Keepers of the Gate - [Kamal & Barnea 04] Page 7

  As darkness fell, two men utterly disinterested in all forms of merchandise ambled amidst the grilled falafel stands and cluttered kiosks overflowing with knickknacks, authentic Persian carpets, and leather goods. One was slight with a limp that became noticeable only when he tried to quicken his gait, an older man with an ashen face no amount of light could brighten.

  The younger man, dressed in a long black leather coat, towered over him, swallowing the older man in his shadow. Thick dark hair covered the younger man’s skull like a bushy cap. He had a sturdy, muscular, almost youthful frame. But deep lines ran out from both his eyes and splintered into a patchy network of furrows and creases. The eyes themselves were tired and bloodshot, the pupils small and the edges of the whites slightly yellowed. A dark shirt clung to the powerful torso contained beneath his coat.

  A car with open windows drove by and the older man waited for it to pass before responding. “Why have you come to me with these allegations?” Abraham Vorsky asked.

  “Because of your past,” Hans Mundt, the younger man, replied.

  “You mean as head of Mossad,” Vorsky said, referring to Israel’s Secret Service, “or something else?”

  Mundt’s eyes dropped to the numbered tattoo exposed on the old man’s forearm. “You tell me.”

  Vorsky pulled his arm back to his side. “Even assuming what you are suggesting is true...”

  “You’ve seen the proof.”

  “I’ve seen what you’ve chosen to give me. That’s all.”

  The two men stopped speaking when a toothless salesman shoved an enormous nargilah, or waterpipe, in Mundt’s face. Mundt snapped a hand forward so fast that the salesman never saw it until impact knocked the water-pipe from his hand and sent it crashing to the pavement.

  “You said you didn’t want to attract any attention to yourself,” Vorsky warned

  “Sometimes it can’t be helped,” said Mundt.

  Vorsky looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to them. The smell of al-ha’esh, barbecue, hung in the air and the sizzling sounds of meat roasting on open grills followed them wherever they walked. The sounds and sharp scents made him long for food denied him by a restrictive diet he’d been forced to follow for years now.

  “And assuming your information is correct, what exactly do you expect me to do?” Vorsky continued.

  “That’s your decision. I’ve done my part by coming here and sharing it.”

  “You could have sought out more traditional authorities.”

  “I didn’t feel that was in anyone’s best interests. If this ever became public ...”

  “What about your interests?” the old man interrupted.

  The way Vorsky looked at him made Mundt wonder if the former head of Mossad knew of the last trip he had made to Poland a few weeks before, the one that had finally yielded what Mundt had long sought....

  * * * *

  O

  ver here! Ifound something!”Mundt heardthe workman he had hired call out, as they searched through a section of the woods north of Lodz near the town of Leczyca.

  Mundt rushed over and found the man gesturing toward something he had just unearthed three feet down.

  “There!” he said to Mundt who had drawn even with him. “It is what you seek, yes?”

  Mundt rested his own shovel on the ground and stepped down into the jagged hole, the edges of his long leather coat at once crisped by ice and frozen dirt. Then he crouched and brushed his hand across an object that rose diagonally out of the ground, its color a pale yellowish white.

  “It’s a bone, isn’t it?” the workman demanded excitedly. “This must be the grave you’ve been looking for! It must be!”

  “Yes,” Mundt said, his voice empty. “It just might be.”

  “You spoke of a bonus if—”

  The man stopped speaking when Mundt stood up, so tall that they were almost eye-to-eye even though he was standing knee-deep in the depression. The workman, who knew this part of the countryside better than anyone, who had listened to his own father tell stories of the ghosts that had been roaming these woods since World War II, leaned on his shovel and swallowed hard.

  “Just whose grave is this?” he asked.

  Mundt grabbed his shovel and sank its blade into the ground. “Help me finish digging,” he ordered, as his first thrust revealed the tattered threads of what might be an overcoat. “And maybe we’ll find out.”

  * * * *

  I

  ’m asking you again what your interest in this is?” Abraham Vorsky, the former head of Mossad, repeated. “What you’re after.”

  “Perhaps I am trying to make amends,” Mundt offered.

  “For your people? Give it up. It’s all history now.”

  “Not this, not what I’ve brought for you. The security of your country may be at stake here, very likely is.”

  Vorsky tried to appear unriled. “You still haven’t said what you want from me in return.”

  “Access to your files.”

  “Impossible!”

  “I only ask to see one.”

  Vorsky’s eyes flickered thoughtfully. “I’m still listening. What do you propose?”

  “I give you three names to start with. If my story checks out, you give me the access I want in exchange for the rest.”

  “How many names are there in total?”

  “More than three.”

  With that Hans Mundt slowly and carefully withdrew a set of folded pages from his jacket, making sure to keep both hands in view at all times. Abraham Vorsky took the pages but hesitated before pocketing them, holding the sheets between them in limbo.

  “You understand once you start down this road, there’s no going back,” the old man cautioned.

  “I’ve already been back,” Mundt said, thinking of the grave he had found in the woods north of Lodz, Poland, just over two weeks before. “That’s why I’m here tonight.”

  * * * *

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 14

  T

  hanks for coming,” Danielle said in greeting when she entered the doctor’s office to find Ben already waiting.

  “Thanks for calling me,” he said, taking both her hands in his. “What’s wrong?” They were alone in the waiting room, but he hoped she would have let him hold on anyway.

  “I don’t know. I had some tests. The doctor wouldn’t tell me anything until he saw the results.”

  Danielle liked the feeling of Ben’s hands over hers. They were softer than those of most Israeli men she had known, evidence of a man who had lived his life inside instead of out. She had made the decision to call Ben the night before, her interview with Layla Saltzman weighing heavily on her mind. How sad it was to have no one to help you through the bad times, share the good.

  “I thought you had a right to be here,” Danielle continued.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t shut the door on me, Ben.”

  “Because of the way you shut it on me?”

  “We’ve been over this.”

  “You know I won’t give up,” he told her. “Strictly not in my nature.”

  Danielle had learned she was pregnant nearly four months ago, but waited several weeks before telling Ben. Waited because she had decided to raise the child herself. After all, any child with a Jewish mother and Palestinian father would be an outcast, a pariah, from birth. Part of both races and accepted by neither. It wouldn’t be fair, to any of them.

  Ben and Danielle had met during the first-ever joint investigation undertaken by the Israeli and Palestinian governments. Their animosity quickly turned to mutual respect and, later, a strange kind of dependence that led to them becoming lovers. Both acknowledged the long-term impossibility of their relationship, though, and they reluctantly parted. Entering an ill-timed liaison with an Israeli army officer, Danielle became pregnant soon afterwards. By the time she learned of her pregnancy, she had broken with the officer and he was out of her life. A few weeks l
ater a miscarriage claimed the baby as well.

  The sense of loneliness and depression that followed had sent her back to Ben. Neither had any illusions about where their relationship could go, but both desperately enjoyed one another’s company nonetheless. Danielle came to look forward to their once-weekly rendezvous more than anything else in her life.

  Her current pregnancy had been unplanned as well. At least, that was what she told herself, but even now she wasn’t sure. She clutched hard to her second chance to have a child, seeing it as the solution to the woes of her solitary life. With all in her family dead save for a single aunt and uncle, the baby obsessed her so that even her affection for Ben suffered. She knew how badly she had hurt him with her decision to raise the child alone but the excitement and purpose that flooded her life made her oblivious to his needs. She hadn’t seen him for six weeks until today and suddenly found herself wondering if her decision was indeed best for all concerned.

  Because the truth was, ending up like Layla Saltzman terrified her.

  “I’m here for you,” Ben said, when the inner office door opened and a nurse poked her head out.

  “Ms. Barnea, the doctor will see you now.”

  * * * *

  D

  r. Barr was seated behind his desk when Danielle entered his office, Ben just behind her. His hair was prematurely gray and his face always looked sunburned to her.

  “Good morning, Pakad.” The doctor rose from his chair. What started as a polite gesture changed to pointed interest as he looked at Ben. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  Ben extended his hand. “Ben Kamal.”

  “You’re...”

  “A friend of Danielle’s.”

  Dr. Barr hesitated, then offered them the twin chairs set before his desk. “Please, both of you, sit down.”

  A clipboard lay atop his desk, the pages upon it creased and rolled from being awkwardly pinned back after they were studied. The doctor flipped back to the first page and tried to straighten them out.

  “Pakad Barnea,” he started, focusing only on Danielle, “testing the fetus for genetic markers is not an exact science, as I discussed with you earlier. But what I’m about to tell you I can state with great confidence ... and regret.” He leaned forward and crossed his hands over the clipboard, squeezing them tight. “The latest series of fetal blood tests we ran detected a genetic anomaly in your baby.”

  “Anomaly?”

  “A rather serious one, I’m afraid.”

  Ben looked over and reached to take Danielle’s hand again in his, but she pulled both her hands from the chair’s arms and wrung them in her lap.

  Danielle felt as if the breath had been kicked from her lungs. “Anomaly. That means ...”

  “Something out of kilter. A negative indication.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Have you ever heard of ornithine transcarbamylase deficiency, or OTC?”

  “No. That’s the anomaly you’re referring to?”

  “It’s a very rare metabolic disorder that can sometimes be treated with a restrictive low-protein diet and drugs. But the strength of the marker we uncovered indicates your fetus is suffering from a severe form of the disorder.” The doctor held his breath for just a moment. “I’m afraid it’s fatal.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 15

  F

  atal. . .

  The word struck Danielle like a sharp body blow. Her heart seemed to stop beating, her breath checked, the entire moment utterly frozen in time.

  “I’m very sorry to be so blunt...”

  ... fatal...

  “... but at this point we should consider genetic termination as an option.”

  Danielle felt heat building behind her face. Ben reached over into her lap and, this time, took her hand in his.

  “You mean abortion,” she said.

  “In this case I don’t believe that’s the correct term, no.”

  “As opposed to genetic termination.”

  “Because the issue is not really in doubt, unfortunately. We are discussing something that is merciful.”

  “To whom?” Danielle demanded.

  “How sure are you of your findings?” Ben asked the doctor.

  “Very.”

  “Can you repeat this test, whatever you called it?”

  “We already have. The genetic markers were identical.”

  “What about a second opinion?” Ben continued. “There must be a specialist somewhere.”

  “I consulted with a specialist on the results of both tests and he was the one who made the diagnosis. But you would of course be free to seek out another one on your own.”

  “I just don’t—” Ben stopped when Danielle pulled her hand from his grasp and stood up, walking around to the back of her chair.

  “I won’t do it,” she insisted to the doctor. “Abortion, genetic termination—whatever you call it. I won’t do it.”

  The doctor nodded with genuine sympathy. “You’d be putting your baby through a great deal of pain. Even if he survived—”

  “There’s a chance, then?”

  “Slim, yes, but death would be almost inevitable in the first year of life. Two at the most. OTC’s mortality rate in these concentrations is one hundred percent.”

  “There’s no cure?” Ben asked.

  “No more than there is for cystic fibrosis or Down’s Syndrome. The only advantage we have now is the ability to identify the genetic predispositions in advance.”

  Danielle squeezed her hands into the chair’s back. “Identifying a problem you can’t solve isn’t an advantage.”

  “If it saves the child—and parents—needless suffering, I believe it is. And, you must understand, Pakad Barnea, that this does not at all affect your ability to have children in the future. The odds of a second fetus having the OTC genetic marker are no greater than the first.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Forty thousand to one.”

  “Who’s the carrier, the man or the woman?”

  “The genetic mutation occurs on the X chromosome, so women are typically carriers, while their sons typically suffer the disease.”

  Ben swallowed hard and found his throat clogged. He tried to feel relieved that at least it hadn’t been his fault. But all he could think of was the fetus—a boy. His son.

  He’d had a son before, but a serial killer named the Sandman had slain him just short of the boy’s seventh birthday. Ben had found his body just after putting ten bullets into the madman who had terrorized Detroit for months, murdering entire families as they slept. Ben had uncovered the Sandman’s true identity close to the very moment the killer had entered his house, returning home moments too late to save his wife and two children. The next months had passed in a blur that cleared only marginally when he returned to his homeland of Palestine, in search of something he could not identify until he met Danielle.

  She had given him his life back, only to take it away again by denying him the right to raise his own child. But he would accept that now, he really would, if only that child could be born healthy.

  “There’s nothing more you can do?” Danielle asked hoarsely, defeated.

  “No experimental programs or procedures?” Ben added.

  The doctor sighed and leaned back. “OTC deficiency is a urea-cycle disorder. The urea cycle is a series of five liver enzymes that help rid the body of ammonia, a toxic breakdown product of protein. It then accumulates in the blood and travels to the brain, causing coma, brain damage, and death.”

  Danielle steeled herself before asking her next question. “How long after birth?”

  Dr. Barr seemed to have thrown all pretext of tact aside, sparing nothing to make his point. “Typically, newborns slip into a coma within seventy-two hours of birth. Most suffer severe, irreparable brain damage. Half die in the first month, and the ones who don’t are often paralyzed or permanently disabled. And most of these will die before the age of five.” He realized his blunt
ness and tried to soften his demeanor. “I just want you to understand the depth of what we’re dealing with here.”

  “Is there any risk to the mother?” Ben asked.

  “None,” Dr. Barr replied. “Other than the misery that comes from the moment of the delivery.” He shuffled his chair forward. “Medical science has given you a great gift here, Pakad Barnea.”