by Elik Katzav
I follow her and nod as I pass by the two lawyers, who are still staring at me.
Over by the couch, there’s another young man in a dark suit similar to the ones those two guys are wearing, maybe even cut from the same cloth. A young man wishing to pass himself off as older, but he’s still got a naïve look about his face. He stretches out his hand for a shake.
“Hello, I am Re’em Pinchasi. I understand you are interested in our property at Omer. Would you like to fill the forms?”
- Forms? Sure. Forms for what?
“The bid procedure, of course. Our clients have decided to auction it off.”
- Okay. That’s not the reason I’ve come here. I would like to check out a few details. Is there someplace where we might be able to sit?
“Certainly,” he motions me to follow him as he leads me through several hallways that connect small chambers with two people per office, like a beehive, busy with their phones, paperwork, and PCs. Only thing missing is the buzzing. I wonder where the queen bee might be sitting, I wonder as we cross the floor.
We arrive at a spacious conference room complete with a round table. The walls have pictures with thank-you notes. Everything is orchestrated to make you believe this place has real power, a top notch firm with nothing but top-of-the-line lawyers who never fail to win their cases year in, year out.
I sit myself down and place my shoulder bag on the table. Re’em sits across from me. “So, I assumed you were interested in making a purchase. If this is not the case, how may I be of assistance, then?”
- This property—would you mind telling me, apart from the specifics such as location and the number of rooms, who owns it? I take it you are working for this multinational company?
Better let him in on the fact that I already know a thing or two. Should save him any attempt to lie to me.
“Oh, yes, certainly. We are in charge of managing real estate and property owned by foreign companies, among whose assets is the property at Omer.”
- Yes, that’s it. I am interested in this particular property in order to find out certain details concerning the last tenant to rent the place.
He moves about in his chair, very uncomfortably. “Yes, well, they’re renting it out and now they’ve put it up for sale. We are not dealing with the people who lease. They handle that directly from abroad.”
- Are you sure?
I produce the electricity bill.
- This bill is registered to this company, which means they pay for all the utilities in addition to the other expenses, and since they are not an Israeli company, it all goes through your company, so correct me if I am wrong, but you do deal with the tenants.
He reaches for the bill and takes it. “This proves nothing. It only means we’ve carried out the wishes of our client. We have no interest in what goes on at the property itself or whomever resides there.”
- That may be, but the very fact the property is still registered to someone else has prevented the authorities from ascertaining the actual identity of whomever has lived there. This has afforded the tenant some sort or protection, isn’t that so? And what if a fugitive from the law had been residing there, would that be ok as far as you people are concerned?
“I do not know who lives there, nor is that the concern of this law firm. I am strictly the fiduciary, entrusted to act in the best interest if the company who leases the houses out. I do not appreciate your tone, or the direction this conversation is taking, so if you have no more questions, it would seem we are done here.”
- One question, if I may.
Re’em rises to his feet, about to show me out of the conference room.
- Who was it who told you I was here? Who asked you to receive me?
He shakes his head. “Attorney Porat’s secretary. She said I was to answer your questions concerning the auction, but I don’t think you are a prospective buyer, so…”
I get up from my seat and glance at the pictures on the wall, taking my time until we reach the door. I point at one of them.
- This person here, is this Attorney Porat?
Re’em walks over very impatiently. He doesn’t bother to hide it. He looks it over. “Yes, this is Attorney Porat in this picture.”
- He is celebrating a sale. Quite a success by the looks of it.
“Yes, it was the first sale the firm pulled off—the basis for its establishment, in fact, at least financially speaking. Every attorney who joins the firm is told how the company was started.”
- A lot of money, according to what it says here. Huge success in high tech, and this guy next to him, the owner, he is familiar to me.
I point at the owner.
- He’s famous.
“Yes, this is former MK Eldad Ben Ya’ar. He is the firm’s largest client and Attorney Porat is handling him and his affairs personally to this day. He is a friend and a confidant.”
Seems the time has come for a chat with former MK Eldad Ben Ya’ar.
Chapter 17
Incumbent Knesset Member or just a former member; either way, he’s hardly an easy person to chat up on arrival. These guys have security. Their schedules are so tightly controlled, every minute is accounted for. I hope this isn’t the case with Eldad, who has retired from public life to focus entirely on treating his ALS in the hopes of a possible cure.
I return to Florentin and call Uri, who picks up after two rings.
“Yeah?” He howls in his all too familiar tone of ‘If this isn’t about some new revenue-generating client, then I haven’t the time.’
- Well hello to you too. Just wanted to update you on how the case was coming along.
“You’re making progress? How many hours have you put in already?”
I give him the run-down of the billable hours I have accrued thus far. He sounds pleased.
“So, anything else?”
- Yes. Say, if I need to track down a political figure, or former public figure, is there some database I might use to find their details?
“Political figure?” Uri’s voice conveys he’s on ‘alert mode’ now. “Do you suspect any politicians are involved in Idan’s case?”
This isn’t some sudden interest in the case on his part. That much is obvious. I am certain that Uri is strictly motivated by the prospect of appearing in the newspaper headlines, so the slimmest chance there might be a real connection is making him abandon all reason.
- I am looking into all sorts of possible leads. There might be a connection between Idan and someone who used to be in politics.
“Oh. Well, it’s not like there’s some updated file on hand. There are all sorts of lists people and organizations keep. After all, the people in these archives used to be famous, so they don’t want everyone to be able to get hold of them just like that,” Uri tells me eventually.
- Could you please send me the list you have?
“You got it. Check your inbox. Just do me a favor: do not make waves. When it comes to this kind of people, they could do a lot of damage, both to me and certainly to you.”
I set his mind at ease and conclude the conversation.
On my way back to the car, I browse my emails and go over the list of names and addresses Uri sent me.
I pause when I reach Eldad Ben Ya’ar and take a deep breath.
He lives in Savyon, where Idan went, in fact.
I take my notebook out. Idan was there the day he vanished.
Chapter 18
I take the Subaru and drive away. Shortly afterwards, I’m making my way through Savyon, a wealthy suburb of Tel Aviv, until I arrive at Hagiv’a Street. It’s a narrow road, where vehicles are parked in docking bays right next to their owners’ homes, well, mansions really—on either side. They have large plots, but you cannot tell from all the trees that block your eyesight and hide the spacious gardens.
The road itself
is shaded as well, complete with large trees on either side which cast their shadows the whole length of the street, which is in fact empty. No pedestrians whatsoever.
I drive slower next to house number 45. I pass by an iron gate where a driveway leading to the grounds begins. The large villa itself is barely visible from the main road for all the trees. You can only make out whole rows of trees along the bend, at the end of which I can finally see a two story building whose darkened ground floor windows are the only ones to offer a view to the street.
I drive on for a few dozen more yards and park at an empty bay.
Now, I take a deep breath, it’s time to ask a few questions.
I fortify my shoulder bag with additional notebooks and pens.
The iron gate looks old and heavy, but the motor that runs it appears to be properly maintained. I can now see the driveway through the gate’s bars and discover that it diverges in two. The first part is hidden by some trees and the other bends to the left, only to vanish behind another row of trees.
The gate is equipped with two cameras of medium quality. No sound, no movement detection. They require actual human activation for tracking or monitoring anyone’s approach.
I walk over to the gate and push the intercom button on the side. Much like the gate itself, it appears to be in good condition. Only a few seconds pass before someone responds to my call.
“Yes? How may I help you?”
- I’m David Maharani. I have come to speak with Mr. Ben Ya’ar.
“And is Mr. Ben Ya’ar aware of your appointment with him?”
- No, not exactly. This isn’t an appointment. I am investigating a missing child case right here in this neighborhood.
A tiny white lie.
The intercom goes silent for a moment until the voice asks, “Investigator? Are you from the police?”
- No, I am not from the police. I’m a private investigator.
The intercom falls silent once again.
“Mr. Ben Ya’ar is indisposed. He regrets his health prevents him from seeing you. Good day,” they cut the line off.
I watch the intercom for a few seconds and press it again.
“Yes, you are still here,” the voice replies.
- Yes. Listen, if Mr. Ya’ar is unwell, perhaps someone else from your team might be able to help me. This concerns a missing boy, a child whose life is in mortal danger unless he is found.
Another white lie. Idan might indeed be in danger, and ‘child’ is a relative term.
The person on the intercom remains unresponsive until he replies, “Look, apart from myself and another security guard there’s no one at the house who could be of any assistance to you. Besides, we haven’t seen any boy, so have a nice day,” he disconnects yet again.
Third time lucky? I ring the intercom again.
“I am not going to repeat myself,” the voice answers in an angry tone this time. “Mr. Ben Ya’ar’s health is very bad. I don’t know whether you are aware of who he is and who he was, but he is well connected. Unless you stop buzzing the intercom, I shall make sure a police car comes over to look into your presence here and determine whether you’re harassing a public figure or not.”
I reply in an appeasing tone.
- Listen, I am not here to pick a fight with you, or with anyone else for that matter. I just want to ask a few questions about a missing child. If you truly think you’re above the life of a mere boy, by all means, call the cops on me.
I make a distinct pause and continue.
- Just take into account that if and when a police car comes over, you too will have to be interviewed, maybe even come down to the station and give evidence, perhaps even testify later on in the course of my investigation, and all because you couldn’t spare five minutes to answer a few questions.
The intercom goes silent again, for a longer stretch this time. The second before I buzz again, two figures emerge behind a bush and walk up to me. As they approach the gate, they look bulky and strong, as you might expect from the typical pool of bodyguards—for instance, the Knesset Guard. Strong, silent types with cold, piercing eyes; the sort of people who would indeed jump in front of a bullet for the sake of the person they are assigned to protect.
When they arrive at the gate, it opens very quietly. They walk on for about a yard towards me and stand across from me outside the grounds.
The first guard looks at me closely and stretches his arm out. “ID,” he says, sounding like the person on the intercom, only angrier.
I hand him my investigator card. He takes it, steps back to his colleague and seems to be consulting with him. This allows me the time to notice they are both carrying weapons under their jackets. I also notice, in addition to their large skullcaps, yarmulkes, the tzitzit, a specially knotted garment with fringes or tassels that observant Jews wear, which is protruding from under their coats.
Before I get a chance to say anything, this guy takes a pic of my card with his phone and turns back to face me.
“Yeah, so this boy you’re searching for, a most unfortunate case,” he is trying to sound sincere and apologetic, “but like I told you, we know nothing about this.”
- I see.
I open my shoulder bag and search inside. In the corner of my eye, I can see how highly alert both these guards are.
They’ve got good instincts. Ready for anything.
I produce my notebook and begin writing.
- Who lives here besides Mr. Ben Ya’ar?
The guard who took my card looks at his colleague and then turns back to face me. “We share a room here. Strictly speaking, no one else is staying at these premises. There’s a housekeeper, she comes in the morning, and a cook. She comes and prepares his food. There is also a physical therapist. She comes regularly, and a doctor, who also shows up quite often.”
- And what are your names? Just for my notes.
I am trying to sound as innocent as possible.
The first guard looks me over and then glances at his partner, then back at me. His eyes meet my waiting gaze.
“Uhm, my name is Yuval Tor, and this guy is Meir Tzon,” he says, his voice conveying a slight hesitation.
I take their names down and put my notepad back inside my bag before producing Idan’s picture, which I hand over to Yuval. I examine how his expression never changes as he inspects it.
“No,” he says after a few seconds of looking at it as he passes it on to Meir. “Like I said,” he looks right at me, “I have never seen this boy.”
I now turn to Meir, who is holding Idan’s pic up for inspection.
- And how about you?
Meir raises his head, rather slowly, and replies in a deep voice, “No, I have not seen him.”
He hands the photo back to me, but the moment our eyes cross, a light chill runs down my back. It doesn’t quite make sense, feeling such a pinch of cold in the middle of August here in Israel, but it passes in no time, a second after Meir averts his cold gaze from me.
“And now,” Yuval says, “We need to get back to work.”
I take a step towards the open gate and say:
- So this is it?
The two guards assume their position in a flash, reaching for their holsters.
- One moment, guys!
I raise both my arm in the air.
- I didn’t mean to make a scene. I just think—I am convinced, in fact—that your employer knows more about this than you do. He might be able to help me shed some light on it, in case he did see something—for instance, when he was in the car and you were driving him. He may very well have spotted something.
I hear some chatter on the intercom right behind these two. Meir walks over to it, never taking his eyes off me, and buzzes. He says a few inaudible words to someone on the other side of the line, whom I am also unable to hear.
A te
nse wait. Another buzz, then another, and Meir bends towards the intercom speaker, utters a few more indiscernible words and steps over to Yuval. Then, he lays his hand over Yuval’s shoulder and whispers to him.
Yuval nods and turns to me. “It appears you’ve managed to break Mr. Ben Ya’ar’s otherwise peaceful daily routine. He is wondering where we’ve gone to.”
He then proceeds in his angry tone, “Now that Meir explained the situation to him, Mr. Ben Ya’ar agreed to spare you a few moments today, seeing as he is leaving tomorrow for treatments abroad, where he’ll be staying for a few weeks. He wouldn’t like for you to wait until his return, so, like I said, he will see you now, for a short meeting. A very short meeting.”
- Great!
I proceed towards the gate.
- Shall we?
“We have to inspect you before you come in.”
- Sure. You should know I am packing.
I reach for my own belt clip and watch how quick Yuval and Meir are with their hands, reaching for their respective guns, which they do not pull, but are ready to. There’s something nervous, not simply alert, about these two.
I raise one arm.
- You asked to check.
I pull my gun, still in its holster, out.
- I am only following your instructions.
Yuval seems to have calmed down a bit. “We just can’t let you in armed, I hope you’re clear on that.”
- Well, I don’t see where I can place it. That much is clear as well.
“You can hand it over to us for safe keeping, along with your files. No electronics allowed in, either. No cameras. No phones, no laptops.”
I raise an eyebrow.
- Electronic security. So strict. How tough.
“Under orders from Mr. Ben Ya’ar’s publicist. Seeing as he is a former public figure in an uncomfortable personal situation, we prefer to control whatever footage is issued in the context of Mr. Ben Ya’ar’s media coverage. Consequently, digital recording devices or cameras are prohibited.”
- Sounds fair.
I hand over my folder.
