by [Kamal
“Who would like me to cook them breakfast? Come on, I’m only trying to make friends!” a shrill voice boomed from the dining area beyond.
Ben slid past the serving counter and reached a curtain that led straight into the dining room.
“Hey!”
He heard more glass breaking, followed by the sound of something being slammed.
“I said, get away from that door!”
Ben slipped through the curtain and sat down at a table set back from the others that rimmed the room in a semicircle. Between these tables and the front door, a massive man lumbered across the floor, brandishing a club. He was at least as big as Shaath, probably bigger, and had muscle where the commander had long before gone to fat. His shirt was ripped, his hair uncombed, and even from this distance Ben could smell the alcohol.
“Don’t move!” the giant screamed at a gaunt man standing behind an ancient cash register. “You had your chance to be fair.”
Another man near the restaurant’s front had risen from his chair when the huge man’s stare froze him.
“Sit the fuck back down!”
He did as he was told instantly, and the huge man’s eyes continued to sweep across the room. They passed right over Ben, then lurched back to his police uniform, bulging.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Club raised overhead, a single lunge brought him within striking distance.
Ben made sure the big man could see his hands poised on the tabletop. “I heard you offer to make breakfast. I thought I’d take you up on it.”
“I don’t like cops.”
“Neither have I lately.”
“Nothing but trouble.”
“I’m living proof of that.”
The big man didn’t seem sure how to respond. “What’s your problem?”
“I made the mistake of arresting some men because they were guilty.”
“I’m not guilty.”
“Do you have your identification with you?”
The big man shrugged and produced the card from his pocket. The regulation was a holdover from the Israeli occupation, meant to facilitate matters for the Palestinian police. But the huge task of replacing the IDs had yet to be undertaken, leaving residents of the West Bank with the same cards carried under Israeli control.
Ben examined the card, saw the big man’s name was Yousef Shifa, and spotted the familiar triangles in each of the four corners, indicating he had served time in an Israeli prison. Ben wondered how long the incarceration had taken him from his family.
“What happened here, Yousef?” Ben asked. “The chef told me outside it had nothing to do with food.”
“Good food.”
“Then why’d you throw him through the window?”
“They called him out when I didn’t have any money. Wouldn’t give me credit. I promised I’d pay as soon as I was back on my feet, but they wouldn’t listen.”
Ben looked to the man behind the cash register. “May I have Mr. Shifa’s bill please?”
The owner handed it across the counter and Ben counted out the proper amount of dinars from his wallet, adding a hefty tip.
“There’s also the damage he’s done to consider,” the owner said.
“Which he will pay you for, once he has a job. Now, I know you could have him arrested and thrown in jail. But this man, I can tell you, has a family that needs him, and he’ll never be able to pay you back from inside a prison.”
“And how are you so sure he’s going to get a job?”
“Because I’m going to get him one.”
“You’re what?”
“You are?” Yousef Shifa beamed.
Ben looked up at him. “We are looking for someone at police headquarters. It doesn’t pay much and the work is rather menial, but it’s a job, my friend, and it will allow you to walk out of here today with me.”
“No jail?”
Ben rose and fixed his eyes on the owner. “Thanks to the kindness and good grace of this man, no. I think I will recommend this place to my colleagues, maybe post a few notices inside headquarters. What do you think, eh? Might give business a little boost.”
Ben moved toward Yousef Shifa. Even hunched dumbly over, he still appeared huge. Ben took the club from Shifa’s hand and let it clamor to the floor. He put his arm on the big man’s shoulder and steered him for the door.
“Now let’s see about that job.”
Shifa stiffened, not quite ready to go. “How did you know I had a family?”
“Because,” Ben said, “it was obvious you had something to lose.”
* * * *
Chapter 9
C
ome in, Pakad,” a voice called to Danielle from just inside an office on the sixth floor of Israel’s National Headquarters.
Danielle recognized the voice of Commissioner, or Rav Nitzav, Hershel Giott, intrigued that he had used her former rank as a chief inspector from when she had worked under him with the National Police.
The headquarters for Shin Bet was located at National Headquarters in Jerusalem as well, in this inappropriately plain, six-story beige building fashioned out of limestone and dominated by neat rows of utterly symmetrical windows. A flag tower had been built directly in the center and the massive black macadam parking lot seemed ever ready to swallow the entire structure because the lot was never more than half full.
Although Danielle had been transferred to Shin Bet some months ago, it was her former superior who had summoned her to National Headquarters in the message relayed by Dov Levy. She could not account for this and, in view of the morning’s events, approached the meeting with extreme trepidation.
Entering Giott’s office, Danielle instantly noticed that a prominent director of Shin Bet was seated in a chair on the left side of Giott’s desk. Though Commander Moshe Baruch was in charge of her department, this was the first time they had actually met, and she sensed the circumstances were not favorable. Baruch was a gaunt rail of a man whose beard disguised the rest of his thin face. He had a reputation for chewing up any in his department who did not measure up to his standards of performance and spitting them out when there was nothing left but gristle. Some who were summoned to his office, it was rumored, were never seen again, their careers ended, literally, at the door, and Danielle couldn’t help but wonder if hers too was about to end here in Giott’s office. That might have been what she wanted, though on her own terms; not in a disgrace that would haunt her for years to come.
“Sit down, Pakad,” the rav nitzav instructed.
Physically, he was the antithesis of Baruch: small and frail with an ever-present frown and a yarmulke riding his crown whenever he was in the midst of a difficult case, as if that were the only time he needed God. Strangely, Danielle had never seen him without his yarmulke and that, she supposed, was the essence of his work. Giott was as low-key as Baruch was hard-driving. Amazing the two men coexisted at National Headquarters, managing their interdependent organizations as well as they appeared to. In fact, the relationship between Shin Bet and the National Police remained strong. Jurisdictional disputes were rare and cooperative ventures commonplace.
“We have reviewed what transpired this morning,” Giott said when she was seated, “and have found the events to be most regrettable.”
Danielle felt her stomach sink. Here it comes: dismissal, disgrace. She would walk out this door having been stripped of the rank that had so long imprisoned her, only to miss it desperately.
“That said,” he continued, “while your performance cannot be considered exemplary, your actions almost undoubtedly saved the life of at least one fellow officer.”
“Agent Tice’s wounds were only superficial,” Baruch reported in a voice that seemed too deep for his thin frame. “He will encounter some vision problems for a while but is expected to make a complete recovery.”
Danielle breathed a sigh of relief.
“However,” Giott picked up somberly, “this leaves us with a rather serious dilemma.”
&
nbsp; Uh-oh, Danielle thought, here it comes . . .
“Agent Tice was about to start a new assignment for us.” Giott exchanged a quick glance with Baruch. “An assignment coordinated jointly through the commander’s and my offices. Agent Tice had volunteered for this assignment. It was to start this afternoon and cannot be pushed back. So we find ourselves in need of a replacement.”
“We would like you to take Agent Tice’s place,” Baruch added flatly. “Your record of commendations indicates you are more than capable of handling the job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank us yet, Pakad,” Giott warned. “Tice was our only volunteer for a reason: we have decided to offer our assistance to the Palestinians in a joint operation aimed at catching the serial killer who’s been terrorizing the West Bank for months.”
Danielle looked from one man to the other. She wondered if she were being tested, if they were waiting for a response.
“The Wolf,” Baruch elaborated before she could make one, and Danielle realized this wasn’t a test at all. “He struck again last night for a second time in Jericho. You can appreciate our dilemma under the circumstances, I’m sure.”
“But I cannot appreciate offering to help the Palestinians.”
“‘The offer has been extended in the name of peace, Pakad,” Giott told her. “The order to make it came from the Prime Minister himself. If you have a problem with your assignment, perhaps you should take it up with him.”
Danielle tried to keep her expression blank. The chair seemed suddenly very stiff the buttons pressing into her flesh.
“I must respectfully decline,” was all she said.
Her present and former superiors looked at each other before Baruch spoke.
“You misunderstand, Barnea. We were not offering you a choice.”
“You must understand, sir. My brothers, my father ...”
Giott nodded. “All heroes to the State. How is your father, Pakad?”
“Failing.”
“Unfortunate.”
“My younger brother’s death quickened the process. My father was just recovering from his wounds when it happened. The stroke followed.”
“We do understand,” Giott told her.
“But that does nothing to solve our problem,” Baruch said, rising. “We need someone good, who can think on their feet without the advantage of preparation Tice had. You certainly proved yourself capable of that this morning.”
Danielle accepted the compliment grudgingly, considering the entire matter in the flea market hardly finished.
“What about the guns?” she asked.
“Guns?” Giott wondered.
“The rifles found hidden in the refrigerators.”
“The contents of the late Ismail Atturi’s truck are not your concern,” Baruch said firmly.
But Danielle couldn’t dismiss the thought of Atturi delivering weapons with such firepower into the West Bank to be distributed like newspapers. Apparently, whoever dispatched the gunmen had found his intentions equally problematic.
“The four gunmen,” she continued, “have they been identified yet?”
“They carried no identification on their persons,” Baruch informed her, settling back in his seat.
“They were Russian.”
The two men looked at each other again.
“Interesting conclusion, Pakad.”
“One of them screamed something at me. In Russian.”
“You’re certain you heard correctly?” Baruch asked her.
“He called me suka, a bitch. It’s a word I’ve come to know in many languages.”
“We will certainly add that to the report, Pakad,” Giott promised nonchalantly, and scribbled a quick note on a pad resting before him.
“I was just wondering why they would have attacked Atturi. Four well-armed men sent to kill a single man who is known to travel unarmed?”
“It would be better, Barnea, if you—”
“It’s just that I’m wondering if they were trying to make a point,” Danielle said, interrupting Baruch and regretting it instantly, though still not able to stop herself. “I wonder if what happened this morning has deeper roots than we think. It’s an angle I’ve been considering. Perhaps I’d be of better service to you following it up.”
Now it was Giott who rose. “Pakad,” he began, while Baruch fumed quietly over the disrespect shown him, “we understand your reluctance to take on this assignment. But you must understand the difficult position we are in. Another, less compassionate eye might have seen and judged your actions this morning differently. You are no longer in the army, no longer a member of an elite force that does not have to account for its actions. On the contrary, since the assassination our people have come under increasing scrutiny. We must account for every shell fired and heroism can often be interpreted as recklessness, which cannot be tolerated by either myself or Commander Baruch.”
“I understand,” Danielle said, relenting as she grasped the intent in her former superior’s words.
“Very well,” Giott nodded, satisfied, as he sat back down. “You are due in Jericho at three o’clock. Let us move on to the briefing . . .”
* * * *
Chapter 10
T
he guards clustered along the front of the refugee camp didn’t look happy to see Ben. The captain in charge wasn’t on the premises, and his underlings claimed tempers were running too high within for them to serve as Ben’s escort.
Jericho’s Einissultan refugee camp was located on the outskirts of the town itself, at the very edge of the oasis that sits amid the vast desert plain. To the south lay a grove of orange trees, to the north rolling hills of desolation. An abandoned Israeli military encampment could be seen from the camp’s entrance to the east. Ironically, the last time the encampment had been open, the refugee camp had been closed. But even limited self-rule in the West Bank had brought a flood of exiles back from Jordan and there was simply nowhere else to put so many more of the displaced Palestinians, necessitating the reopening of this and several other camps throughout the West Bank.
Ben had fully intended to proceed through the camp on his own in search of the young witness, until a young woman latched onto him just beyond the gate.
“What you come here for, cop, eh?” she asked, appointing herself camp spokesman. She slapped him on the arm. “There been a crime committed? Somebody file a report?” Another slap, harder. “Shit, I almost forgot. How can we call in a report when the camp has no phones? We can’t even walk outside to use one since they’re locking us in regular now—our own people, not the Israelis.”
Ben tried to get ahead of her and failed. She poked at his holster and he swiveled his hip away.
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?” the young woman continued. “Maybe I help you.”
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Her clothes and face were both clean. Her hair smelled of soap. In another place under different circumstances she might have been considered quite beautiful. Here, though, there was no beauty; hate blanketed the premises as hopelessness choked it off a little at a time.
Ben slowed his pace, not wanting to stop altogether because of the crowds beginning to cluster along the dirt street’s edges. “Why don’t we start with your name?”
“Why don’t we start with what you’re doing here? Investigating something, I hope. Maybe the conditions. File a report. Believe me, cop, it’s a crime.”
She was right about that much. The squalor these displaced people lived in turned Ben’s stomach. The stench of unwashed bodies and raw sewage grew stronger the further he advanced into the camp. These were the people who had given birth to the intifada, the ones who celebrated the hardest when autonomy came. Now they felt betrayed, and this sense made them even more dangerous than before because they had no one left to turn to. In fact, conditions in the camps had been better under Israeli control. The Israelis may have lacked conscience and compassion, but they a
t least had resources.
“I’m looking for someone,” Ben told the young woman.
She put her hands on her hips. “Aren’t we all?”
“A boy.”
“To question or to fuck?”
