Crossing the Lines

by Jacob Ganani

  CHAPTER 47

  Cantor was well aware that the life of their witness rested upon his shoulders. It was his responsibility to prevent the traitor from eliminating him. Yet his aim was to neutralize the traitor without actually killing him. In order to do so successfully, his sniping skills needed to be honed. A non-lethal shot from 200 yards away was not an easy task, and could prove even more difficult than a kill shot. To further complicate the matter, the traitor would be standing near their witness. He would only get one shot. He must be thoroughly prepared for this mission.

  A professional sniper’s success depends on talent and preparation. Cantor decided to refresh his skills at the shooting range at the National Police Academy campus at Beit Shemesh. There, he’d find an extensively equipped range offering some of the most advanced tools available. This ensured that he could prepare and assess himself as objectively as possible.

  As he drove toward the facility, he called ahead to the officer in charge of scheduling and asked to have a specific rifle prepared. The officer asked if he’d like to be accompanied by a shooting instructor, and Cantor replied that there was no need.

  “You’re booked for Range Number Five from seven till eight,” said the officer. “Your rifle will be ready at the armory.” Cantor thanked him and hung up.

  A forty-minute drive later, Cantor made his way up the hill onto the recently constructed state-of-the-art academy complex. The parking lot was meticulously marked with signs to direct visitors. Neatly cobbled paths meandered between well-tended grass lawns. The first impression was of exemplary order befitting an organization entrusted with maintaining public order. To his left stood the Police Heritage Center, a place he had visited several times. As a history buff, he had a genuine interest in the history of the police force that had developed alongside the nation since the early stages of its inception. He passed through the gates and saw a group of trainees gathering around a mock structure that represented a bank. White bands on their uniforms indicated that they were officer cadets. He remembered this particular exercise from his training course. It was an exercise simulating an armed robbery and hostage situation. He paused for a minute or two, watching the cadets in action, and then headed toward the armory. On his way, he passed a city street, complete with typical buildings and public structures, true-to-life replicas intended for training for different scenarios requiring neutralizing threats. Next to the mock bank stood a post office, a school, a synagogue, and even a bus stop that would never see a bus. A vast square lined with stalls simulated a typical farmers’ market and was used for counterterrorism training.

  He continued toward the firing range, passing a finely manicured soccer pitch that any professional league would have happily embraced. On the track circling the pitch, a group of trainees in running gear were completing their laps. He passed a basketball court and a large gym. Across the lawn were the administrative buildings. These were the brains behind this impressive compound. Further down peeked the rooftops of the barracks that housed the cadets during their training. A slight grin crossed his face as he recalled his time in the hotel-quality housing. The campus around him bustled with activity - not surprising, considering that, at any given moment, no less than 4,000 policemen of all types and ranks were training at this compound.

  He reached the armory and picked up the Remington and two boxes of ammunition. He then stepped down a flight of stairs to the lower level, where the ranges were located. He opened the door of Range Number Five and switched on the red signal to ensure no one would disturb him for the next hour.

  At the firing point awaited a small tray with a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and a tablet computer that provided the latest in target training applications. He scrolled through several apps that enabled automatic positioning of targets at any desired distance. The screen displayed real-time target tracking.

  Cantor settled in and got to work. He practiced with targets at various distances and angles while deciding on the exact settings that would keep the target alive. As the minutes passed, he felt the rifle becoming an extension of his arm, perfectly in tune with his every move. He fired his last bullet, hitting exactly the point he was aiming for. He replaced the equipment and headed out.

  By 8:30pm, he was back in his car, driving toward the city.

  CHAPTER 48

  Tuesday - afternoon

  Lufthansa flight 686 from Frankfurt landed at Ben Gurion International Airport at 3:15pm. One hundred and forty passengers made their way through the terminal toward Border Control. In the line for foreign passport holders stood eight passengers.

  As the light on the booth changed from red to green, a forty-year-old man wearing a white hat and black jacket stepped forward to hand his passport to the female officer. He offered her a wide smile, revealing a perfect set of bright, pearly teeth. The officer, remaining true to Border Control formality, returned a stiff grin. She examined the passport and then looked up to scrutinize the man’s face thoroughly. She had no doubt that the man in front of her was the same person in the photo in the Argentine passport she was holding. What she didn’t know was that the photo had recently been switched. The passport had been stolen two days previously from a drawer in the home of a resident of Buenos Aires.

  “Anhel Rodriguez?” the officer asked.

  “Si,” the man replied with a smile.

  “English?”

  “Yes, but no good...” said the man.

  The officer asked the purpose of his visit.

  “Tourist,” he answered, “to Tel Aviv.”

  “What hotel?”

  The man searched his bag and pulled out a voucher. “Basel Hotel, Hayarkon Street. Good hotel?”

  The officer pursed her lips to indicate that she had no idea. She scanned the passport through the electronic reader and the computer returned a green light, indicating that there were currently no restrictions to prevent Mr. Anhel Rodriguez from entering the country.

  She asked him about his intended period of stay in the country. When he failed to understand her question, she reworded it in simpler English. With his unwavering, bright smile, he replied, “One week.”

  The stamp pressed firmly into the page of the passport.

  The man representing himself as Anhel Rodriguez from Buenos Aires, Argentina, was born and raised as James Escobar in Bogota, Colombia. He flashed one last, gleaming smile at the officer and passed through the electronic doors to the Arrivals Hall. His first stop was the bathroom, where he took off his black jacket, turned it inside out and put it back on. He was now wearing a white jacket. He shoved his white hat into his bag, pulling out a tattered brown leather hat with a wide brim, and placed it on his head. These changes in his attire were a basic ploy to confuse and obscure. The greatest change to his appearance, one that would alter his actual face, would only be made after leaving the airport. There was always the possibility that a curious customs officer would request to see his passport again.

  James Escobar chose the green Customs lane and walked through without any obstructions. In the cab taking him to Tel Aviv, his English skills suddenly improved. He asked the driver to take him to the Hilton. He spent the entire ride making idle tourist banter, asking for recommendations for good restaurants and tips for an entertaining visit.

  The driver who dropped him off at the Hilton was given a fair, but not overly extravagant, tip. As far as he was concerned, this was an amiable tourist, curious and particularly cheerful. A few moments later, he would be completely forgotten.

  Escobar waited until the cab disappeared and continued on foot along the promenade to the David Intercontinental Hotel located between Jaffa and Tel Aviv. At the front desk, he took out another passport from his bag, identifying him as Philippe Garcia, from Honduras. He checked in for four nights, paying for the room with US$ travelers’ checks.

  At five-thirty in the afternoon, a messenger arrived at the Intercontinental and left an envelope at Reception for Room 351. The messenger then picked up a house
phone and dialed the room number. When answered, he announced that a delivery was waiting for him at the front desk. He heard a “Thank you,” and replaced the receiver.

  Fifteen minutes later, Escobar opened the envelope to see a close-up photo that gave him his first glimpse of the man he had been hired to kill.

  Was that a look of deep and profound misery reflected in the brown eyes that stared back at him from the photo? Or was it just his imagination? In any case, he mused, if the man was, indeed, unhappy, he wouldn’t have to suffer much longer.

  CHAPTER 49

  Tuesday - night

  The policeman was tired and depressed. Besides his dark melancholy, which was nothing new, there was now a growing frustration within him. Moish’s arrest had surprised him, and then the intensive interrogation - which had gone on for the last few days - was already a problem. He’d received no word on what was going on inside the interrogation room, but it was taking too long considering the fact that Moish should have exercised his right to remain silent. So what the hell was going on there? And if nothing was happening, why were Haddad and Cantor sticking to Moish like shit on a shoe?

  It was only ten-thirty, but he was already in bed, struggling unsuccessfully to fall asleep. His body felt as tired as if he’d spent the day working in a coal mine, yet his mind raced as though he was on speed. Moish, Haddad and Cantor… Moish and Sexta… they all churned in his mind in a constant flurry, refusing to leave him in peace. He got out of bed, shuddered as his bare feet touched the freezing floor, and went to the kitchen. He kept a bottle of vodka in the freezer, and now filled a glass to the brim. Maybe the alcohol would serve as a diversion from his fixations. As soon as he was done pouring, he took a quick sip that struck hard at his throat. He hurried back to bed, placed his pillow against the wall and leaned back under the covers with the glass cupped in his hands. Another sip, then another and another. The darkness of the world seemed to fade in favor of yellow and red flashes...

  Images of the interrogation slowly dissipated to be replaced by a new image. Mykonos. A beachfront café. Colors arranged in harmonious, ascending order. Blue sea, yellow sand, blue cabana, white city. A platter of appetizers beside him, the cabana offering shade, while his bare feet are deep in the hot sand. He sips the local Mythos beer and his eyes follow her as she steps into the waves. Her back glistens in the sun and her hips swing flirtatiously, just for him. Her toes touch the cool water and she shrieks gleefully, turning to look at him, her beautiful face radiant with joy. He couldn’t be happier. Never before has he felt this way. He never even knew that such feelings were possible. A wave breaks onto the shore, spraying a salty mist on her face. She calls him over and he runs to her, infinitely in love, lifts her in his arms, presses his lips to hers and together they leap into the crashing waves…

  These images made him smile an unwanted smile. His mind then dropped an opaque screen over the images, displaying just two words: betrayal… humiliation! And the yellow sand along with the blue sea and the smiles and the joy and the happiness all disappeared, to be replaced by unbearable pain. The hand holding the now empty glass dropped to his side and the glass slipped from between his fingers. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the room.

  “Kill! Kill!” his mind commanded before the alcohol numbed his thoughts and sent him into merciful oblivion.

  CHAPTER 50

  Wednesday – morning

  On the third day of his interrogation, Moish was a completely different person. The black circles under his eyes revealed his exhaustion, perhaps because this was his first arrest and the conditions of his detention had begun to take their toll. Suddenly, he was eager to talk.

  Cantor played the good cop. “You understand we’re giving you a chance to get off cheap?”

  Haddad, acting as the bad cop, intervened. “Cantor, you’re wasting your time. This idiot doesn’t understand anything. We don’t even need his confession as we have an eyewitness.”

  “What do you need from me?” asked the detainee.

  “What do you have in mind?” Cantor returned with a question.

  “I want to cut a deal,” said the man.

  “A deal? You’ve got to be kidding,” Haddad chuckled.

  “Wait a minute,” Cantor said. “What kind of deal?”

  “I know things,” blurted out the detainee, looking intimidated.

  “What sort of things?” Cantor asked.

  “Important things. But only if you get me a deal.”

  “There’ll be no deal,” Haddad ruled.

  “Wait a minute, Albert. What can you tell us that might interest us?”

  “I can give you a name.”

  “What name?”

  “The name of a cop.”

  “I can give you a thousand cop names,” Haddad scoffed.

  “I mean the name of a cop who sells information for money.”

  Bingo.

  “Where’d you hear this name?” Cantor asked.

  “I didn’t only hear about him - I’ve worked with him.”

  “You worked with him for whom?”

  “For Sexta. For the organization.”

  “You’ve received information from him yourself?”

  “Yes, and I’ve paid him for it.”

  “When?”

  “For over a year now.”

  “Do you want some coffee?” asked Haddad in a suddenly friendly tone. Moish nodded.

  “I hope you’re not selling us bullshit, because, if you are, it’ll complicate your situation even further,” said Cantor sternly.

  “It’s the truth, just the truth,” Moish hastened to assure them.

  “Well, if what you give us is useful, we’ll consider a deal, but it’d better be really worth our while,” Cantor said, adding, “and, of course, you’ll have to appear before a judge, otherwise it’s of no use to us and you’ll end up going away for at least twenty years.”

  “I’m willing to do that, but I’ll need protection.”

  “You’ll be called as a witness for the state,” said Cantor.

  Haddad stepped out, returned with a cup of coffee and placed it in front of Moish. Cantor opened his notebook and switched on the recorder. After about three hours of recorded testimony, they decided to call it a day. Although they expected Moish to appear more relaxed as he unloaded the heavy burden from his conscience, it became clear that his eyes reflected mostly fear.

  This didn’t surprise them at all.

  CHAPTER 51

  The traitor was not expecting this development.

  This was the worst possible scenario for him. Moish was exactly the man who could bring him down with a first-hand testimony of their meetings, details of their conversations, lists of equipment he requested and received, and, most importantly, records of the documents he supplied and the payments he received in return. Was there any chance that this arrest would result in nothing but hot air? After all, Moish knew that if he blew his cover, he’d also be incriminating his own boss. And that was a death sentence. Thus, it was more likely that this arrest would ultimately lead to a dead end, but it was still imperative to find out why he was even arrested.

  Another thing seemed odd. The police, unlike their usual routine when it came to a high-profile arrest related to organized crime, hadn’t leaked the matter to the press for some much-needed PR. Alternatively - and also odd - no big-time criminal defense attorney had turned up to speak on Sexta’s behalf and accuse the police of a populist and false arrest.

  At first, he’d assumed that Sexta would take the necessary steps to bail Moish out, or at least have him released to house arrest. He gave it a maximum of twenty-four hours. But that didn’t happen. A cautious inquiry with Matilda revealed that Cantor had submitted a confidential report to the judge and received a ten-day remand extension to complete the investigation - certainly an irregular request for a preliminary stage investigation. Yet, although he believed Moish was exercising his right to remain silent, he had to make sure of it. He decide
d to pay him a visit at the detention center, to raise his spirits, but mostly to make sure he kept his mouth shut.

  As far as he was concerned, visiting Abu Kabir posed no undue risk. It was nothing more than a routine visit to question one of his CIs who spent half his life in that place. He believed he could exchange a few words with Moish, remind him not to do anything foolish and give him hope that someone on the inside was looking out for him.

  Much to his disappointment, the visit did not turn out as he expected and provided no useful information. The guard in charge, an old acquaintance, was happy to see him and announced that it was time for a coffee break, which always happened whenever anyone arrived to relieve the guards from the boredom of their endlessly long shifts. As he drank the bitter, black coffee that burned his tongue, he pried for some information.

  “What’s new?” he inquired.

  “Besides your guys straining my nerves? Nothing much.”

  “Our guys? Which ones?” he took on a skeptical tone, as if such a possibility was unlikely.

  “Haddad and Cantor. Couple of smart-asses.”

  “Those guys are professionals,” he hurried to defend them. “They wouldn’t push for no reason. But what exactly did they want?”

  “God only knows. All I know is they brought in some detainee and actually threatened me that if anything happens to him... you’d think we have no procedures in this place!”

  “What could happen to him?”

  “How should I know? Maybe he’s suicidal. They want him kept in solitary.”

  “Suicidal? Why would he want to kill himself? What are the charges?”

  “Don’t know. Must be something big. They asked for a private cell and 24/7 surveillance, and for us to physically inspect the cell every half hour, even at night. They also asked us to log in anyone who comes near his cell. That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Sounds a bit extreme, but there must be a good reason. They wouldn’t ask for it otherwise.”