Passport to Death

by Yigal Zur

  “So we’re left with Weiss. And you think he’ll just write it off? Twenty-one K of heroin?”

  “No.” He attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “You get it now? You’re the only person I could turn to. But I couldn’t simply call you out of the blue and say, ‘Dotan, I need your help.’”

  “I would’ve told you go fuck yourself,” I said.

  “I know.”

  It was time. I took out Sigal’s passport, the document that had been sitting quietly in my pocket all this time, not budging except for a brief sortie into the hands of Mona Lisa. “I have her passport,” I said.

  Without a word, he reached out his hand.

  I placed it on his open palm.

  With a shaking hand, he opened the blue cover embossed with a gold menorah. “Once upon a time this meant the world to us,” he said, raising his eyes to look at me. “You remember when we got our first passports? The first time we went overseas?”

  For a moment, the wall between us came tumbling down. We were joined together again, like so long ago. A holiday trip to Greece, our first vacation after graduation from the academy, just before we undertook what we believed would be a lifelong commitment. The naiveté of youth. We landed in Athens. The first night, one of us got plastered on local retsina wine, and the other picked up an American girl and spent the night with her on the roof of our hotel opposite the Acropolis. We told the story so many times that I can’t remember any more which of us did what, who got drunk and who got laid.

  Reuven leafed through the passport and then stared at the picture for a long time. “It’s a lousy photo,” he said as he returned it to me. “You hold on to it. I think it’s too late for it to be any use to me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IVAN THE DURIAN stormed in through the open door to the street, accompanied by two armed Thai gorillas. He moved agilely, despite his size and the added weight of what looked like a recoilless rifle. Whatever it was, it looked very persuasive.

  Weiss appeared right behind them, looking right and left as if he was surprised there was no one there to usher him in. He crossed the room with measured steps and sat down in the armchair beside me. He seemed to have dressed for a night out—tight custom-made suit, loud silk tie, white snakeskin boots. I wondered how he survived the heat in that outfit.

  Ivan motioned to one of his goons, who pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket and squeezed it until it popped, making a sound like a gunshot. Extracting a chilled wet towel, he handed it to Weiss.

  “Can’t your fucking fish sauce do anything quietly?” he complained.

  “Izvini—sorry, boss,” Ivan apologized.

  Weiss wiped his face and then passed the towel over his neck and arms. “Hot outside,” he said.

  We sat in silence.

  “Having fun?” He surveyed the room until his eyes were caught by a kathoey who was making a conspicuous effort to go about her business as if nothing was happening. “This your thing?” he asked Reuven with visible repulsion. “Disgusting. I don’t mind sticking it in an ass now and then, if I finish off a bottle of vodka and do some speed first. But them? All synthetic. Yech.”

  Another glance at the firepower his muscle was wielding was enough to convince me to keep quiet. There wasn’t much I could do in any case. So I just sat there wondering what this circus looked like from the sidelines.

  Weiss fidgeted in his chair, threw one leg over the armrest, and then replaced it on the floor. He was clearly uncomfortable. However, he arranged himself in the low chair, the tight suit pinched. Finally, he turned to Reuven. “I can’t figure you out. You trying to get happy at my expense? You know if you’re happy, I suffer. What kind of karma is that?”

  Reuven didn’t respond.

  “Do you think I don’t suffer enough?” Weiss went on. “Is that why you’re trying to hurt me? Tell me where Sigal is and where the package is and I’ll make it quick.”

  Reuven still didn’t say a word.

  “You think I’m an idiot?” Weiss was speaking in a low voice, but the blood was already rising in his face. “What? You have contempt for me? For where I come from? You don’t like my accent? What? You think if you don’t talk to me, I’m not here?”

  Silence.

  “Do you know?” Weiss asked me.

  The goon loudly popped another bag and handed Weiss a fresh wet towel. Weiss threw Ivan a nasty look.

  “Izvini—sorry, boss,” Ivan said again.

  “Verblud—motherfucker,” Weiss said before turning back to us. “You want the truth? I’m sick and tired of the whole thing. I’m just trying to run a business. Lots of loony Israelis show up on my doorstep wanting to make a killing. ‘Weiss, what should I invest in? I trust you. Tell me what to do.’ I open my door to them, show them a good time, give them a bottle of my best vodka, send them my best whores. Best of the best. And then what? They meet another fucking Israeli who says, ‘What’re you doing? You’re crazy to trust that Russian. He’s screwing with you.’ They hear that and they say, ‘Really? That’s how it is?’ and they change their mind. They don’t understand that the other guy already changed their life. The next day they’re in prison awaiting trial and their life isn’t worth a dime. So whattaya say?”

  We continued to invoke our right to remain silent.

  “A weaker man wouldn’t be able to make any sense of it,” Weiss went on. “It would drive him crazy. But me? I say it’s all karma. They come, they go, it doesn’t make any difference to me. Just don’t shit on Weiss.”

  We kept our thoughts to ourselves.

  “But then there’s the exception. You get what I’m saying?”

  Ivan was still leaning on the wall next to the table. His goons were standing, feet apart, pointing their guns at us. Weiss kept up his spiel. “Law of probability,” he said. “It also works for karma. It says there’s always an exception to the rule.”

  Nice, I thought. Even the Russian gangster reflects on the meaning of life in his spare time. This must be an enlightened era. Except that I didn’t know if we were part of his spare time or his business hours. I was becoming increasingly concerned by the way the “conversation” was going, but there was nothing I could do about it. So I just sat there, sinking deeper into my chair.

  Weiss stood up, straightened his clothes, and began pacing back and forth between Reuven and me.

  “What does the exception do? It fucks everyone. It screws with everyone’s life. What? People don’t know how to enjoy life anymore. They can’t live and let live?”

  I sank even deeper in my chair. I could imagine what was about to happen.

  “You want the truth? I’m sick and tired of the whole thing,” Weiss repeated. “I don’t care about the package, I don’t care about the money. I just want to be through with it. I can’t understand why it’s taking so long. Everyone in Bangkok knows the story. They’re waiting to see how it ends, what Weiss is gonna do.”

  He paused and turned to me. “You know what this is doing to my reputation?”

  I shook my head.

  “My name is mud,” he said. “I see it in their eyes. They’re laughing at me. They’re saying Weiss lost his touch. Got soft, like an oyster. The only oysters I want are for lunch. On a plate.”

  He continued pacing, and then stopped in front of Reuven. “So I’m ending it here and now.”

  Without warning, he drew a small pistol from the pocket of his custom-made suit. Before I could jump on him, the two goons leapt at me and held my arms down. Weiss fired. Three shots. One—two—three.

  Reuven folded up in his chair, his head hitting the glass table and throwing the Buddha onto the floor as he fell. His flowery shirt was stained by the blood rushing from his chest.

  Weiss gave the signal, and Ivan and his goons vanished out of sight. As he walked to the door, he turned and said, “At the end, a man is nothing. Dust. But he was less than nothing.” He marched out, but not before spitting on the floor.

  The room filled with
the frantic screams of the kathoeys. I went over to Reuven. He was lying on the floor, breathing heavily, his eyes open. Foam and blood issued from his mouth. With difficulty, he focused his eyes on me. “All …” Every word required a supreme effort. “All the signs were there. They always are,” he mumbled, struggling for breath. “Don’t go.”

  Nodding, I took his hand. Once again, I was pulling him forward, like the time I made him finish the climb up the mountain when there wasn’t an ounce of strength left in his body. But back then the hand I grabbed was strong and sweaty. This time it was limp and cold. Nevertheless, it was still Reuven’s hand, just as I remembered it. Holding it, I again felt the bond we had once had. But most of all, I felt an overwhelming compassion for him that I couldn’t explain.

  His eyes closed.

  “Reuven,” I begged, “stay with me.”

  Making an enormous effort, he opened his eyes, and with what might have been the trace of a smile, he whispered, “I screwed up. I always screw up, don’t I?”

  The light was draining from his eyes. Again, he struggled to open them, gasping for breath. “Can I count on you? Like I used to?”

  I remained silent, merely squeezing his hand gently. With the last of his strength, he strained to make himself understood. “Naor, you have to find Sigal. Release her from her torment. Live up to your reputation.”

  I saw him sinking, his senses fading one after the other, until his eyes lost their grasp on my face. I closed the lids gently and placed my hands over them. He stopped breathing. It was the first time I had ever seen him at peace.

  He had to wait for me to show up before he could die, I thought. It was a very long wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  MY CELLPHONE RANG. Tom.

  “She’s at Chao Phraya Body Massage,” he informed me.

  “And you’ve known this the whole time?”

  “Not the whole time,” he answered. I waited while he coughed from the perennial cigarette between his lips. “I’ve known for a while, but I couldn’t tell you. You know us Thais. We’re superstitious. I believed if I said anything, you wouldn’t go where your fate was meant to take you. All things must be said and done at the right time. No shortcuts. That’s the real meaning of karma.”

  “You could have saved a few people from ending up as bodies in the river,” I said.

  Tom laughed. “I doubt it. Anyway, I’m nothing compared to a shipment of drugs. It can seal a lot more fates than I can.”

  You can’t change the mentality of a Thai Buddhist, I thought. Not even if you send him to Princeton. What mattered now was that my karma had finally led me to Sigal.

  “Gai will be waiting for you there. Chao Phraya Body Massage in Pratunam. The cab drivers know it.” I thought he’d disconnected, but then I heard him add quietly, “I’ll make sure Weiss stays out of the way.”

  I consider anything Tom says as sacred. Well, maybe not sacred like the sayings of Buddha, but there have always been two gods in Bangkok: Buddha and whoever is pulling the strings. That’s why the city is like paradise—it’s a beautiful place, but danger is always lurking.

  I called Reut and told her to be ready in half an hour. I was coming to pick her up.

  When I arrived at her hotel, she was waiting in the lobby. She was everything I had always wanted. She had on the same summery dress she was wearing the first time I saw her, and her eyes were hidden behind large whimsical white sunglasses that made me smile. I could tell she had chosen them deliberately for that purpose, even though she herself wasn’t smiling. I felt her anxiety and distress.

  The cab let us off in the parking lot of the massage parlor that bore the name of Bangkok’s river. It wasn’t very busy in these early afternoon hours. A cab stopped to let out a customer, while another cab came by to pick up a man leaving the establishment.

  Gai was waiting just inside the door. “Come,” he said.

  We passed a large window. A row of girls in bikinis with number tags were sitting behind it. They followed us closely with their eyes, anxious to see how the story would play out. News travels fast through the sewers of Bangkok. Next, we passed the cashier. The man behind the counter scrutinized us, but didn’t say a word. We climbed a wide flight of stairs to the rooms on the second floor. Most of the doors were open, the rooms not in use. A few cleaning women were hard at work. I saw the large tubs, the thick mattresses on the floor, and all the accoutrements needed to grant a customer a fleeting moment of pleasure.

  Gai took out a key and unlocked a door. Inside, on a large waterbed, Sigal was lying like a limp rag, her body trembling. A barefoot girl in shorts and a tank top dipped a cloth in a bucket of ice water and gently wiped her forehead.

  Sigal opened her eyes when we walked in, as if she had been waiting for us. “Reut, you’re here, you came. Take me home,” she said. Her breaths were short and shallow. She was struggling to get enough air into her lungs, almost choking, but her face was animated.

  I called Tom. “I need one last favor from you,” I said, explaining the situation. As usual, when a swift response is required, Tom has the magic touch that makes things happen. Ten minutes later, a doctor was there. He examined Sigal, gave her a series of shots, and hooked her up to an IV. “Her condition is critical,” he pronounced. “She’s got a severe liver infection. It’s lucky I got here in time. Let her rest for a couple of hours. You can move her tonight.”

  For the next few hours we sat by her bed, not exchanging a word. The one time I went out to have a smoke, I found Gai standing by the door. He must have been there all this time.

  When Sigal opened her eyes, it was getting dark and the neon lights were coming on outside. Reut leaned over her. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly. Sigal reached her hand out to her sister. It was weak, gaunt, and pale. “Take me away from here,” she said.

  Reut raised her eyes. They were still bright green, but I could see a shadow of apprehension pass over them.

  I nodded as convincingly as I could: don’t worry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  WITH ONE CALL to El Al’s operations manager in Bangkok, I arranged for Sigal and Reut to be on the plane to Tel Aviv that night. An ambulance took her onto the runway, and an airport worker pushed the stretcher the rest of the way while Reut walked beside it holding her sister’s hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Sigal said.

  “Me, too,” Reut answered. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  Sigal began weeping. Reut leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek, brushing away the tears.

  I thought of Reuven lying on the floor, blood flowing from his fatal wounds; I thought of Shmulik who didn’t leave a single mark on the concrete beam; of Yair Shemesh—Barbu, who I’d never see again. Sigal’s weeping had been replaced by moans. Reut stroked her, whispering words of comfort. For my part, I made an attempt to remain indifferent. It was one of those moments when everything’s over and you feel empty. It’s not the time for soul-searching yet, I told myself. That time will come.

  There was only one more question I had to ask. “Sigal, where’s the duffel bag?”

  With an effort, she turned her head to me. “You’ll believe me, right?”

  “I’ll try,” I answered.

  “When I got to the train station, I saw Weiss’s men and I panicked. I knew I had to get away. I couldn’t find Micha. He was with me up to then, but suddenly he was gone. I was terrified. I shoved the bag into a locker, took the key, and ran. I hung the key on a ribbon around my neck, but it felt like it was burning me. I hid in Wat Arun. One day I was standing by the river watching the catfish, and without thinking I took it off and threw it in the water. It was swallowed by a fish.”

  I was about to ask her the number of the locker, but then I thought of Weiss and Valium. I laughed. “Those catfish must be very happy,” I said. All of a sudden, I remembered the Buddha amulet I’d been wearing all this time. On impulse, I took it off and placed it in Sigal’s hand.

  “It’s fro
m Reuven,” I said. So what if I was lying and it was from the cabdriver. “I think it has the power to make sure things come out right in the end, like they’re supposed to, like they were supposed to from the beginning.”

  The stretcher was carried onto the plane. Reut gave me a long look, but didn’t say anything. My cellphone rang. I debated whether to answer it.

  I accepted the call. Another mistake. The type of mistake I should already have learned not to make.

  It was Shai. The schmuck, I thought. He calls me as if nothing happened. But I guess he knows me better than I know myself. After all, here I was answering his call, and my adrenaline was already flowing.

  “Dotan,” he said, “we have another case. India this time. There’s no point in coming back here. Catch a flight to Delhi. I’m sending you the details. Get in touch with Colonel Krishna. He knows you’re coming. He’s already started gathering intel.”

  “You always drown me in info,” I complained sarcastically.

  “It’s just coming in now. The situation isn’t clear yet. All I know for sure is that some Israeli kid went on retreat to an ashram in the north and disappeared into thin air.”

  I disconnected. Reut was still gazing at me. I gave her an innocent look in return.

  “You’re not coming back with me?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Okay, I’m a patient woman. As long as there’s hope. Just be careful not to start using words like baby or sweetie. I’ve heard them enough.”

  I didn’t respond. To be honest, I was in shock. I have to change my style, that’s for sure, I thought.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. “Don’t you know I’ll be waiting for you? Men don’t understand anything.”

  She was already standing on the first step. From above, the flight attendant motioned for her to hurry up, they wanted to close the doors. She turned back to me and crouched down. “Kiss me,” she said.

  It was the kiss of life.