by Liad Shoham
“It’s too bad they’re migrants,” Giladi said before he left. “If they were Israelis, this would be a real scoop.”
ITAI checked the time at the bottom of the screen. He’d been waiting forty minutes, but nothing had happened. Annoyed, he pushed his chair back and stood up. He realized he’d moved too fast again. His ribs still hurt. He kept having to remind himself to avoid abrupt movements. He thought of Michal and the way she must have felt after they roughed her up. She called to tell him about it but he was screening her calls. Why did he have to do that? He was haunted by the question “what if.”
He didn’t like to make a nuisance of himself, but he had to know. “What’s going on?” he texted Giladi. The reply came less than ten seconds later: “Check the site.”
Itai waited anxiously for his ancient computer to refresh. He had to scroll down to find it. The item wasn’t given the prominence he’d hoped for, but at least it was there.
The headline was disappointing: “Civil Rights Lawyer Accuses Police of Mishandling Migrant Case.” Itai wasn’t naive. He knew the title “civil rights lawyer” was distasteful to most Israelis and cast doubt on his reliability.
It got worse. The item itself was laconic, dry, and very short. People relate to a human-interest story, something they can identify with. This was nothing like that. Michal was described briefly as a “single woman, 32, from Tel Aviv who volunteered at an aid organization.” Itai had spent half an hour explaining to Giladi who Michal was, how devoted she was to her work, how much empathy she had for people in trouble, and how much they loved her for it. And this was all he had to say about her? Single woman, 32?
Itai skipped to the end. According to the police, it said, “there is no basis for the allegations.” The brusque official response made it clear to Itai that the hope he had pinned on the power of the press was unwarranted. The item wouldn’t change anything. Giladi had told him as much. The Israeli public was indifferent to the problems Itai encountered on a daily basis.
Despite the relative insignificance of the item, he noticed that it had already drawn quite a few responses. Every one of them, without exception, was negative. They demanded the immediate deportation of all asylum seekers and their friends and relatives, and they didn’t spare Itai, either, suggesting a variety of ways he should be put to death as befitting a traitor. Well, at least they’d read the article.
Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Something positive might still come of it. If it went viral, the cops would be forced to look deeper into the story.
Itai scrolled back up to the beginning, intending to read the article more closely. The computer had finally finished downloading the pictures that accompanied the text. His heart stopped. He saw the faces of Gabriel and Arami, with their names in the captions. Their names also appeared in the body of the item. Itai hadn’t noticed that the first time around when he was just scanning it quickly.
How could Giladi do that to him? Itai had made it a condition that no names be used, and the reporter had promised. He must have gotten the photos from the cops. The one of Gabriel was obviously a mug shot, and Arami’s probably came from his employee file. Itai looked at the faces. They seemed to be looking back at him accusingly.
He closed his eyes. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He should never have spoken to the reporter. Whatever happened next, it wouldn’t be good.
Chapter 55
AN old lady emerged from the bushes, startling Anat. She jumped back in alarm. “Can I help you, officer?” the woman asked.
Anat couldn’t understand where the woman had come from or how she knew she was a cop. She wasn’t in uniform.
Instead of sitting in her office being shunned by her colleagues, she had decided to talk to Dvora and Shmuel Gonen once more. She planned to ask them if any of Michal’s visitors were white men, and if they knew their names. Someone besides Yariv Ninio could have had a grudge against her. The interview didn’t yield any new information. “The black ones, that’s all she had eyes for,” Shmuel said bitterly. His wife nodded in confirmation. They’d never seen anyone answering Ninio’s description. Shmuel, who had previously claimed to know everything about everybody, was now making himself out to be clueless. Anat counted at least three times that he declared, “I’ve told you everything I know. I have nothing to add.” When he left the room to go to the bathroom, Dvora parroted the same statement.
On the way back to the station, Anat had made a short detour. She wanted to check the distance from Michal’s apartment to Ninio’s.
“Sarah Glazer,” the old lady said, reaching out her hand. “I live on the third floor. Forty years I’ve lived here. I was feeding the cats in the yard,” she added, gesturing with her head in the direction she’d come from. “Poor little things. Especially in the winter. Nobody cares. What’s going to become of them when I’m gone? I don’t even want to think about it. I saw the blue light on your car from upstairs before I came down. Are you looking for someone? Is somebody lost? Maybe I can help,” Mrs. Glazer went on. She obviously wasn’t going away.
“Inspector Nachmias. We’re looking into the theft of bicycles in the neighborhood,” she said quickly before the woman could launch another monologue at her. It was the blue flasher she’d placed on the dashboard to warn off parking inspectors that had given her away. Never mind. The neighborhood gossip can be a valuable tool in an investigation, if you manage to filter out the white noise. Ninio said he fell off his bike on the way to work, but Anat hadn’t seen a bicycle in the stairwell of his house, or a bicycle chain, either.
“Well, it’s about time, isn’t it? Do you know how many bicycles have been stolen around here? And let me tell you, Inspector Nachmias, that’s not the only thing you should investigate. You should also do something about the people who leave their bicycles in the hallway. I don’t like to gossip, but some people simply have no consideration. Do you know how many times I’ve asked them to move their bicycles?”
“Can you tell me which of your neighbors have bicycles? Which of them had their bikes stolen?” Anat asked, ignoring the “hallway criminals” for the time being.
“That’s a hard question to answer. I have to think. After all, it’s been forty years.”
“Just concentrate on the last few weeks,” Anat said, forcing herself not to smile.
“There’s the lady on the first floor, Julia Rosenthal. She’s had a bike for years. It’s so old, even the thieves don’t want it. She doesn’t even bother to lock it up. Then there’s . . . Of course, the lawyer. His bicycle was stolen a few months back.”
“Yariv Ninio?” Anat asked, wanting to be sure.
“That’s right. He was very upset about it. He stopped me on the stairs several times and asked me if I saw anything.”
“And did you?” Anat was buying time until she decided what direction to lead her in.
“Why would I? I have my own problems to worry about. At my age, you know, it isn’t easy,” Mrs. Glazer answered with feigned innocence.
“Did he buy a new bike?”
Mrs. Glazer shook her head.
“I understand he’s getting married soon,” Anat said matter-of-factly, hoping to draw her out on the subject of his relationship with his fiancée. She might get some insight into the kind of person he was.
“Really? I had no idea.” It was very clear from her tone that this wasn’t the first Mrs. Glazer had heard of the wedding.
“You didn’t get an invitation?” Maybe that would light a fire under her. It usually worked.
“I wasn’t expecting an invitation. They don’t have to invite me if they don’t want to. Of course, it’s just common courtesy. You live across the hall from someone, don’t you give them an invitation?”
Anat nodded emphatically.
“With him, I’m not surprised. He thinks he’s some kind of hotshot. Barely says ‘shalom’ when he passes me on the stairs. But I expected more from his girlfriend. She’s so sweet. Always smiling, always polite. But it’s their
decision. I don’t go where I’m not wanted.”
“When’s the wedding? Maybe they haven’t sent the invitations out yet?” Anat suddenly felt the need to console the lonely old woman. “If you ask me, I’m not sure there’s going to be a wedding.” Mrs. Glazer leaned closer as if she were about to share a secret. Her words took Anat by surprise. Ninio had made a point of telling her he was getting married soon. In fact, he repeated it several times.
“At my age, you can sense these things,” Mrs. Glazer said with a trace of pride in her voice.
“Why do you think there won’t be a wedding?”
Mrs. Glazer shook her head. “I’m not uttering another word. I don’t want them to say later it came from me,” she said, placing her hand on her heart.
“Anything you tell me is confidential,” Anat said, keeping as straight a face as possible. Her mother played the same game. She always declared dramatically that she wasn’t going to utter another word “so they can’t say later,” and then delivered a long monologue that didn’t miss out on a single detail of what she wasn’t going to utter.
“They’ve both been down in the dumps lately. And they’re always fighting and yelling at each other. Him especially. Before our wedding, me and Sefi, may he rest in peace, we were skipping in the streets. You’re not married?” she asked accusingly, looking at Anat’s bare ring finger.
Anat chose not to respond.
“You kids aren’t in a hurry these days, are you? You think you have all the time in the world, and then by the time you’re ready, nobody wants you. Take my advice, Inspector, some things are best done when you’re still young and pretty.”
“Do you know what they fight about?” Anat asked in an effort to get the conversation back on some kind of track. Any minute now the woman would try to set her up with her wonderful grandson.
“It all started when she went away for a few days,” Mrs. Glazer went on, happy to continue gossiping about her neighbors across the hall.
“What happened?”
“If you want my opinion, when she got back she found out he cheated on her,” the old lady whispered. There was a look of pure pleasure on her wrinkled face.
“You think so?” Anat said, urging her on.
“Are you sure this has to do with the stolen bicycles?” Mrs. Glazer asked suspiciously.
“It’s all connected,” Anat assured her.
“Well, his whole face was swollen. A man comes home drunk in the middle of the night with bruises on his face. Where was he? With his mistress, that’s where.”
Anat nodded. Mrs. Glazer had a dubious theory about the connection between a sore face and a mistress. But mistress or not, it didn’t matter. Yariv Ninio had lied to her again.
Chapter 56
ITAI was going over the books when the three men walked in. They caught his attention immediately. Asylum seekers who came to OMA for the first time were hesitant, confused, frightened. They’d just arrived in Tel Aviv after being released from the detention camp down south and had nothing but the clothes on their backs. They came to ask for help.
But these men were dressed in custom-made worsted suits designed to keep them warm in the chilly weather. They strode briskly and confidently across the room, ignoring the curious looks of the people crowding the office.
Itai had been trying in vain to get Arami on the phone ever since yesterday when the item appeared on the news site. The interpreter didn’t show up for work today. He’d never missed a day before and was invariably punctual. Itai wanted to apologize, to assure him that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him, that he would take personal responsibility for his safety.
“Itai Fisher?” one of the men asked in a polished British accent. He looked to be in his forties. The other two took up positions behind him.
“That’s right. And you are?” Itai replied, standing up to greet his visitors. His job involved recruiting donors and applying to philanthropic organizations for grants. He allowed himself to hope these gentlemen represented such an organization.
The stranger smiled and reached out his hand. Itai caught a glimpse of the gold watch on his wrist.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Tapsmariam Apoworki, and I have the honor of being deputy consul general of Eritrea in Israel,” he said smoothly.
The introduction wiped the smile off Itai’s face. He knew that Eritrea was a brutal tyranny with no freedom of speech, movement, or religion, and no free press. It was a place where every male was conscripted into the army for life and the citizens were routinely terrorized by the government. In fact, Eritrea led the world in the number of refugees who fled the country in search of a safe haven, whether in Israel or elsewhere. Tens of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands, of Eritreans were in refugee camps in Africa. Hagos had told him a lot about life in Eritrea. He said it was important that Itai know, even if he couldn’t fully understand. No one who was born in a democracy like Israel was capable of understanding what it meant to live in constant fear for your life, he claimed. There was a consensus among human rights organizations that the Eritrean regime was one of the most repressive in the world. In Itai’s opinion, the very fact that Israel maintained diplomatic relations with such a regime was scandalous.
“What can I do for you?” Itai’s tone left no doubt as to his distaste for his visitors. He wasn’t a zealot and he shied away from slogans, but he couldn’t help thinking that these men served Satan. How could he imagine for a second that they were potential donors? Their expensive clothes, silk ties, gold watches, pricey cologne—they were all the marks of the corrupt mercenary regime they represented, a regime that flagrantly stole from its citizens.
“We’re looking for Mr. Arami Ligas. I understand he works here, that you are in contact with him. We thought you might be able to help us,” the deputy consul general replied with the same practiced veneer of refinement.
“What do you want with Arami?”
“We just want to talk to him.”
“What about?” Itai shot back.
The diplomat didn’t answer. His silence angered Itai, but it also frightened him.
“Mr. Ligas is a citizen of Eritrea. We would like to talk to him. We were unaware that he was in Israel, that is, until yesterday when we saw the item on the Internet,” Apoworki said finally.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Itai interrupted. The men were making him very nervous. “You aren’t welcome here. The people who come here are victims of your government. I have no intention of helping you in any way.”
“There’s no need to get upset, Mr. Fisher.”
“Please leave.” Itai was unimpressed by Apoworki’s cordiality, gentlemanly manners, or excellent English.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Fisher, we’re going. We don’t want to keep you from your work. If you happen to see Mr. Ligas, please let him know we’d like to speak with him.” The deputy consul general held out a vellum business card with gilt embossed lettering. “We’d be happy to speak with you, too, Mr. Fisher, if you’d like to pay us a visit.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” Itai barked. He was so furious, he was shaking. Israel had deported Hagos on false pretenses. But it wasn’t responsible for his death. His blood was on the hands of the regime these men represented.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Where our country is concerned, it’s not all . . . how should I put it? Black and white.”
Itai slumped back down onto his chair. He’d never imagined that talking to the reporter would lead to Arami’s persecution by one of the most ruthless governments in the world. Arami had been a human rights activist in Eritrea and was forced to flee for his life. Itai had placed him in danger again. Maybe Gabriel, too.
Chapter 57
ANAT lay awake in bed, papers strewn all over the covers. For the past few nights she hadn’t been able to sleep. She listened to the monotonous patter of the rain on the window. Her eyes hurt from reading in the dim light of her bedside lamp.
&
nbsp; Yariv Ninio had lied to her and to the Bar Association. What else was he guilty of? She knew only too well that despite everything she had discovered thus far, she still didn’t have a smoking gun, especially not when everyone else was convinced the murderer was already in custody. She needed more. And she needed more time to get it.
David had called half an hour ago and said he wanted to see her in his office in the morning. “We have a lot to discuss,” he said laconically. He seemed to be in a good enough mood. At least she didn’t pick up on any recrimination or anger in his voice.
Who would listen to her? All she had was a theory based solely on the statements of two women well past their seventieth birthday.
The cell phone on her nightstand rang, startling her. Anat reached out for it.
Grisha.
“Your murderer’s white,” he said with no preamble.
Chapter 58
ITAI decided to try Arami one more time before turning out the light and attempting to get some sleep. He’d called his number over and over again since the visit of the three “dark angels.”
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried about you,” he exclaimed with huge relief as soon as he heard Arami’s voice.
“You don’t act like you’re worried about me. Why did you do it? I trusted you,” Arami cut in.
“I’m sorry . . . the reporter . . . he promised,” Itai stuttered.
Silence.
“I’ve been looking for you. I want to apologize. And also . . . something happened today.” Itai took a deep breath before telling Arami about the men from the consulate.
Arami remained silent.
“Arami, are you all right?” The lack of response was unnerving.
“Why did you do it, Itai? Do you have the slightest idea what it means?” Arami asked finally in an agitated voice.
“I’m so sorry . . . if there’s anything . . .” How could he get it so wrong? His job was to help people, not make things worse for them.
