by Paul Usiskin
Irit knew he’d died five years before. ‘Was it the aftermath of that stress that he died from? Stress can stay in the system a long time if it’s not managed.’
‘Oh no,’ said the widow. ‘He was in good health, didn’t drink or smoke. It was a car wreck. He was driving up to the kibbutz from the coast. The road’s a series of hard bends and he swerved to avoid a truck coming too fast in the opposite direction and drove into a concrete boundary block. That’s what the police told me.’
After commiserating, Irit asked, ‘Did anyone stand out from the people your husband helped. Anyone from Perm especially?’ It was a very long shot and it whistled off into the shadows of the past. ‘I suppose he didn’t keep any records, probably wasn’t allowed to?’
‘No that’s right, those were highly confidential personal profiles on every potential migrant, and his files were all sent back to the Jewish Agency headquarters office in Jerusalem.’
Irit knew such documents had been digitized, and Amos had confirmed it was the digital record for Boris Kamien that had been erased. She thanked the widow and stood to leave.
‘You said this was an official visit?’ she asked.
‘Yes it is. It’s a matter of national security, why?’
‘There’s my husband’s diaries.’
‘His diaries?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, would it be OK for me to have a look at them?’
The widow asked for proof of identity again and when Irit said she was working for the Justice Ministry, the widow asked to speak to her boss. Irit called Dov’s direct Ministry number, and when he answered, she passed the phone to the widow. After a brief conversation she brought Irit the diaries.
The result was fascinating. The profile of a Boris Kamien emerged, and the emissary’s assessment was that he was a difficult personality. He’d observed him at the Perm community center, and seen his interplay, or the lack of it, with the other young people. ‘Kamien sits, watches, and then makes a beeline for a particular girl. He dances well and sweeps them off their feet and flatters them. He’s seen with them, but only for a day or two, then he’s after a new girl. He’s very manipulative, quite gregarious and very insensitive to his old flames, one of whom appeared with bruises on her face a couple of days after he’d dropped her. Not quite sure how stable he’d be in Israel, but he’s highly intelligent and its just possible army service might blunt those edges. Will do more checks before deciding one way or another.’
There was no follow up. She read on, the diaries showed inconsistencies and her evaluation was that this was the approach of the almost nervous breakdown period.
Kamien sounded to Irit like a suitable case for treatment, and not Israeli citizenship.
Back in Jerusalem she had Amos call Perm police, expecting to be told there was no record. Waiting for the results Irit pondered how Kamien had fooled the system and made it to Israel and surmised that with almost a million Russian immigrants to process, more than one anomaly would occur.
Amos put down the phone.
‘Yes there’s a Boris Kamien with a police record. They’re e-mailing it over, together with a photo of his gravestone. He was shot to death in a mafia style execution in Yekaterinburg in 2002. You say the emissary was killed in an RTA? How convenient.’
Twenty minutes later the email arrived with a photo of the grave. It provoked much laughter. There was a statue at a grave of the dead Boris Kamien, on one finger was a set of Mercedes car keys and on another a torn condom. The e-mail explained that the statue was normal for mafia and mafia-related deceased, though the condom was someone’s idea of a joke.
‘If this is Boris Kamien, who the hell is Baruch Hareven?’ Dov asked. ‘There’s no similarity between the file photos and the guy I saw at the Knesset. Have you called Kiev?’
‘I’ve tried three times so far. No answer,’ said Amos wearily.
Irit added, “It’s not much to show for Dimi Demidov’s transfer at the state’s expense.’
Dov told her about Demidov’s murder, watching her reaction. ‘Forgot to tell you. I knew this morning but it got lost in the Trigon operation mix. Dimi’s death’s saved the state money. Abu Kabir’s trying to finalize his cause of death, it was a head shot, but you know how particular pathologists are, caliber of bullet, size of entry and exit wounds, etc etc. And in this case the trauma was so complete there’s no skull to start with, so it’ll have to be reconstructed. Ephraim had Shimon transferred for a Virtopsy examination.’ Irit looked horrified as Dov described Virtopsy, but had barely raised an eyebrow for Demidov. ‘No, Shimon’s not dead but Ephraim wanted to confirm an inkling, he called it, that Shimon was injected with a minute needle, which Virtopsy could detect better than a magnifying glass. And Aviel’s about to call us with news of a significant development.’
On the speaker phone Aviel sounded drained. ‘The Maoz Yam phase of Operation Trigon has been successfully completed. Trigon lost two and three wounded, light to moderate. I’m having the TNT2 prisoners transferred for interrogation. The Palestinians are due to be released from Hadassah.’
‘Brilliant Aviel.’
‘Except for our one fatality,’ Aviel stated.
Dov called Hisham Nabulsi, happy to share some good news. After that he called the Man, who congratulated him warmly, apologized for cutting him short and ended the call. Dov understood. The Man was preparing for a TV appearance; this story, his success, had to dominate the news cycle for maximum impact on the electorate. The Man had to be seen at the hospital with the rescued Palestinians, he didn’t have to speak, though, Dov smirked to himself, that was very unlikely. An apology to the Palestinian families would be a useful gesture, but in the aridity of Israel-Palestinian relations, that would imply that Israel had been at fault, so forget that.
He went up to tell Yosef Hassid the news. The Minister looked depressed.
‘Well done Dov.’ He sounded sarcastic. ‘Enjoy whatever accolades come your way, though you should know that if the election turns out the way I think, you’ll be working for a new Minister. I understand that another individual connected to your investigation was killed at a private mental home?’
Dov wondered how much to tell him, and decided against reciting the whole litany, because Hassid would already have known most of it. Did he know who Lana and Yakub were? Dov assumed so.
Hassid said, ‘The autopsy on Brenner’s been completed. Cause of death’s a bit of a mystery, but I’ll let Eli Barzel tell you himself. Call him.’ Dov went back to his office wondering why.
His next call was to Mikki Gomer, thanking him for his help. Gomer said he wanted time to chat. Dov said he’d call him once he’d shut down Operation Trigon. There was still no clue about Lana and Yakub.
‘You winding down?’ It was Aviel.
‘Not yet. I’m going down to Tel Aviv in about an hour. We can eat at Mike’s Place.’
‘Fine, it’s on me. I’m staying on a few more days.’ Dov stood to leave. Amos corporealized. Dov was too tired to comment.
‘I need to update you. Comms monitoring’s shown up SMS exchanges between Irit and an unregistered number, traced to the Maoz Yam Bay Hotel. Track and trace show it came from a room in the suite occupied by Hareven. The date and timing are about an hour after Dimi Demidov arrived at the private home.’
‘The one she helped organize,’ Dov said. He called Aviel. ‘I may be a little late,’ and issued Amos instructions.
Then he asked Irit to join him.
She sat down, smiled and said, ‘We haven’t had time alone together since that night at my place.’
‘You did good work on the emissary’s widow. Tell me what you learned about Hareven.’
Her smile faded and she switched to her professional persona.
‘You’ve seen my profile notes.’
‘Yes, skimmed them, but ignoring the confusion over who Boris
Kamien was or is, let’s assume the person the emissary described is the one we’re interested in.’
Irit seemed to relax. ‘OK, the emissary had minimal training in profiling, he was under increasing stress, but his observations showed every indication of a sociopathic personality. He observed Kamien’s predatory behavior and evidence of physical violence.’
‘The emissary died in an RTA?’
‘Yes. How’s that relevant?’
‘He’s the one person who had the earliest profile information on Kamien. You’ve met him.’
‘Who?’
‘Baruch Hareven. You must have worked it out by now. He borrowed Boris Kamien as his legend, but that’s all it was. Hareven’s real antecedents are unknown. And the emissary who knew is dead. It’s ringing loud bells, can’t you hear them? Baruch Hareven has worked hard down the years to create a bullet-proof cover for his past. It’s his modus operandi, total anonymity, removing people. Only he knows the truth.’
‘I’ve never … Dov what are you talking about?’
Instead of replying he kissed her. It wasn’t an infallible test, it could never be evidence, ‘I kissed her your honor, and that kiss told me the truth?’ If he’d been asked to describe it, he’d have called it a sham kiss, for from Irit he felt, sensed, received nothing, hers was a frigid response. He tried to read her eyes, again nothing, and wondered why he’d kissed her. A death kiss maybe? He sat back, his voice cold. ‘The Ministry’s HR department file on you was inaccurate, but we’ve worked on that. I told you we were monitoring your calls as well as your laptop. We’ve had you under surveillance, tracked and traced your cell calls and SMS traffic since that cell call to you just before Daoud was shot.’
‘Daoud? Cell call?’
‘That’s not bad Irit, you’ve had years to perfect surprise and a whole range of false reactions. You said you’d worked with security agencies and a couple of companies before your consultancy contract with the Ministry. Those were both Stonemount subsidiaries. One of them was Brenner Tech. and the other was Timnun Gaz, another Hareven company.’
‘Nothing wrong with that Dov, they’re both legitimate and I’ve a full record of payments into my bank account, all my taxes are…’
‘And the SMS traffic on your cell was particularly intriguing, one an hour after Demidov reached the home you helped arrange and one twenty minutes ago, to an unregistered number at the Maoz Yam Bay hotel. You set up Demidov’s death. Don’t bother with the surprise routine again. ’
‘There’re loads of guests in that hotel.’
‘Really. The location of the recipient of your last SMS was in the penthouse suite at that hotel which has had only one occupant for the last two days. Guess who?’
She continued shaking her head in denial. He wished she’d stop it.
‘I’m sure you’ve met Baruch Hareven often enough to provide an in-depth psych profile of him. What I don’t understand is why you thought you’d get away with breaking the law, again.’
‘Again?’
‘Don’t remember? The old lady, in that murder case we first worked on, who you hypnotized but oops, that wasn’t legal and the evidence was inadmissible. You got away with it. This time no. Playing Hareven’s mole, you received a single tone call from a cell phone from either Stein or Levin and oops seconds later Daoud al Akras was assassinated. I don’t know how much of Trigon’s operational data you’ve been sharing with Hareven, but it must have included updates on Eliyahu and Brenner, Demidov’s location, so on. Oh and Shimon Ben Shimon’s in a coma. Do you know how a toxin carrying insect drone got into Shimon’s lab?’ It was pure conjecture, but everything pointed at the tiny drone. ‘And whose company exclusively manufactures those drones? Any name come to mind? Starts with an H, ends with an N?’ He’d have been happy with a flicker of acknowledgement from her. Nothing. ‘Tell me, is it politics or money or both?’
How sexy she was even now as she stared back at him, feigning speechless innocence. Was it all on Hareven’s orders? Rhetorical, Dov!
‘You know what? The why isn’t relevant, but the how is, and it was so well choreographed. There you were at the cemetery of numbers. Stein and Levin were tracking you as you got out of the Storm and you stretched, and got back inside, but not next to Daoud this time, that would have been too risky, no, you sat in the front passenger’s seat and with the cell call from one of those thugs, you knew to get Daoud in profile, for the shot. Easy. You ask Daoud a question and he turns to you, presenting a clear head shot. It’s split second timing and Daoud is hit, you’d been told the sequence, so you crouched forward in your seat, as far away from Daoud as you could, to avoid being in the immediate kill zone. Baruch Hareven, did you comfort him when he got lonesome, write him love poems afterwards? Money and influence are amazing aphrodisiacs.’
If Irit had bothered to look deep into his eyes, she’d have seen the anguish of the fool for love. She didn’t.
‘We’re all on different pathways of one sort or another,’ Dov said eventually, registering her total lack of contrition. ‘Yours was complex, blinded by ambition and other drives I don’t get. Is it possible to be a psychologist and a disturbed human being at the same time? You’ll be charged with being an accessory to acts of terrorism, an accessory to murder, to causing grievous bodily harm to Shimon, and for sharing classified information with a criminal. Anything you think might help me shut down Operation Trigon, specifically to do with Hareven, now you’re finished?’
Irit’s mouth formed into the kind of O she’d blown smoke rings through. Then she closed it and shook her head.
Perhaps it was at having her character and her activities stripped naked, how much of her life and her abilities she’d wasted, or maybe it was that she’d been found out. Whatever the reason, she remained silent and Dov knew this was how she’d be through her interrogation and into her prison sentence.
She didn’t look back at him as the door opened and two YAMAM officers led her out. He’d see her again, at the black site with the surviving TNT2 terrorists that Aviel had set up.
*
Dov was close to forty-five minutes late at Mike’s Place and Aviel had used the time to down four beers and two whisky chasers. He wasn’t drunk, simply unwinding, he convinced himself. Dov joined him in a double bourbon and then they attacked their steaks like the ravenous carnivores they were. He ate and drank out of necessity, not savoring the flavors of the bourbon or the meat. He needed the fuel. Lana and Yakub were still missing.
‘Thanks to Ephraim Cordova, we’ve found a DNA match to criminal records for an IDF officer in the team that took Lana and Yakub.’ He moved his glass aside. ‘Ephraim’s Virtopsy on Shimon Ben Shimon suggests an insect drone was used.’
Aviel wasn’t so inebriated that he didn’t connect the dots to Hareven.
‘Though she hasn’t admitted it, or anything else, ‘ Dov said, ‘I’m sure Irit got it into Shimon’s lab room. But that aside, I’m really worried that with TNT2 operationally eradicated and the Palestinians released, Hareven will use Lana and Yakub as a terminal threat.’
Aviel could only agree. ‘He’d do it now because unless he has another informant like Irit or better computer experts than Shimon Ben Shimon, he can’t know what your next move is. Keeping it that way was the whole purpose of Shimon’s work, right?’ said Aviel. ‘And it succeeded.’
Dov stared into his half full bourbon glass. What did a raptor do when it became prey?
*
The days Lana al-Batuf had spent in solitary all merged into each other until she had no idea of time. The lights went on and off randomly. Meals through a slot in her cell door were her only interruptions. Each time, Lana shouted Yakub’s name and hers through the slot.
It became a game, how quickly the tray came through into the windowless room and how loudly her words got out before the slot cover slammed shut. Her guards decided to play. Lana would never
hear them arrive, the door was too thick. Breakfast was shot through the slot before she could get up and her food ended up over her and the floor. She washed her clothing in her sink as best she could without soap and laid the items out over the edge of her bed to dry, the heat in the place was enough.
She never gave up shouting, refusing to eat anything from the floor, and sat by the door beneath the slot, ignoring the stink of the place and the unmoving air. She was ready to lean at the slot when she heard it being opened and yell.
The only way she figured the passage of time was when what had come through the last time began to rot. She found herself weakening, dozing in and out of a stupor, and she’d come to when the next tray arrived and yell, though her voice was weaker.
As more time went by and more food dropped to the floor, she’d gag if she dared to breath in fully. She got used to quick shallow gulps through her mouth, holding her nose.
The slot opened. Then the door. Four prison guards, she thought they were prison commandos, charged in, one put his gloved hand over her mouth before she could cry out, forcing duct tape over it. She was carried writhing, her strength ebbing, out to the corridor, and restrained while her cell was hosed down. Then she was dumped back on the cell floor and the hose was turned on her. She was unable to shout out before the door closed because it took her time to remove the tape; she didn’t want to pull skin away.
Hisham Nabulsi’s promotion to Detective Inspector, in recognition of services to the Palestinian people, was announced begrudgingly by his boss. It came a day after the release of the five Palestinians. Hisham was surprised and his parents arrived for the brief ceremony as his ramrod stiff Chief handed over Hisham’s letter of promotion and his new badge. ‘You didn’t exactly save them personally, but their parents, the Mayor, requested it, that you earned this,’ the Chief muttered.
The following day when he arrived at PCP HQ, Hisham looked up and saw crates and boxes on another balcony next to his room. It had been cleared. The detective sergeant he’d shared with had been moved, there were a new desk and chair and a telephone that worked more often than not. His name plate was on the door. No one reprimanded him when he rolled up the blinds on the balcony double doors. He repositioned the desk a few feet from them so he could sit and look out when he chose.
