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.
--
Moldova
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.
"Others left with me because they had the
same conviction."
Seth full of curiosity asked, "Same
conviction about what?"
"You got any coffee? You
know me, I won't do much talkin' without a good roast and my
cigs." "I have half a pot," Seth
answered. "It'll need to be heated up though."
"That'll do," Tyrone said in a husky
voice.
"What about the rest of your
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.
--
Moldova
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.
"Others left with me because they had the
same conviction."
Seth full of curiosity asked, "Same
conviction about what?"
"You got any coffee? You
know me, I won't do much talkin' without a good roast and my
cigs." "I have half a pot," Seth
answered. "It'll need to be heated up though."
"That'll do," Tyrone said in a husky
voice.
"What about the rest of your
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