CHAPTER 19
It was the next day when Ariel happened across an article about events in California while scrolling some news feeds looking for any reports about the community patrol. He paused when he saw the topic, and his eyes opened wide as he read the details.
“Mordechai! Have you seen this?”
He spun his laptop around and pushed it across the table to the older man. Mordechai looked up from the book he was reading. His eyes narrowed as he read the banner, and his hand flashed to the computer to page through the article rapidly. Then he backed up to the beginning and paged through again, slower. Once done, he looked up.
“Six synagogues vandalized or painted with graffiti in or near Santa Carla in two weeks. Even for the times, that’s excessive.”
“And that last one—Congregation Beth Shalom—that’s the synagogue I grew up in. My parents still go there!” Ariel sprang to his feet and stalked over to stare out the window at the night sky. He looked back over his shoulder. “Can we do anything about this?”
“We can. The question is whether we should.”
“What do you mean? They’re threatening my parents!”
“First, while they may be your parents, you are no longer their son, by your own choice.” Mordechai’s voice was hard and his face was just as adamant.
Ariel stared at him for a moment. “But…” His voice faltered as he absorbed what Mordechai had said.
“Second, we were sent here to resolve a single situation. We have done so. We do not have the authority to divert resources to make a trip to California rather than returning to Israel.
“Third, there may be something else that requires our abilities even more than this.” Ariel stared at Mordechai. He understood his points, and couldn’t argue with him, but his heart burned to…to do something, although he didn’t know what. His fists clenched in frustration.
“That said,” Mordechai said, and his face relaxed a bit, “let me make a phone call.” He walked over to the closet and pulled out his carry-on bag and set it on his bed. Unzipping it fully, he let the sides flop out flat, reached down and pushed on two points of the rigid bottom of the bag. A panel popped up, and he set it aside before picking a small parcel out of the metal-lined compartment that had been revealed. He unsealed a silvery plastic bag, and took out an object.
“Satellite phone,” he said to Ariel, holding it up as he walked over to the window. “For when you want to make absolutely sure you’re not being overheard, especially in the US. In a faraday bag to keep it from being detected by those on the lookout for such devices.”
Mordechai flashed a grin at Ariel, then dialed a number on the phone and held it up to his ear, listening. After a moment, he pressed a button on his wristwatch and said, “Zalman 74737Q.” He looked at his watch again, and said, “Confirm Alpha Zed 5962.” Pause, then, “Report on US, California, Santa Carla, synagogues.”
Ariel watched as Mordechai listened for what seemed like a long time (but when he looked at his own watch was less than five minutes), interspersing comments like “Hmm” and “Okay.” At the end of the report, Mordechai said, “Right. Pogrom level 3, headed toward 2. We’re in New York City right now; we can be in Santa Carla in eight hours, or sooner if the plane is serviced and the pilots are awake. I think we should nip this one now. Approved?” A moment later. “Good. We’re on the way. Cheers.”
Mordechai turned the phone off, replaced it in its faraday bag and returned it to its compartment. He then picked up the room phone, punched a number, and waited. “Michael? Zalman here. We have a new commission. We’re heading for Santa Carla, California. It’s south of San Francisco. I know you can fly into San Francisco or Los Angeles, but I’d rather go into a closer regional airport. Rabbi Mendel and I flew into one a few months ago, close to a year if I recall correctly. See if you can find that flight record and fly to the same one, please. Ariel and I will pack. After you work your magic, call my mobile to let me know when we have to leave. Right. We’ll be in the lobby.”
He hung the phone up and turned to Ariel. “Go pack, and meet me at the front desk in half an hour.”
* * *
Ariel decided again that he really liked flying by private jet, if for no other reason than not having to mess with the security lines in the main terminals. Thirty minutes after Mordechai had hung up the phone they were arriving at the fixed-base operator building where their jet had been stored, and thirty minutes after that they were taxiing out toward the runways without going through a single security checkpoint. He smiled at that thought.
Once they were airborne, he looked over at Mordechai. “So how long will this one take?”
“According to Michael, it’s a bit less than three thousand miles, so somewhere in the neighborhood of maybe four and a half hours. We’ll be landing at San Jose International Airport, if you know where that is.”
Ariel snorted. “Yeah, I know where it is. We drove by it every time we drove up to San Francisco or Oakland, unless we took Highway 1 up the coast. It’s a bit over thirty miles to Santa Carla from there. Good choice.”
Mordechai nodded. “Michael knows what he’s doing.” He put his laptop on the table and opened it up. “Aha. We have some more information from Israel.”
Ariel pulled his own laptop out and flipped it on. “Man, I wish I could have gotten this kind of service on commercial flights.”
Mordechai chuckled, but didn’t say anything further. They both dug into the files that had been sent to them.
There was a surprising amount of information provided, much of which was material Ariel wasn’t familiar with, even though he’d been born and raised in the area. He paged through article after article about recent anti-Semitism in California. Nothing much new there, from what he could recall. Then he hit the first article about the apparent rising tide of neo-Nazi speech and behavior among many of the street and motorcycle gangs on the west coast.
He looked up when Mordechai sat back and crossed his arms for a long moment, then nodded. “Him.”
“Who?” Ariel asked.
Mordechai turned his laptop around, and Ariel saw a picture of a square-headed white man wearing a leather jacket and with a name displayed: Cord “Snake” Campbell. He flipped to that file in his own laptop, and read through it.
“Why him?” Ariel looked up with a puzzled expression. “He doesn’t look any different from the rest of the gang guys.”
Mordechai tapped his lips with a finger a couple of times, then said, “Because of how he writes. They all post remarks and diatribes to social media pages. But his are focused manifestos, and of a pretty refined caliber of writing. And where everyone else is mostly blaming the Jews for all the various social justice issues of the last few years, he attacks our very existence. He argues that we don’t even have a right to exist. And he appears to be gathering support.” Mordechai tapped his lips again, and sat silently for a long moment. “This man is dangerous. Very dangerous.”
Ariel read through the articles again. “He’s leader of a new biker gang…Los Dracos Negros. That’s a Hispanic name, but he looks as white as they come.”
“Indeed,” Mordechai said. “Most of the motorcycle gangs are white men, although there is one elsewhere in the state that is Hispanic. But his gang is mixed race. That’s part of what makes this ‘Snake’ dangerous. He can apparently attract and bond across social divisions, and in someone with his beliefs and apparent agenda…” Mordechai shook his head.
“So what do we do?”
“Research on the ground, I’m afraid,” Mordechai said.
“How?”
“I’ve sent a few questions back. What answers I get may help with that. Meanwhile, we’ll be landing in a couple of hours. You might try to get some rest.” With that, Mordechai closed his laptop, reclined his seat, and closed his eyes.
Ariel sighed, and closed his own laptop. He knew Mordechai was right, but his brain was racing, and he didn’t think he’d rest much.
He was right.
* * *
The next evening they were standing across the street from Congregation Beth Shalom in the shadows of a couple of palm trees, watching as the sun finished setting and night finished overtaking the sky. They were dressed in dark clothing, so were pretty much undetectable where they stood.
The synagogue was an older building built in the 1920s, if he remembered correctly. Synagogue architecture in California was rich and varied from square, blocky neo-industrial brick buildings to Spanish-influenced designs with terra-cotta roofs to small stucco clad buildings with stone veneer fronts, and others. Most of the synagogues that Ariel had seen in the parts of Tel Aviv he frequented, including the one he attended, were relatively modern, many not more than a generation old, with angular lines and rectangular windows in contrast to the preponderance of arches and curved windows in the California synagogues.
Congregation Beth Shalom was an exception to both rules. Ariel knew his father had believed that it was either designed by Frank Lloyd Wright or one of his students. It was larger than many synagogues, because it had also been designed to be a community center as well as a worship center. Tall, with a swooping roofline and a matching swooping great window across the front, it was unique in California—in the world, Ariel suspected. But for all its familiarity, for all its presence in his previous life, this wasn’t home any more. A bit too much art, he feared, and not enough focus on haShem. It surprised him to feel a pang of nostalgia for his simple synagogue in Tel Aviv.
The sky was cloudless, and between the streetlights and the quarter moon hanging low on the horizon, they could see very well. Ariel looked up and down the street, but didn’t see anything other than a few cars crossing at intersections farther back down the road. The next block over was a dead end, so little traffic came down this road. The synagogue parking lot was empty.
“So, any responses to your questions yet?” Ariel kept his voice low, even though no one else was around.
“No, but they said maybe later tonight. You have to remember they’re about ten hours ahead of us. The end of their day will be around dawn here, or a little after.”
“Nine hours right now,” Ariel said. Mordechai looked at him with lowered eyebrows, and he grinned. “California’s on daylight saving time until early November, remember?”
“Ten hours. So is Israel.” Mordechai’s mouth twisted. “Daylight saving time,” he muttered. “Whose bright idea was that?”
“Believe it or not, Benjamin Franklin is usually credited with saying the idea first, although he didn’t call it that.”
“Huh. Figures it was an American.”
Ariel snickered. He looked up and down the street. Nothing.
“You really think someone will come by tonight?”
“They’re starting to do repeat visits,” Mordechai murmured. “There’s about a thirty percent chance they will come tonight.”
“Okay.”
Ariel looked at his watch. 9:04 p.m. He looked up and down the street again. Nothing.
The night progressed. Every once in a great while a car would turn onto the street, then turn off again a block or so later. No one was out walking.
11:11 p.m.
12:07 a.m.
1:00 a.m. Very quiet. Only a breeze moving.
2:14 a.m.
“Hist!” Very quietly. Ariel looked over to see Mordechai point down the street. Two figures walking up the sidewalk slowly. They watched as the figures made their way toward the synagogue, eventually drawing even with it, where they stopped. After a moment, they started walking across the lawn toward the synagogue. At that point, Ariel and Mordechai stepped out of the shadows.
They crossed the street and approached the synagogue from behind the intruders. As they neared, Ariel could hear the sound of spray-paint cans being shaken. Just as one of them was raising a can, Ariel tapped him on the shoulder.
“I don’t think you want to do that, friend.”
The man jerked, then swung around fast, swinging the butt of the paint can in his right hand toward Ariel’s head. Ariel grabbed his wrist and squeezed. Something crunched, and the man yelled, then broke into a torrent of unintelligible Spanish. Ariel twisted his wrist, and the man dropped to his knees, dropping the paint can and grabbing for his captive arm with his left hand as he did so. “You bastard…” he hissed. “You broke my arm!”
“I broke your wrist, friend,” Ariel said matter-of-factly as he watched Mordechai, “and if you don’t want more damage than that I suggest you stay still.”
Mordechai had faced off with the other man, who had pulled a knife and was leaning forward, waving it between them, cursing as he did so. After another moment, Mordechai blurred into motion, and they swirled around for a few seconds until they broke apart, only now the knife was standing out from the man’s shoulder. “You stabbed me,” he moaned, reaching for the knife hilt.
“I suggest you leave that there,” Mordechai said in a matter-of-fact tone. “It will slow down the bleeding until you can get someone to bandage it for you.” He beckoned to Ariel, who hauled his captive over to stand beside the other. “You two will carry a message for me. Go back to where you came from, and tell your leaders to leave the synagogues alone, and leave the Jews alone. If you don’t, you won’t like the consequences. Do you think you can remember that?”
Ariel’s captive began cursing in Spanish again. Ariel only understood about one word in seven or eight, but it was enough to recognize the probable content. He lightly squeezed the wrist he was still holding. The man broke off in a gasp, but nodded his head franticly.
“How about you?” Mordechai asked the other, reaching out to tap the knife hilt with a finger.
He jerked, and said, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll remember,” in a rapid tone.
“Good. Now leave.”
Ariel gave another slight squeeze to the wrist, eliciting another gasp, then released it, and the two men broke into a shambling run, both of them holding their injured arms. He could hear their footsteps and grunts of pain for quite some distance down the street.
Once they were out of sight and Ariel couldn’t hear them any longer, he picked up the sack one of them had dropped. It had another can of paint in it, so he gathered up the two cans they had dropped, and their matching caps, and added them to the bag.
“We done here?”
“For tonight,” Mordechai said.
“Think we did any good?”
“At least there’s no mess to clean up.”
“True. Think they’ll listen?”
Mordechai sighed. “If they don’t, at least they won’t be able to say they weren’t warned.”
* * *
The next day Mordechai had received responses to his questions, and they spent the late afternoon and early evening reviewing those. They had a lot more information now about the various outlaw motorcycle gangs in the area, including Los Dracos Negros. Ariel guessed that was a good thing, although he wasn’t sure how they would use it. Whoever Mordechai’s source was, they apparently could provide the real scoop.
Somewhere around 9:00 p.m. Ariel closed his laptop. “I’m tired of looking at these four walls,” he said. “Let’s go to the bar. They’ve got single malt scotch. I checked.”
“Do they, now?” One of Mordechai’s eyebrows rose. “What type?”
“He said the best they had was Glenmorangie.”
Mordechai’s other eyebrow rose, and he stood. “Well, then let us seize the moment.”
A few minutes later they were upstairs in the bar and their waiter, a skinny black man named Charles, was delivering their drinks. “Let me know if you need anything else,” he said with a smile before he slipped back through the crowd.
Ariel drank some of his Perrier and watched Mordechai lift his snifter to his nose.
“Well, how is it?”
A small smile crossed Mordechai’s face. “It’s…very nice. Different, of course, from the others I’ve tried. But very nice.”
They sat and watched the other patrons in the bar: men ranging from Ariel’s age to late middle aged; women ranging from young to ageless, some in groups, some in couples, a few alone. Much laughter and loud conversation, which helped cover up a few intimate conversations that Ariel didn’t want to overhear.
“So who should we approach?” Mordechai asked with his glass before his mouth.
“If it’s up to me, I’d say The Devil’s Legions. They’re the biggest gang in the area. For that matter, they’re the biggest gang in the state. They’ve almost got to know what’s going on with Los Dracos Negros, and from what I can tell there’s no love lost between them.”
Mordechai nodded. “I agree. So tomorrow we’ll go visit the local chapter and see what we can see.”
Ariel looked at him. “Seriously? You’re just going to stroll in and expect them to talk to us instead of bust our heads open and throw us out on the street?”
“Trust me,” Mordechai smiled. “It will work. You’ll see.” He took another sniff. “And if it doesn’t, you and I will have a nice bit of brisk exercise”—his smile disappeared and his tone dropped—“without restraints.”
Ariel nodded slowly. “Good enough.”
He looked around the bar again, and his eye was caught by a text banner scrolling across the bottom of a nearby TV screen up on the wall. His eyes widened to read synagogue bombing—beth shalom. He grabbed Mordechai’s arm and pointed at the screen. They watched as the small amount of text said someone threw a bomb into a classroom being used for an evening community class. Numerous people killed and injured, details to follow. They rose in unison. Mordechai threw a bill on the table, and they headed for the elevator bank rapidly, people barely clearing out of their way before they went by.