Crossing the Lines

by Jacob Ganani

  “Albert, we need to go back.”

  “Back? Why?” Haddad asked.

  “Not sure... I think I saw someone there...”

  “Where?”

  “Near the gate.”

  “Maybe a ‘robot’ or a plant making sure we were properly fooled?” Haddad said in an irritated tone, and he clicked on the radio, “Yeremi, this is Haddad.”

  “Copy, Haddad,” replied Yeremi Gantz, commander of the sniper team.

  “Your position?” asked Haddad.

  “Driving, approximately 200 yards from the gate. Why?”

  “Turn around and head back. There’s another suspect in the marina.”

  “Copy, be there in one minute.”

  Haddad and Cantor stepped out of the car and waited. Within seconds, Gantz’s car lights appeared, speeding in their direction. He braked sharply by their side. Yeremi and Dori got out, their sniper rifles in hand.

  “What are we looking for?” asked Yeremi.

  “Cover us from back here; we’re going in to investigate. There’s a possibility of an armed suspect, so keep your eyes open.”

  Gantz was already on the move. Dori ran after him toward the guard post. From the roof, they would have a good view of the dockside area. Haddad and Cantor held off for ten seconds and ran toward the gate. As they were about to pass through it, Haddad reached out and stopped Cantor,

  “Wait. Give them another second to set up on the roof. If you’re right, then he’s a mouse trapped in a box with nowhere to run -”

  The radio crackled: “Area secure. Repeat, secure.”

  They ran through the gate and split up.

  Holding his gun at eye level with both hands, Cantor knelt and released the Jericho’s safety. He scanned the entire length of the dock. Before him stood a warehouse, a pile of nets, and another warehouse. These were the nearest hiding places. He rose, keeping his head low, and moved steadily toward the nets. Upon reaching them, he knelt down, swung his gun and propped it against the top of the pile. He then inched his head slowly to peer inside. Suddenly, he heard a grinding of metal from behind him. For a second, he froze, listening, and then began to turn his head. At the same time, his ear piece blared, “Cantor, behind you!” just as the sharp crack of a gunshot pierced the air. His training reflex sent him leaping to one side, yet his muscle response was poor. He immediately understood this - he was lagging a million years behind... then he felt a massive blow to his head and the darkness of the night blurred with oblivion, pulling him under.

  When Cantor regained consciousness, he saw Haddad’s face leaning over him. He was lying on the quayside, his head aching as if it was fastened with iron clamps. He reached out and felt the back of his head and shuddered from the pain of his touch.

  “They sh-shot me?” he stammered.

  “No,” Haddad said quietly, pointing to a short metal pipe that lay next to Cantor, “only a blow to the head. He came from behind you.”

  “Did you get him?”

  “Negative. Gone like the wind.”

  “Who fired?” Cantor asked.

  “Dori. How do you feel?” he heard Haddad asking. “Can you sit up?”

  Cantor nodded and Haddad reached out to help him. A sledgehammer pounded a steady beat inside his head. “I think I’m fine,” he said.

  Suddenly, a bone-chilling shriek pierced the night. As he tried to focus his eyes to discover who was screaming, Haddad had already jumped to his feet in the direction of the sound, which had come from a yacht moored to the dock behind them. While Cantor struggled to rise awkwardly to his feet, trying to figure out what was going on, he heard Haddad’s voice on his earpiece requesting urgent ambulance assistance… something about a civilian wounded by gunfire, and Cantor’s spinning head slowly put the information together...

  It seemed that Dori had not completely missed after all...

  What began as a fiasco now became a tragedy.

  ***

  Within minutes, an ambulance and two patrol units arrived at the marina. The teams began to distance the few people from the nearby yachts who had gathered after hearing the hysterical screams. A doctor and paramedic were directed by Haddad to the yacht’s cabin. They soon realized the scope of the disaster.

  Dori’s bullet, the one intended to protect Cantor, had missed the assailant and continued its trajectory as it crossed the wharf to the line of yachts moored tightly along the dock. The high caliber bullet easily penetrated through the yacht’s hull, which stood directly in its course. Against all odds, it ended its deadly flight in the head of the yacht owner, who was lying in bed next to his wife. The injury was fatal and the doctor, after fifteen minutes of resuscitation attempts, was forced to declare the time of death. The crime scene was secured and detectives from internal affairs were called in. The ambulance was discharged once Cantor had been examined, and appropriate transport was ordered in its place to transport the body to the morgue as soon as the detectives released it.

  Yeremi Gantz escorted Dori to a patrol unit that would take him to headquarters. Dori was in shock and muttered over and over again, “I just fired a warning shot in the air...” Gantz did not leave his side for a moment. They had been through their share of failures tonight and wanted no further tragedies on their hands.

  ***

  Haddad and Cantor reached the car. Cantor, still dizzy from the blow he had sustained, found it difficult to raise his head. They were the last to leave after the paramedics determined that Cantor was fit to independently leave the site. He was advised to report for a skull x-ray at the emergency room, but he dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. Now, he tossed his bag onto the back seat and carefully slid into the passenger seat, unable to stifle the groan of pain that slipped passed his throat. A sharp wave of pain shot through his head as he moved from a standing to a sitting position.

  The patrol unit’s radio came to life. The short message repeated three times. Readiness alert was back on and all units were called to report to headquarters. Clearly, the situation required immediate investigation. White Night had turned into a long, sleepless night.

  Cantor leaned back and propped his head carefully on the headrest. Haddad switched on the ignition and merged onto the road, turning left in the direction of Highway Four northbound. They drove wrapped in silence as if they had run out of words or reasons to use them. Cantor wondered what Haddad thought about his abilities now that he had allowed the perpetrator to surprise him...

  A few minutes after turning onto the highway, Haddad fixed his Bluetooth receiver to his ear and turned on his phone. A few seconds later, Cantor heard him say, “Hey, honey,” in the soft, special tone reserved only for his wife. At that moment, the darkness was slashed by a luminous bolt of lightning that brightened the shrouds of black clouds, followed almost immediately by a thunderclap of startling intensity.

  “It’s just a thunderstorm out at sea, honey...” He heard Haddad explain the explosion that shook the receiver.

  At that moment, perhaps under the influence of his partner’s warm tone, it occurred to him to call Daphne. Yet his hand avoided reaching for the phone in his pocket as if it was paralyzed. Their romance, he had to painfully admit to himself, was beginning to crack. The long, pleasurable moments of exquisite sex had become a refuge in recent months, but was just make-up sex to salvage the low points of their deteriorating relationship. Lately, not a day had passed without Daphne complaining about his long work hours. “Every evening, I sit like a fool waiting for a man who doesn’t come home till midnight... and when he finally does arrive, he’s exhausted and there’s no one to talk to!”

  Was he wrong to believe that they had found true love at first sight? Had he just imagined that rare chemical reaction that had made his life so meaningful? Had she not told him on their first date that he was changing her life in ways he couldn’t possibly imagine? (A statement that he never fully comprehended, it was a compliment he savored rather than search for the meaning behind her words.)

&nbs
p; Cantor replayed the quarrel that had broken out between them two days ago. Daphne was furious, screaming as if torn from the inside, accusing him that his real relationship was with his work... that they couldn’t even take a normal vacation together. He went on the defensive, making the mistake of mentioning Vietnam, which made her bitter. “Yes, a great vacation in the hospital...” This hurt him so deeply that he disengaged and retreated into himself. At that moment, he knew she would have preferred him to yell back, show emotion, display some semblance of caring - anything but sit there despondently, mute as a fish. But he couldn’t. He was tired, angry, and even disappointed by her loss of composure. He couldn’t bear to repeat the battered old statements about the work that demanded all of his attention, words that could no longer penetrate the walls of her anger and frustration.

  Suddenly, Haddad’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Why don’t you call Daphne? There’s no way we’ll be free again for several hours.” The tires slushed steadily on the wet road.

  But Cantor’s nerves had already been stretched enough for one day. “Not now,” he growled in a tone Haddad did not deserve. Haddad only glanced at him briefly and said nothing more.

  They entered Jaffa from the direction of the Abu Kabir detention center. The streets were deserted. Haddad passed the dark Bloomfield Stadium and turned right toward the headquarters building, whose windows were illuminated despite the late hour. The parking lot was bustling with cars. At least ten units crowded together, struggling for parking spots as near to the entrance of the building as possible. Cantor thought this was ridiculous - as if they could get even wetter than they already were! It seemed that Haddad shared the same thoughts as he stopped at the gates to the compound turned and parked near the exit.

  “This is going to be some party,” said Haddad ruefully.

  “Yeah, fun like a funeral,” Cantor concluded.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tuesday – after midnight

  Cantor scanned the crowded room, estimating more than fifty participants. The faces of many of them disclosed their immense fatigue, a natural result of a sleepless night. Many were still dressed in their wet clothes and some clustered around the heaters, trying to dry themselves. However, there were always some organized ones who kept a spare change of clothes in their lockers. He gathered that some had even managed to indulge in a hot shower. Cantor noticed a couple of empty seats, and headed promptly in their direction with Haddad following in his wake.

  It was impossible to ignore the tension in the air. The grave faces of most of them attested to their frustration and considerable anger. A critical investigation was expected. He didn’t personally know most of the faces from outside his division. He remembered a few of them only from brief encounters in the cafeteria. He counted four snipers from special forces, who stood out in their black uniforms, and two airmen from the helicopter unit, who were still in their blue jumpsuits.

  Yeremi Gantz, efficient as ever, moved toward him carrying two steaming Styrofoam cups. Cantor knew that the second cup was meant for Haddad. Rank before beauty...

  “What a magical night...” Yeremi said in a blatantly sarcastic tone, “there’s nothing like these urgent meetings in the middle of the night. How many of our colleagues here are like you, Albert - happily married, I mean?” This reference again flooded Cantor’s mind with the chaos of his own private relationship. He glanced at Gantz without a word, sensing that he was yet to complete his tirade. “Except the pilots, obviously. We all know they get the best girls,” Gantz continued. Everyone envied the pilots, as safety protocols limited their workdays to seven-hour shifts, which was practically considered a holiday in their line of work.

  Haddad took a sip of the steaming coffee and passed the cup to Cantor. “I’ve had way too much caffeine today,” he said. Cantor took the cup and felt the fine warmth of the brown liquid flowing through his frozen hand through the thin Styrofoam. He brought the cup to his nose and inhaled the comforting aroma.

  Haddad patted Gantz’s shoulder and said, “You know what? I’ve never envied the pilots. Isn’t there a rumor that they’re a bad fuck because of all the vibrations?”

  Gantz laughed out loud and turned to Cantor. “Hey, Cantor -” he dropped a heavy arm on his shoulder, “- the mystery man who came in from the cold. Enough with the long silence… say something, won’t you?”

  “You don’t have to, Cantor,” Haddad cautioned.

  But Cantor didn’t intend to keep silent, not if he wanted to fit in with this group. “You’re a strange person, Yeremi... the subjects that interest you. But maybe you’re right. Honestly, I never asked myself how much a pilot’s fuck’s worth, so either I’m the weird one here, or - you know what? Maybe things like that don’t really interest people who have real relationships? What do you say?”

  Haddad laughed. “He got you there, Gantz!”

  “Really?” Gantz’s friendly tone turned aggressive. “So talking about fucking is only suitable for lonely gossips, like me, for example... not for perfect people like Cantor... huh?”

  Cantor started to think that he had overdone it, and wondered how he could remedy the situation. On the other hand, it was just his attempt at humor, maybe a little dark, but still, what was it with all this sensitivity? He had trouble with people who couldn’t control their moods.

  “Come on, enough, you two,” Haddad soothed before the exchange escalated.

  “It’s all good,” said Gantz, patting Cantor’s arm, and Cantor responded with a forced smile.

  But the cloud of negative energy had not dissipated. The situation demanded a break of contact. For Cantor, this was also his last chance to update Daphne that he was going to be very late. He rose to his feet. “Friends, I’m stepping out for a minute. Albert, save my seat.”

  ***

  For a long minute, the phone rang unanswered. A second before he hung up, her sleepy voice came through the line.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he said in a soft voice and realized that he was imitating Haddad.

  “Where are you?” she asked angrily. He sensed the impending eruption.

  “At the department. Can you hear the commotion?”

  “Yes, what’s going on?”

  “An urgent investigation – all the teams are here. Called in directly from the field.”

  “Ah.”

  “There’s nothing I can do. Stuck here.”

  “So what else is new?” she responded cynically.

  “What can I do? It’s not up to me. How are you? What are you doing?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” She was no longer sleepy. “So - Mister Cantor - what do you think a lonely woman under house arrest does at night?”

  “I don’t know. What?” He felt his patience being tried, and was hurt by what he believed was a lack of consideration on her part. Just a moment ago, he wanted to share what had happened to him, but suddenly he lost the urge to do so. He didn’t need her pity... he could handle his aching head on his own.

  “You know something? Maybe I should try online dating? Maybe that’s where my salvation will come from...”

  That did it. His capacity for containment had reached its limit. “Well, then, happy surfing! And thanks to Tim Berners-Lee for inventing the internet… and you know what? I apologize for having a job that, unfortunately, isn’t exactly a nine to five... and yes, I’m tired of saying that it’s not really up to me and I really don’t know when I’ll be done here today.”

  He suddenly didn’t care anymore. It was one of those moments where he was ready to throw everything away and she must have sensed that, since she added in a slightly subdued voice, “Tell me something I don’t know… at least try to be quiet when you come in. You’re not the only one who works, you know.”

  “Of course, I know... gotta go. Good night!” She didn’t bother replying and hung up. He felt his lips tighten in anger. He always disliked a lack of basic politeness. But there was no more politeness between them, just bursts of anger. Recently, she had r
epeatedly called him self-centered! Was he self-centered? Was he inconsiderate? Why couldn’t she see what was in front of her eyes? Once again, he felt the relationship crumbling in his hands and he had no idea how to repair it. He slipped the phone into his pocket and headed back.

  ***

  The traitor who had sold out operation White Night followed Cantor back into the meeting room. His face betrayed nothing of what was going on inside him. He tried to subtly mirror other people’s body language and thus be perceived as one of their own. He was rational, sharp-thinking, quick to respond, an excellent planner, and determined to advance in his chosen path. On the other hand, he had severe emotional issues, extreme mood swings and depression that haunted him from time to time. When this happened, his constant sense of loneliness intensified, driving him mad. He was convinced that no one around him could comprehend the loneliness always gnawing at him, his inability to adapt to the world around him. He always felt like the world and everyone in it was against him and could not be convinced otherwise. He was certain that no one cared, no one noticed his inner turmoil, no one detected what was really hiding behind the mask he wore so well, pretending everything was fine.

  He knew that no one could justify his newly-chosen path. What led to his decision was a pivotal moment that turned his life upside down. Just as he had believed that, for once in his life, he had succeeded in breaking down the walls of his loneliness, that damned man had appeared and stabbed him in the back - the man who robbed him of the only woman who ever made him happy. The man who had no idea what a mortal blow he had struck. This gave rise to his decision to shatter, at all costs, the walls that imprisoned him, a decision he had to make in order to make life worth living. And from that moment on, he had acted only in his own best interests, putting himself before everything and everyone; favoring himself with no other consideration or doubt. From that moment on, all those who got trampled on his way to achieving his goals were nothing more than collateral damage.