Jazzed

Chapter Six-1

Chapter Six

For the plane ride back, Taz jack-knifed her legs into the window seat and stared intently through the glass at the night sky. She mentally closed down. Spencer checked his watch. It was well past two in the morning and he had been up for twenty-one hours straight and it was starting to tell. He desperately wanted to ask for a blanket and put his seat back but he had the overriding suspicion that he would wake up and find her gone. Escaping from a plane jetting along at six-hundred miles an hour didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility. Not for Taz.

With her eyes diverted toward the stars, he took another opportunity to let his eyes drift over the slope of her breasts, the ridged tummy, and the curve of thigh muscle. She had a long neck and pretty ears.

Spencer caught her eyes reflected in the glass. She was watching him, had been, the entire time he had been making his mental assessment of her body. Damn! He flushed with shame at the thought of the indiscretion and felt the heat rising in his neck. He was about to apologize but caught himself. An apology seemed silly after what had transpired in her basement. Let her think what she wanted.

Taz turned in her seat, turned to meet his gaze head-on. Her eyes flashed, reflecting the harsh light from the overhead lamps. He had mistakenly thought her eyes were an uninspired sandy brown, but was startled now by the unsettling sight of liquid amber. Tiger, tiger, in the night... the line from the old poem ran through his head and for just an instant, he thought he had caught a glimmer of the real girl, her soul laid bare behind the facade. But her features hardened. If there had been an emotional bridge, she had shut it down; slammed the door in his face.

The moment had been more poignant than watching her naked; moving casually about her living-space without embarrassment or concern.

Spencer still had clear memories of being attracted to her photograph, the one stapled into her file-folder when it had turned up on his desk four years ago. Basically, the Israelis wanted the CIA to take the girl off their hands: Give her a new passport, transport her, and then lose her somewhere in the vast homogeneous population of the United States. There wasn’t anything particularly unusual about the request and normally it would have been red stamped and passed along to a junior aid for processing. Israel was a staunch ally and the US wanted to forge a strong relationship and secure its foothold in Europe.

But Spencer was a careful man and wasn’t about to put his signature to a document that might prove to be an embarrassment later on. So he had read the request and the background material with interest. It contained more holes than a fishnet. That, in itself, was not unusual either, but Spencer decided to make a call. It was after six in Washington and the work day would be well underway in Tel Aviv.

He punched in the number for the American Embassy. “Charles Dines, please. It’s Washington calling,” he told the receptionist, a girl from Tex-ass. Spencer imagined a bodacious blonde; t**s with the slope of a pair of pointy cowboy boots. And a smile as wide as a Texan’s belt-buckle. A girl who couldn’t type and no one gave a crap, as long as she showed up for work in the mornings, dressed to kill.

Spencer was passed along to an aid and he briefly explained the purpose of his call. There was a series of clicks before he was connected over a secure line.

“Charlie? It’s Spence. How’s it going out there in the trenches?”

Charlie laughed at the sound of his old friend’s voice. “Couldn’t be better. They treat us like royalty over here. I love the diplomatic corps.”

Charlie Dines was an attaché and an old college friend. “So who’s the piece from Texas, the throaty b***h who answered the phone?”

“Dallas?”

“Her name is Dallas?”

“Naw. Probably not, but that’s what we call her. That and the Double-D branding iron. The rumor, probably false, has it she would dance naked for her rent money, up on top of the bar at Gillies Country Saloon in Dallas. She stands about six-three and keeps the little brown Israelis inline in the front office. She’s their epitome of the Great American Dream.”

Spencer laughed. The two of them spent a few moments reminiscing, playing the old, whatever happened to so and so, game before hashing over current college football scores. Then Spenser got down to the reason for his call:

“I’m doing a background check. A woman, well a girl actually, just nineteen years old; a member of the Israeli military police. The name is Tzivia Azaria... Taz. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of her but I’d appreciate it if you could snoop around a little.”

Charles surprised him. “Actually I have heard a little something about the girl,” Charles said. “A press release came across my desk and there was a brief newspaper article printed over here.”

“The same girl?”

“Has to be. She just received a Citation of Merit. Sort of like our military’s Silver Star.”

“She’s been honored with a medal and now they want her gone?”

“Gone?” Charles pondered his friend’s words.

“Yeah. They want us to transport her out of Israel, then lose her somewhere over here. Doesn’t that seem a little odd to you?”

Charles exhaled deeply into the phone. “In more ways than one, my man. This Citation of Merit thing is usually sent out with a letter of congratulations. But in this girl’s case, the military is making a big show of it: They called the press, brought in all the brass. There were speeches, a formal presentation, and a reception with food and drinks. A big spread. That’s highly unusual over here.”

“And now they want her gone. What happened? She spill caviar on some general’s ribbon?”

“Naw. I don’t think the poor girl was allowed anywhere near that close to a general. But here is the really interesting thing: The Citation of Merit, like our Silver Star, is awarded for acts of valor. In combat. Why would a member of the Israeli Military Police be eligible. And even more interestingly, why would they decorate a woman?”

Spencer thought about that for a moment. “There’s nothing in the report,” he said.

“Look, the Israelis are much like us when it comes to pandering to the ladies; we love to tote the fact that women are an important part of our military effort, but we never let the dollies anywhere near the front lines. The guys would spend more time f*****g that shooting. Women are usually relegated to some thankless desk job, so how did this girl rate a Citation of Merit? What’s her background?”

“It’s sketchy at best: Recruited when she was just sixteen and underwent basic training in the Defense Force. She was athletic and showed an aptitude for shooting and was assigned to a special training unit. I’m reading between the lines here, but it sounds to me like she went to sniper school.”

“Sounds about right,” Charles said. “Sent her over to the Sayeret Matkal. It’s the Israeli Defense Force’s elite special operations unit. Anything else?”

“Well she excelled but, surprisingly, was assigned, along with another girl named Marie Murez, to a small village located along the border with Gaza, a place called Nahal. They worked together, investigating r**e cases.”

“Ah, there you go. A dead end job if ever there was one. The Islamic extremists use r**e as an effective tool to demoralize the Israeli populace. They swoop in and kidnap five or ten women from the fields. Herd them across the border and force them to spend the night at one of their camps. The women are stripped and systematically r***d. The next morning, naked mothers and daughters are paraded back to a border crossing.”

“Tortured?”

“No, not specifically, but there have been reports of split noses and severed n*****s, but it’s the mental anguish the extremists want to evoke on the Israelis. And I take it your girl was on the scene to document the atrocities.”

“Evidently.”

“Like I said, a thankless job if ever there was one. The Israeli Defense Force isn’t interested in a few peasant women who get themselves knocked up by the enemy. The case reports are hastily prepared to appease the victims, filed, and never read. It’s a sham.”

“Okay. Got the picture. But how would a girl whose only job is to sit behind a typewriter and write up case histories, find herself in line for a Citation of Merit?”

“An interesting question, to be sure, and I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you but I’m not without a sense of curiosity. I have an acquaintance, an Israeli commander who works for the Metzah. That’s the investigation division of the Military Police. It will cost you a case of very fine scotch, but I’m sure he can provide some answers. Say the word and I’ll put in a call to him.”

Spencer drummed the file folder with his fingers. “Go,” he finally said. “And let me know what your friend drinks.”

Spencer hug up the phone and tossed the file-folder into the top drawer of his desk. It was time to head home and see if Jill had cooked him a dinner.

Three uneventful days followed and Spencer had begun to suspect that his inquiries had hit a roadblock; then the e-mail arrived. In the subject line, it simply stated: Glenfiddich. The body of the e-mail was short and to the point:

My boy is under a gag order and reluctant to share information. Fortunately, good scotch is a rare commodity and he divulged a few choice details to help move your investigation along the right channels. He gave me two scraps of information: First, he told me to look into a recent military tribunal involving the r**e of a young Israeli girl. I found out that your young Taz was called upon to testify. At first I hadn’t assigned much importance to the fact, considering her job description. But here’s the catch: The r**e wasn’t carried out by Islamic terrorists but by four members of the Israeli Defense Force. They r***d one of their own. And one of the rapists was a higher up; a General, no less. But more interesting; the four Israeli officers are missing, presumed dead.

And second, my associate gave me a name: Gal Nevo.

Sorry. I don’t know the gentleman in question, or his involvement in the case, and my friend refused to elaborate. You are better equipped than I to run a trace on the man, but I’d start with the personnel files of the Defense Force. I’m standing by to assist. Best of luck... Charles.

Spencer’s research assistant was a girl by the name of Amy. She was only twenty-one and came to work each morning looking like something that had crawled up from under a gravestone: White makeup, dark eye shadow, black lipstick and a stud in each eyebrow. She made Mortisha Addams look like a choir girl. But if he asked, Spencer was sure Amy could track the Pope’s daily bowel movement.

“What’dya want, Spence?”

“And good morning to you as well,” Spencer shot back down the phone line.

“I’m doin’ my nails, here. Don’t waste my time!”

“Okay. Here’s what I got... ” And Spencer gave her the bare bones of his investigation and the name Charlie had passed along: Gal Nevo.

Two hours later, Amy was back. “Spence? Amy in research.”

“How’s it hanging, Amy?”

“Ripe and moist,” she murmured seductively and Spencer had to steady himself. She wasn’t the most attractive girl in the department, but he figured her to be the most fun.

He got a grip.

“Anything come up?” He immediately saw the error of his ways...

“You tell me, shortcakes.”

He groaned and she chuckled again. “That’s why I’m calling. That name you gave me? I got one hundred and thirty-six hits; and the computer is still chugging. What’s your time frame?”

“One hundred and thirty-six. Jesus!”

“Yeah... I figured.”

Spencer thought for a moment and then pulled the file from his desk drawer. “This woman, Taz, she was assigned to some dried-up hell-hole on the backside of Gaza. A desert village called Nahal. Use that as a filter. See if a Gal Nevo was stationed nearby; in a military barracks, maybe.”

“Got-cha.” Amy snapped her gum. “Give me thirty minutes.”

It took only twenty and Amy was back: “I got your boy. He’s a desert grunt and stationed in a military encampment on the outskirts of that village you mentioned, Nahal? You want his phone number?”

“His phone number?”

“Christ. Get on-board, Spencer. The guy’s got a fuckin’ cell phone. Like every other dude on the planet.”

“Damn, Amy. You’re a marvel.”

“You want the number or not. I got real work to do down here.”

“Yes... yes!” Spencer scrambled for a pencil. “Give it to me slow.”

Allo... shalom...

His voice was low, restrained. Like a priest administrating to the grieving.

Spencer adjusted the timber of his own voice; almost as a courtesy, out of respect. “My name is Spencer. I’m calling from Washington. In the United States.”

Gal Nevo slipped easily into English. “I am pleased to speak with you, sir, but to what do I owe the honor?”

“I am told that you are associated with a friend of mine. Her name is Tzivia Azaria.”

There was a breathless pause. “Hello?” Spencer inquired, fearing that he had been cut off.

“I am here,” the voice drifted back.

“I’m sorry if my call is inconvenient. I could call back.”

“She was the friend of my girl.”

“Your daughter?” Spencer tried to clarify the man’s meaning.

There was hesitation. “No... no. Not my daughter. She was my love.”

“Taz is a friend of your... ” Spence wrestled with the terminology. “Your girlfriend?”

“No... I mean yes. Taz was a friend of my love. They were sisters; the two of them, together.”

“Was... ” Spence confirmed.

“Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Taz received the Citation of Merit. They could only give my girl the gift of the grave.”

It was Spencer’s turn to hesitate. What had happened to the poor guy’s girlfriend? “I’m sorry,” Spencer tried to be diplomatic. “I didn’t know.”

The bitterness broke into the man’s voice. “They took them. Both of them. They used my girl and then mutilated her. She died in the dirt... and Taz got the award.”

“Your girl... ” Spencer tried. “A name. Please. What was your girl’s name?”

“Marie Murez!” the man cried, his voice broken with anguish. The line went dead.

Spencer spent a long moment looking at his phone as he tried to assemble his thoughts.

The girls, Taz and Marie were good friends; sisters, the man called Gal Nevo had said. They knew each other from the military police academy. Had graduated together. And been assigned to the dismal outback village of Nahal.

Spencer could visualize the two of them, living together in some ramshackle army barracks in the dusty border town; their days filled with implausible r**e stories told by poor wretched women who had done nothing more than go out into the fields to eke out what little the desert could provide to feed their families. Women who had nothing to live for, and then, even their humility and their self-esteem had been stripped from them after a night in an enemy camp. The following morning, they were marched home; paraded naked and bleeding in front of their friends, neighbors, and their husbands and lovers.

And then the two girls, Taz and Marie, had themselves become victims.

Spenser thought about the military tribunal: Four Israeli officers charged with r**e. And Taz called upon to give evidence.

So the two girls had been lured to a place where the men wouldn’t be disturbed as they satisfied their lust. Marie had been the first. The men had r***d her, mutilated her and then killed her. And Taz had watched, knowing she would be next; had watched as her best friend, her sister, was stripped and forced to comply. But there had been an intervention of some sort. The four Israeli officers were now dead and Taz had been the only one to survive.

There was no telling if she had suffered physically, but mentally? Could there be any doubt?

It was little wonder that the Israeli brass wanted to clamp a lid down on the incident: Their own officers turning on a military cadet; barely a grown woman. They had to keep the only witness quiet, so they gave Taz a medal; made a big fuss over her. But ultimately they knew they would have to be rid of her. Taz knew too much.

Enter the CIA and Spencer with his big rubber stamp.

He inked it up. “Approved!” and he put his name to the paper. He dropped Tzivia Azaria into his outbox for processing and moved on.

Four years had passed since, and now he found himself seated next to the woman as they jetted through the night skies over Washington. And as he had feared, he still had more questions than answers.