The Schliemann Legacy Read online

  As always, David's first sight of the sprawling city both warmed and depressed him. The skyline stretched back for miles from the sandy coast and reminded him of a miniature Manhattan. Tel Aviv represented the development of Israeli commerce and the abandonment of the desert communities. As in so many countries, urbanization had consumed much of Israel's population.

  Made up almost exclusively of white cement buildings, Tel Aviv might look sterile if not for the thick haze of pollution that hung over the hot metropolis. Tall, haphazardly placed complexes broke the monotony of the squat buildings. As they neared the rooftop heliport, David's eyes traced the narrow streets leading to the wider, modern avenues carefully planned by urban developers. This combination of roads illustrated the essence of the Israeli people; a lack of fear of the high technological present set beside a love and respect of the ancient past.

  * * * * *

  Still wondering if he was about to have his butt kicked, David knocked on the plain wooden door and heard a familiar voice tell him to enter.

  Assi Levy sat behind his desk, a stack of papers in front of him. He ignored David while he finished reading a report from one of the Mossad stations. A quick glance told Morritt the report was from a base in Southeast Asia - a small grocer in Saigon, if his memory served. He avoided the secret documents and walked to the large picture window to gaze at the spectacular view of the Mediterranean. The bulletproof glass gave an added blue tinge to the glaring water. Leaning on the sill, David felt slight vibrations in his fingertips and glanced down. Since listening devices could translate the minute window vibrations into recognizable speech, this wall was equipped with speakers to vibrate the glass and distort the reception of any bugging equipment. A simple but effective precaution.

  Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the remaining three walls of the office. Assi was a voracious reader and an avid collector of both ancient and modern books. One entire row of the east shelf displayed religious texts of dozens of religions in various languages. The shelf below held books on major historical battles. An ancient copy of the Talmud occupied a position of honor on the north wall. Across the room was a collection of manuals on exotic poisons, weapons, and hand to hand combat techniques, many written by Levy. This was Assi Levy. He was devoted to both religion and to the defense of his country. To him, they were the same.

  The sound of shuffling papers brought David around to face the desk. The Director had completed his reading and was carefully locking the files in his desk drawer. In the enclosed space, Morritt noticed the acrid smell of cordite, smoke, and sweat that permeated the material of his jumpsuit. Acutely aware of his filthy uniform, David stood straighter and formally addressed the older man. "Hamefaked."

  Assi rose. He was short but powerfully built with broad shoulders. He limped around the desk and thrust out his thick arm to shake David's hand. "None of that nonsense," he said. "Hamefaked, my ass. I am only your Commander outside this office - and when you do stupid things. Like this practice raid."

  David winced. Now he knew why Assi had forced him to return. The Director returned to his seat and David gently lowered himself into a chair. "Assi, I'm only trying to fight the boredom. I should be in the field, not stuck behind some desk. Retiring to a desk at my age is ridiculous."

  "Relax, David. I didn't call you here to discuss this indiscretion of yours. Not that you don't deserve a reprimand. I was unhappy to hear you were in the desert again. I thought I scheduled you for the classroom." When David tried to reply, Assi interrupted him. "But this is not why you are here. I have important news which may solve several problems for both of us."

  David leaned forward, recognizing the tone in his old friend's voice. "Go ahead, I'm listening."

  Assi pulled a single sheet of paper from a drawer and placed it face down on his desk. "I wanted to see you at your home," he said. "This meeting should have been private, but time would not permit it. Instead, this conversation never took place."

  David looked puzzled and pointed toward the roof. "But the flight? Not exactly a quiet way of getting me here."

  "I've taken care of that. You will have an official reprimand on your record." Assi waved down David's protest. "You went on the exercise without my permission. You were away without leave. You are deep in it, old friend."

  Then, the Director lightened his tone. "Naturally, we don't want to embarrass such a well respected man. We will ignore your childish behavior. However, I have granted your request for a vacation - so you can consider your tenuous position."

  David slumped back in his chair at the mention of the unwanted holiday. "Thank you, old friend. I deeply appreciate your consideration. Now, what the hell does all this mean?"

  "Early today, I received a message from Henri Mardinaud. He has come across some information he thought might interest me." Assi took a deep breath. "He has located Friedrich Heiden."

  David flinched. A chill passed through his body. Vivid memories assaulted his senses. The stench of urine, blood, and sweat filled his nostrils. Bile rose in his throat. He fought to breathe. Noises battered him. The clang of the bell. The deep rumble of the locomotive. The moans of thousands, the scream of one.

  His chest constricted and he felt the cold glass of a window pressed against his face. Inside, he could see Heiden, the Nazi's pants down around his ankles and an ugly gash dripping blood from below his left eye. David watched Heiden's club, rise and fall, spraying blood across the wall and window. A woman lay across the table. She had stopped screaming, stopped moving. Still, he bludgeoned her with the stick. He beat her until his arm fell limp and her face was an unrecognizable mass of torn flesh and broken bone.

  David opened his eyes, fighting to escape the memories. He shook uncontrollably as he fought the hands pinning his arms. Then his vision focused and David realized Assi held him. His heartbeat slowed and returned to normal as Assi gently lowered him back into the chair.

  "I'm sorry, Assi," he said in a weak voice. He coughed and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's been a long time since I remembered that day in so much...detail."

  Assi gave David a glass of water. "I'm the one who should apologize," Assi said. "I could've broken it to you better. Forgive me. God knows, when I read Mardinaud's message, I thought I'd have a stroke. Heiden's name has always caused grief, pain, and revulsion. We have dreamed of vengeance for many years, my friend."

  Assi made his way back around the desk, his limp accenting his personal reason for revenge. The Memuneh also had frightening memories of Heiden. Heiden and Majdanek.

  "Where is Heiden?" David's voice cracked as he spoke the name.

  "Mardinaud doesn't say. He wants a meeting in Munich."

  "When do I leave?"

  "Wait, David. We have to get things straight before you go." Assi was self consciously playing with the pen on his desk. "I can't sanction this mission. I am sending you alone."

  "Alone?" David asked. He had worked alone in the past, gathering intelligence while on a deep cover operation. But no Mossad agent worked alone while after a Nazi. The targets were too important to risk to one operative. They always used a team of at least five men, often more. David could not understand a one-man operation.

  "I have used all my protektsia to get you on this mission," Assi confessed. "It was not an easy task. Your name brought strong resistance. Even my most loyal supporters are hesitant. Your personal involvement disqualified you in many eyes, but not mine. I trust you more than any of our agents. I trust you to deliver justice. In the end, the arguments against you turned into the logical justification for your assignment."

  David did not understand the comment, but he could imagine the pull it would take to put him in the field again. "I still don't understand. Why alone? Why not send a team?"

  "Publicity, mainly," Assi said. "In recent years, a negative bias against Israel has been building in the press. The botched missions. Innocent people dying. Many view us as heavy handed."

  "But we have justification."

  "In our eyes, but not in other's. The war was long ago for most. A concerted effort by the Arabs has turned world opinion against us. To many, we have become as bad as those we hunt. And we have harmed ourselves. That book and movie about Avner. The continuing problems on the West Bank. The military film leaked to the press. The Iran arms deal. Izat Napsu here and Pollard in America. There's been too much. We can't afford another mistake. You know what we have faced. Too many scandals."

  David grimaced at the thought of each scandal. Though he could justify in his own mind the methods of the Mossad, he knew the rest of the world often could not. Even in Israel, support for the military and the Mossad was declining. And, David knew, in the end they were still just a bunch of Jews.

  "But this is Friedrich Heiden," he protested. "He's on the list."

  "Exactly," Assi said. "I put him on that list. I can order the mission. I can have him brought to Israel. I can testify against Heiden. I can get the death penalty. What would it get us? Too many forget the camps, David. They only see pitiful old men. They don't see the monsters beneath. The action would become Levy and his personal crusade."

  David nodded, avoiding the Director's eyes. He knew Assi was under pressure, even from within Israel. Those who sought control of the Mossad saw Assi Levy as a major hurdle. They thought he had been in office too long. Without Assi, they could shape the Mossad to their vision.

  As David began to understand his mission, he agreed with the strategy. Any exposure would give Assi's enemies the ammunition they needed to force the Memuneh's resignation. That would be disastrous for Israel. "So, I go in alone," he said. "If it folds, I'm still on my own. No official backing - I'll be a rogue. A man out for revenge."

  Assi didn't answer immediately. Finally, he looked
up from his pen. "I can't offer you much support, but funding won't be a problem. Most of our accounts are still active."

  He was referring to bank accounts he had opened to hide money for operations unable to get official allocation. Like many agents, including David, Assi diverted part of the operational budget into these accounts. David had used the system many times.

  "You'll still have certain resources available to you," Assi continued. "We can supply documents. You can obtain them on your authority from any station, unless someone begins to ask questions. Regardless, the networks are out of bounds."

  "I won't need them. I'll use my own contacts." David was already thinking about the relays he would rig in his apartment before leaving for Munich.

  Assi nodded. "I thought as much. Just remember, don't make too much noise. You have a tendency to create an awful commotion."

  "You won't even know I'm out there," David promised.

  Chapter 7 - DUMAN

  Duman wandered past le cedre de Jussieu. During the early 1700s, Jussieu had brought the seedling for the huge cedar tree from England in his tri cornered hat. Today, three old men dressed in dark suits and black berets sat under it playing backgammon in the fading light. They played daily in this same spot beside the tree. As Duman passed, he wondered how the elderly eyes could make out the difference between the pieces. Years of practice or, possibly, they no longer cared who won. Their final years spent reliving past victories and past loves. Duman despised them and their complacency.

  He knew when his time to die arrived, it would be exceptional. He would not merely fade from existence. The death of the greatest assassin and terrorist ever known would further the struggle of the people. His death would change the world. Those fools in the Middle East with their Jihads were puppets, controlled by those only slightly higher on the evolutionary scale. They replaced one domination with another. Their shortsighted plans limited their journey. But his path to greatness would be long and glorious. He would mirror his father's success, with one exception.

  Duman traded in death.

  * * * * *

  Duman's father, Cahil, had been a minor merchant with a brilliant mind for business. He had built his fortune without the aid of a formal education, teaching himself by studying the biographies of past successes and learning the world markets by observation. Working from a detailed, long term plan, he nurtured his contacts throughout the international markets. By his thirtieth birthday, Cahil had stretched his empire throughout Europe and Britain.

  During one business trip to England, he met and courted Elizabeth Estair. Much to her wealthy father's distaste, she ran away with the love struck Turk. The couple returned to Turkey where, less than eight months later, Elizabeth presented Cahil with a son, Hasad.

  The boy was small for his age, which displeased his father. Cahil ignored the child while continuing to build his empire. The other children tormented Hasad because of his English mother and told him he did not belong in their country. Hasad loved Turkey and this insult hurt deeply.

  As the years passed, he made up for his slow start in life and grew tall and strong. Soon none of the other children dared cross the boy. Years of repression had turned him sadistic and cruel. When one of his early tormentors was found dead at the bottom of a deep pit, most of the townspeople suspected Hasad but had no proof. However, the suspicion just further ostracized Hasad from the community.

  Cahil died of a heart attack the following year. Because of her British heritage, the Turkish government denied Elizabeth and Hasad all rights of inheritance and the state took possession of Cahil's business interests. Although Hasad understood how his mother had been cheated, he still loved Turkey. He blamed the corrupt government, not the people, for stripping them of the family fortune and Hasad swore he would see justice done.

  Elizabeth and Hasad returned to her late father's home in England. Suitors arrived to court his mother amid the luxury of the ancestral home. These men left a deep impression on the boy. Hasad hated the upper class. Those who had no skills of their own and nothing to offer that wasn't given to them by the accident of their birth. They took from the world and rarely gave back anything. He quickly equated them with those who had stolen his father's fortune - insipid takers who lived off the work and emotions of others. While attending Oxford University, he refined his ideas about the struggle of the people.

  Through his interest in Marxism, Hasad's feelings about the ruling class became well known. His keen intelligence and ability in languages attracted the attention of KGB recruiters. Hasad was receptive but was afraid his mother would marry one of the upper class snobs if he left. The Russians accepted his decision, leaving the offer open.

  The following month, Elizabeth died in a fire at the estate. The last tears he would ever shed during his life spilled over at her graveside. Three days later, he sought out the recruiters and transferred to the Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow. Supposedly a place of higher learning, the stately buildings actually housed the training center for non Russian KGB agents. Here, Hasad learned of Carlos.

  Though Carlos had already completed his training, Hasad sought to compete with the international terrorist. The Turk's instructors capitalized on this one sided rivalry and drove Hasad to exceed all expectations. While the newcomer studied, Carlos forged a reputation for himself. This notoriety only spurred Hasad to work harder. Upon graduation, he sought to fulfill his dream for the people. He took "Duman", Turkish for mist or smoke, as his professional name. As he appeared, struck, and disappeared, the name became more and more apt.

  Duman became a freelance killer and worked for the KGB as required to repay the debt of his schooling. When his KGB masters called, Duman was forced to respond. However, he was determined to see the end of that servitude. The day would soon be at hand when he would no longer work for the Russians. An expert with guns, knives, and poisons, his specialty was unusual and inventive bombings. Interpol attributed many key assassinations and devastating bombings to the young terrorist. His services were in high demand and he inflated his reputation by carefully picking his operations. Rather than attempt the more numerous but less significant kills as Carlos had, Duman chose a more selective route. Each execution was high risk and high profile with the added advantage of large financial returns. Also unlike Carlos in the early years, Duman never worked without a client.

  His reliability became well known and that reputation brought abundant job opportunities. Rumors credited the terrorist with a chilling one hundred percent kill rate. And as his reputation grew, his need for more spectacular assassinations increased. As time passed, the collateral damage from the assassinations ballooned. Dozens of people often died along with the intended victim. With this notoriety, he became a target himself, sought by every major anti-terrorist force in the world.

  Then Duman disappeared. For nearly four months, talk spread of his capture and death. Many suspected Carlos of having killed his young rival.

  When speculation reached a peak, Duman struck. With the speed and precision of a surgeon, he eliminated eight men in less than twenty four hours. Duman served notice to the intelligence organizations of the world. He intended to lead the people in an international revolution to insure their inherent right to self rule. Anyone who stood in his way would meet with the same fate as the eight men - the Turkish officials who had orchestrated the theft of his father's fortune.

  Duman claimed justice for the world.

  * * * * *

  Watchful of all activity on the street, Duman left the Jardin des Plantes and walked along the Seine. As night approached, this quarter of Paris came alive with the people he loved. The people of the night. Everywhere, they moved with the rhythm of the shadows. He could see prostitutes in scant clothing trying to make enough to pacify their pimps. The pickpockets, con men, and shills trying for the big score. All slaved for a better life, yet never had enough to satisfy themselves. They played the game the Overlords had created to subjugate the masses. Someday, Duman knew, the people would see their folly. They would be free and he would be the man who freed them. He would not be a leader, for the people did not need a leader.