The Fifteenth Representative by Hilla Dagan (fiction novels to read .TXT) 📕

onions. Though, there are, admittedly, a thousand different kinds of onions. Shallot—those small ones. I see them at the Carmel Market all the time. They’re especially for recipes that require shallots. I’ve encountered a few recipes in my time. None of them involved shallots. It’s like they’re from the UN—they look nice and watch from the sidelines. Nice—but cost a fortune. Like the Swiss. I wonder if the shallot air force takes an afternoon break between two and four like the Swiss do. Those Swiss especially enjoy flying over Zurich and Geneva. Over the banks, over the roadways, over the accumulated fortune of the world’s richest people. And the Nazi riches—who no one stopped from retrieving their money. Their gold. Made out of Jews’ pulled gold teeth. Fuck those Goyim. They’re all motherfuckers.

On the one hand, they want us around, the Jews, because we bring so much to any country we assimilate into. On the hand, we’re despised, and we all know to what actions that leads to. We’re a fraction of the world’s population, and still won half of the Nobel Prizes. And it has nothing on the advancements made in electronics and mathematics, subjects not included in the Nobel Prizes. Nobel Peace Prizes for fuckups who ruined the chances for true peace—that is included in the Nobel line.

Where is that idiot?

These vegans… having nothing to eat sure does make them agree to have whatever’s in front of them. Onions for desert… Where the fuck do they come up with shit like that?

Should I get up and see what’s going on with her? Make sure she hasn’t drowned in the toilet? If I go, I know she’ll only complain. Oh, well. I’ll wait. I’ve waited twenty years—what’s another few minutes? Vegetables speed up your metabolism, I know that much… maybe she found a good magazine there and decided to have a little sit-down. I highly doubt she cared a whit that I’m stewing here all on my own.

God, what I’d give for a good KFC… I’m starving. What’s the deal with all these fucking salads?

Right. I’m getting up to check on her.

“Noa?” I knocked on the door to the women’s restroom. No one replied.

“Noa?” I opened the restroom door a crack and looked inside, hoping to garner as much information as I could—as fast as I could. There were two stalls. Where is she?

“Noa?” I knocked on the door to the right.

“Noa?” I knocked on the other. She wasn’t there. Where is she?

I went back to the restaurant area and looked around. What the hell was going on? Where did she go?

Something didn’t feel right. I started spinning around, looking everywhere I could. My eyes were practically bugging out. My breathing came faster. Fuck, not again. I walked quickly over to the head waiter.

“Excuse me, good evening. Have you seen my partner, by chance? We were sitting here a few minutes ago. She went to the restroom and disappeared.”

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t. I probably missed her coming out of the restroom. I did see her though—of course.”

I had to act quickly. Like a machine. Work as I was taught. First, I had to examine the evidence—and quickly, before it was tampered with.

“I have to see your security cameras, right away,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Robert,” the young man replied. “Are you sure she didn’t… skip out on your date?” he asked.

I grabbed him by his lapels and growled, “Take me to see the cameras, now. I’m not kidding around, mate.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” he said and tried, unsuccessfully to get out of my grip.

“I’m afraid for her life—take me where I can see the footage, I’m begging you.” My eyes started to tear up and I could see he was starting to get the picture. What he saw on my face, I didn’t know. But he did understand. It was a weird, special moment. A weird and special moment between two men.

“Come on,” he said, and lead me to the second-floor control room.

“Hang on, let me find the right camera… here. Let’s see.”

“Take it twenty minutes back.”

“Okay.”

“No, no, that’s too far.”

“Right, right… oh, there she is. Who are those two?”

“Be quiet a moment,” I shut him up.” Do you have a back door? Where is it? show me the camera for the backway—come on! Quick!”

Oh god, the hit he gave her… fuck, that poor thing…

“Follow the camera shots to where they’re taking her. Can you zoom in?”

“Yeah.”

“What is that, a Mercedes?”

“Yes.”

“A black Mercedes. I don’t like those cars.”

I suddenly remembered Henry Ford saying he didn’t care what color they painted his car, so long as it was black. I didn’t know why it popped into my head. It didn’t matter a lick.

“Can’t you zoom in closer?”

“I’m trying… no, that’s as much as it’ll go.”

“I need all of the footage from here, Robert.”

“Look… I don’t know—”

“Robert, I really don’t have time for these games.” I took out my gun and held it in a friendly, nonthreatening way.

“Here—here! And good luck with her. It looks like she’s someone worth the effort.”

Nice guy. It was always easier to get results with a kind word and a gun than merely kind words.

Al Capone said that. Probably not the best man to quote, but I did it anyway. It didn’t matter.

I went back to the hotel. Noa wasn’t there. God, I felt like I was dying. I had to get through to Timothy.

I got my cell out and called him on the secure line.

“Hello,” Timothy’s familiar voice came through the other end.

“Timothy, it’s Eran.”

“What’s wrong, Eran? Didn’t you notice the time?”

“Timothy, listen. Noa disappeared. I have no idea what happened. We were at a restaurant, she went to the restroom, and two guys took her from there. Timothy, we have to move quickly. I have to get the satellites working. I’ve got footage from the security cameras—Timothy—”

“Can you calm down?”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I roared.

A three-second silence that lasted forever rang out.

“I’m sorry, Timothy—” and I suddenly started crying.

“Eran, calm