by Dov Alfon
“What’s on the upper levels?” Abadi said. But what he really wanted to know was: since when did sense have anything to do with criminal activity, or with life in general for that matter? Familiar with the French, however, he stuck to the facts.
At that moment, Léger was a man losing his patience. “There is no upper level. That lift allows access to Terminal 2B, a level closed for the next five years for construction.”
“Perhaps we could go up there?” Abadi suggested brightly, as if an unexpected idea had just crossed his mind.
“My officers have investigated that level. We found nothing there.”
“We would nevertheless like to take a look,” Abadi said, like a man used to apologising for his whims. “As an investigator I may not like blondes,” he said, looking Léger’s way, “but I love deserted construction sites.”
Chapter 8
In the conference room above Tel Aviv, Aluf Rotelmann finished his introductory remarks. His deputy and head of intelligence-gathering, a brigadier general whose name Oriana did not know but whom everyone called “Zorro”, got up to give the main presentation. “First, let’s give a warm thank you to our commander,” the tat aluf said. When Rotelmann replied with a nod, Zorro went on. “No, I mean it, I want to thank Aluf Rotelmann. Really, thanks to your leadership we are prepared to face any intelligence challenge and deal with it quickly and efficiently,” he added with ceremony, turning to face the room rather than the subject of his statement.
By any standard of organisational bootlicking it was embarrassing. Rotelmann nodded slightly. “Thank you, Zorro, you were the one who came up with the solution, so, right back at you,” he said with a blank expression. The phrasing, like every part of his speech so far, could have been interpreted in two ways. Judging from the sparkle in his eyes, Zorro clearly took it as praise.
Oren gave the signal for a snack break, and Oriana made use of the time to go over her notes. Although Aluf Rotelmann had only spoken for ten minutes, and had mentioned all the intelligence-gathering units, most of his introductory statements had been about 8200. She divided them into three categories: Bad, Sad and Mad.
Under “Bad” went his commonplace complaint about intelligence-gathering: there was simply too much of it. It was on everyone’s lips nowadays. “We have the most powerful intelligence-gathering organisation in the world,” Rotelmann had said, “a combination of our own Unit 8200 and our agreement with the N.S.A. Yet for us to be able effectively to benefit from all this data, information gathering must cede to research, and not the other way round.”
On the face of it, it was an empty, meaningless statement. But it had a sound, movement and colour that stood out against the general landscape, like a snake slithering across the autumn leaves in the kibbutz where, as a child, she had played outside before supper. The explicit reference to 8200, in such a general speech that was supposedly intended to bring everyone together, could not have been coincidental.
It had become worse later, in a statement she filed under “Sad”, an enigmatic sentence, more threatening than the rest: “As well as increasing collaboration between all branches of intelligence, we will make a point of screening clearance holders in our intelligence-gathering units more strictly, especially in Unit 8200.”
And then it happened. Rotelmann pointed to an organisational chart on the wall titled “The Israeli Intelligence Community”, and spoke about the need for tighter security. Every player was placed according to hierarchy. At the top was the Chief of Defence Staff at Tzahal, the I.D.F.; beside him was his deputy, the Vice Chief of Defence Staff; and beside the Vice Chief of Defence was Rotelmann himself, the Chief of Intelligence.
The chart correctly showed that Rotelmann had three deputies, one for intelligence-gathering, one for operations, one for research. The head of intelligence-gathering was a brigadier general. Tat Aluf Zorro was responsible for eight units, including Unit 8200. But where Oriana expected to see her section within 8200, under the direct responsibility of the Chief of Defence Staff himself, there was a blank space.
She scanned the chart for Special Section, but couldn’t find it. Security for Unit 8200 – the people looking for spies, protecting sources, investigating leaks, enforcing intelligence discipline, managing counter-intelligence operations – would, the chart indicated, now be handled outside the unit by Field Security, the Military Police and even the Shabak, none of them working independently from the intelligence hierarchy.
“The Shabak,” Oriana thought. “Those guys have wanted to get their hands on internal security in 8200 for years.” In fact, the organisation had been eager to get full control of internal security everywhere. Formerly known as the Shin-Beth, a diminutive considered too cute for its ambition, it was now referred to by its real acronym, Shabak, although in recent years its commanders had been strict about using the full name, which was as vague as its inherent menace: “Sherut Ha-Bitahon Ha-Klali” (“The General Security Service”).
Security. Rabin had been assassinated right under the eyes of the Shabak agents supposed to protect him, and the unit had suffered. It had lost stature and been stripped of many of its prerogatives, including the surveillance of sensitive military units for spies. In 8200, probably the biggest and most important of these, Special Section was now managing all security matters. Oriana looked again at the writing on the wall.
So who was supposed to manage the stricter screening of Unit 8200 and the tighter security of N.S.A. intelligence? Who was supposed to be the special police in this most powerful intelligence-gathering organisation in the world? Was Aluf Rotelmann suggesting that he would curtail Special Section’s autonomy, turning it into an internal, toothless and ultimately unimportant branch of his huge organisation?
There was no way of knowing from his expression. He was sitting at the head of the table now, looking on as the participants devoured the chocolate rugelach, waited for the sugar to be passed and exchanged verdicts on the quality of the coffee. He himself neither ate nor drank. The message broadcast by his body language was “I need none of you.”
That was all too clear from his next announcement, which Oriana wrote down under the heading “Mad”.
“I’ve asked Zorro here to give you all a refresher on The Most Wanted. We will not tolerate intelligence-gathering efforts in which the left hand does not know what the right is doing.”
Oriana had looked at him with distrust. “The Most Wanted” was the common name given to the “The Most Wanted Priority Intelligence Requirements as of Today” – the agenda of each soldier in the corps. Even though every commander had his own intelligence requirement, and some units had requirements for each operation and each day of the week, when intelligence people used this particular phrase with its definite article – The Most Wanted – they meant the Intelligence Chief’s requirement, written by him and forwarded every night on the dot of midnight to thousands and thousands of sources, agents, operators and commanders.
The Most Wanted was the most important priority in the military, top of the intelligence agenda; the idea that intelligence officers would need a refresher course on it was puzzling enough; summoning the heads of all departments for that purpose was extraordinary. Would the Chief of the Air Force call a meeting to explain how to intercept an aircraft? Even the participants who were busy foraging raised their eyes in wonder.
“People, we’d like to continue,” the adjutant said, and as if by magic office assistants appeared to clear the trays from the table. Zorro sprang up and turned on his presentation. On the huge screen the corps insignia appeared, with the title “Top Secret – Internal” flashing below it.
As a security officer in one of the army’s most sensitive units, Oriana was all too familiar with the security protocols for military documents. “Top Secret”, for instance, was certainly a security classification. “Internal”, on the other hand, was a meaningless administrative title. In theory, there was no point adding it to a document that was already classified. But in practi
ce, the word indicated that the presentation was not actually top secret because there never was a presentation. Once it was finished it would never again be mentioned; it had taken place only for a split second, in the “internal” confines of this conference room.
“Can we kill the lights?” Zorro said.
Chapter 9
“Non, non, non. Écoute moi,” the P.R. manager said adamantly, pacing up and down her office, phone in hand, a habit that somehow helped her dictate the pace of the conversation. “Now you listen to me, more than five thousand people disappear in Paris each year. Five thousand. Are you going to write an article about each one of them? Everyone has the right to embark on a new life.”
The ruling of her boss, the airport’s publicity director, was both simple and intimidating: nothing bad happens in Charles de Gaulle, ever. The last thing he would want to see on the news was an item about the abduction of a passenger. So far she had managed to fend off two reporters and had ignored messages left by three others.
“The question is whether he disappeared of his own will,” the reporter said. He was at his house, an hour and a half’s drive from the airport, and was not thrilled about the inconclusive information the news desk had sent him, which so far had appeared only on social networks.
“Listen, there’s nothing to come down here for,” the P.R. manager said. “You’d be wasting your time. The passenger picked up his luggage, met a girl and decided to explore his options. We’re in France, aren’t we? It happens all the time – airports are romantic places. If you came here for the press conferences I keep inviting you to instead of calling me with this nonsense, you’d see for yourself. Just imagine that each time you stood me up I called the police to report you missing. C’est fou.”
“It might be madness, but someone did call the police. A lot of police. Passengers uploaded photographs of the terminal showing dogs and security barriers. My editor wants me to look into it.”
The P.R. manager changed tactics. “Darling, just about everyone has already looked into it, you’re terribly behind. I’ve had calls from Europe 1, France Info and Le Parisien, even papers from Israel. Everyone checked the story and decided to drop it. The fact that he changed his plans doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a right to privacy. We have laws. The police looked into it, that’s true, but they have advised us they aren’t launching an investigation. I’m not even allowed to talk to you about it. I’m only returning your call as a courtesy.”
“The police informed you they’re not launching an investigation?”
“I can tell you for certain there’s no investigation. The police have decided not to investigate. Listen closely to what I’m telling you: there is no story.”
He rapidly weighed the risks and benefits. So long as the item was not snatched up by their competitors, the news desk would probably leave him alone. “Fine, I’ll try talking them out of it,” he said. He did not relish wasting his morning on a drive to Roissy, as romantic a place as it might be.
The P.R. manager could not rest on her laurels just yet. “Put the next pest through,” she said to her secretary and continued to pace back and forth, like a boxer waiting for his opponent to get up off the floor.
Chapter 10
The famous lift turned out to be very ordinary. It had three buttons, the lower button marked with the underground car park symbol. The middle button, leading to the ground floor from which Meidan and the kidnapper had disappeared, bore the symbol of an airplane. There was no symbol on the top button – it was covered with red duct tape; next to it, the word “transit” had been erased.
Commissaire Léger got into the lift with reluctance. It was obvious to him as well as to his guests that the securing of the site was partial at best. Police officers were guarding the lift with no concern for fingerprints. The brigadiers saluted him and after a pause he reciprocated, like a stranded tourist. He was not familiar with the airport, certainly not with its ins and outs, and this strange investigation felt like a conspiracy plotted by his adversaries in the Paris police with the sole purpose of embarrassing him.
The group was led by the inspector from the airport police accompanied by two officers. He also provided the narrative. Terminal 2 of Charles de Gaulle airport was not really a terminal, he said, pointing at the map in the lift. It was in fact a cluster of terminals, some quite a distance apart. Since the collapse of Terminal 2E in a horrifying accident, all the buildings were being reconstructed.
Now it was Terminal 2A’s turn, which was why the upper floor had been blocked off. “As you can see,” he said with an evident lack of conviction, “the top button has been decommissioned. The builders still use it because the lift is the only way to reach the upper floor. But the passengers never press it.”
The button did not light up, but the lift started moving. “Decommissioned” but in appearance alone. If the button did not light up, people would assume it wasn’t working.
The lift doors opened onto a dimly lit construction site.
“Before the renovations, this level served as an overpass between two buildings,” the inspector said, “and now it serves as a temporary storage area for construction materials.” The floor was extensive, covered with piles of sand and gravel. To the right stood four neon-coloured containers. To the left Abadi could see a parked forklift next to a chemical toilet and a wheelbarrow. No other work tools were in sight.
“Any cameras here?”
“Of course not. Why would there be cameras here?” Léger said. “It’s a construction site, there are no passengers here, only construction workers. Anyway, the labour laws prevent us from surveilling them, not that we have any reason to.”
“So where are the workers?”
This time it was the inspector’s turn to answer. He had presumably looked into these issues prior to their arrival.
“The renovations are being carried out according to an overarching strategy. For the past month the crew has been working on the adjacent building, and they’re due back here in ten days’ time.”
It was, in short, a good place for a murder. Abadi walked towards the forklift and pointed at the furthermost concrete wall. “And what’s that vent over there? Isn’t that a cargo lift?”
“There is no cargo lift here, these regular lifts are the only way to get down,” the airport inspector said in a tone that had become steadily less polite. “What you see there is the chemical toilet shaft. They can’t use the lifts to lower the compartments because of the smell they leave, so the contractor dumps one in the shaft when it’s full and they use the lift to carry up a new one.”
Abadi peered down. The smell was indeed unbearable, and the depth was impressive. The French could call it a shaft, but it was a sewage pipe that descended vertically down at least three floors. It looked as if the plan had been drawn up by an architect who had heard about construction sites but had never actually visited one.
Léger intervened in an attempt to make peace, the concern in his voice noticeable. “We have already checked every angle, Colonel, they could not have got down to the car park from here.”
Abadi took a torch from one of the officers and shone it down into the shaft, but it was too deep for the beam to reach the bottom. The shaft walls were indeed completely clean.
“It goes down into the airport’s automated sewage system, and the waste from the whole airport is cleared from the system every hour,” the inspector said with conspicuous pride. “We don’t have security down there because the air is toxic, but anyhow, there’s no way a person could get there through the shaft. Unless he was a lizard.”
“And if he was a body?” Abadi said.
Léger intervened once more. “Colonel Abadi, why all the drama? What body? We are dealing with the prank of a passenger who’s probably having a good time with that hotel greeter as we speak. I don’t think the woman we saw in the footage could have lifted a large and able-bodied man and thrown him down this shaft. And even if she could, she would have had no way of get
ting herself back down without using the lifts.”
“And what would have stopped her from summoning the lift and taking it down?”
“But then we would have caught her in the footage,” Léger said with despair. “Think what you may about my men but, believe me, they would recognise a blonde in a red uniform. Unless she hurled herself down the shaft after him, Charles de Gaulle airport’s very own Romeo and Juliet.”
The forklift was small, its engine cold. The chemical toilet next to it looked brand new, and on its door hung a warning sign in three languages: DO NOT APPROACH. Léger’s deputy crouched theatrically in order to peer through the lower vent, as if to make sure no-one was there.
“My men already checked, there’s no-one here,” he said, ostentatiously wiping his hands on his trousers, as if to make clear that, thanks to this exasperating colonel, he would now have to pay for dry cleaning.
Abadi stood in front of the toilet door and in one motion kicked the handle. The door flew open with a thud. By the time the French had reacted, he was already lighting up the interior with his torch. No-one was inside, but someone had been there not long before. A woman. The toilet was clogged, and in the bowl lay the strands of a blonde wig.
“Commissaire Léger, I hear the sniffer dogs barking in the underground car park. Maybe we should bring them up here,” Abadi said. “And in the meantime, let’s check those containers for ourselves.”
Chapter 11
“The topic of the presentation is a refresher on The Most Wanted,” Zorro began, “so I’m going to use last night’s list to demonstrate what I’m talking about.” He brought up a slide with the document they were all familiar with: “The Most Wanted Priority Intelligence Requirements by the Chief of Intelligence, as of Date of Publication”.
The three items from the previous night’s The Most Wanted now appeared on the screen.
