Read Online THRILLER: The Galilee Plot: (International Biological Terror, The Mossad, and... A Self-contended Couple) by Shlomo Kalo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Shlomo Kalo
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for him to sitting here other than for purposes of murder. And the only
logical conclusion to be drawn from this, the simple, numbing and inevitable
conclusion, is that he’s here to murder me . In my efforts to keep
control of myself, I was alert to every one of my movements. I felt confidence
and absence of fear, to a degree that could be considered unnatural. There was
logic in this and a kind of assurance, capable of convincing one Abd Rahman,
who had just arisen from the depths of Hell.
The situation reminded me
of an incident from the distant past. On behalf of the “Combat Groups”, I was
given the task, along with Georgi, a rustic lad and former partisan, of
following a certain suspect as closely as was possible, and finally, arresting
him and taking him in for interrogation at the nearest militia headquarters. So
we trailed along behind the “subject” who – so it seemed – paid us no
attention, and made no attempt whatsoever to shake us off. The surveillance
began at about nine in the evening. At ten-fifteen the “subject” went into a
tavern and came out a few moments later. We resumed our pursuit. The “subject”
arrived at an isolated house in the outskirts of the town. He knocked on a
heavy, rough-hewn door, three knocks carefully spaced out, obviously a
pre-arranged signal. The door opened and the “subject” disappeared behind it.
The house also had a narrow window, neglected and dirty. Georgi assigned me to
watch this while he guarded the door and the plan was, if anything happened, I
was to cover him. The cool, late-autumn night began to oppress our over-tired
bodies. We stood there from about ten-thirty until two in the morning. Then the
door opened with an indignant creak and the “subject” came out. Without a
moment’s hesitation, Georgi approached the subject, showed him his ID card and
told him to put his hands on the battered peaked-cap that he wore on his head.
The “subject” did as he was told. He raised his left hand and laid the palm on
his battered cap; his right hand however travelled down the cheaply tailored
overcoat as far as the pocket, pulled out a bottle and brandished it in the
air, with the obvious intention of bringing it down on Georgi’s head.
At that very moment Georgi
drew his pistol. The expression on his face immediately put that same sentence
into my mind: “He’s done this before” – he knows what it is to shoot a man at a
range of half a metre, or point-blank. Sure enough a gunshot was heard, which
later I was to describe as the shot of a marksman. The bullet hit the
brandished bottle, smashing it to pieces, and the liquid it contained spilled
over the arm of the one who had been waving it, exuding a strong smell of
concentrated alcohol. The man was stunned. His first, instinctive and
unexpected reaction was to kneel at Georgi’s feet, with an outburst of
hysterical weeping, accompanied by belches.
Later we discovered that
the man with the bottle wasn’t the sinister envoy of western Anglo-American
imperialist reactionaries, intent on subverting the firm foundations of the
enlightened socialist regime in Bulgaria, but just someone who kept a mistress
in that isolated house. When visiting his mistress, he had not forgotten to
stop at that tavern on the way and buy strong liquor, and with typical and
depressing Bulgarian thrift, as the bottle hadn’t been emptied, he was taking
the remainder for himself. He had come under suspicion after missing three of
the obligatory weekly meetings, which all supporters of the regime were
supposed to attend, and when he was not found at home, the process was set in
motion. It can well be imagined how astounded the man must have been by what
awaited him outside, on leaving the house of his mistress.
Mr Rahman, sitting there
in the armchair in the hotel lobby, he too had certainly done this before.
I turned to the clerk. And
then a shot was heard, ringing in my ears and deafening them completely, all
logical conclusion to be drawn from this, the simple, numbing and inevitable
conclusion, is that he’s here to murder me . In my efforts to keep
control of myself, I was alert to every one of my movements. I felt confidence
and absence of fear, to a degree that could be considered unnatural. There was
logic in this and a kind of assurance, capable of convincing one Abd Rahman,
who had just arisen from the depths of Hell.
The situation reminded me
of an incident from the distant past. On behalf of the “Combat Groups”, I was
given the task, along with Georgi, a rustic lad and former partisan, of
following a certain suspect as closely as was possible, and finally, arresting
him and taking him in for interrogation at the nearest militia headquarters. So
we trailed along behind the “subject” who – so it seemed – paid us no
attention, and made no attempt whatsoever to shake us off. The surveillance
began at about nine in the evening. At ten-fifteen the “subject” went into a
tavern and came out a few moments later. We resumed our pursuit. The “subject”
arrived at an isolated house in the outskirts of the town. He knocked on a
heavy, rough-hewn door, three knocks carefully spaced out, obviously a
pre-arranged signal. The door opened and the “subject” disappeared behind it.
The house also had a narrow window, neglected and dirty. Georgi assigned me to
watch this while he guarded the door and the plan was, if anything happened, I
was to cover him. The cool, late-autumn night began to oppress our over-tired
bodies. We stood there from about ten-thirty until two in the morning. Then the
door opened with an indignant creak and the “subject” came out. Without a
moment’s hesitation, Georgi approached the subject, showed him his ID card and
told him to put his hands on the battered peaked-cap that he wore on his head.
The “subject” did as he was told. He raised his left hand and laid the palm on
his battered cap; his right hand however travelled down the cheaply tailored
overcoat as far as the pocket, pulled out a bottle and brandished it in the
air, with the obvious intention of bringing it down on Georgi’s head.
At that very moment Georgi
drew his pistol. The expression on his face immediately put that same sentence
into my mind: “He’s done this before” – he knows what it is to shoot a man at a
range of half a metre, or point-blank. Sure enough a gunshot was heard, which
later I was to describe as the shot of a marksman. The bullet hit the
brandished bottle, smashing it to pieces, and the liquid it contained spilled
over the arm of the one who had been waving it, exuding a strong smell of
concentrated alcohol. The man was stunned. His first, instinctive and
unexpected reaction was to kneel at Georgi’s feet, with an outburst of
hysterical weeping, accompanied by belches.
Later we discovered that
the man with the bottle wasn’t the sinister envoy of western Anglo-American
imperialist reactionaries, intent on subverting the firm foundations of the
enlightened socialist regime in Bulgaria, but just someone who kept a mistress
in that isolated house. When visiting his mistress, he had not forgotten to
stop at that tavern on the way and buy strong liquor, and with typical and
depressing Bulgarian thrift, as the bottle hadn’t been emptied, he was taking
the remainder for himself. He had come under suspicion after missing three of
the obligatory weekly meetings, which all supporters of the regime were
supposed to attend, and when he was not found at home, the process was set in
motion. It can well be imagined how astounded the man must have been by what
awaited him outside, on leaving the house of his mistress.
Mr Rahman, sitting there
in the armchair in the hotel lobby, he too had certainly done this before.
I turned to the clerk. And
then a shot was heard, ringing in my ears and deafening them completely, all
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