Land, Jon

by [Kamal

  “Hello?” he managed, still groggy.

  “The mayor told me to call you.” Shaath’s voice, never tired, always the same no matter the hour.

  “So you called me.”

  “There’s been another murder. You are to report to the scene immediately.”

  Ben snapped upright, fumbling first for the lamp and then the pen and pad he kept on his night table. “Where?”

  He started scrawling, stopped halfway through the address, no reason to go on.

  The receiver trembled in his hand as Shaath continued speaking. The cold grasp of terror found his insides in the same spot it had that night he had walked into his house and knew the Sandman was upstairs.

  Ben let the phone drop and threw on some clothes before rushing from his apartment. He didn’t stop until he was in his car and screeching back into a nightmare he knew all too well.

  * * * *

  Chapter 24

  D

  anielle sat up on the couch, not sleeping. Sleep had been eluding her a lot lately, especially since her second brother died.

  She knew the United States had employed a “second son” rule during the Vietnam War which stated that the surviving son of a family having a KIA was automatically exempted from the draft and service. While Israel employed no such provision, the unwritten law had surviving sons given much less risky assignments. Usually this meant clerking, motor-pool work, maybe a short posting in Haifa or Elat.

  Her brother David had felt he owed his country more than that. Their father, the general, begged to differ and they arrived at a compromise where David would be assigned to a security detail in Tel Aviv. He was on duty when a car bomb went off in a crowded outdoor market ten months before. Back then, Danielle was still with the National Police and had been the first ranking officer on the scene, having no idea her brother had been one of the victims.

  Television doesn’t show the true effects of a bomb blast; television can’t show it. The bombs Hamas was putting together these days quite literally blew people apart. Danielle had been on the scene for an hour before a captain approached and asked if she had seen Lieutenant David Barnea. She looked at the blood, bone fragments, and stray limbs littering a street that would have to be repaved to hide the memories and, suddenly, she knew.

  What she remembered most, strangely, were the sounds. First the lingering shrieks of terror and pain from the wounded, followed by the incessant wail of sirens, and, finally, the worst of all: silence. The bystanders held back at a secure distance not making a sound. Officials like her going about their grim business without exchanging a word. The silence was terrifying, for it told the clearest story of all.

  Danielle insisted on telling their father herself, and remained convinced to this day that the news had been the cause of the stroke that had left him a voiceless cripple. She had lost an entire family to war, including her mother, who had never recovered from the death of her first son and died quietly like an old woman at the age of fifty-two. Danielle had told Ben that Israel needed peace at any cost, and became more convinced of that with each passing day. War doesn’t work against an enemy who lives in the shadows, refusing to show itself. An enemy who claims its casualties from civilians and hides behind martyrdom. With peace, these martyrs would lose their calling cards, and the reluctance among Israelis and Palestinians to interact would slowly be vanquished. Future generations would not suffer from the curse hers and Ben’s had.

  Danielle had intended to go straight home following her meeting with Giott and Baruch, but found herself heading toward the convalescent home instead. It was another one of life’s cruel tortures, never knowing what she was going to find when she entered her father’s room. He seldom had two good days in a row and she could only hope this would be one of the rare exceptions.

  The nurses and attendants called him “General,” and even on the bad days that seemed to keep him calm. She wondered if the bad days weren’t actually preferable, since they left him with less frustration over how much the stroke had taken from him after one war or another had taken everything else. Danielle entered his room and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of a newspaper open on his lap. Closer to the bed, her heart sank, realizing the newspaper was upside down.

  Nonetheless, he perked up when he saw her and smiled slightly.

  “Hello, Father.”

  He looked weak today, so Danielle brought the notebook computer—his voice—from the night table and took away the newspaper to create a space for it.

  “I was hoping we could talk.” She more than just regarded it that way; she actually could hear his voice as he typed.

  The prospect pleased him and his unsteady fingers fought with each key.

  THE WEST BANK?

  She smiled, ever so thankful he was not only responsive, but also remembered their discussion of yesterday.

  “Different than I thought it would be.”

  HOW?

  “Hope. I felt it in the people I saw. They have it now. The way they looked at me, I could see it in their eyes.”

  THE CASE?

  “Challenging. There’s a monster out there,” she said, using Ben’s term. “What he’s done ... It cuts across race, culture. Serves as an equalizer. We’ve got to catch him, but I don’t know if we can.”

  His eyes drifted briefly, then sharpened again as he typed, THE PALESTINIAN?

  Danielle knew he was referring to Ben, her investigative counterpart. “Intuitive. A superb detective for any part of the world. I went there expecting to hate him, wanting to hate him. I couldn’t.”

  Her father’s face asked the question this time.

  “Because he was no happier with this assignment than I am. Because he understands about loss as much as we do. Because he wants peace. Because he’s American, too.” She paused. “He knows about monsters. I think I can learn something from him.”

  YOUR SUPERIORS.

  Danielle noticed there was no punctuation mark this time and wondered if that was significant. “They haven’t told me everything.”

  THEY NEVER DO.

  “It seems I wasn’t sent to help catch the Wolf. I was sent to make sure resolution of the case doesn’t lead to any embarrassment.”

  THEY’RE SCARED.

  “Of what?”

  CONTROL, ALWA—Her father’s fingers rebelled against him and he clutched them tight against his chest in frustration.

  “They’re afraid the killer’s an Israeli,” Danielle said. “They’re worried how that would look in the eyes of the world. They want me to make sure it never comes out if that turns out to be true.”

  THEY ONLY FEAR WHAT THEY KNOW. His eyes were blazing now, the most alert she’d seen them since the stroke, willing the strength back into his failing fingers.

  “I don’t understand.”

  WHY YOU?

  “I told you yesterday: I replaced a man who was wounded.”

  He shook his head demonstratively, leaving Danielle to wipe the spittle leaking from the corners of his mouth as he typed:

  NO!!!

  “I was there when the man whose place I took was shot.”

  Her father was breathing hard now, fighting with every key to depress, starting to lose.

  ALWAYS U, was the best he could manage.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Danielle knew she was losing him, but one question remained to be asked.

  “Did you ever hear of a man named Jafir Kamal?”

  Her father’s eyes flashed briefly back to life, providing her answer.

  “His son is the Palestinian I’ve been paired with.” She took a deep breath. “I need to know if we killed him.”

  The old man’s eyes widened.

  “Please. Tell me.”

  He managed to shake his head before it sank back to the pillow. His eyes had grown blank, his expression hollow. She stroked his face lightly. His skin felt so dry and lifeless. She stayed until he slipped off to sleep, even though he had ceased to recognize or respond to
her.

  But it had not been his revelation about the death of Jafir Kamal that had kept Danielle from sleep that night. Her father had known both Giott and Baruch during his years of service. Their names meant nothing to him anymore, but he understood their positions. It would have been easy to pass off his rantings and conclusions as the work of a mind at war with itself. She found she couldn’t, though, because he was clearly in command of his thoughts, two lucid days strung back to back thanks to a purpose he had suddenly found:

  To warn her.

  What was really going on here? What was it her superiors weren’t telling her?

  She was pondering those questions yet again in the early hours of the morning when the phone rang.

  * * * *

  Chapter 25

  B

  ased on the level of activity outside Dalia Mikhail’s townhouse, Ben knew he was at least an hour behind the first arrivals, maybe more. Even the Cleaners had arrived ahead of him, waiting groggily in their van-turned-ambulance for al-Shaer to summon them.

  Ben approached the front door in a daze, feeling a different kind of trepidation entirely than that he had felt on his first trip up this walk upon returning to the West Bank. He felt the grief as quick, jarring stabs of static, fired by anger this time and not fear or remembrance.

  The front door was open and no one was bothering to guard it. Commander Shaath stood in the living room, talking to a few officers in low, rumbling tones. Shaath noted Ben’s arrival and lumbered toward him.

  “Why wasn’t I called earlier?” Ben shot at the big man.

  “The first officers on the scene were not aware of your newfound importance.”

  “You were.”

  “I called you as soon as al-Shaer made his initial report.”

  “After the mayor ordered you to.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A contaminated crime scene, for one thing. A dozen officers traipsing around, obliterating footprints and who knows what else.” Ben gazed at the commander’s monstrous hands. “And where are your gloves?”

  “I left them at home.”

  “I’m talking about the latex variety. You called me from the victim’s phone, didn’t you?”

  “It was the closest.”

  “And you didn’t wear gloves even when you touched it?”

  “I didn’t think the killer would have stopped to use the phone.”

  “No, you didn’t think.” Ben felt his mouth going dry, heart hammering at his chest. His vision sharpened. He saw Shaath, saw himself clawing the big man’s eyes out, didn’t know how he held himself back.

  “Where is she?”

  “Terrace.”

  Ben started past him, Shaath following with his words.

  “Several of us know she was your father’s whore.”

  Ben turned back around and was about to respond to Shaath’s insult when he saw Major Nabril al-Asi enter the villa, flanked by a quartet of Protective Security Service personnel. Al-Asi was dressed in the same Henry Grethel suit Ben had seen him wearing early that evening outside the Khalil home, but no tie.

  Al-Asi and Shaath exchanged polite nods before the major continued on for the terrace.

  Ben blocked his way.

  “Is there a problem, Inspector?” al-Asi asked, as the men around him tensed.

  “This is a crime scene.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” He tried to peer through the glass doors over Ben’s shoulder. “I guess we can safely assume Ms. Mikhail won’t be writing any more editorials. Now, if you don’t mind . . .”

  Ben didn’t budge. “I do. This is my case.”

  “I merely wanted to—”

  “You can do whatever you want, after I’ve had a chance to inspect the crime scene. We can call the mayor if that’s a problem.”

  “I do not report to the mayor, Inspector,” al-Asi returned, as if feeling belittled.

  “Then you can tell whoever you do report to that a good woman was murdered tonight. Tell them I’m going to catch the killer, so long as no one gets in my way or interferes with my work.”

  “Fine. As soon as my men complete their check of the premises.”

  “See if they can find the addresses of the periodicals Dalia Mikhail contributed to for me: I’m sure those publications would be interested in hearing about a high-ranking Palestinian official trying to sabotage the peace process by interfering with the joint effort to capture al-Diib.”

  Al-Asi started to bristle, then simply smiled. “I suppose my men can wait.”

  “Outside, please.”

  “Very well,” al-Asi said calmly. “If we find anything that belonged to your father, where would you like it sent, Inspector?”

  Ben smiled back instead of taking the bait, then continued to the terrace. He could tell as soon as he neared the glass doors that things were even worse than he had feared. A half dozen officers were hovering near al-Shaer as the medical examiner went through his routine with the body. They all quieted as he approached, informed by Shaath no doubt that Inspector Kamal was well acquainted with the victim.

  Dalia’s body had already been covered by a sheet, but the blood was everywhere on the terrace, staining the wood dark in huge, aimless patterns. The professional in him knew he should pull back the sheet, see for himself. But the man in him wanted to remember her as she was, cling to the last living connection to his father.

  “It was al-Diib again,” al-Shaer said, fingering the camera dangling even with his chest. “I can say that much for sure.”

  The medical examiner fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

  “She didn’t let anyone smoke in her house,” Ben warned.

  Al-Shaer left the pack unopened. “I don’t think she’s in any position to mind now.”

  “I am. Now get these men out of here,” Ben ordered, afraid of the tone he would use if he did so himself.

  Al-Shaer signaled the officers to take their leave and they did, muttering to each other.

  “What were they doing out here?” Ben demanded.

  “A number of things,” the medical examiner replied, returning the cigarettes to his pocket. “I was utilizing their services.”

  “They weren’t wearing gloves. Their shoes were uncovered. They contaminated the crime scene.”

  “Do you really believe it would have yielded any more clues than the others?”

  “We’ll never know now, will we?”

  “He never entered the house. Climbed onto the terrace from the ground below and must have lured her out here.”

  “Or waited. She came out here every night. He would have known that.”

  “No witnesses, as usual. No one heard or saw a thing. A neighbor called to report the terrace door open. He thought a robbery might be in progress.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  The fat man consulted his notes. “Two hours ago. A police detail responded thirty minutes later.”

  “They’re improving.”

  “She died quickly, if that’s any comfort to you.”

  “It’s not.”

  “It’s the first time al-Diib has killed on the premises of his victim.” Al-Shaer closed his notebook. “And he was much quicker about things this time. I can tell that from the cuts and from the relative lack of mutilation. Just token really, like he was in a hurry.”

  “Afraid of being seen probably.”

  “Then why bother with this woman in the first place?”

  The Cleaners approached the open glass doors, but al-Shaer held a hand up to keep them back.

  “You knew her, didn’t you?”

  “Everyone else seems to know the answer to that, Doctor.”

  “I’ve heard the rumors. I thought I’d ask.”

  “Yes, I knew her, and that may very well explain the reason for al-Diib’s taking such a risk.”

  “What?”

  “To get to me.”

  “You?”

  “He’s afraid, but he can’t come at me
directly.” Ben stiffened. “They never do.”

  “As I see it—”

  “Your priorities, Doctor, are to measure the size of the dead woman’s wounds and determine if that oily substance was present within them.”