Spy Dance

by Allan Topol

  “Then where were you last evening between ten p.m. and three a.m.”

  “Asleep in my bed at kibbutz Bet Mordechai.”

  “Does anyone else know that?”

  “I live alone.”

  “Then you don’t have an alibi.”

  “I don’t need an alibi.”

  Yosef extracted from his jacket pocket a three-by-five black-and-white glossy photograph depicting Kourosh on the ground where he was found. He walked over and handed it to David. Then he returned to his chair while David studied this grim reminder of how cruel people could be.

  “A helluva job you did,” Yosef snarled angrily.

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “You’re a liar,” he shouted. “We have witnesses who place you in the area at the time.”

  “You can’t have witnesses. I wasn’t there.”

  Yosef frowned and slapped the baton against the palm of his other hand. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he said. “What I want is the truth. What I want is a confession from you.”

  David stared back coldly, sending the message: you can beat me if you’d like, but I won’t be intimidated. “I didn’t kill Kourosh Hareri,” he responded, “and what’s more, I didn’t have a motive for killing him.”

  “He stole your dental records. That’s a motive.”

  “The records don’t mean that much to me. I can get new Xrays taken. It’s not that difficult.”

  Yosef scowled, “A real comedian you are.”

  “No, I’m being serious. Why should I want them back?”

  “To prevent them from falling into someone else’s hands—someone who hired Kourosh to steal them.”

  And who the hell was that? David wanted to know. He tried to get Yosef focused on the records. “Then where are they?”

  “You destroyed them after you got them back.”

  “Why would I do all of this in Jerusalem? Why not in Haifa?”

  “To make it look like Arabs killed Kourosh.”

  Investigators generally share very little of their theory, but David realized that Yosef was so proud of the murder case he had constructed that he wanted to expose it to David to see if he could punch holes in it, which Yosef could later correct. This guy is a real piece of work, David thought.

  Yosef rose from his chair and began slapping the baton against his palm as he walked slowly and menacingly toward David. Watching him, David held his breath. He clenched his hands together behind his back and stiffened his body, making it easier to absorb the blows.

  Yosef narrowed his eyes and stared at David harshly. He stopped about a foot away. In a threatening tone he said, “Are you ready now to confess?”

  David shook his head. “I didn’t do a thing.”

  As Yosef raised his hand with the baton, getting ready to bring it down, David kept his eyes locked with the man. The agent could strike him if he wanted to, but he would know it was a person he was beating, not an inanimate object.

  Abruptly Yosef lowered his arm, turned and walked away toward one of the open windows.

  He’s not going to hit me, David decided with relief. He had seen enough interrogations in his lifetime, and he had learned to tell the difference. Those who got pleasure out of beating suspects did so early in the process. They couldn’t wait to do it. For others, like Yosef, it was a game of intimidation and bluff. That conclusion made David feel better.

  “So let’s talk about your dental records,” Yosef said. “Who put Kourosh up to the theft?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Why are you lying to me? Of course you have some idea.”

  David repeated the explanation he had given Gideon about many David Ben Aarons in Israel.

  Yosef didn’t buy it. “Don’t take me for a fool. It infuriates me.”

  A long, heavy silence settled over the room as Yosef’s hard, cruel eyes bore in on David. “I can wait all day if I have to.”

  David knew that he meant it.

  After several moments David took a deep breath and said, “When I was still in Moscow working as a computer programmer for Novosti Chemical Company, the Russian organized-crime gangs were just gaining power. One of the gangs approached me and forced me at gun-point to do some work for them. They were computerizing their gambling and prostitution operation. I worked for them for about a month at nights. They paid me only a fraction of what my time was worth.”

  “Well?” Yosef asked impatiently.

  “Then my visa for Israel came through. You know how arbitrary the Russian authorities are. You hear nothing. You hear nothing. Then one day it’s just delivered to you in the mail.”

  Yosef nodded.

  “So I worked for the gang that night, and I skimmed off some money that I needed to leave the country. Just enough for that. Far less than they should have paid me. After all, I’m no thief.”

  “And?”

  “Anyhow, I left Moscow the next day, and of course I didn’t show up for work that night. I made my way to Odessa and changed my name. Then I flew here from Odessa. Now, I think they’ve caught up with me. They have my dental records in Moscow. To make sure it’s me, they wanted to get the records here and make a match.”

  “But why did they use the Kourosh kid for the robbery?”

  David shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they bought him for money. After all, it’s not so easy living here on a bank clerk’s salary.”

  “And if they got a match on your dental records, you think their plan was to have someone kill you?”

  “One of their members who’s living in the country, helping them extend their reach to Israel.”

  Yosef shook his head in irritation. “You Russians are such trouble,” he said contemptuously. “No other group of immigrants has been like this. I can’t wait for the next generation. We’ll be able to shape them up. But you people! Ech! You’re as bad as those religious nuts who come here from the United States. Hundreds of you are coming here with suitcases filled with dollars that they got illegally in Russia like those gangsters you worked for. Thousands of you aren’t even Jews. Thousands won’t learn the language, but they want handouts from the government. You Russians will destroy this country.”

  Now visibly angry, Yosef pounded the baton against the windowsill. David kept quiet. He had learned that Yosef was echoing sentiments shared by many Israelis.

  Suddenly, Yosef realized that David had managed to sidetrack him. He returned to the matter at hand.

  “You better be telling me the truth,” he said. “I have ways of checking your story. Records in Russia. Interviews with people here. This story of yours about gangsters and prostitutes better be right.”

  “It is. I promise you.”

  “But even if it is, it just helps the case against you. Then you did have a motive for killing Kourosh—to keep him from giving those dental records to the Russian thugs.”

  “I’ve told you the truth about Russia, and I didn’t kill Kourosh.”

  “Then who did?”

  “If I knew, I would have told you long ago. You think I’m enjoying this?”

  “You’re lying. If you confess now to the murder, you’ll get a light sentence. I’ll see to it.”

  “But I didn’t kill Kourosh.”

  Yosef stared at him. “Enough,” he barked finally, and he summoned his colleagues, who led David down four flights of stairs to a basement that had been carved into the stone. On the way down, he listened for the sounds of other prisoners, but the building appeared to be deserted. In the basement was a tiny windowless cell with a dirt floor and a hole in the ground for a toilet. The air was stifling. A single dim light was recessed into the ceiling. The man unsnapped the handcuffs and took David’s wristwatch. Then they pushed him roughly into the cell and locked the door.

  “Call us when you’re ready to confess,” one of the men shouted to David through the small barred opening.

  David sat down on a wooden bench chained to the wall and evaluated his situation. Though he had hope
d not to become involved, even after his dental records had been stolen, he realized how futile that hope had been. He felt his world crashing down around him.

  His situation wasn’t hopeless, he knew that. He had chips to play. Information he could yield to get out of this cell, but he was afraid it would land him in an even worse situation, although that hardly seemed possible right now.

  He sat calmly, trying to preserve his strength. Israelis prided themselves on being more humane than other people. They would give him food and water, and if they didn’t beat him or torture him today, they probably wouldn’t. As for the cell, he had been in solitary confinement before. These Israelis were no match for some of the sadistic bastards he had seen.. He could survive here for a very long time. All he had to do was not self-destruct with terror or panic. Keep calm. Keep focused on something else. Something pleasant. Yael. Yes, Yael and their incredible days and nights together.

  Chapter 4

  Without his wristwatch, David had no sense of time. He hadn’t been questioned since his arrival at the stone compound. He hadn’t been physically touched. Guards had passed him three meals by opening the door briefly, then returning an hour later to retrieve the tray that had held his food, which was adequate—fruits, vegetable, meat, pita bread and water. He did push-ups and ran in place to keep up his strength. He slept, and he waited.

  Finally, he heard the sound of two men approaching down the stairs, talking loudly to each other. From their voices he could tell that they were the two who had driven him from the kibbutz. Perhaps they were bringing him back to Yosef for another session. He tried to steel himself for the interrogation.

  He heard a key in the lock, and the prison door opened wide. For an instant he had difficulty adjusting to the bright light in the corridor outside.

  “We’ve come to release you,” the sandpaper beard said. “It was all a mistake. We’re sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” David replied.

  “That’s right. You can apply to the government for compensation, if you want.”

  David could hardly believe his ears.

  In silence, the two drove him back to the kibbutz, where Gideon was waiting at the gate. Together, they walked up the dirt road, David with his twisted leg and Gideon with one wooden leg. The mid-afternoon sun was hot and unyielding.

  “What happened?” David demanded to know.

  “Read the newspapers. Sharansky and your Russian party kicked up a political storm, claiming that there was no evidence against you, that you were being used as a scapegoat for Kourosh’s murder, and, as usual, a Russian was being blamed for everything. There was even a protest on your behalf in Tel Aviv. So they had to release you.”

  Gideon had said it so unenthusiastically that David replied, “You obviously thought they should continue to hold me.”

  “Not because I think you killed Kourosh. You didn’t. I would have known if you had left the kibbutz that night.”

  “I appreciate your not sharing that information with the Mossad.” David said sarcastically.

  Gideon bristled. “Look, David, I’m responsible for security here, which is a serious matter. We’re living literally in the scope of Syrian guns. Obviously there are things in your past that you’re hiding. For all I know, you are a KGB agent who slipped into Israel as part of the huge wave of Soviet immigration.”

  “That’s preposterous, and I resent your saying it. I’ve been a loyal member of this kibbutz. My computer programs have brought us millions of dollars in contracts.”

  They were approaching the center courtyard of the kibbutz.

  “That’s all true,” Gideon replied, “but those contracts pale in the face of security concerns. I came out here to warn you. You’ll find things different for you now. I want you to know that so you won’t be surprised.”

  “What do you mean, different?”

  “There was a vote taken when you were gone. Whether to expel you from the kibbutz.”

  David was stunned. He had done so much for the kibbutz in the short time he had been here. “I can’t believe that.”

  “People are scared. Still, you won, but barely. So it really is in your interest to tell me the whole story. The next vote might not turn out the same way.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” David said, and he turned away from Gideon, crossing over to the High-Tech Center.

  As he walked into the door of the building, Batya raised her thin eyebrows and looked at him with a mixture of fear, concern and bewilderment.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she stammered. “I never thought that...” She left her thought hanging in the air, uncertain as to how she should finish it.

  “I was a murderer,” he said, completing her sentence.

  She blushed. I didn’t mean that. I even voted for you.”

  “I appreciate that. Really I do, Batya.”

  As he headed back toward his office, he considered calling a meeting of the entire staff of the High-Tech Center and clearing the air with them. The difficulty was that he couldn’t—or more accurately, wouldn’t—answer the questions that these bright people would undoubtedly ask. And he refused to lie to them. So, reluctantly, he decided that wasn’t an option.

  At his desk, David looked at a blank computer screen and tried to ponder his options. Quickly, he reached one conclusion: he wouldn’t sit still and wait for the next blow to come. That wasn’t his nature. He was a man of action, someone who controlled his own destiny.

  Lacking any better avenue, David turned back to the press. In addition to the three major Israeli daily newspapers, which referred to Kourosh’s murder and the theft from Dr. Elon’s office as the Dental Affair, he began reading the International Herald Tribune and The New York Times because of the Rome connection with Kourosh.

  For two days he scoured those five newspapers from one end to the other, searching for any little piece that could help him decipher the complex jigsaw puzzle someone had created.

  In the meantime, he was constantly aware that his recent arrest had made him an object of suspicion among many on the kibbutz. He could sense questions that pervaded the small community, the whispers that stopped when he approached a group of people. Some made a point of telling him that they never doubted his integrity and loyalty, but their expressions of support were forced. Others simply walked away when he approached; and he couldn’t blame them. For decades, security in northern Israel had hung by a thread. The possibility of a KGB agent in their midst had to be terrifying.

  On the third day, when he was reading the International Herald Tribune in the kibbutz reading room, he saw an announcement in the personal ad section: “Tonto seeking Lone Ranger.” A London telephone number was given.

  David stared at the words, tapping his fingers on the table and thinking. He read the message again. And then a third time. Was it meant for him? How could he know for sure? Reruns of American television westerns had circulated widely throughout the world for decades. Plenty of others could have used those names in referring to themselves.

  And if it was intended for him, what then? Was the man who referred to himself as Tonto trying to warn him about something that was being planned by those responsible for Kourosh’s theft and murder? Or was Tonto part of a scheme to flush David out and then to crush him once he was exposed? The idea of relying on Tonto made David very uncomfortable. He had no doubt that Tonto would sell him out for a string of wampum.

  Yet further speculation was pointless. He was floating at sea after a shipwreck, and a rope was being offered. He had no choice but to grab for it and later find out who was holding the other end.

  He’d have to be careful. He had no doubt that the Mossad was still watching him. They might not let him leave the country, and if they did, they would be certain to follow him.

  David picked up the phone and dialed the London number from the newspaper. He got an answering machine with a recorded message. In English, a woman’s voice said: “No one is here to take your call. Please leave your mess
age after the beep.” The accent was British. Northwest England, he guessed. Birmingham maybe. Working-class. That didn’t tell him a thing. Tonto could have paid any London prostitute a few quid to record the message.

  He waited for the beep and then left his message:

  “The Lone Ranger will meet Tonto August 27 in London. Time: thirteen hundred hours. Place: Green Park. The Piccadilly side. If I’m not there, wait fifteen minutes and return in one hour.”

  He felt better making this move, but he was still left with the glaring question of how he could leave the country to keep the commitment. After considerable thought, he decided to create an elaborate ruse, first calling Detroit to ask his contact at Ford for a reference at Jaguar in England, which Ford now owned. The Ford contact enabled him to set-up a Jaguar meeting in England on the 27th.

  Then he walked out to the reception area in the High-Tech Center. “Batya,” he said to the receptionist, “call the travel agent and get me an airplane ticket to London next week on the 26th in the morning and back on the 29th.”

  She pulled back in surprise and puzzlement.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’m not trying to run away with state secrets. I have a meeting with officials of the Jaguar Motor Company in England. Ford’s given me an introduction.”

  She blushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she stammered.

  David smiled at her. “It’s hard to act normal when you have a killer in your midst.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “I know. Don’t worry.” His tone was kindly. He couldn’t blame her. Like many others in the tight-knit community, she had lived here her entire life. He was the outsider Yael had brought in. And now this.

  “What about a hotel?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “The Jaguar people will take care of that.”

  As he left the reception area, he glanced at his watch. It was 8:35.

  Back in his own office, he called the Park Lane Hotel on Piccadilly in London.

  “In on the 26th and out on the 29th,” he told the reservations clerk, “and I want a room on a high floor facing the park.”