by Paul Usiskin
He’d settle for a lost Dov over this guy any day. His body language alone, defensive, uncooperative, withholding information, all said Gurwitz wasn’t straight.
The room hadn’t been decorated since the last time he’d sat in it. The walls were stained yellow from years of cigarette smoke, not cleaned or repainted since smoking was banned, deep gashes in the plaster from desk chair backs in a cramped space. Someone had tried cleaning the windows though, once; they were smeary and the light through them was too.
Gurwitz had a bland arrogance, with eyes and mouth in two concave arcs, permanently sour. He said, ‘This is terrorism. And I’ve got lots of experience with that.’
‘And I know terrorists,’ Aviel said bluntly. ‘I’ve dealt with hundreds of them. Whoever did this, they don’t fit the usual patterns.’ He’d read Gurwitz’s file, it showed investigations of several terror attacks and an impressive slew of arrests. But Aviel had spent his career after TPI and Dov, monitoring terrorists in Israeli prisons and black sites and knew much about their mentality and context. What the Bidermans had experienced was not pure terrorism. OK, maybe it was a form of terror, the Israeli family forced to be spectators in a role play about the past. The file showed that Gurwitz lived in Alfei Menashe, a West Bank settlement town on the occupied side of the Green Line, twelve kilometers as the crow flies from Kfar Saba. Aviel’s analysis? He’d antagonized Gurwitz enough; he wouldn’t get political with him; he guessed Gurwitz was going through the motions in the Biderman investigation because TNT2 had retaliated. Simple, yes? Case closed? No.
‘OK. What have you got in the way of identification?’
Gurwitz’s eyes darted left, classic signals of deceit as he said, ‘Profiles from the Bidermans of the terrorists, blow by blow of what they endured, whoever was behind them was ruthless.’
‘No identifications then. Where’re the fotofits? Fingerprints? DNA samples? Who are the perps? Who was their co-ordinator? Names? Ages? Where’re they from? Who was behind them? Why haven’t you made any arrests?’
Gurwitz looked at him truculently. ‘It’s very complicated. We don’t know who they were or where they came from. The motive seems to have been a twisted history lesson through role reversal. But they held the Bidermans against their will and that’s a crime. And they were very careful not to leave any traces of themselves. They wore gloves the whole time so no fingerprints…’
‘When they used the toilet or the shower? ’
‘So it seems.’
‘You’ve checked?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘On glasses, cups, mugs, cutlery? Perhaps they left a toothbrush behind, or a toothpaste tube. Were they really that professional? If not prints, then how about DNA? Anything biological is potential DNA evidence, blood, sperm, hair, bodily secretions, saliva, sweat, urine, fecal remains, finger clippings. And then there’s the remains of the wooden stockade, the barbed wire, the cattle fence, nothing on them?’
‘We haven’t found any prints. Even if we could find DNA samples, we don’t have a DNA database for the West Bank.’
‘Do you mean for Palestinian residents or for settlers or for both?’
‘Neither for West Bank Palestinians nor for Jewish residents.’
‘What makes you think these were West Bank Palestinians? They could have been Israeli Palestinians.’ Again Aviel didn’t wait for an answer. ‘No forensic evidence at all from this crime scene, Ilan? Incredible. This is a stalled investigation. How will you reboot it?’
If the concave features could have turned down further they would. ‘I guess we need to revisit the crime scene and take another look,’ Gurwitz said diffidently. ‘But that’s going to cause more upheaval to the Bidermans. They’re anxious to go home.’
‘Tough. You’ve got a fat zero so far. It doesn’t match your record of successful investigations. If you’re going back to search the scene, try micro-analyzing it, centimeter by centimeter. Let’s get over to the brother’s home and I’ll talk to them. They can blame me for delaying their return home.’
‘I’ll call ahead.’
‘Don’t. The surprise might jog something.’
At the Directorate in Ramallah, Hisham Nabulsi was meeting his cousin Ziad in a basement storage room converted to a holding cell. The stench of blocked toilets was overwhelming. Hisham made a mental note, not sure who to talk to.
Ziad, a taxi driver from a big village north of Hebron, was no stranger to incarceration; he’d been held for stiffing a passenger, for licensing infractions, even for attempting to have sex with a female passenger whilst inebriated, and the fact he’d been drinking alcohol had caused the local Imam to erupt. Hisham had found ways to help him, and Ziad had only been fined. His wealthy and doting father, Hisham’s uncle Sami, the cab company owner, had paid off Ziad’s accusers and when he had to, he’d paid his nephew’s fines too. It was rumored that Sami had made a substantial contribution to the mosque to keep the Imam quiet.
This time it was much more serious. Ziad had been arrested for a capital crime under the PLO Revolutionary Penal Code of 1979. He was a murder suspect.
Initially Sami produced another driver to swear that Ziad was taking a fare to Jenin when the alleged crime was committed. One interrogation session scared the driver so much, he admitted he was just trying to help a fellow brother in trouble. He got off with a black eye.
To Hisham it all seemed academic. Ziad was being accused of murdering a settler; he’d thrown rocks at a Jewish car which crashed, killing the driver. The Israelis produced enough evidence to convince even the head of the PCP that Ziad was the prime suspect.
‘Ya Ziad. You’re more likely to be a hero,’ he told his cousin. ‘You certainly won’t face a death sentence in a Palestinian court.’
‘That’s if I survive another night down here. I’m in danger of getting the plague, there’re rats running around, all I need is to be bitten by one and…’ He ran a finger dramatically across his throat. ‘I won’t snitch on my fellow fighters, Hisham. The fucking Israelis want me. They’ll find me guilty, I could spend years in prison.’
‘Right, and if you die in an Israeli prison you’ll become a martyr and we’ll name a street after you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
‘Can’t you get me out of here?’
‘Did you do it? Or was it one of your so-called fellow fighters? Come on! You’ve never been an activist.’
Ziad went quiet and lit another cigarette from the stub of the one in his mouth.
‘Well?’
‘Yes I threw rocks, one or two that’s all, but I wasn’t planning on killing anyone. And I wasn’t alone. You know my record, not that there’s much in it, a couple of fines,’ he waved them away, ‘but no, I’ve never been involved in political activity.’
‘Tell me, were they Fateh or the others?’
‘You know me Hisham. I’m just a taxi driver but I’m no snitch.’
‘I know Uncle Sami will always indulge you, and you take advantage of him. Look at you, you dress like a business man, not a taxi driver, always with the expensive leather shoes. Who are you kidding? It’s a pity, because you’re not a fool, just lazy, always relying on others to sort you out. Not this time. The Israelis are fighting in Gaza and they’re in no mood to forget a murder of one of their own. As it is we’re not free to do as we please; we’re between the devil, the river and the sea. Releasing you would cause a storm.’
Ziad carried on puffing at the cigarette, his brow furrowing as if he could see his fate.
‘Was it Hamas?’ Hisham asked.
‘I know what happened to the Shehadehs,’ Ziad said, dropping his cigarette on the floor and treading it out.
Hisham watched. ‘Careful you don’t burn a hole in the sole,’ he joked. ‘So?’
‘If I tell you, will it help get me out of this shit hole?’
Hisham paus
ed, trying to figure what he’d do with the information, how he could leverage it to his cousin’s benefit and his own. He refocused on Ziad.
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You just said…’
‘But I know someone who does.’
‘Look Ziad, don’t piss me off. Either you know or you don’t and if it’s something that I can use, tell me now. It’s not only my patience that’s running out. You killed a Jew and the Jews won’t wait much longer before they try to take you who knows where and squeeze you dry like olives in a press for anything you know.’
Ziad lit yet another cigarette. ‘There’s this cemetery,’ he began.
‘Aviel, there’s nothing more we can tell you. It was a traumatic experience we’d all like to forget.’ Ilana Biderman was sitting across from Aviel and Gurwitz. Everything in her body language said that she was uncomfortable in the Chief Inspector’s presence. Miri and Shoshi were watching TV in another room and Aviel asked to talk to them.
‘Look, I can’t imagine what an ordeal this must have been for you, but we need to find those terrorists and the longer that takes, the harder it gets. Maybe I can speak with your daughters together?’
‘My husband’s on his way back from his office. Let’s wait for him.’
‘I’d really like to meet him, but my time’s not my own. Perhaps you’d call him and ask if he has any objections to me talking with Miri and Shoshi in the meantime?’ Ilana reluctantly agreed, and so did her husband when she called him.
It was obvious the girls had been deeply affected. Aviel wasn’t surprised. They were in their early teens and impressionable. If the aim of the exercise had been to give Israelis a hint of the Palestinian experience, it had succeeded. And the terrorists had all worn face-masks, so neither girl could provide facial details, just physical descriptions.
‘If I said what was the one thing you remembered from the whole six days what would it be?’
They could have rehearsed their answer. It was the documents they’d been given, they said, the Maariv press clipping and the secret file. They both believed from the start that the role-play was just that, live theatre, but not life threatening. But the documents were for real they were sure. They said the police had them.
Aviel nodded gravely.
He chatted some more, thanked them and went to find Gurwitz. He was in the kitchen with Uri, who’d just arrived. His brother had offered wine and Gurwitz, Ilana and Uri were all drinking. Gurwitz continued to sip and Uri’s brother poured another glass for them and offered him one. It was all so normal, like a dinner party. No sign of Ilana’s earlier antipathy for Gurwitz. Aviel took him aside, ‘You normally drink on duty? The girls said something about press clippings and a secret file? There’s nothing about either in the report you wrote.’
‘There’s fifteen Unknown Callers to Mazal’s cell phone,’ Amos Yerushalmi told Dov.
‘Great. Large sums of money in his bank account? Mistress? Swingers group? Phone sex?’
‘It’s not a complete telephony black hole Dov.’
‘Translate?’
‘I put our analysts on to it; all Mazal’s calls had been monitored.’
‘Who by?’
‘Traced to J and S police HQ.’
‘His own command was bugging him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who ordered it?’
‘Zvi Yaakov, his senior officer.’
‘So can we access the phone tap harvest?’
‘We’d need Ministerial authorization. We’d be tapping a police phone tap.’
‘I know what it means Amos.’
‘Yes, but the authorization’s above my pay grade.’
‘OK, well as you’ve already stepped way beyond it to get our hackers involved, it’s probably time we upped your grade, just for the initiative you constantly show. And if we’ve managed that, can we also get an inkling of the autopsy results?’
‘Thanks for the salary hike.’
‘I said probably; the money’s not in your bank account yet.’
‘Does that depend on the results from hacking into J and S HQ’s phone and e-mail traffic?’
‘All police work, whether investigating crimes or police crimes, is results-driven, you know that.’
He paused. Amos smiled wryly.
Dov added, ‘and I never said anything about hacking anything.’
‘It’s already in hand.’
‘What’s already in hand?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Good. Draft the authorization request, and I’ll get Hassid to sign it. I want Zvi Yaakov to tell me why they’ve been monitoring Mazal’s calls, regardless of what more you get. I’ll be driving down there in about an hour.’
In the car going south on Route 1, he listened to reports of cease-fire talks in Egypt. Behind the scenes diplomatic efforts were underway, involving Egypt, the USA, France, and Turkey. Hamas had said it would stick to a truce if Israel guaranteed no more air strikes. By the end of the fifth day of the second Gaza war, Hamas reported eighty Palestinian dead, twenty-eight on that day alone. Israel’s casualties were seven wounded by shrapnel, two seriously. More worrying was that Tel Aviv and Jerusalem were in range of Hamas rockets.
It’s all shit, he told the radio. It didn’t deny it.
14
Exiting the tunnel he passed Mazal’s RTA scene. It was on a continuous descent into a long bend to a stretch bisected by the Separation Barrier. Did it work as a terrorist deterrent? His little voice replied, what do you think?
Where had Mazal been coming from that morning? The long tunnel came from East Jerusalem and Jewish Jerusalem’s north-eastern suburbs. Why presume he’d come through the tunnel? He might have been on Route 1 which originated on the coastal plain. His instincts told him Mazal had come through the tunnel. Great investigatory skills, Dov! He called Amos, kicking himself for being so sloppy, and asked for tunnel CCTV recordings of Mazal’s vehicle prior to the fatal accident.
The HQ was situated at the end of its own access road above Route 1. It had a low Jerusalem stone wall topped by smart metal railings. A dark corrugated structure with a curved roof stood to the left of the entrance, maybe a guardhouse? Dov couldn’t be sure. He was directed to the main block, four stories high with the name of the HQ in black Hebrew letters above the top floor windows.
Walking from the car to the building he got a strong smell of sewage.
Zvi Yaakov was waiting at reception, a short tough man with the standard shaved head, eyes hidden by the obligatory wrap-around sunglasses. He was bristling, in a uniform with razor-sharp creases, suggesting he’d put it on as part of the show.
‘That’s as far as you go,’ he announced peremptorily, as Dov came through the glass and metal doors into the lobby. With fists on hips and chin jutting forward he looked like an Italian dictator.
‘That’s nowhere near a traditional Middle East welcome,’ said Dov.
‘You’re not welcome. You’re an ex-whistleblower turned shoe-fly.’
‘And doesn’t that just piss you off? Oh well, while you’re being pissed off, read this.’
He handed over the Minister’s authorization for PID’s access to the recordings made of Mazal’s phone calls. He’d got it by popping into Hassid’s office, while he was on the phone, putting the document on the desk and motioning for a signature. Hassid had paused momentarily, given Dov a hard stare, scanned the page, signed it and carried on with his call. Dov knew there’d be comeback if he made waves. Hassid had a photographic memory. Dov hoped it was selective.
‘That is Justice Minister Hassid’s signature. And if I were you, I wouldn’t read the contents aloud out here, Zvi.’ Dov nodded at the reception clerk. ‘Let’s go to your office and talk about it.’
Zvi Yaakov hesitated. Either way he’d have to comply wit
h Dov’s request. He followed him up to the first floor. His office was bare of the usual ego-junk and had a dramatic view across the bare desert terrain to Maalei Adumim’s dense apartment blocks.
‘He didn’t have far to travel to get to work,’ Dov said.
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Was he a good officer?’
‘Excellent.’
‘Reliable?’
‘Always.’
‘Corruptible?’
Yaakov tutted. ‘But the phone tap will tell you all you want to know.’
‘Any other officers implicated?’
‘I’ll download the results onto a memory stick,’ Yaakov said, ignoring the question, producing a red and silver stick from his drawer, inserting it into his laptop.
‘Thanks.’
‘Are you reliable?’
‘I think you mean can I be trusted not to divulge the contents of this to anyone. And I can promise that.’
‘It’s for your own safety.’
‘Who wouldn’t want me to have this?’
Yaakov gave a slight shrug. ‘It’s all there.’
‘Want to tell me why you did this?’
‘Operational vetting, like a vehicle spot check.’
‘Hmm,’ Dov said, pocketing the stick. Other questions surfaced: Who was Mazal’s line manager, was he reliable, who else did Zvi have concerns about, so on. Not right now.
‘You did it without anyone knowing?’
Zvi was shut-mouthed.
‘By the way, what’s that smell, it’s like a crap hole at an army base?’
‘It’s a cesspit, we aren’t yet connected to the sewage system. The cesspit’s regularly emptied by tankers. But not often enough.’
Driving back to Jerusalem, Dov wondered at the anomalies, a police district HQ without proper drainage, a senior police officer tapping a junior officer’s calls, the head of PID checking his mirrors more frequently than usual, the memory stick metaphorically burning a hole in his trouser pocket. In his head were the lyrics of the old song about a land that devours its people. The lyrics came from the Bible.
