by Dov Alfon
“Of course we’re on the same side,” she said.
The room was small and ugly. In the corner stood a coffee station with a water cooler, an enormous wooden box with an absurd selection of teas, and cheap Argaliot biscuits. The window overlooked the sea. Laurel and Hardy sat at the far side of the table and Oriana sat in front of them. Shabak Officer Laurel had three pens in the pocket of his shirt, an odd look for someone in intelligence. Maybe the pens were his version of Officer Hardy’s kippah, more a declaration of faith than practice: when I do the interrogating, the suspect always ends up signing the confession. That’s why I have three pens. Throughout the entire meeting he used none of them. They did not take minutes, and Oriana assumed that everything was being recorded.
“And because we’re on the same side, it’s important to emphasise that this is not an investigation, you’re not suspected of anything, heaven forbid. We were asked to question you about a certain matter. The request was transferred from the Chief of Intelligence’s office to the head of the Shabak’s office. According to protocol, the head of Unit 8200’s office was also informed, he’s simply out of the country at the moment.”
“According to the protocols you’re supposed to inform the direct commander of the soldier you’re investigating, by which I mean the new head of Special Section, Aluf Mishne Zeev Abadi.”
“Aluf Mishne Zeev Abadi will be assuming his new position at midnight,” Laurel said. “Right now you’re the head of Special Section, at least for the next four hours. I promise that if this investigation continues past midnight, we’ll formally update Abadi.”
“I thought this wasn’t an investigation.”
“It isn’t.” The first Shabak officer stepped into his role. “We thought you could help us solve a riddle.”
“What riddle?”
“How do you explain your excessive loyalty towards Abadi?”
As an investigator, the best advice she could give people was simple: never confess in an investigation. For some reason, her parents insisted on giving her other, less useful advice, such as never water your lawn during the hot hours of the day. If she ever had kids, she would offer them the real thing, the truly useful pieces of advice, starting with that one, never confess in an investigation. Because an investigator is not really after the truth, and he lacks the tools to verify the authenticity of the subject’s statements. All he wants at that specific moment is to check whether the subject in front of him fits the profile. There will be many opportunities to confess, my sweet child, and this ain’t one of them.
Besides, she did not know how to answer that question. She ventured, “I don’t understand any of the words in that sentence. What riddle? Is the Shabak trying to compete with the Psychoanalytic Association, and now you’re researching motivation? What’s up with you calling him ‘Abadi’? Are you such pals that you leave out his rank? And if you aren’t, would you disrespect Aluf Mishne Abadi like that if he had an Ashkenazi surname? And if you are friends, isn’t there a conflict of interest in your being here, investigating something that has to do with him? And above all, what exactly is ‘excessive loyalty’? If, say, you don’t cheat on your wife, would she consider that excessive loyalty?”
Laurel took the reins, perhaps because his friend was flushed and breathing erratically.
“Segen Oriana Talmor, we all know that the best tactic for an interrogation subject is for her to turn the tables and answer the question with a question. We’re not belittling your intelligence and your achievements as an investigator, so don’t insult ours. You were asked a simple question, and you understand the question very well.”
“No, I don’t understand the question.”
“According to our records, you haven’t worked with Aluf Mishne Zeev Abadi in the past. Have you ever met in a personal capacity?”
“Neither personal nor professional. I have never met him, and until today, I had never spoken to him.”
“He was a character witness in your unit’s conscientious objectors’ trial.”
“Our paths never crossed.”
“He’s quite famous in Unit 8200 as someone who chose to defend those who betrayed the unit’s values.”
“He’s quite famous for a lot of things. There are at least three investigation tactics named after him. And yes, he’s also known for choosing to testify on behalf of the 8200 objectors, to everyone’s surprise. What does that have to do with me? I was not in 8200 then.”
“True, you were in the military police investigations unit, but you had a part in it, since you were responsible for locating the source of the leak.”
“It was a side investigation in the case, something not very important. A soldier leaked documents to the papers, you guys investigated for an entire year and couldn’t track the leaker. The Chief of Defence Staff decided to transfer the case from the Shabak to the military police and it was assigned to me. It had nothing to do with Abadi and I did not investigate him.”
“Aluf Mishne Zeev Abadi was a character witness in the trial.”
“Could be. I testified in much earlier stages of the trial. I never met Aluf Mishne Zeev Abadi, and I didn’t place much significance on the matter of the defence witnesses, let alone character witnesses. Didn’t think anything of it.”
“But Aluf Mishne Abadi had some thoughts about you, even if he did not identify you by name. In his testimony he expressed his opinion that the investigating officer pursued the defendant, and I quote, ‘with great talent but equal ruthlessness’.”
“I didn’t know that. That’s the first I’ve heard of it. I’m honoured.”
“He also raised doubts about your ethics, when he enquired how you were able to track down the defendant where so many experienced investigators had failed. He suspected that your success relied on questionable or even illegal investigation techniques.”
“Just jealous, I guess.”
“You didn’t know that’s what Aluf Mishne Abadi thought of your work?”
“No, not until this moment.”
“How did you really track down the defendant, and did you use unethical investigation techniques?”
“Nice try. I never revealed how I got to her and I’m certainly not going to tell you two. I did not use unethical investigation techniques, if that isn’t obvious.”
“So since you’ve never spoken to Aluf Mishne Zeev Abadi before, and in the only intelligence case you were both involved in you were on opposite sides, how can you explain your excessive loyalty?”
“My answer hasn’t changed. He was appointed my commander and my loyalty to him is self-evident, regardless of his opinions. It isn’t excessive loyalty. I can’t believe you dragged me here in the middle of an important operation to talk about a case that was closed more than a year ago.”
The first investigator had meanwhile regained his composure and seemed ready to resume his role.
“It reminds me of a key phrase I read once: ‘Who will guard the guards?’ It’s a profound question.”
“Indeed,” Oriana said. She did not know whether to laugh or cry.
“Because this is what we’re talking about here.”
“Maybe. But, at least in the books I’ve read, when a person asks that question, he usually means that he’s the one who should be guarding the guards, so I’m not sure we can agree on that one.”
“O.K., I’m glad we’ve clarified that,” he said with a tone of finality, and the two got up. Oriana remained seated. There was no point in pretending the investigation was over when it had not even begun. And it arrived soon enough. “Actually, there’s one other small thing, unrelated to our previous discussion,” the second investigator said, and they sat back down.
Chapter 54
In an undefined, almost imperceptible way, something in the atmosphere in Commissaire Léger’s office had changed. Abadi thought that the room might be less hot. Léger had finished his explanation about the chief of police’s public announcement, the non-existent drug deal and the hundreds
of police officers working their way through the Quartier Asiatique with photographs of the assassin from the bridge, so far without any result.
Abadi responded mostly with questions, as was his way, and Léger answered to the best of his ability. There were more than six thousand registered hotels in Paris, he said, not to mention the unregistered hotels. No credit card with the name of Yerminski was registered on Airbnb or similarly regulated websites, but dozens of apartments were probably for rent off the books. The hotels were legally obliged to transfer their lists of foreign guests to police headquarters, but the database did not update in real-time, and the collection was conducted every night at midnight. As a result, if Yerminski checked into a hotel in Paris under his real name, it would take five hours for his location to appear in the database.
Abadi stood up and looked out of the window, down at the river. The sun had begun to set behind the Eiffel Tower, but it was still full daylight. Hundreds of people were scurrying towards the St Michel métro, anxious to leave the city before rush hour. Yerminski could be anywhere – in Paris, outside Paris, in some hotel, in some apartment, in the Bois de Boulogne, in the Bois de Vincennes, in a public garden, in a church, in a department store, pacing the streets, sleeping on a bench, staying with an Israeli friend, riding the métro back and forth, strolling along the river, drifting in the river. Anywhere.
“We’ll have to go with my method,” Abadi said, his gaze boring into Léger’s eyes.
The commissaire did not raise any objection. “And what’s your method?”
“There’s no point continuing to search for the assassin from the bridge. He’s not in the Quartier Asiatique and he’s not a pedlar, so we have no way of knowing where to look for him.”
“And you think we can locate this Yerminski?”
“Maybe not, but we have to try. You must have officers in this building who specialise in hotel theft, who know the hotel security officers. We need to ask for their help.”
“And what will my people do in the meantime?”
“They need to find the girl,” Abadi said. “The Chinese may be looking for Yerminski right now, but they’re also busy covering their tracks. They took out the two assassins from this morning, and they’ll definitely be going after the blonde they used as their honeytrap.”
“She isn’t necessarily blonde, mind you.”
“It doesn’t matter. The footage is sharp, and hundreds of thousands of people watched it. Even if she’s totally changed her appearance, someone will have recognised her by the way she walks, her features, height, a certain gesture. The hotline must be busy by now.”
“More than two thousand calls, as we speak. One identified his ex-girlfriend, parents who’re sure it’s their missing daughter, all types of perverts calling in, we’re flooded with calls. We can barely make our way out of this mess.”
“Who’s we? Two people?”
“I have a team of three experienced investigators on it, they’re steadily screening the calls.”
“Then I suggest that whoever’s looking for the Chinese assassin in the Quartier Asiatique come back here so we can at least screen the calls faster.”
“Cherchez la femme,” Léger said.
“Look for the woman while she’s still alive,” Abadi corrected him.
“And what will you do in the meantime, Colonel? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I need to go back to Charles de Gaulle airport to return my rental car.”
“Of course. If only everyone were as strict in matters of law and consumer responsibilities as you are. But your car has already been returned to the rental company. We towed it here from Créteil after we had it searched.”
“Without a warrant?”
“The juge d’instruction gave me a warrant without batting an eyelid when he heard it was you.”
“I’m flattered. In that case, I’ll take the train to Charles de Gaulle.”
“To rent another car? I’m not sure they’ll be too excited.”
“No, I have another meeting I am already late for. I’ll be back in two hours. Update me on my mobile if there are any developments.”
“As far as I’m concerned, the only development is that you’re going to Charles de Gaulle.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not leaving France before you find Yerminski.”
“I’ll keep your passport here,” Léger said. He reached for the last makroudh, as if to bag a final victory before surrendering.
Chapter 55
Wasim got off the métro at Père Lachaise and waited on the platform for the passengers to disperse, to be sure he was not being followed.
He was wearing a blue Adidas Olympique de Marseille tracksuit. He did not like soccer, but the outfit garnered a certain respect among the Moroccans in the neighbourhood to which he was heading. It was also convenient, because the tracksuit had many pockets, and he needed them all. He stuffed the hash – two kilos in small bags – in the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms.
The two mobiles were in the pockets of his jacket, the real one in his right-hand pocket, and the one for clients in his left. The upper pocket of the jacket contained the brains of his communications mechanism: a day-by-day pillbox, the kind favoured by old people, in which he had arranged fourteen different S.I.M. cards. Changing the S.I.M. every hour meant he had fourteen different numbers, each “new” mobile with the contact numbers and meetings relevant to that hour. The other mobile was permanently switched off. He turned it on once every two hours to check which of his customers had called.
While it guaranteed the police would have a hard time tracking him, it did not guarantee that he would not get his ass kicked by the Moroccans that night. In the inner pocket of his trousers, the one sealed with a double zip, he kept the blade he had brought with him all the way from his tribe in Afghanistan. The blade folded into a carved wooden handle decorated with flowers Wasim could not name. Nor could he read the Dari verse etched into the handle, but he knew it by heart: “With God’s will may my blow be fatal.”
In his back pocket he had a list of the night’s rounds, every client with their own set location. The first was a theatre producer who had ordered large quantities for an actor who refused to go on stage without it. After that he had four more runs in the Left Bank, then the students in the 13th arrondissement, followed by the cool gays in the Marais, and the concierge of a big hotel near the Champs-Élysées.
The last client of the evening was the strange girl from the fountain at the Pompidou Centre, the one who had agreed to carry out the mission for the Chinese in the airport that morning. Her fee was eighty grams of pot, but she was now demanding double. Since the Afghans he knew only dealt with hash, he was forced to venture outside the confines of Paris and into the Moroccan neighbourhood.
The platform slowly emptied and the final remaining passengers walked up the stairs and disappeared. Only an old Chinese pedlar, struggling to drag a cartful of products, waited with him for the next train. Wasim quickly changed the S.I.M. card in his active mobile and sent his contact a text saying he would be at the scheduled drop-off within twenty minutes. New passengers started pouring through, and after two minutes another train arrived. He boarded it, hopped down onto the platform the moment he heard the buzzer signalling the closing of the doors, took a quick look to see that no-one had got off with him, and jumped back onto the train, causing the emergency system to reopen the safety partitions. The passengers in the carriage averted their eyes.
At Gallieni, the last stop, he waited until everyone else had got off the train. For that neighbourhood, there certainly were a lot of young white people; they had probably all come to buy pot. He preferred to walk slowly behind them, and a single-file line soon formed on the narrow pavement. Wasim did not notice any police presence. The Chinese pedlar was lumbering in the line, but Wasim did not give him a second glance.
After about five minutes, groups of four to five teenagers started appearing around them, each time pulling out of the line one
buyer, who then accompanied them to complete the deal. As usual, every customer was forced to circle the block several times until the deal had been made. No-one approached Wasim, and less than ten minutes later, he was walking alone. The old pedlar had disappeared.
He reached the end of the road, an area misleadingly nicknamed “the Woods”. Wasim was mystified as to how a place without a single tree could have such a name. It was a huge dirt field, surrounded by bleak low-rises occupied mostly by immigrants. Burned-out cars and remnants of playground equipment were scattered about. Some of the boys scaled the piles of debris to watch what was going on while the teenagers stood around on the rooftops. Some were mere kids.
All at once, a group of about a dozen teens appeared in front of him, blocking his way. Some were black and some were Arab; Wasim was neither. Unlike them, he had already passed the age of criminal responsibility under French law and suddenly felt too old for such games. But it was too late to back down.
Out of nowhere, four unleashed pit bulls sidled up beside him, as quiet as a graveyard. Behind the group, two tall guys with keffiyehs covering their faces got out of one of the abandoned cars. They approached him with measured steps. Wasim leaned against the rusty fence and tried to project similar bravado. “You’re the Afghani?” one of them asked. Wasim nodded and gave them his contact’s name.
They led him in circles around the neighbourhood before they arrived, twenty useless minutes later, in the main multi-storey car park. There they took him to the freight lift and rode down to basement level three. All the lights were out, either smashed or because they had found a way to turn them off at the mains. They remained standing by the steel door without saying a word.