The Hit

by Michal Hartstein

  "I don't know exactly how old he is, but he’s quite young. Very tall, well built."

  The description corresponded to the testimonies we had collected from eye witnesses to the murder. They had described a tall, robust guy wearing a helmet, which explained why he had not been described as dark skinned.

  "He was one of the first refugees to arrive in South Tel-Aviv. I've known him at least two years. He liked eating at the restaurant above the club."

  "The restaurant that burned down?"

  "Yes," he said and gnashed his teeth. That was the fire that had led to his arrest. He did not like remembering it. Several minutes passed before Itzik resumed talking smoothly.

  "I talked with him a little. His parents were killed during the Eritrean War of Independence. Several years later, his uncles decided to escape to Israel and he joined them. In Israel, he tried those jobs the Eritreans take - you know, cleaning, kitchens, and such. But it didn’t suit him. He was broken. He saw his parents die when he was just a kid and it probably messed up his head. I don't know how he started killing people for money, but it simply happened."

  "So he’s an active hit man for hire?"

  "Yes."

  "How do you know?"

  "Nobody really knows, but let's just say he’s not the type you'd want to meet down a dark alley. He’s massive, and he hardly speaks, but when he does speak, he has a very deep voice. It reverberates."

  "Does he speak Hebrew?"

  "Fluently, with a slight accent. The guy has brains, he just didn’t have much luck in his life. He picked up the language easily."

  "Does he have any distinguishing features?"

  Itzik thought for a moment and then jumped up. “Yes! Sure! Why didn't I think of it before? He has a tattoo of flames on his face."

  "Over his entire face?"

  "No, only on one side. The right side, I think."

  "Like the one Mike Tyson has?"

  "No, it's the same style, but not the same."

  "I still don't understand why you're sure he’s a hit man for hire in general, and the murderer from Café Zelda in particular?"

  "He’s smart, that's why he hasn’t been caught. The rumors about him are well-founded. I don't know exactly how old he is, maybe twenty-four, something like that, but for a guy that age, he lives very well. Definitely very well for an Eritrean immigrant. He has a brand-new motorbike -"

  "What model?" I cut him off in the hope of corroborating the information with the testimonies of the eye witnesses.

  "No… I really don't understand such things. I’ve seen him riding it once or twice. I know about the motorbike because he used to arrive at the club with the helmet. He wears branded designer gear, not the shit sold around the Central Station. Good shoes, designer watch. He always left tips for the girls. He has plenty of money, but nobody knows where he works. People only know it’s better not to mess with him. You want a story? Here’s a story: his uncle cuts off all contact with him because he’s ashamed of him. But his aunt, who actually raised him after his parents died, she can’t cut him off. Long story short - she’s shopping in her regular minimarket, and when she gets to the checkout, she discovers her purse is gone! She begs the cashier, who knows her, to let her take the groceries and bring the money later, but he won’t agree and makes her leave the store full of shame. Next day, two things happen: the cashier’s got a cast on his left hand, and Nagusto's aunt gets a fifteen percent discount for her shopping in the minimarket - for life. This is Nagusto. These are the stories they tell about him. Everyone knows he does all kinds of hand-breaking and leg-breaking jobs for the crime families."

  "Breaking hands and legs isn’t exactly being a hired hitman," I hurried to correct him.

  "Right. But how many crime families are satisfied with breaking hands and legs?" he retorted.

  "Well, then, tell me how you know he’s the killer from Café Zelda."

  "A day before the murder, he was in my club. I can't say it for sure, but I gotta feeling that, before a job, he had to come to us. Maybe to calm down or something like that."

  "And except for this 'feeling,' do you have anything more solid to establish this theory?"

  "He looked very tense. And he got a call, and he answered it quietly - not like him."

  "Fine, continue."

  "In short - a day before the murder… when was that?"

  "The murder was last Monday."

  "So, last Sunday he’s at my club. He asks for Anya, his favorite. But she’s with another customer. He says he’ll wait, and in the meantime, he gets a call."

  "Did you hear the call?"

  "I only heard what he said. It was very brief, and the truth is that without the murder the next day, I wouldn’t have noticed anything special about that call."

  Itzik took a long pause, sipped some water, looked at my alert eyes and continued. "He repeated what the other party was saying and asked me for a pen and paper to write it down." Itzik stopped.

  "Well, what did they tell him that he had to write down?" I had to take part in his game.

  "He said 'Café Zelda at half twelve.' They asked him if he knew the address, and he said he knew where it was and hung up."

  I was silent. The entire occurrence Itzik described was totally circumstantial. Still, there were too many clues that Nagusto, or whatever the guy's name was, was indeed the man we were looking for.

  I knew that Alon, who was watching and listening to the entire interrogation, was mentally opening a bottle of champagne. I hoped he was not celebrating too soon.

  "How come you remember exactly what Nagusto said in such a short conversation?" I asked Itzik, trying to sound skeptical.

  "I remember it so well for two reasons. One, when he says the name of the place, it sounds strange to me. Because I know that snack bar, I’ve there once or twice, and it’s not exactly the sort of place where the guys from Eritrea hang out. More of a place for smart snobs from North Tel-Aviv. This is one. Two, the following day, when I hear about the murder, I connect Nagusto's conversation to the hit right away. No way was it just a coincidence."

  I agreed.

  I let Itzik wait in the hallway and sent for Anya. If the poor woman was Nagusto's favorite, she should be able to describe him well. After a short interview, I called in our facial composite artist. Anya and Itzik described Nagusto, and the artist did a good job. The facial composite was intended for a special squad we had created. The squad was sent to five locations in the area of the old Central Station - places Nagusto frequented, according to Itzik’s information. The squad members were instructed not to question the local people and not to show the facial composite to anybody. We knew it would not be simple. We had information about five locations, but not enough manpower to visit all of them simultaneously. For this reason, we instructed the team to move from one location to another and risk losing the target. But there was no other choice. Nagusto had to be unaware that the police were looking for him. The element of surprise was crucial.

  CHAPTER 11

  Thursday, June 23, 2011

  Two days passed and we still hadn’t located Nagusto. Alon, as usual, had not an ounce of patience. The undercover squad reported that the closure of Itzik's club had reverberated throughout the neighborhood. I explained to Alon that it made sense for tough guys like Nagusto to disappear. I moved between the undercover teams, and joined one long and tiring watch in the restaurant above Itzik Levayev's closed brothel. There were several false alarms, which drove up our pulse rates, but left us disappointed.

  Nagusto had simply vanished.

  The more the hours passed, the more I sensed that the guy had realized he was a marked man, and that the closure of Itzik's club and his arrest had been a warning sign for him as well. The increased presence of uniformed cops after the incident did not help either, even though, theoretically, Nagusto had nothing to fear. He had no police record and was not connected to the club management.

  The pressure was not helping me or the investigation. I
decided to get away from South Tel-Aviv for a few hours, and go to the Ichilov Hospital to finally question Yoav Gottlieb, the injured waiter who had regained consciousness. Since the entire manpower of the police station had been allocated to the search for Nagusto and to the ongoing tasks, nobody had found the time to do it yet.

  The switch to Central Tel-Aviv after two days of walking around the rundown area of the old Central Station was like landing on Mars: big, new buildings, brand name stores, clean people dressed in the latest fashions – light years from the gloomy squalor that was the reality just a few kilometers from there.

  Once inside the hospital, I channeled my route with efficient speed, thanks to the precise instructions provided by Dr. Amrani. Otherwise, I would have been lost in the maze of light green corridors, where each corridor was identical to the next. Thus, I arrived at the trauma ward. The ward staff were preoccupied with their work, the hospitalized patients and their families were absorbed in their affairs, and nobody asked me why I was standing at the door of Room 523, a private room assigned to the wounded recuperating from severe injuries. The door was half open. I knocked gently and did not hear a response. I tiptoed into the room. If Yoav was asleep, it would be better for me not to wake him up. However, the bed was empty. I looked around and realized that the room was being prepared to receive a new patient. The bed sheets were new and spread tight, the dresser next to the bed was clean, and there was nothing in the room to indicate that a patient had been hospitalized there. Had he been transferred to another ward, or had something else happened?

  I turned around to leave and bumped into a young, energetic nurse who had just entered the room.

  "Can I ask who you are and what you’re doing here?" she asked, surprised. I flashed my badge at her. She was not startled. After all, she was a nurse in the trauma ward. I assumed she had already met a cop or two in here.

  "My name’s Hadas Levinger. Dr. Amrani called me two days ago and said I could visit Yoav Gottlieb. He gave me this room number."

  "He's been transferred," she said as she placed a hospital pajama set and matching bathrobe on the bed.

  "Where can I find him now?"

  "I’ll have to check with Dr. Amrani first." She smiled a false smile.

  "No problem," I smiled too. "Where is he?"

  "I think he already left," she said and looked hesitant for a moment. Then her face softened. "Come with me to the nurses’ station," she said and invited me with a gesture. "I’ll call him."

  After a short conversation with Dr. Amrani, I was led to Yoav Gottlieb's new room. On the way there, the nurse told me that Yoav had been transferred to a regular room with two other patients due to the considerable improvement in his condition.

  We entered the room. The sound of light snoring came from one bed. A guy was lying there, asleep. Next to his bed was a small sofa where a young woman was curled up, also asleep. The second bed was empty, and in the third, a guy was reading a book. The nurse pointed at the reading guy, told me it was the person I was looking for, and left.

  I approached him.

  "Yoav?" I asked in a whisper, afraid of waking the sleeping couple.

  He raised his eyes from the book and looked at me, surprised.

  "Shalom. My name's Hadas Levinger. I’m a policewoman with the Israel Police," I said and showed my badge.

  This time, it made an impression. Yoav gaped, then smiled in embarrassment. He understood why I was there.

  "Yes, Dr. Amrani told me someone would come to interrogate me."

  "To question you," I corrected him. I did not want him to feel intimidated.

  "No problem," he smiled. He was a very handsome guy. I could see it even through the scratches and bruises covering his face. I could easily visualize him standing behind the counter of the fashionable café just a week and a half earlier, serving lawyers, businessmen and Tel-Aviv hipsters.

  "The nurse said we could talk in Dr. Amrani's office," I said. In answer to his questioning look, I rushed to add, "We must speak in private."

  "No problem. I just need a bit of help. I can't get out of bed by myself and at present I’m using a wheelchair."

  "You want me to help you?" I asked, a little terrified. I had no previous experience helping injured patients get out of bed or anything like that.

  "No, no, of course not," he hurried to calm me down and buzzed the nurse.

  A few minutes later, we were sitting alone in Dr. Amrani's office.

  "First of all, how do you feel?" I asked politely. Two months earlier, a police psychologist had come to our station to conduct a workshop on human relationships. I recalled her advice to be warmer toward people being interrogated who have not been charged with anything.

  "I’ve had better days," he smiled a twisted smile. "But, thank God, I got out of it alive."

  "Yes. I understand you were in bad shape, but you’re recuperating very nicely."

  "Right."

  "I’m glad to hear that. According to what the doctor told me, you’ve avoided brain damage, and your memory’s working perfectly."

  "I think so. That is, I hope so."

  I took my tape recorder out of my bag and notified Yoav that, from that moment on, our conversation was being recorded.

  He nodded and I pressed the record button.

  "With your permission, let's return to the day of the incident," I said gently. "Where exactly were you standing when the shooting started?"

  "Right behind the counter, where I usually stand."

  "What do you do at Café Zelda?"

  "I take out the hot and cold drinks, and I'm also in charge of the cash register."

  "What were you doing before the shooting?"

  "I’d just brought out a takeaway order from the kitchen."

  "Was it Shirley Navon's order? The girl who was murdered?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you happen to remember Koby Ozri, the man who also died? He was sitting at the table near the counter."

  "Truthfully, no. I mainly talk to the waiters and people who come over to take a coffee or a delivery directly from the counter. The ones who sit at a table make contact with the waiters, so I had no reason to speak with him."

  "Do you know the steady customers? Even those who usually sit at a table?"

  "Sure."

  "But you didn't know Koby."

  "No."

  "Then, can I conclude that he wasn’t a regular customer of yours?"

  "To the best of my memory, it was the first time I’d seen him at our place. That is, I don't remember seeing him before. I’ve seen his picture in the paper and on TV, but I don’t recall seeing him at our place, so I assume it was the first time he’d been."

  "Alright. Do people make reservations at your place?"

  "You mean reserve a table?"

  "Yes." I was hoping that the initiator of the assassination had reserved the table for Koby.

  "No." He shook his head. "That is, sometimes people call and ask if it's necessary to reserve a space, but we don't take reservations. If there’s no space, people can wait until a table becomes available."

  This did not help. According to all the eyewitnesses, Koby was sitting by himself. The waitress who approached him a few minutes before the shooting said that he had asked her to wait with his order because he was waiting for somebody. For whom?

  My working assumption was that the person who made the appointment to meet Koby at Zelda’s was the same one who hired Nagusto to carry out the assassination. It was highly unlikely that the person who invited Koby to the café would have shown up, but I still asked, "Do you know if anybody joined Koby at the table?"

  "I don't remember," he admitted. "I take care of the counter mainly and don't deal with the tables."

  Damn it, this witness was not providing me with any new information. I was already regretting leaving the old Central Station area.

  "Let's proceed to the shooting itself," I said in order to complete the interrogation report. I was not going to obtain any genu
ine information about Koby's fateful meeting.

  Yoav steadied himself by holding onto the back of his wheelchair and taking a deep breath.

  "Is that okay?" I asked in the most soothing tone of voice I could muster.

  "Yes," he said in the least reliable tone of voice he could muster. "I gather I don't have much of a choice."

  "You’ll have to talk about it eventually." I smiled reassuringly; "I think it's better to be done with it."

  "Alright, let's try."

  "Describe to me, please, the moments before the shooting itself."

  "As I told you, just before the shooting started, I brought out the order for Shirley, God rest her soul. As far as I remember, we were going over the order to make sure it was correct and then the shooting began."

  "Do you remember how many shots were fired?"

  "No, but there were several, not one or two."

  In the search we conducted on site, we had found eight slugs.

  "Did you happen to see the shooter?"

  "Yes. In my opinion, this was my mistake. When I heard the first shot, I didn’t think it was aimed at us at all. So I raised my head, looked out, and saw him. In my opinion, if I’d ducked down, I wouldn’t have been injured like that."

  "How far from you was he?"

  "Just across the sidewalk. I think… something like ten meters."

  "If I showed you his picture, or if we held a line-up, do you think you’d be able to identify him?"

  "Not a chance. He was wearing a motorcycle helmet."

  "Then what did you see?"

  "Not much. The moment I realized he was shooting, it was too late. He approached me and continued shooting."

  "What do you mean - 'approached me'?"

  "He walked straight toward me, shooting."

  "Are you telling me he was aiming at you?"

  "No way! What connection do I have with him?!” Yoav was scared just by the thought that he had a direct connection to the incident.