belief that meant opportunity for David. He stopped in the middle of a stride and took a deep breath. The life-sustaining oxygen filled his lungs, the spy suddenly aware of the joy to be derived from the involuntary
act of breathing. He had a plan – the only hope that was left.

David's eyes quickly scanned the room, his mind methodically running a checklist of what he could utilize out of the room's few precious resources.
His gaze came to rest on the desk. At one corner lay a small butane lighter that the Mossad agent had not previously noticed. It had been left there by the major during his last visit to his captive. David snapped it up and deposited it in his left pocket. His hand travelled back to the flat desktop and picked up a ballpoint pen supplied by the Soviets. Well guided, it could be a lethal weapon.

Finally, he picked up a small desk lamp and raised it upward until its electric cord was drawn taut. With his right hand he grabbed the cord and jerked it firmly toward himself. The plug disengaged a wall socket on command. David then wound the cord around his right hand twice and strained his muscles to pull both hands in opposite directions. He repeated the movement, only this time in a more sudden, snapping motion, and the cord was wrenched away from its soldered base inside the lamp. He replaced the now useless lamp and carefully
wrapped the cord around his waist, being able to complete two revolutions. He slid the cord down under his pant's belt-line and made one last visual sweep of the room, seeing nothing more of value.

Margolis walked over to the room's single exit, its door closed and locked from the outside. He knocked on the metal barrier loudly. He didn't bother to shout anything since he was certain that the sound would never penetrate the sealed doorway.

The door opened almost immediately. The guards were there as his captors, but they were fully informed that Thomas Berkshire was a VIP. As the door swung open, David looked into the face of a young boy who was tall and lanky. The Mossad agent guessed his age at seventeen, eighteen at the most. The young guard required the use of a razor no more than once a week. Behind him stood another guard, virtually a clone of the first, except that he was a little shorter and stronger. He would be the greater challenge. David felt sadness as he thought about what he would have to do soon. But if ever he were justified in an action, this was the time. The guard at the door looked at David with a blank stare. Neither of the boys spoke English.

"Bathroom " said the spy, unable to get any react
ion from his opponent. "Toilet.” The word was met by the same blank stare. Finally, David reached down and feigned the action of opening his zipper. The crude gesture was effective. The guard smiled and started down the hall waving for the supposed defector to follow. David took up a position between the two guards and the trio marched through the halls for almost a minute before reaching a door with the Cyrillic letters "WC" on it.

Both guards were relaxed. Each one carried only a pistol, and each pistol was still in its holster underneath snap-down flaps. The spy looked again down the hall in each direction.

There was no one; they were alone.

The bathroom was not small. It had two sinks, four commodes and two stalls. David paused for a second just inside the door. He wanted one of the guards to come in, but they both stood outside in the hall, waiting patiently for their charge. David entered one of the stalls and began removing the cord from his waist. He had to get one of the pair into the room while the other stood outside.

He came up with an idea – a gamble where the stakes would be life and death. He wrapped one end of the electrical cord around his left hand twice and let the remainder dangle by his side. The bathroom's only door was three meters to his right as he stood facing the stalls. Without more thought he slammed one stall door shut while facing it from the outside.

"You stupid idiot." The words were
spoken by David Margolis in Russian and in a little deeper tone than his normal voice. He began stepping slowly backward, away from the stall door. The bathroom door opened and the teenager who had entered David's room before stepped into the bathroom, the door closing behind him. His partner remained in the hallway.

"I didn't mean to do it,
" the spy said. The words were irrelevant, designed only to convey a sense of embarrassment on David's part. "I didn't mean to do it," he repeated as he covered his mouth with his hand in the universal gesture of bewilderment. The tall guard's eyes opened wider as his face assumed a look of concern. David pointed to the stall, his face sharing the concern of the guard and confirming the boy's worst suspicions. The guard stepped quickly over to the stall door. He was between David and the stall, his back to the Mossad agent. He could only envision some officer having been knocked in the head by the foreigner's act of opening the stall door.

"Sir, are you all right?" the boy
asked.

David's actions were swift but rusty. For the first time he was about to do something that he had been trained for
years earlier. The rapid pace of his heart did nothing to make this easier. In a single movement he grabbed the loose end of the electric cord and rotated his right wrist as he raised both arms. The movement caused the cord to twist into a loop, a flexible garrote. The young guard was about to push the stall door open when the plastic coated wire loop came over his head. His reaction was appropriate: he reached for his neck with both hands. But the fraction of a second it had taken him to realize the deception he had fallen for gave his executioner the small margin necessary.

The cord tightened, the passage of blood and oxygen instantly impeded. David pulled with all his strength, yanking the tall boy backward and tripping his legs as they attempted to adjust to the irresistible transference of upper body weight.

The boy's body pivoted and twisted around as he fell backward, his killer easing him face down onto the hard tile floor. The boy continued to clutch for his neck, his mind unable to think about the weapon that was strapped to his waist. He tried in vain to wedge his fingers between the wire and his skin, his dance of death growing weaker as his face grew a darker shade of purple. Finally the fingers went limp as the boy's life reached its premature end.

The door flew open. "What the hell i
s..." said the stronger guard. His eyes filled instantly with hatred as they fell on the scene of death. David had one knee in the middle of his victim's back. He was still tugging the cord to make sure that his target was dead. The remaining guard bolted for David, throwing his shoulder into the older man's side. The couple tumbled onto the cold tile, the boy's strong arms wrapped around David's torso. He was in a rage. He wanted revenge. He wanted the American scum to die the same way his friend had just died. He squeezed as tightly as he could, at the same time driving his left shoulder into David's chest, forcing the air from the killer's lungs.

The Mossad agent was seated on his rear, his back being pressed against a bathroom wall. But his arms were free. He began to punch the boy in the small of his back, aiming for his kidneys. Then David noticed the holster. It was on the boy's left side and within easy reach. He grabbed the flap with his right hand and pulled, the adrenalin in his body making the snap pop open easily. He reached again for the weapon's grip.

The guard realized what was happening and broke his grip to reach back with his left hand. He simultaneously pulled his shoulder off David's chest and brought his right arm up and around in a swinging motion. His open palm connected with the side of David’s head, causing more disorientation than damage to the target. David's upper body recoiled slightly to its right, causing him to fail in his reach for the gun.
Oh God, don't let me die like this
. The boy was getting to his feet. In a moment he would draw his pistol and end David's life. The boy was now on his feet and stretching his body upward. His left hand fell onto the pistol's grip, tightening around it, starting to extract it from its resting place.

Panic entered David Margolis. He could not fail. He did not think about his next movement. He twisted his upper body to the left while raising his right leg and cocking it, as if preparing to kick a soccer ball. Pressing his hands on the floor to support himself, he thrust his hips slightly off the floor and to his left. His right leg shot out to its maximum extension, the heel of his shoe meeting the boy's left shin only inches before reaching the zenith of its motion. David heard a snap, as if a dry branch had finally given way to a winter's snowfall. The boy screamed as his body fell to his left, unable to endure the sudden pain of supporting itself. He reached out with his left arm, his forearm hitting the wall and sliding down it in a futile effort to stop his fall. But he still held onto the pistol, its muzzle now free of the holster and ready to fire.

David knew he had only a second before the boy would be able to put aside the pain long enough to squeeze the trigger. He struggled to regain his balance and get back to his right, his aging body not reacting as quickly as it once would have. His hands were only a few feet from the weapon when he saw it rise and point at his chest.
No, no, I'm too slow
. The boy squeezed the trigger with all his strength. The hammer fell forward on the firing pin, the click sounding to David like a sledge hammer against an anvil. But there was no explosion. The boy had never put a round in the chamber. He brought his right hand over his body to pull the slide back , thereby freeing a round to be pushed into the firing breech.

It was more than enough time for David. His right hand grabbed the protruding barrel from underneath and twisted the gun upward and back. The boy gritted in pain and tried to scratch David's face with his right hand, but he would not let go of the pistol. David turned his head away in an effort to elude the boy's right hand, while the spy's efforts to twist the gun backward met resistance from the wall.

Then David's eyes saw the boy's broken ankle. It was twisted, no longer forming a straight line from knee to foot. Its nerves were exposed and fresh. David kicked the boy's ankle with the toe of his shoe. The pain was explosive, causing the boy to scream and to lose the strength that maintained his grip on the gun. David raised the weapon up, still holding it by the barrel, and smashed it into the head of the boy. He repeated the action over and over, losing all control and all rational thought. For these few moments he was an animal whose only thought was to destroy. The boy had been knocked unconscious by the first blow and killed by the second, but David could not stop until blood covered the boy's face.

David dropped the gun and rose to his feet. His breathing was uncontrollable and his heart fluttered, unable to decide on an even pace. He stepped over to a sink and turned on the water. He looked into the mirror, wondering who it was looking back at him and hating the image. He cupped his hands under the stream of water and lowered his face into the pool that quickly formed. But there was no time to grieve, no time to learn something from this horrible act. H
is actions had earned him precious time – and he had to move now.

David turned to the body of the tall guard who had died without ever fully realizing his fate. The corpse was still face down on the tile. David struggled to turn it over, for the first time feeling a sharp pain as he tried to inhale. He paused just long enough to touch his left side. His ribs and their supporting muscle had been badly bruised, but he was certain that no break had occurred.

He returned to the guard's body and began to strip it, struggling to gain a few seconds of time and battling the pain that seemed to grow in intensity as he tried harder to ignore it. When he had removed the clothing down to the underwear, David pulled the body into the same stall that he had just used in his ruse. He then grabbed the body of his second victim and pulled into the stall, forcing the first body out of the way enough to close the stall door and lock it from the inside. Then he grabbed one of the stall's supporting beams and tried to pull himself up and over the stall door, but the pain around his chest was too great and time was passing by too fast. He unlocked the door and opened it enough to wedge his body into the void.