by Y. I. Latz
“No.”
“It’s at your house at the kibbutz?”
“Yes.”
“Bring it with you tomorrow, okay? We trust you. You’ll have to deposit it at the police station until we finish investigating your case. We’re sorry, that’s the standard procedure. See, if we didn’t trust you, we’d already assign an officer to drive you to the kibbutz and take the passport from you tonight. So, we can trust you, right?”
“Yes.”
“And don’t be late tomorrow, so we don’t have to worry and think you’ve got any hidden intentions.”
◊◊◊
Two thirty in the morning. As I was debating between driving to my empty house at the kibbutz and sleeping in my rented room on Sheinkin, my phone beeped, indicating a message.
Singer!
I hadn’t heard from my good friend, the deputy director of the Mossad, in ages. What did he want now?
“Did you sign anything?” he asked in his text message.
“No way.”
“Do you have money on hand?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I know you, you’ve always got your passport on you.”
“Always.”
“Do you miss your daughter? Your wife?”
“I don’t understand.”
“The only question you should be asking is ‘when.’”
“When?”
“ASAP,” came the answer.
I got it.
I caught a cab to Ben Gurion Airport. My heartbeats were puncturing my body from the inside. Three hours later, including a brief, agonizing visit to the Intensive Care Unit of Ein Kerem Hospital in Jerusalem, I was going through Passport Control with no delays.
In my pocket was the ticket I had just purchased for the first morning flight leaving from Israel to Europe, with Lufthansa Airlines, to Frankfurt.
A moment before I entered the jet bridge that would lead me to the plane, Singer texted me again, “Our bill is settled, my brother. I’ve paid off my debt to you. Now we’re even. No more discounts. Here’s one last piece of advice for free. Watch out! From now on, trust no one. Not even me.”
Part Three
─ ◊ ─
Chapter Twenty-Three
Intrigue in Colombia
After eighteen hours of travel and endless connecting flights, I landed in Bogota, the capital of Colombia. I had thought I would never arrive. It was afternoon there. The sun was hiding behind a thick cloud cover. The sky was gray and the city was equally gray.
This was my first visit to South America. Based on a recommendation from the taxi driver who picked me up at the airport, I checked into a nondescript hotel in the middle of the city, which took up three floors in a regular office building.
I had already let my wife and daughter know I would be arriving to meet them in Medellín, in the north of the country, after I concluded my affairs in the capital. What affairs? I refused to answer their questions. I couldn’t tell them the truth, and they wouldn’t have understood the lie.
◊◊◊
The following day.
Friday. At 9:00 a.m., I showed up at the Israeli Embassy, which took up two floors in a gray, sixteen-story office building. There were no identifying signs, such as a flag or the Israeli emblem, outside the building.
Two armed local guards greeted me as I exited the elevator. I was led into a reinforced glass cell. After taking off my shoes, removing my belt and emptying my backpack and my pockets, I was allowed to come inside.
I asked to see the ambassador. I was told he was in Argentina and would return in a few days. The other employees were busy as well. The only one who was free was the security officer. I told him about Neta. My eyes filled with tears, and I frequently blew my nose.
The security officer, a young man of thirty or so, shrugged in embarrassment. He told me he was aware of “my case” and he would consult with the ambassador and the consul to see what else could be done. “It’s Friday today,” he said. “All of this will have to wait till Monday.”
I tried to appeal to him. I told him about the distress Neta and her mother were experiencing, and about the difficult circumstances the entire family was facing. He didn’t go out of his way to convey empathy. It was a trivial matter as far as he was concerned.
As I rose to leave, he called someone on the internal line, said something in Hebrew, waited a moment and scribbled a phone number on a piece of paper, which he handed to me. “Here. This is the phone number of a fantastic lawyer who’s an expert on this kind of stuff,” he said in a lazy voice. “He’s Jewish. He’s been able to help many Israeli parents whose kids got involved with drugs and other kinds of nonsense over here.”
“My daughter didn’t use drugs and wasn’t caught with drugs!”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure. Call him. You know what? It’s better if you just go down to him directly. His office is in this building, on the fourth or fifth floor.”
◊◊◊
I went down.
The law offices of attorney Jorge Bernstein and his three sons were significantly fancier and better designed than the Israeli Embassy located above them. Glass, expensive wood, sophisticated lighting, air conditioning, abstract paintings in black and white, a locked glass cabinet with a display of traditional Jewish artifacts.
The restroom was the size of a concert hall.
When his secretary heard that I was Israeli, she agreed to let me go in and see him, although I did not have an appointment. I was as tense as could be. Jorge was revealed to be a short man in his seventies with a gigantic black skullcap. He insisted on talking to me in Hebrew with a heavy South American accent, peppered with many expressions in Yiddish.
After he heard the condensed version of the first part of my story, he interrupted me. His smile grew wider. He projected optimism and self-confidence.
He dialed from two cell phones simultaneously, talking Spanish on both of them at the same time. He smiled at me frequently, using many Spanish expressions that sounded friendly to me. The moment he ended the call on one phone, it quickly emitted a familiar tango melody. A new call was coming in.
His satisfaction increased and his mood grew even sunnier. The whole matter lasted about half an hour. I watched the show he conducted for me as if it were a magic show.
Finally, he addressed me, his eyes sparkling. “Everything’s okay, my friend. God willing, on Monday or Tuesday we’ll put an end to this matter once and for all, and your sweet girl can continue traveling wherever she wants to go, or go back to our holy homeland, God willing.”
He pronounced the words “holy homeland” ceremoniously and melodiously.
He went on, putting an arm around my shoulder and sighing loudly. “Bureaucracy. That’s just the way it is. Wherever you have clerks, you get bureaucracy. It’s just a little misunderstanding between the Ministry of the Interior and the Ministry of Transportation, that’s all. It happens, right? I imagine it happens in our holy homeland, too, huh? Come back on Monday around noon, and I’ll give you all the signed documents to put an end to this wretched affair. Now, where is my fellow Jew spending the Sabbath?”
I had a hard time getting away from him. He insisted on walking me to the elevator, hugging me repeatedly.
He praised IDF and the State of Israel and wouldn’t hear of a labor fee.
“God willing, it’ll all turn out okay, all turn out okay, and on Monday or Tuesday, your daughter will be as free as a bird,” he said. “Israel, trust in God.”
I waved goodbye to him enthusiastically.
I could have kissed him for joy.
It had been many months since I’d felt that happy.
◊◊◊
Two or three blocks later, I found the kind of café I favored, with a gleaming bar, soft internal lighting, the aroma of fresh pastries and a cheery bustl
e created by the numerous diners.
First of all, I called my wife and daughter to tell them the good news. Everyone around me could hear their cries of joy through my cell phone. Many people were crowding around the bar. I made my way through them, looking for an unoccupied table. They were all taken. I sat down across from a man reading the paper. The waitress arrived. She was an older woman, preoccupied, who did not know a word of English.
My mood was elevated and I had quite an appetite. The man with the newspaper volunteered to help out. His English was broken but comprehensible.
I looked through the menu. I couldn’t understand a word.
“What’s almojabana?” I asked him.
“A bun made of cornmeal, tapioca and cheese.”
“And buñuelos?”
“Deep-fried flour and cheese balls. Very tasty.”
“What’s pan de yuca?”
“A savory cheese bun made of tapioca flour.”
“And what are you eating, if I may?”
“Empanadas, mister.”
“I know those!” I called out happily. “What kind of filling?”
“Mine is ground pork. But there’s also chicken and potatoes.”
“Both together?”
“Separately.”
I thought about it briefly. The waitress was already looking around. I signaled to her that I wanted what was on my courteous neighbor’s plate.
“You should also have some arequipe for dessert,” he said. “Dulce de leche cookies.”
“I’d love some,” I said, and signaled to the waitress that the entire bill for the table was on me, including the stranger’s order.
“American?” my new friend asked me.
“British,” I replied.
“Too-too-too,” he emulated shooting sounds. “Falkland.”
He finished eating before I did and left without saying goodbye.
I wolfed down the meal I had ordered. For several minutes, no tortuous thoughts went through my mind. I focused on the dance of the fork and the rhythmic motion of my jaws.
I thought about what the lawyer had said.
On Monday or Tuesday our Neta will be as free as a bird—
I didn’t want to contemplate any more than that at the time, so as not to threaten my newfound joy.
When the bill failed to materialize, I rose to seek out my waitress. In her tentative English, she slowly explained to me what I should have already figured out on my own. My anonymous tablemate had paid for me.
◊◊◊
During the next two days, Saturday and Sunday, I preferred to stay in Bogota, much to Neta and Smadar’s disappointment. I explained it by citing the steps I was taking, and my need to be in the capital on Sunday in order to prompt the lawyer to do what he had promised to do the following day.
“We’ll meet up on Monday and celebrate properly,” I told them. I was full of optimism and sounded accordingly. The note of reservation I heard in their voices at the beginning of the conversation was replaced with exclamations of joy.
“You’re the best!” Neta cried out. Her pessimism evaporated. Her gloomy tone was supplanted by joyful cheers. She shared her plans with me enthusiastically. After she was permitted to leave Colombia, she intended to fly to Brazil and continue her trip. She didn’t attribute much importance to her arrest in Colombia. A little bump on the road.
Midnight Colombia time, 7:00 a.m. Israel time—
I was waiting in front of the computer on an Israeli chat site for “Handsome 52” to initiate contact. This was the username Singer had chosen for himself. My own username was less expressive: “The Englishman.” I had received the information regarding the usernames and the website in an unsigned text message on my cell phone.
This was the ridiculous method of communication Singer had chosen for us. I didn’t hear from him that night, or on many other nights during which I waited for him on the chat site. My immense anger at him grew even more. Just you wait, I told the deputy director of the Mossad silently. Your day will come too.
◊◊◊
The Jewish-Colombian lawyer became my good friend. I called him on Saturday evening, on Sunday and on Monday morning. He soothed me repeatedly. Promised me it would all work out. “Consider the case called, Mr. Navy,” he told me patiently during each of our conversations. His confidence was sky-high. He proudly took credit for a long line of murderers—“God forbid”—and drug dealers—“God forbid”—who, thanks to him and his “brilliant legal moves,” were “walking freely among us today.”
Noontime on Monday. Despite what we had agreed, there was complete radio silence from Jorge. Since our last conversation the previous evening, he was not available on his cell phone and was not at his office.
I had a bad feeling. Neta and Smadar were flooding me with calls and messages. I answered the first ones, and screened the next ones. I had nothing new to say to them. Finally, I decided to go to his office and wait for him there.
He arrived only at four in the afternoon. He looked squat and worn down, his eyes extinguished. Nothing like the elegant, witty man I had met previously. He was not happy to see me and did not invite me to join him, but I followed him to his office anyway.
He locked the door after us. Signaled me to sit down. Lit a cigar. Bitter smoke filled the room.
“Sorry, my good Jewish friend. I’m too small for these kinds of matters.” He swung his hand down to knee level to demonstrate.
He inhaled at length from the cigar he was holding, leaped to his feet, grabbed hold of my arm and dragged me out of his room as if I were a little boy.
We passed his two secretaries. He kept holding my arm the entire time. We left his offices for the corridor.
He summoned the elevator with his free hand, while his other hand continued to hold on to my arm.
When the elevator arrived, he let go and pushed me inside.
Truly threw me in—
He himself remained standing outside.
I inserted my foot in the door’s path, preventing it from closing. He lingered, looking around.
“They are holding our government by the balls. And that’s bad, my good friend. Even gevalt and a lot of tsures.8 I don’t need tsures. My good friend, farewell, and may God be with you.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Who?” he repeated my question, perplexed, as if I was failing to understand the obvious. His forehead was gleaming with sweat. “Who, you asked?”
I nodded. I still didn’t understand.
“Your Yanks,” he answered contemptuously, lightly kicking at my foot, which shifted back. The elevator door, free to move, closed. On my long way down to the ground floor, it occurred to me that the way to hell was surely shorter and more pleasant.
◊◊◊
Half an hour later, the taxi driver brought me to the American Embassy. It was already five thirty in the afternoon, and traffic was heavy. After being thoroughly inspected and inquisitively questioned, I was allowed to go in. I asked to meet one of the consuls. They let me wait until six thirty. Finally, a young man walked over to me. He looked Colombian rather than American, and introduced himself as an administrator at the embassy.
“I asked to speak to an American consul,” I emphasized.
“I’m representing him,” he said. “Are you American? Do you have an American passport?”
He was surprised when I answered in the negative. I told him I was an Israeli and wanted to speak to one of the embassy’s female employees who was “a doctor or a professor.”
My request mystified him. He said my appearance and my fluent English had misled the guards at the entrance. Since I was not an American, and neither were any of my immediate family members, they shouldn’t have let me come in at all, definitely not after office hours.
When he saw my pleading expression, he contin
ued in a friendlier tone. No, he didn’t know any female embassy employees who were “doctors or professors,” and in any case, he was not authorized to provide personal information regarding employees. He was willing to look into it, of course. I should leave him my phone number and he would get back to me as quickly as possible.
“This is urgent!” I begged. “I’ve got to have that information today!”
His empathy evaporated. My turmoil did not impress him. “I’m sorry,” he said, and took off.
A guard in uniform stationed himself beside me and walked me out.
◊◊◊
I didn’t go very far. I remained standing outside the gate of the American Embassy. It was a wide sidewalk on one of Bogota’s massive boulevards. At this time of day, it was teeming with pedestrians.
I peered at my watch.
Ten past seven in the evening Colombia time—
Ten past two in the morning Israel time.
I didn’t deliberate for long. I took a deep breath. As deep as I could. I looked for a quiet corner on the busy sidewalk.
I called Tel Aviv.
“Good evening, Peter,” I told my “old friend” from the American Embassy in Tel Aviv. “I’m sorry for waking you.”
“Good evening,” he replied, his voice sleepy. “What’s happening?”
“I found Professor Shin’s camera,” I answered cheerfully.
“Good,” he answered in an understated voice. “What about her laptop? And the cell phone?”
“At the moment I’ve only found the camera.”
“You’re saying that at the moment you’ve only found her camera. Interesting. When can you pass it on to me?”
“I’ll leave it for you at your embassy in Bogota.”
Silence—
“Did you say Bogota? Bogota, Colombia?”
“Yes.”
“And how the hell will it get to our embassy in Bogota, Colombia?”
“I’ll personally bring it there.”
“I see.”
Silence—
