17:10 / 5:10 P.M. CST
Imri and Nir kept their eyes on the guard shack. It was stationed inside a rolling gate, the only access through a razor-wire-topped, chain-link fence that circled the 12-warehouse complex. Inside the shack two men were talking, one of them Tommy Cohen. He’d been alone until ten minutes ago, when the man they presumed to be his shift replacement arrived.
Nir sipped his coffee. It was cold outside, but the heavy jacket he wore and the contents of the thermoses Avigdor Neeman had given them made it bearable.
“Looks like he’s leaving,” Imri said a few minutes later. They watched as Cohen crossed the parking lot, then disappeared behind one of the warehouses. After a short time, an old white Ford F-150 pickup pulled up to the gate. Using his binoculars, Nir confirmed the license plate and that the driver was Cohen, changed out of his uniform. The gate slid open, and Cohen waved to his coworker before driving off. Imri gave him a lead, then pulled out behind him.
They were fairly confident they knew where he was going. A local Mossad agent had been tailing him for the last week. Nir had heard the term dive bar before, but he’d never been in one. As they pulled into the parking lot of Hawk’s Place in nearby Pasadena, he felt like that was about to change. An American flag was attached to the door, and another one was emblazoned on the sign next to the bar’s name. Classic rock of a vintage Nir wasn’t too familiar with carried through the doors and into the parking lot.
Cohen exited his parked truck and entered the bar.
Imri found a spot next to six motorcycles and parked the Suburban, then Nir said, “You go in first and find a corner. I’ll follow in five.”
He looked Imri over top to bottom. The young agent was wearing a dark-blue untucked T-shirt, jeans, and Western boots, likely similar to what most of the men in the bar wore. Somehow, though, he still looked like a Lebanese terrorist. “And try not to look so foreign.”
“You’re one to talk. Just hope no one in there has ever watched Fauda, or they’ll nail you as Mossad as soon as you step through the door.”
Nir was dressed much like his partner, and he knew the man was probably correct. “Let’s just try saying things like Ya’ll and Get ’er done.”
Imri laughed. “That’s the advice you give me? Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of super-agent or something?” He slipped out of the SUV and closed the door behind him.
Nir watched him go in. He’s turned out to be a great addition to the team. Quick thinker. Doesn’t take himself too seriously. Deadly instincts.
A couple left the bar and climbed into a nearby pickup. Nir was relieved to see the man was sporting the jeans and T-shirt look. He’d debated between this and the snap-button patterned shirt and cowboy hat, but he sensed that Houston had a different sort of vibe. It appeared he’d made a good decision.
His phone vibrated. Empty seat at bar next to him.
Nir responded with K. He got out of the truck, walked to the door, and stepped inside.
The music had quieted. Now the racket took the form of voices. The place was bigger than it looked, and it was packed. Just inside sat two poker tables, each surrounded by a full complement of eight people. Further to the right were a couple of pool tables and an empty DJ set-up complete with oversized speakers and a disco ball currently unlit. The outside wall was lined with video games and poker machines. The video games weren’t being used, but the poker machines were. The walls were covered with memorabilia from sports jerseys to neon beer signs to flags of all sorts, including a Texas state flag, various U.S. flags, and an enormous Confederate flag with a Harley Davidson on it.
It was such a mishmash of décor, Nir thought a little taste of every bar in every state in America might be there. The only constant throughout was the smell of stale beer, no doubt spilled on the wood floor.
Nir noticed a few folks watching him as he ambled to the bar, but no one seemed interested beyond mere curiosity. To his left, he spotted Imri, who was pretending to examine the label on his beer bottle.
Nir sat on a red vinyl swivel stool next to Cohen, and when he signaled for the bartender, the woman came toward him. Everything about her—from her faded apron to her sleeve tattoos—gave him the impression she’d been working this bar for the past 30 years and knew what you wanted better than you did.
Sure enough, before he could say anything, she pulled a bottle of Budweiser from a vat of ice, popped the cap with a wall opener, and set the drink in front of him.
“Thanks.” He took hold of the bottle, acknowledging the accuracy of her pick—though he would have preferred an amber Goldstar.
“I’ll run you a tab,” she said, then walked away.
On the widescreen above the bar, ESPN was previewing that night’s game between the Los Angeles Chargers and Las Vegas Raiders. Nir had spent much of his flight to the States studying American football just to prepare for this conversation, and he was feeling pretty confident. According to his prep team in Tel Aviv, the NFL was the one universal language between all bar guys.
Tilting his bottle toward the screen, he said to Cohen, “Still can’t get used to saying Las Vegas Raiders. Why can’t teams just stay where they belong?”
“Guess if that were true, I’d still be rooting for the Oilers and not the Texans.”
And just like that, Nir was completely out of his depth. Who the heck are the Oilers? They weren’t on the list of league teams.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, Cohen continued. “Actually, wouldn’t mind having the Oilers again, especially in their heyday. I’d take a Glanville or a Bum Phillips over O’Brien any day.”
Nir was back on solid ground. He had no idea who the first two guys were, but he knew the last. “Too bad they couldn’t have fired O’Brien before he gave away DeAndre Hopkins.”
“Amen to that.” Cohen tilted his own Budweiser toward Nir, who tapped it with his.
They talked more football, and when Cohen finished his beer, Nir signaled for two more.
“By the way, my name is Nate Andres.” Nir stuck out his hand.
Cohen took it. “Tommy Cohen. Tomaso Cohen, in fact. But I’m guessing you already know that.”
Nir laughed—but only to mask the sinking feeling inside his chest. How had the man seen through him? “Why? Are you famous or something? Like a YouTube star? Tommy Talks Texans. That’s actually not bad. You can have it.” He chuckled and took a draw from his bottle to hide his concern.
Cohen was smiling—but not from Nir’s joke. “You know, I’ve been coming to this bar for two years. This is the first time any dude has bought me a beer.”
Nir was about to say something, but Cohen interrupted. “No, no, no. Wait. You know what else? And here’s the good part. When some guy does buy me a beer, he sounds exactly like my uncle Levy, who lives in Haifa.”
Nir was busted. There was no sense keeping up the ruse. But maybe he could still salvage this side mission. He had to.
Smiling, he leaned back on his stool. “Would it have helped if I’d said Get ’er done a few times?”
Cohen smiled again as he set his bottle on the bartop. “This is just so bizarre. I have another uncle—Omer. He lives out west in Tarzana, and we used to stay at his house for family vacations, like when we’d go to Disney or to a beach out there.” He extended his hand with only his thumb and first two fingers sticking up. “He was missing two fingers from his right hand. I never had the guts to ask him about it when I was a kid, and my parents refused to talk about it. Then when I was a teenager, I finally got up the courage. I’m like, ‘Hey, Uncle Omer, what’s up with your hand?’ You know what he said?”
Nir just shook his head, wondering where all this was going.
“He told me he was special forces. You know, Sayeret. And that he’d lost the fingers during the First Lebanon War in ’82. I was in awe. Suddenly, my uncle was like legend to me. Once that ice was broken, he started telling me all sorts of stories about special forces operations and intelligence stuff. Some he was involved in but most he wasn’t. Anyway—and here’s where it gets to the weird part—he once told me if some guy with an Israeli accent ever sits next to me in a bar and buys me a beer… You know what he said?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“He said, ‘That guy is Mossad.’ Now, here you are, and here’s my free beer.” Cohen lifted his bottle again and took a long pull. “So what do you think of that, Mr. Double O Seven? Or should I say efes, efes, shiv’a?”
For being knee-deep into just his second bottle of beer, the security guard seemed on the verge of drunk. Nir wondered if he would find empties if he looked in the cab of the man’s truck.
Nir’s phone vibrated. Everything ok
He texted back. He made me but think I can still work it
“You calling in reinforcements?” asked Cohen.
Nir slid his phone back into his pocket. “No. Just telling my sniper he can lower his weapon.”