Last Instructions Page 10

  One of the members of Rafael’s team sighed. “The guy’s fucking invisible,” he said. “He doesn’t appear in any footage apart from the video from the airport. He probably walks around all the time with something that keeps his face hidden from the cameras, or simply turns his head to the side. He hasn’t been picked up by any of our facial-recognition programs.”

  Rotem looked up from the book she was reading for a second. “In certain lines of business, it pays to be paranoid,” she commented before looking down again.

  The door to the multimedia room buzzed and someone from the Operations Division walked in. “You need to see this,” he said, inserting a flash drive into one of the computers and projecting the data onto one of the larger screens on the wall. “This is what we managed to retrieve from one of the head-mounted cameras that survived the blast. We got nothing at all from the memory cards of the other cameras. They were completely destroyed.”

  After a few seconds of static and snow, the sound of heavy breathing could be heard and the video screen on the wall displayed the descent from the floor of the closet into the basement. Beams from the five head-mounted flashlights of the team members who went in wearing gas masks flickered through the dark expanse.

  “Look. That’s the cage he constructed. It’s empty now.”

  Rotem stood up and moved closer to the screen. The team member whose camera footage they were viewing noticed something on the floor of the cage and was bending down to see what was there. He was cleaning the floor with a small brush.

  “Stop it right there for a moment.”

  The frozen image on the screen displayed the text:

  12/29/2005

  The fucker got me

  My name is ■■■■ ■■■■■■

  I won’t get out of here alive

  Notify my family

  03 - ■■■■■■■.

  “It must have been left there by the person imprisoned in the cage. The one whose teeth he later worked on and then torched upstairs in the apartment. Forget him for now; he’s of no interest to us. He was just someone 10483 killed. There’s no point in trying to identify him now. Keep going.”

  Rotem’s nose was almost pressed to the screen.

  “You’re in the way.”

  She moved back a little and the video continued. They all watched the team member use a small digital camera to take a few pictures of the text on the floor.

  “Did you find that camera?” Avner asked, pointing at the screen.

  “Yes, in a million pieces. Like everything else. All we have is what you’re seeing right now.”

  The team member on the screen finished documenting the text on the floor and left the cage. He looked around the basement and his camera momentarily caught the beam from the head-mounted flashlight of a second team member who was focusing on a large dinner table and then turned to record cabinets filled with equipment and some kind of electrical panel that probably served to operate the systems in the basement.

  “Go back!” Rotem exclaimed. “Replay the second that shows the table frame by frame. Try to make the images as sharp as possible.”

  The images appeared one after the other in a slideshow fashion—the dusty utensils on the table, the body of a woman draped in a dusty robe with a yellowed IV tube fixed to her skin at one end of the table, the body of a man also hooked up to an IV tube at the other end of the table.

  “Stop! Back again for a moment.”

  The images jumped in reverse.

  “See it? The IV tubes are connected to a large tank there in the back. He kept them alive and tied to the chairs for a very long time! He’s one sick bastard. Avner, this is what he described on that page he left for you on the table after grabbing Efrat.”

  Rotem paced the room. “Fucking sadist,” she muttered. “The scene’s been configured to resemble that painting, whatsitsname, The Last Supper.”

  Avner leaned forward in his chair and stared at the frozen image on the screen.

  “He kept them tied to the chairs like that for two months.”

  Avner didn’t dare think about what might be happening to Efrat at that very moment. He tried to focus on the task of finding 10483. Three days had passed since Efrat’s abduction, and they still didn’t know where he was holding her or if she was even alive. Maybe he decided not to waste time by holding Efrat and Amiram somewhere? Maybe Amiram tried to resist and he shot them both? Maybe Efrat tried to escape and he killed her? The thoughts gnawed at him. Maybe a quick death is better than prolonged torture?

  Rotem returned to the desk she was sitting at earlier and quickly scribbled a few notes on one of the pages of the book she’d left there. “We have to get him,” she said to no one in particular.

  The video continued for another minute with the only sound the team members’ heavy breathing. Then a metallic buzzing noise, the camera turns upward to catch something moving along the ceiling, a dash for the ladder back upstairs, and then more static and snow without sound.

  They all sat there speechless for a full minute until the visitor who’d come with the video broke the silence. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s all there is. I’ll leave this copy here for you. I’ve sent the only other copy to the inner circle. I’m out of here.”

  Rotem got up again. “You can see that he triggered the blast by remote control,” she said. “It wasn’t a booby trap, like something they stepped on or a motion sensor. He had a camera on them all the time they were there, and he moved it deliberately just before deciding to press the button.”

  “Why?”

  “So they’d know they were about to die. I’m guessing he recorded it and now takes pleasure in watching the team scrambling for the ladder to get the hell out of there. Death porn.”

  I wake up with a sense of foreboding.

  I poke my head out from under the woolen blanket, look around, and remember that I’m in a cabin on the mountain.

  I hear soft footsteps outside in the snow, that soft crunching sound you hear when shoes or boots sink into deep fresh snow. I open my eyes and look around and remember that I’m sleeping with her in the cabin on the mountain. The rays of the rising sun are already coming through the foggy window and I gaze at the four square panes of glass fixed to the wooden cross.

  His face suddenly appears for a split second behind the glass.

  A tremor runs through me and I immediately sit up in bed, my eyes searching for the ax. It’s resting alongside the pile of logs near the door and I move quickly to retrieve it before he has time to come crashing through the cabin door.

  The girl is still asleep in the bed. Her name was on the tip of my tongue, but it’s gone again. It eludes me all the time. I have the ax in one hand, and I use the other to cover her with the blanket completely so that he won’t see her if he manages to get past me.

  It’s quiet outside.

  I release the latch and open the door. Sunlight fills the cabin.

  There’s no one out there.

  I go out and walk around the cabin. He isn’t there. I can see tracks in the snow, but they’re wolf paw prints not human feet.

  The clouds have dispersed; the sky is a clear shade of blue and a bright and cold sun is rising. The snow reflects the light and blinds me.

  I look down and see that the circles in the snow have disappeared. The snow that fell during the night has covered them completely. I hear something behind me and turn around to see her standing in the doorway of the cabin in her socks.

  “There were wolves during the night,” she says.

  “Yes, I saw their tracks around the cabin. The circles in the snow down there have vanished completely.”

  “It’s okay. I recorded their position and the distance to their center in my notebook. Let’s make breakfast.”

  “What would you like to eat?”

  “Anything’s fine.”

  I look through the contents of the cupboard again, take out a pot, fill it with snow and place it on the stovetop. The fire in
the oven burned out during the night and I refill it with logs and set them ablaze. I fry some corn from a tin in a pan while the water boils, and then add some rice, oil, and salt to the pot. When the rice is ready, I throw in the fried corn and dish up a bowl for each of us.

  We sit on the bed and eat in silence. When we’re done, I clean the dishes off in the snow outside and put them back in their place in the cupboard. I also fold the sheets and blankets and return them to their shelf. Despite the snow on the ground, the sun is warm now and we’re wearing tank tops, long pants, and boots.

  She hands me a tube of SPF 50 sunscreen she pulls out of her bag. “Put some on here, too,” she says, pointing at the nostril area of my nose, under my chin, and my armpits. “The snow reflects the rays and you’ll get sunburned from below.”

  She takes two pairs of sunglasses out of her bag and hands one to me. “Look after your eyes. Don’t take off the glasses. The reflection from the snow is blinding.”

  We tie our jackets and long-sleeve shirts to our bags and begin our descent. From time to time, she checks our course with her compass and shines her laser beam back at the top of the mountain to see how much distance we’ve covered.

  After walking for two hours, she stops and checks our position and the distance once more.

  “We’re close. We need to be careful.”

  She retrieves a packet of marbles from her bag and throws one onto the snow a fair distance ahead of us. Nothing happens. We go in the same manner. She continues to throw a single marble in the direction we are heading, and we keep moving forward—until the last marble she throws hits the ground and dozens of pointed black spines spring through the snow to form a spiny dome of sorts before slowly disappearing again below the surface a minute later.

  “It’s here.”

  She signals for me to stay where I am and walks around the circle of spines. Every time they disappear below the surface, she remains at a safe distance and throws another marble, causing them to spring out again. She continues to do so until she’s walked around the spines several times.

  She comes back to me and gestures for me to bend down. I drop to my knees in the snow in front of her. We’re the same height now. She brings her face close to mine and I think for a moment that she wants to kiss me; but she touches her forehead to mine and we remain like that for a few seconds. She then backs away a little and smiles for the first time. “It’ll be okay,” she says. “You can do it. Put on a long shirt and a jacket. You may be cold there.”

  I untie the items that are attached to my bag and put them on. I put the bag on my back again and tighten the straps.

  She leads me by the hand to a certain point. “Raise your arms to the side,” she says. “A little higher. That’s it. Just like that. Now start walking slowly forward. Ignore the spines that are going to spring up right next to you. When the spines retract, walk ahead at their pace until you run into something buried in the snow. Clean the snow away and you will see that it’s a black rock of sorts with the impression of a hand on it. Place your hand on it and the passageway will open.”

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  “I can’t. I don’t belong there.”

  “See you,” I say and start to move forward.

  “Bye.”

  The sharpened black metal rods shoot up all around me but they don’t touch me. They start to slide back down and I move ahead at the same pace. I bump into something, bend down, and clear away the snow. A smooth black rock. And on it the impression of a hand. I place my hand on the rock and it slides away to reveal a long staircase. I turn around and wave good-bye to the girl whose name I don’t recall. She waves back, turns, and walks away. I walk down a few steps, the rock slides back into place, and I’m enveloped in total darkness. I take a small flashlight out of my bag, switch it on, and begin to descend.

  December 7, 2016

  Carmit got out of bed and joined Guy, who was already in the kitchen.

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please. I need to wake up.”

  “You were talking in your sleep.”

  “Really?”

  “Mumbling something unintelligible, but I caught the word, ‘wolves.’”

  “I had a strange dream. Have you seen my bag? The small one. The one I use as a carry-on.”

  “In the laundry closet. Upstairs. For your trip the day after tomorrow?”

  “Yes. China for two weeks and then I’m hoping for an extended break.”

  She thought it best to refrain from saying a word about Israel. She didn’t want to worry him. They sat in the kitchen and chatted and she drifted into the parallel universe in which she functioned and lived—the universe in which the end-of-the-year ceremony for Taylor’s judo class and Emily’s math grade and the shipment of books that were due to be delivered to the store that day were the significant issues on her agenda.

  I approach a large parking lot. The wheels of my RV leave tracks along the dusty road, raising orange-red clouds of dust in their wake. It’s quiet here early in the morning and there are no other vehicles around. I pass the sign that reads:

  Welcome to Niagara Falls. Attention! The site’s management disclaims all responsibility for any injury or harm—physical, respiratory, or other—suffered as a result of your visit to the falls. You enter the site at your own risk. Entry for pregnant women and individuals with asthma or other respiratory disorders is strictly prohibited. We encourage you not to leave valuables in your vehicles. The site’s management disclaims all responsibility for thefts from vehicles in the parking lot. We wish you a pleasant visit.

  The lot is empty for the most part, and I park the RV in the section near the entrance to the site. I walk in the direction of the falls. My boots kick up dust. I pass a group of children covered in a gray film of dust. They are jumping around and laughing in an area where the dust has collected into a thick layer of powder.

  The noise increases the closer I get to the falls and I reach the point where you can lean over the safety railing and look out. Sand comes pouring down from above and crashes loudly into the sand lake at the bottom, continuing downstream from there in the form of a yellowish-orange river of sand. I watch as a blackened tree trunk is swept along and comes crashing down the falls, only to be dragged farther downstream in the current of the sand river. The spray of dust rises skyward in the form of large clouds, before slowly drifting back down to the ground and covering everything in the vicinity. A maintenance vehicle fitted with a scoop passes by and collects a layer of dust that it then dumps back into the flowing sand. I walk a little farther ahead through the powder until I get to a point where I can touch the sand river. I dip my hand in and the sand flows over it. It’s very cold.

  03/11/2016—Morning, 13 weeks since waking

  I wake early in the morning, fold up my sleeping bag and tent, and head north in the RV along Highway 25 in Colombia. I drive without stopping to fill up with gas, using the fuel in the jerrycans that I filled ahead of time instead. After passing through Bogotá, I head northwest in the direction of Medellín, from where I plan to cross the border into Panama, and then go from there to Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, and Mexico. I’ve already covered 40 percent of the journey to San Diego. I listen to a radio interview with a local candidate in the municipal elections and eat some strange green fruit that I bought from someone on the side of the road. They look like pears but taste like a mixture of a mango and a guava.

  The road I’m following is very quiet. Mine is the only vehicle on it right now. I spot a patrol car blocking the road up ahead, and the 2 policemen standing next to it signal me to pull over. I move onto the shoulder and stop. One of the policemen tells me to remain with him outside the vehicle. While he checks my passport, my international driver’s license, and the vehicle’s papers, his partner goes into the RV and emerges a few minutes later with 2 boxes. One contains several bottles of whiskey and the other is half-filled with packs of Marlboro. I’m already running low on whiskey
and cigarettes after sharing my stock with policemen, customs officials, border authorities, and vehicle testers at the Bolivian, Peruvian, and Colombian border crossings. And sometimes the whiskey and cigarettes weren’t enough and I had to hand out several $100 bills to speed things up.

  “We’re confiscating these.”

  “Why?”

  “These are commercial quantities of alcohol and cigarettes and you don’t have a trading permit.”

  “Perhaps I do. You didn’t ask.”

  One of the policemen stands next to me. “Would you like to spend some time in a Colombian prison or continue traveling?” he asks.

  The clasp on his hip holster is open and his weapon isn’t secured in its pouch. If I reach out and grab it, I can shoot them both in the head before they realize why Oscar Salstrom, a supposedly peace-loving Swedish citizen, is now resorting to violence and the use of firearms. I can also tell them that hidden inside the vehicle is another box, and we can all go in together to find it. On the way in, I’ll pull down on the metal ring that’s attached to the grenades and then back away. By the time they turn around and follow me out, the grenades will explode. I reject both courses of action. My mission is of paramount concern. I’m not there to educate Colombian police officers.

  “Keep up the excellent work. Let’s hear it for the Colombian Police,” I respond.

  One of them steps into the RV for a 2nd look around. The noise coming from inside the vehicle seems to indicate that he’s riffling through the drawers and cupboards and tipping out their contents. He emerges again without my money or passports or gun. It’s a good thing he didn’t find them.

  The policemen decide to make do with what they’ve got and they walk back to their patrol car and drive away. I tidy the mess in the RV and continue heading toward the border with Panama. I’ll take a break a little later to use the bathroom, have a coffee, and get something to eat. I’m very hungry. The green fruit did little to satisfy me.

  The maintenance section of the Russian-language instruction manual stipulates that the warhead’s power supply must be replaced every 18 months. There’s also a diagram that walks you through the process. The battery—long and rectangular, with a capacity of 12 volts—is not a standard model. I’ll have to disassemble the battery and replace it with an American 110V AC to 12V DC power adapter. It shouldn’t be too complicated but will require leaving the warhead somewhat in pieces and connected to an external power cord. A regular 12V battery won’t fit inside.