Last Instructions Page 4

  Majid Shariri is living in Israel under the name of Sharon Tuvian. He resides at 7 HaNarkisim Street in Holon.

  “I received this two days ago, in an envelope that was slipped under the door to our offices here. No fingerprints or any identifying marks. The envelope also contained an updated photograph of Shariri. He looks completely different and may have undergone plastic surgery. Friends, we may be able to get our hands on the bomb.”

  One of the individuals at the table raised his hand. “Who could have slipped that information under our door so long after we lost contact with Shariri? Maybe it’s a setup. Someone keeping tabs on us and trying to bring us down.”

  “Maybe. And maybe it’s someone who’s looking out for us.”

  “What’s the next step, Herr Schmidt? Are we sending someone to Israel to look for Shariri?”

  “They’re on their way already.”

  “Who did you send?”

  “The twins. They’ll get every piece of information out of Shariri and then make him deeply regret the ten-year delay he’s caused us. We could have had that bomb a long time ago. I’ve instructed the twins to keep him alive at all costs until he’s given up the exact location of the device. Stay in Toronto. We’ll meet here at four p.m. sharp every day to monitor the developments.”

  December 6, 2016

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what the records say. Here, look—an unidentified man in his late twenties was admitted at one twenty in the afternoon on December twelfth, 2006, following a suicide attempt.”

  “And when was he discharged?”

  “Just a moment, let me check.”

  The archive clerk at Tel Aviv’s Ichilov Hospital browsed through a stack of scanned documents on her computer screen. It was easier than they’d expected. Following their visit to Tel Hashomer Hospital, where they found no evidence of an attempted suicide on December 12, 2006, they drove to Ichilov.

  “Interesting,” the archivist said, “he wasn’t discharged to his home. He was transferred from here to Lowenstein Hospital a month later. It says here that he never regained consciousness. According to protocol, patients who fail to regain consciousness are transferred a month later to an appropriate institution. No one came looking for him, he wasn’t carrying any identification, and the accident left his face smashed to pieces. The system lists him as a John Doe.”

  “Accident?”

  “Yes, he jumped in front of a speeding bus on Ibn Gvirol Street. Smashed pretty much every bone in his body. He was hospitalized here for a month and was then transferred on Sunday, January fourteenth, 2007, to Lowenstein. There’s a picture here of him, but it’s not going to do you much good.”

  The image on the computer screen was of a face completely wrapped in bandages.

  “Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.”

  Avner rose from his chair and Rotem followed suit. They went out to the parking lot and got into Avner’s car. According to Waze, the drive to 278 Ahuza Street, Ra’anana, would take forty-eight minutes.

  “I wonder how it affected him,” Rotem thought out loud.

  “What?”

  “The accident. Incredibly traumatic and shocking for both body and mind. It must have wreaked havoc with all the transformations or reprogramming or whatever you want to call them. I wonder how it affected his personality.”

  “I can assure you he’s still a fucking lunatic,” Avner sighed. “Amiram’s gone missing, too. They found his overturned Jeep at the entrance to the town where I live. I think he’s abducted both of them. Efrat and Amiram. He’s holding them somewhere.”

  “We’ll find him,” Rotem said. “And I get the feeling that we’re not the only ones looking.”

  “You’re right.”

  I sit down on the ground at a secure distance from the black rock and reach into my backpack. I retrieve some small shells, dried-out crab legs, and long black spines I snapped off the sea urchin skeletons that litter the hot orange sand. I use the shells to create a small circular formation in front of me. I take a reddish dried-out crab leg with a pincer at one end and place it alongside my shell creation, next to which I place a pile of sea urchin spines. And I wait, using the time to remove a piece of dry bread from my backpack. I place small bits of the dry bread on my tongue, close my mouth and allow my saliva to soften the bread, then I chew it slowly and swallow.

  A low humming sound rises up around me. A whirlwind throws orange specks of dust into the air. The sea urchin spines shift slightly and lift off the ground. They settle on the shell formation, creating a dense spiny structure. I know what I have to do.

  I take off my clothes and leave them in a neat pile next to my backpack. I walk toward a specific point on the dome of the black rock, stand in front of it and raise my arms to an angle of 45 degrees. I stand motionless and wait. The fear I felt earlier is gone.

  All at once, black spines come shooting out of the holes that dot the black rock on all sides. They emerge at blinding speed and stop. They are about 5 meters in length and have pointed tips. The sharp spines shoot between my spread legs, above my head and close to my outstretched arms, missing me by just a centimeter or 2. One shoots past my forearm and scratches, but doesn’t pierce my flesh.

  I hear the hissing sound of compressed air and the metal rods retract slowly into the rock again. I look at the perforated bodies scattered around me. They should have known.

  I walk toward the rock until I’m within touching distance. It’s made up of small and smooth slabs of black quartz and I can see an indentation in the shape of a hand on its surface. I place my palm on it. The rock moves slowly to the side on a track of sorts, revealing an opening in the sand, and the initial part of a long stairway hewn into black quartz. The light that shines into the opening makes the walls inside glimmer in flashes of orange and white.

  I step inside and start my descent.

  02/12/2016–9 weeks since waking

  I’m walking through the Witches’ Market in La Paz. There are various charms and amulets on display at the stalls, along with small dried creatures of some kind. I ask one of witches about the creatures, and she tells me they’re dehydrated alpaca fetuses. The dried fetus is buried under the foundation of a new home to bring good fortune. Like a mezuzah. A mezuzah contains a parchment scroll made from sheepskin or calfskin. It’s interesting. Pieces of dead animals on doorframes and under foundations to bring good fortune and blessing. People believe prosperity stems from the death of other creatures.

  I eat a sandwich that I buy from a chola. It has strips of roast pork, pickled sweet vegetables, and hot chili sauce. The local SIM card I purchased at the airport is slow but works. I search the Net for a car rental company that also offers commercial vehicles. The companies at the airport only had small cars. I find a car rental company called Imbex and rent a pickup truck, a Toyota Land Cruiser. A steel drum with a nuclear warhead inside it should fit easily into the back. I need some additional equipment in order to find it and lift it into the pickup truck. I brought a Geiger counter with me from Israel. The warhead must be buried underground somewhere.

  As the car rental employee deals with the insurance paperwork, I reach for a sheet of paper and a pen from the counter and prepare a list:

    1.  Pitchfork

    2.  Shovel

    3.  Leather gloves

    4.  Powerful flashlight and batteries

    5.  Gasoline-powered chain saw

    6.  50 meters of rope

    7.  4 pulley wheels to match the thickness of the rope

    8.  10 2-meter long wooden beams (thickness—10 × 5 centimeters)

    9.  Canvas tarpaulin

  10.  5 colorful woolen blankets

  11.  Anti-radiation protective garment

  12.  Large tent

  13.  Drill set—various sizes

  14.  Small hacksaw

  15.  40 packages of razor blades
<
br />   16.  Chargeable power screwdriver

  17.  Long screws—10 centimeters

  18.  Hammer

  19.  Long nails—10 centimeters

  20.  Small nails and screws of various lengths

  21.  5 packages of black duct tape

  22.  Packet of bags used to transport cement or gravel

  “Sign here, please, Mr. Mercier,” the rental firm employee says to me. I sign the paperwork for the pickup and fill in my details—René Mercier, French citizen. He asks me why I need a pickup truck and I tell him that I’m meeting 2 friends and we’re going to look for silver deposits in the Potosí mines. I’ll need the room for all the digging tools and the silver ore we find. The man wishes me luck and takes a deposit of an additional $500. “That’s so you take care not to scratch the back of the pickup too much with all your equipment,” he says.

  “Don’t worry, we’re going to get rich,” I respond in a French accent.

  “Make sure you don’t leave your equipment in the back. Anything left not under lock and key will disappear in a flash if you don’t keep your eyes on it.”

  “Is there a store around here where I can buy digging tools?”

  “You’ll find one on Avenida Mariscal Santa Cruz. There are various stores there that sell hiking gear, tools, and stuff like that. Look for shops for farmers.”

  I thank him and he hands me the keys to the pickup.

  I need to find a dentist.

  02/12/2016—Afternoon, 9 weeks since waking

  The slow SIM card finds a dentist in La Paz. Dr. Pablo Morales’s clinic is on El Prado Street and I park my vehicle outside and go into the office building.

  Dr. Morales specializes in emergency dental care and root canal treatments. I read on the website of the clinic where he works that they also have radiography equipment and do panoramic X-rays of the mouth cavity. That’s good.

  Dr. Morales asks me to sit in his dental chair. “No, thanks,” I say, “my teeth are just fine.”

  “Mr. Mercier, why did you schedule an emergency appointment if your teeth are fine? I’m a dentist, you know.”

  “You have X-ray equipment here, right?”

  “Yes, but only for dental X-rays. If you’ve broken your arm, I suggest you go to the Hospital Boliviano Holandés. That’s where all the tourists go.”

  “Is there a lead partition in the wall of your treatment room? When you do an X-ray, do you walk out and stand behind the wall? Is that how you protect yourself from the radiation?” I point toward the wall between the treatment room and the waiting room outside.

  “No. I have a lead apron that I wear when doing X-rays. I put the apron on, leave the room, and activate the machine by remote control. It’s not as efficient as a lead wall but it works. I appreciate your concern for my health, Mr. Mercier, but what exactly do you want from me?”

  “Here’s $1,000. You can buy a lead shield for your wall. Or a new apron.”

  “A new apron?”

  “Yes. I need your apron. Sell it to me.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I’m serious. I need a lead apron.”

  “What do you need a lead apron for?”

  “I made a bet with a friend. We’re going out on a trek tomorrow. In the Tuni region. 3 days of mountains, frozen lakes, and snow. Huayana Potosí will be the highest point on our route. An altitude of more than 5,000 meters. A helluva mountain. After a few beers yesterday we made a bet about something and he lost. According to the bet, the loser has to wear an item of clothing of the winner’s choice for the entire 1st day of the trek. He’s probably thinking I’m going to choose a funny shirt or a dress, but I’m going to bring him this apron and he’ll have to climb with a lead apron that weighs 10 kilos. Not only is it heavy, but he’ll look funny, too. We always make bets like these. The loser suffers.”

  “What was the bet about?”

  “We flipped a coin. He called heads and got it wrong.”

  Dr. Morales started laughing. “Take the robe. I’ll buy a new one. Here’s a business card with my email address; send me a picture of him climbing the mountain in the apron. I’ll frame it and hang it on my wall here.”

  “No problem.” I take the heavy apron and go back down to my vehicle.

  I notice that certain things amuse me. Before the accident, nothing made me laugh. I also see faces in everything now. A folded blanket, a towel on the floor, clouds. The center of my brain responsible for recognizing and analyzing facial features may have improved. I hope it hasn’t improved too much. When I get back to Israel, I will get a brain MRI.

  02/19/2016—Noon, 10 weeks since waking

  I read through the Lonely Planet guide book I bought at the airport in Israel before my flight. Uyuni is a flat town in a flat desert in a high-altitude country. The town itself doesn’t have much to offer and usually serves only as a starting point for treks to the surrounding desert and the large salt lake nearby. It’s a desolate place.

  Dry in parts and covered with a thin film of water in others, the salt lake, Salar de Uyuni, is flat and wide. And because the lake reflects sunlight back into space like a giant mirror, it serves to calibrate satellites. The Lonely Planet strongly recommends joining a guided tour of the lake.

  I’m surrounded by a lot of dust and salt but there’s no sign of a nuclear warhead so far. I’ve been here for a week already, driving down every possible street. The streets here are wide and deserted and the roads are made of dirt, no asphalt. My pickup is already covered with a thick layer of dust. I’ve been to the Salar. There, I filled 10 sacks with salt and placed them in the back of the pickup truck with the rest of my equipment. If the warhead is buried in the Salar itself, it will take me several years to find it.

  My Geiger counter, the RAM R-200, is resting silently on the front passenger seat. I know it’s working properly because it came with a calibration unit that emits small amounts of radiation and the counter responded immediately when I held it up to the unit. I conducted the test in the basement before my trip. I didn’t want to take the calibration unit with me on the flight in case it would cause one of the security devices at the airport to start beeping. I pull over to the side for a moment, remove the battery of the RAM R-200 and touch the 2 terminals to my tongue. I feel the sting of the current.

  I check one more time.

  And then again.

  The battery is fully charged.

  I put the battery back into the RAM R-200 and continue driving through the streets of the town, marking the places I’ve been to on a map I printed. It’s easy to find your way around here. The town is crisscrossed with wide dirt roads like the bars of a prison cell.

  I remember the excerpt from the Bernoulli files I read. There was a transcript of a conversation between 2 people. I reach into my pocket to retrieve the small piece of paper on which I printed the text:

  * * *

  - The device has arrived and is in a secure location, as we agreed.

  - In the cemetery?

  - Yes.

  - The remainder of the sum will be transferred to you in full through the agreed accounts within a month, following an inspection of the device.

  - We’re pulling out of there. Does anyone apart from you know the location?

  - No. I will inspect the device personally, and I’m the only one who knows the location.

  * * *

  Federico Lopez hadn’t repeated those words for nothing.

  “Bolivia Uyuni”

  “Bolivia Uyuni”

  “Bolivia Uyuni”

  I’m sure the warhead is here. Federico Lopez tried to have it moved elsewhere, but he was engulfed by a raging fireball and he and his telephone went up in flames. I don’t think he was able to convey the message. Had he managed to do so, the bomb would have been detonated somewhere at some point during the past 9 years. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who heard it. Well, not really heard it. I read his lips. I was standing at a safe distance with a
pair of binoculars and I read Federico Lopez’s burning lips in the burning park on Avenida Ezequiel Bustillo.

  The 1st place I checked in Uyuni was the town cemetery. There was nothing there. Not a single beep from the RAM R-200. I walked through every row of graves with the RAM R-200 and looked for a gravestone with a steel drum buried below.

  Nothing.

  I continue to drive around in the pickup truck until evening, then I return to the Hotel Julia where I’m staying. The desk clerk asks me if I’ve been to the train cemetery yet.

  “A train cemetery?”

  “Yes. Drive to the end of Avenida Potosí, turn left out of town, and you’ll be there in a minute or so. In 1882, the British and the Bolivians completed construction of a rail network to be used for exporting minerals from the region, but the natives living in the area didn’t like it and they repeatedly sabotaged the tracks until the trains eventually stopped running in 1940. Now they’re all crumbling to pieces on the tracks just outside the city. It’s a good place to take photographs.”

  “The natives were right. Those steam trains must have made a terrible racket.”

  “I guess so, señor,” the desk clerk says with a smile.

  “Sabes que? I think I’ll go there now. The sun will be setting soon and I’ll be able to get some nice pictures.”

  “Seguro.”

  I follow his directions and drive to the train cemetery. I leave the pickup at the entrance to the graveyard and take only the RAM R-200 with me.

  The remains of the piston-driven steam engines and rectangular train cars take on a rusty orange hue in the light of the setting sun. The RAM R-200 comes to life as I get close to one of the trains, beeping at an ever-increasing rate until I’m standing in front of one of the mineral freight cars and the device is going crazy, sounding one continuous beep. I make a mental note of the exact location of the freight car and I use a stone to mark the car with a small white X. I return to my vehicle, retrieve the shovel, and dig a small hole in the sandy earth. I remove the battery from the RAM R-200, smash it with a rock, place the broken pieces into the hole, and cover it with earth.