Haifa, Israel, 2009.
The ocean breeze from the Mediterranean blew warm over the city of Haifa, perched on the slopes of Mt. Carmel. The group of people gathered in the backyard of a fashionable home on the side of the mountain had enjoyed a good meal, and now sat at a picnic table shaded by a stand of cedar trees while children played in the yard. One of them came running up to a woman in her late fifties, with long dark hair threaded with some silver.
"Look Aunt Sarah, what Uncle Danny gave me!" the little boy said.
In his hand was a folding knife with a wood handle, and a shiny steel bolster that rotated to lock the blade when open. The name Opinel was struck deeply into the blade.
"Have you ever seen a knife like that, Aunt Sarah?"
The dark haired woman took the knife from the boy gently, and looked at it with a strange expression.
"Yes, but not for a very long time. Long ago in another place I had a knife like that. It's a very good knife from France, and they've been made for a very long time." she told the boy. Then she took his hand and looked deep into his eyes.
"Please be very careful with that knife. It's very sharp, and can hurt you very badly. It can even kill if you're not careful."
The boy, impressed with his Aunt Sarah's seriousness, promised to be very careful. He rejoined his young playmates.
Sarah looked across the table at the old man, well into his eighties, but with alert brown eyes that missed nothing. He'd been too long in a very dangerous business to miss much.
"It was a very long time ago, dear niece. Do you still think of it?" he asked the middle age woman.
The woman thought for a moment, and shook her head.
"No, we did what needed to be done. A debt like that must be paid."
Paris, 1978.
It was a grey overcast spring morning, and the early rush hour was just starting. The buzz of traffic was growing, and soon the streets would be crowded, but now it was still early as the black Mercedes Benz pulled smoothly to the curb. A young man with a swarthy complexion got out and stood by the rear door to open it for the man who would be coming out the door of the three story apartment building at any moment. The routine was set, and his employer insisted on to-the-minute punctuality. The watchers had timed the routine every morning for days, even weeks. No mistakes would be made. They also knew that the young man, named Jamal, considered himself God's gift to the female race. A handsome 28-year-old Middle Eastern young man, his black hair was long and brushed straight back, and the well cut tailored suit went well with his lean figure.
As he stood, watching the door, a battered and dented white Vespa P200 pulled up in back of the Mercedes, and a young woman dressed in black leathers got off and dug into the messenger bag hanging from her shoulder. Motorcycle and motor scooter messengers were common place on the streets of Paris, but the young woman was anything but common place. Tall with a long legged build, the black leather of her riding gear fit her like a second skin. The young man who was driver and bodyguard for the man who was to exit the building any moment, looked with great interest at the very attractive young woman in black. She glanced his way and gave him a toothpaste commercial smile an as she turned and walked up the short walkway to the door she let herself put a little extra strut in her gait. Once inside though, she became a different person. She took out the large manila envelope that had the already open Opinel number 12 taped to the back of it, hiding the knife from view.
It was quiet, and nobody was in the foyer, so she went up the stairs to the right because she knew her target would be coming down. As she went up the stairs she could hear the man coming down towards her. All the days of watching and timing was paying off. They knew his timetable, knew his habits. As the man turned the corner to come down the stairs to the foyer, they met.
With a speed and agility that showed her athletic background as a former Olympic fencer, she lunged into the man that was her target. The knife plunged into the area just under the sternum and through the diaphragm and into the liver. The man tried and failed to scream, only a gasping of the last air he would ever know escaped his lungs. Eyes wide with shock, he stared at the young woman who had just killed him. He slid down the wall that she had pushed him against, and ended up sitting spread legged. She knelt down till her lips were almost touching his ear, and spoke softly to him.
"Greetings from Tel Aviv, you bastard. Now burn in hell!"
The man's eyes went from shock to terror as he struggled to breathe, then he coughed up a gout of blood and convulsed and died. The young woman watched the light in his eyes go out, then stood up. She checked her clothes, and wiped off the little blood that had sprayed on the shiny leather. Her job done, she walked out of the apartment building, leaving the knife stuck in the dead mans body. Only a minute and a half had passed.
As she walked calmly down to the dented up Vespa, the young Mercedes driver smiled and tried to flirt with her. She gave him another smile and kicked the Vespa into life then pulled off, blending into the early morning Paris traffic. The young man watched her go with regret, then looked back to the apartment doorway. A faint sense of something being wrong bothered him, and he started walking up to the door. Each step increased, till he was running as he hit the door. Inside on the stairs, he found his charge, the man he was supposed to keep safe. In a rage, he ran out the building pulling the 9mm Browning out as he ran. Standing at the curb, the white Vespa was long gone, and he screamed his rage at the overcast grey sky.
Twenty minutes later in another part of the city the white Vespa pulled into a quiet tree shaded car park. In the very back of the car park was an old blue Peugeot 404 sedan. The middle aged man sitting in it seemed to be reading a newspaper, but he watched everything over the top edge of the paper with alert brown eyes that missed nothing. As the Vespa pulled in, he started the motor, and sat waiting. The young woman on the scooter put it up on its stand, took off her helmet and placed it carefully on the seat and walked off to the back of the lot and got in the back seat of the old Peugeot. The driver of the car pulled off slowly and carefully not to attract any attention. In the back seat, the young woman pulled off the leather motorcycle clothing and got clothes out of the suitcase in the back seat.
"It went well?" the driver asked.
"Yes, just as planned. He was a creature of habit after all. Now he's in hell where he belongs." the young woman said in a vengeful tone of voice.
"Never let it be personal, dear niece. It's too hard on the soul."
"But it was personal, Uncle Moshe. I know it won't bring him back, but I needed to do this. It's been my driving force to live ever since Munich."
The uncle looked back at his niece with eyes that were a little sad.
By the time they reached the airport, the leather clad young motor scooter messenger was gone and a well dressed young woman in white blouse and dark blue skirt got out of the car. She leaned in the drivers window and kissed her uncle on the cheek.
"Shalom Uncle Moshe. Come home soon."
"Yes, after I close down the operations house I'll be along. Shalom."
An hour later a blue and white jetliner took off with the insignia of El Al airlines on the tail.
The ocean breeze from the Mediterranean blew warm over the city of Haifa, perched on the slopes of Mt. Carmel. The group of people gathered in the backyard of a fashionable home on the side of the mountain had enjoyed a good meal, and now sat at a picnic table shaded by a stand of cedar trees while children played in the yard. One of them came running up to a woman in her late fifties, with long dark hair threaded with some silver.
"Look Aunt Sarah, what Uncle Danny gave me!" the little boy said.
In his hand was a folding knife with a wood handle, and a shiny steel bolster that rotated to lock the blade when open. The name Opinel was struck deeply into the blade.
"Have you ever seen a knife like that, Aunt Sarah?"
The dark haired woman took the knife from the boy gently, and looked at it with a strange expression.
"Yes, but not for a very long time. Long ago in another place I had a knife like that. It's a very good knife from France, and they've been made for a very long time." she told the boy. Then she took his hand and looked deep into his eyes.
"Please be very careful with that knife. It's very sharp, and can hurt you very badly. It can even kill if you're not careful."
The boy, impressed with his Aunt Sarah's seriousness, promised to be very careful. He rejoined his young playmates.
Sarah looked across the table at the old man, well into his eighties, but with alert brown eyes that missed nothing. He'd been too long in a very dangerous business to miss much.
"It was a very long time ago, dear niece. Do you still think of it?" he asked the middle age woman.
The woman thought for a moment, and shook her head.
"No, we did what needed to be done. A debt like that must be paid."
Paris, 1978.
It was a grey overcast spring morning, and the early rush hour was just starting. The buzz of traffic was growing, and soon the streets would be crowded, but now it was still early as the black Mercedes Benz pulled smoothly to the curb. A young man with a swarthy complexion got out and stood by the rear door to open it for the man who would be coming out the door of the three story apartment building at any moment. The routine was set, and his employer insisted on to-the-minute punctuality. The watchers had timed the routine every morning for days, even weeks. No mistakes would be made. They also knew that the young man, named Jamal, considered himself God's gift to the female race. A handsome 28-year-old Middle Eastern young man, his black hair was long and brushed straight back, and the well cut tailored suit went well with his lean figure.
As he stood, watching the door, a battered and dented white Vespa P200 pulled up in back of the Mercedes, and a young woman dressed in black leathers got off and dug into the messenger bag hanging from her shoulder. Motorcycle and motor scooter messengers were common place on the streets of Paris, but the young woman was anything but common place. Tall with a long legged build, the black leather of her riding gear fit her like a second skin. The young man who was driver and bodyguard for the man who was to exit the building any moment, looked with great interest at the very attractive young woman in black. She glanced his way and gave him a toothpaste commercial smile an as she turned and walked up the short walkway to the door she let herself put a little extra strut in her gait. Once inside though, she became a different person. She took out the large manila envelope that had the already open Opinel number 12 taped to the back of it, hiding the knife from view.
It was quiet, and nobody was in the foyer, so she went up the stairs to the right because she knew her target would be coming down. As she went up the stairs she could hear the man coming down towards her. All the days of watching and timing was paying off. They knew his timetable, knew his habits. As the man turned the corner to come down the stairs to the foyer, they met.
With a speed and agility that showed her athletic background as a former Olympic fencer, she lunged into the man that was her target. The knife plunged into the area just under the sternum and through the diaphragm and into the liver. The man tried and failed to scream, only a gasping of the last air he would ever know escaped his lungs. Eyes wide with shock, he stared at the young woman who had just killed him. He slid down the wall that she had pushed him against, and ended up sitting spread legged. She knelt down till her lips were almost touching his ear, and spoke softly to him.
"Greetings from Tel Aviv, you bastard. Now burn in hell!"
The man's eyes went from shock to terror as he struggled to breathe, then he coughed up a gout of blood and convulsed and died. The young woman watched the light in his eyes go out, then stood up. She checked her clothes, and wiped off the little blood that had sprayed on the shiny leather. Her job done, she walked out of the apartment building, leaving the knife stuck in the dead mans body. Only a minute and a half had passed.
As she walked calmly down to the dented up Vespa, the young Mercedes driver smiled and tried to flirt with her. She gave him another smile and kicked the Vespa into life then pulled off, blending into the early morning Paris traffic. The young man watched her go with regret, then looked back to the apartment doorway. A faint sense of something being wrong bothered him, and he started walking up to the door. Each step increased, till he was running as he hit the door. Inside on the stairs, he found his charge, the man he was supposed to keep safe. In a rage, he ran out the building pulling the 9mm Browning out as he ran. Standing at the curb, the white Vespa was long gone, and he screamed his rage at the overcast grey sky.
Twenty minutes later in another part of the city the white Vespa pulled into a quiet tree shaded car park. In the very back of the car park was an old blue Peugeot 404 sedan. The middle aged man sitting in it seemed to be reading a newspaper, but he watched everything over the top edge of the paper with alert brown eyes that missed nothing. As the Vespa pulled in, he started the motor, and sat waiting. The young woman on the scooter put it up on its stand, took off her helmet and placed it carefully on the seat and walked off to the back of the lot and got in the back seat of the old Peugeot. The driver of the car pulled off slowly and carefully not to attract any attention. In the back seat, the young woman pulled off the leather motorcycle clothing and got clothes out of the suitcase in the back seat.
"It went well?" the driver asked.
"Yes, just as planned. He was a creature of habit after all. Now he's in hell where he belongs." the young woman said in a vengeful tone of voice.
"Never let it be personal, dear niece. It's too hard on the soul."
"But it was personal, Uncle Moshe. I know it won't bring him back, but I needed to do this. It's been my driving force to live ever since Munich."
The uncle looked back at his niece with eyes that were a little sad.
By the time they reached the airport, the leather clad young motor scooter messenger was gone and a well dressed young woman in white blouse and dark blue skirt got out of the car. She leaned in the drivers window and kissed her uncle on the cheek.
"Shalom Uncle Moshe. Come home soon."
"Yes, after I close down the operations house I'll be along. Shalom."
An hour later a blue and white jetliner took off with the insignia of El Al airlines on the tail.
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And for more than one reason! 
