"Hi. Call me Joe. Excuse the English but my Hebrew stinks."
A short husky individual with lightly greased wavy salt and pepper hair, Raskov had the body of an aging athlete, thick and strong through the chest. He wore the old 1950s Zionist uniform, shirt open, flowing gray chest hairs showing in the triangle, shirt collar worn outside jacket collar and lapels. Yes, the old Labor Party look even down to the tufts of hair David thought he saw sprouting from Raskov's nose and ears. Perhaps he was imagining these tufts. Perhaps he merely wanted to be disgusted by them. One thing, though, he did not imagine and which didn't fit at all with the Zionist image: the blue and white wool knit yarmulke perched on the back of Raskov's head.
"English is okay."
"Yeah, Judy told me you speak it pretty good. Look, I'm sorry to barge in on you, but I'm in town just for the day. Bunch of damn permits to get signed. So I thought-what the hell, I'll just drop in." Raskov peered around the office. It was clear he wasn't impressed. Then his eyes fell on the photo of Hagith. He motioned toward it. "On account of her."
Already David loathed him, couldn't believe Judith, his slim and elegant mathematician ex-spouse, had actually married this buffoon. But Raskov was rich, in the contracting business he was virtually a tycoon, and in any event the only thing that mattered was the effect living with this cretin might have upon his daughter.
"Don't expect you to fall all over me, Dave. But we're both grownup guys and I think we ought to talk. Guess you know the story. Judy was doing bookkeeping for my company, she had your daughter to take care of, and she wasn't getting much out of life. So, okay, you two got divorced. I'm divorced myself. That's why I moved over here. New start, build a new life, help build a new country too."
Yeah, I've seen your ticky-tacky housing blocks. So get on with it, Raskov, get to the point.
"… fell in love. And Haggi, too." Haggi! "She and I, we got along from the start. Now it isn't easy being ten, eleven years old and your daddy's up in Jerusalem and a new guy comes along and marries your ma. So, okay, we all gotta adjust. I got a twenty-five-year-old son back in the States. An okay kid but he couldn't hack it here. So, okay, we adjust a little bit…"
If only the clown could get his daughter's name right then maybe, David thought, there might be something hopeful in his slobbering good will. Judy, Haggi, Dave-these American-style nicknames grated on his ears. Still he said nothing, just gazed intently at Raskov, waiting for him, as he understood they put it in the construction business, to get to his bottom line.
"Education-no problem. I can give her the best. Bryn Mawr, Vassar, Brandeis if she wants. And I figure being around me these next few years won't hurt her English either."
"Anything wrong with Hebrew University?"
"Course not. Damn fine place. But you can't beat American training. Look, Dave, no one's trying to cut you out. But let's face it, I can give her advantages. That's why I'm here. Wanted you to see I'm not that bad a guy. Which is why I'm asking you, for your own daughter's sake-"
"What are you asking me?"
Raskov paused. For the first time since he entered the office he seemed to be at a loss for words. "I thought Judy spoke to you."
"About what?"
"Adoption."
"You want to adopt Hagith?"
"Yeah. Look, I thought Judy said-"
"What did she say?"
"Said she spoke to you and you said forget it, you'd never go along."
"She didn't have to speak to me. She knew that's what I'd say."
"Okay. I hear you. But think about it, will you? Don't just rule it out."
David stood up. "Yeah, I'll think about it, Joe. Meantime, I'm running a murder investigation here."
After Raskov left, David sat alone in his office depressed because he wasn't a rich and mighty man. But after ten minutes he'd had enough. Okay, he thought, Judith married an asshole, so that's no reason for me to feel bad. And, having decided that, he told Rebecca Marcus he was going out, then stalked down to the corner of Jaffa and King George where he quickly devoured two falafels in a row.
Micha and Liederman were on the phones trying to locate the owners of dark-colored vans. David worked with them a while, then conferred by radio with Uri, in charge of the daytime surveillance, who assured him all was quiet and Peretz was home. Then, near the end of the afternoon, he went back into his office, dialed the Raskov Construction Company in Haifa, and asked to speak to chief accountant Judith Weitz.
"It's me."
"Who?" She sounded busy. He could hear the clatter of an automatic printer in the background, most likely keeping track of Raskov's billions.
"David."
"Oh, you." Her voice was flat. "I saw you on TV."
"Bad time to call?"
"No. Joe's away. Things are always quieter when he's away."
"'He came to see me this morning."
"Really?" She sounded amused.
"Know what he wanted?"
"I can guess."
"Well-"
"It wasn't my idea. Once Joe gets an idea, there's no stopping him. He just bulls his way right on through."
"Guess that's why he's been so successful here."
"So what are you so sore about?"
"Do I sound sore?"
"Yes. You do."
"The guy's got dirty fingernails, Judith. He calls my daughter 'Haggi.' He calls me 'Dave.'"
"I think that's cute."
"I don't."
"I don't much care if you do or not. To tell you the truth, David, I don't care at all."
"What is he? Some kind of clown?"
"What?"
"Way he dresses. Half Ben-Gurion with that settler's yarmulke perched on top."
"He's entitled to his political beliefs. Frankly, if we were all as soft on territory as you, I wonder if we'd still have a country here."
So where was Joe Raskov when I was slogging through the Sinai?
"Sounds like you've changed your mind about some things."
"You bet I have. I'm keeping kosher now."
"What a splendid luxury. Arab servants help you out?"
"Look, if you're calling to express sour grapes about your lot…"
"I'm calling about my daughter! Adoption's out of the question. That he would even think! Must be out of his mind! So okay, he's a jerk. But I'm not standing by while he tries to turn her into some kind of intolerant small-minded mean-spirited self-righteous right-wing Arab-hating spoiled little bitch…"
A silence. When Judith finally spoke he could hear the new hardness in her voice. "How long since you've seen her?"
"I called last week."
"You think calling's enough?"
"We're on skeleton hours here. I'm on a major case."
"That damn police lingo. Thought I'd heard the last of it. I'll tell you something, David. I never said this to you before, but since you seem to think it's okay to call me up and discuss the condition of my husband's fingernails, I gather all the old social taboos are down and I can let loose with what I really feel."
"Go ahead." She sounded enormously angry. He imagined the set of her mouth, remembered how tightly she could draw it, so tight it almost became a line.
"As far as I'm concerned, having Joe Raskov in her life is the best thing that could happen to Hagith right now. Want to know why? Because you, David Bar-Lev, are the worst, the absolutely worst father in all Israel. The worst!" She hung up.
Two nights later David transported Anna, her cello, and her accompanist, Yosef Barak, down through the hills to Ben-Gurion Airport on the plain. David had always liked Yosef, a tall, serious balding man in his middle forties who hunched over the piano keyboard when he played. Yosef was a superb musician but lacked the ego and ambition to become a star. He wanted, however, to serve a star and was pleased to play that role for Anna. She, in turn, thought of him as a kind and diligent older brother whose impeccable musicianship and precise technique were perfect foils to her temperament.
David waited w
ith them in the transit lounge for the announcement of their flight, listening to their tense excited talk, envying them their adventure, wishing he could leave with them, go to Europe, forget his case. Over the next thirty days they would play in twenty cities, in Switzerland, Austria, Germany, Belgium, and France. Then they would return to Jerusalem to prepare for summer appearances at the European festivals, then Jerusalem again to work up another program for a winter series in the United States.
The flight had been announced and passengers were boarding, when David heard his name called over the public-address. A last embrace with Anna, a farewell shake of Yosef s hand, a final cry of "Good luck! Great trip!" He watched them board, then rushed to the nearest telephone. Seconds later he was connected to Dov.
"Peretz. He's moving. He just got into a sharut for Tel Aviv. Almost filled now. Ought to be leaving any second. We'll follow him, of course. We got five cars. Since you're down that way, we can pick you up. Park by the side of the road just before the airport cutoff. When I see you I'll stop, Micha will take your car, and you can get in with me."
This is it. I know it. I feel it. All the time I'm getting spooked by this guy, I know sooner or later he's got to make his move."
Dov was pumped up. His Mickey Mouse T-shirt (a sure sign to David that he was prepared for war) showed wet beneath his arms. His eyes never wavered from the long maroon Mercedes taxi just ahead.
"Eight nights on a guy, you get sensitive. Those weird long walks of his, the tension building up. Last couple days I felt it, he was walking different, taking longer strides, twitching sometimes when he stopped. So tonight he does the usual, except when he hits Jaffa Gate he boards a number thirteen bus. At the bus station, when I saw him head for those sharuts, I called you because I knew it was tonight."
"How are we covering him?"
"Two carloads, six guys, waiting at the other end. Two of us, plus three more cars including Micha and Shoshana, makes fifteen. No matter what he does, walks, runs, takes a bus, grabs a cab, we're on him. Figure first thing he'll do is try and steal a car."
I"f he does we'll let him take it," David said. "If he goes for a victim we'll follow him as far as we can. Instruct the others: Don't go in unless I give the command. Only exception, if they're certain a life's at stake. But when we go in, we really move. I mean fast, Dov. Very fast."
While Dov passed all this on, and the confirmations came back from the different teams, David loosened his collar and wondered if he was really close to ending this awful case. Then, as they entered the outskirts of Tel Aviv, he became conscious of the heat.
The city, normally so dry, was steeped in a heavy noxious fog. And as always, when he entered Tel Aviv, he found himself feeling oppressed. First great modern Hebrew city, city of Bialik, the Habima Theater, the brilliant street life and literary cafes of his father's time, it now seemed shabby, bedraggled, in need of a good coat of whitewash, smelling of automobile fumes and greasy falafel stands and seething with the anger of downtrodden oriental Jews.
"Okay, they're pulling in." Dov steered through a street of low-cost shoe stores that led to the bus station, extremely busy this time of night. "He just got out. He's paying. Uri's on him. See him? There!"
David caught a quick glimpse of Peretz pushing his way through the crowd, an El-Al flight bag slung over one shoulder, Uri right behind him flanked by two other detectives on his team.
Peretz paused just in front of the station, sniffing the air, looking this way and that. Dov muttered "Here we go again," but David sensed greater energy than before. When Peretz finally took off, they followed him down the maze of narrow streets, ten of them on foot, the other five in cars. He led them rapidly to a small cheap hotel on Allenby Road, The Zion.
You don't think this is weird?" asked Dov. They were parked across the street. Micha, who had a better view of the lobby, reported that Peretz was checking in. "Guy with a beautiful apartment in Jerusalem checks into a fleabag hole like this. Kind of place you do a drug deal or maybe take a whore."
"Soon as he's up in his room, I want Micha to identify himself at the desk. He's to find out if Peretz is using his real name and if they've ever seen him here before."
Micha reported Peretz had checked in as Meir Shikun, that he had stayed in the Zion several times, and that not only did he have good ID, but a business card on which he was listed as a salesman for a Petah Tikva plastics firm.
"Okay," David said. "Get adjoining rooms. Either side of his and across the hall. Put three guys up there, and someone with the operator in case he uses the phone."
But even as these arrangements were being made, Peretz reappeared without his bag and set off again on foot.
"Let me bust his room," Dov begged. "See what's in that bag."
"No justification. He hasn't done anything yet."
"At least let me put in a mike."
"Forget it, Dov. That could botch the case."
They followed him to a stop on Allenby, where he boarded a bus that took him up Pinkster to Dizengoff Square. Shoshana and Uri got on the bus with him. The rest of them followed in cars.
"Knows Tel Aviv better than I do." Dov was keyed up but David tried to relax, staring out at the peeling flat-topped buildings, laundry strung from balconies, roofs forested with TV aerials and solar water-heater tanks. The night sky, he observed, wasn't pure black as in Jerusalem, but faintly tinged with yellow.
Once off the bus Peretz did a complete circle clockwise around the square, pausing at each intersection, waiting patiently for each light to change. Then, when he was finished, he abruptly changed direction and did another circle counter-clockwise the same methodical leisurely way, the way of an animal who fears nothing because he has no predators.
"He's nuts," Dov said, and David had to agree: They'd never seen Peretz act like this. It was more now than tension; there was something compulsive yet extremely purposeful about the way he moved.
On Dizengoff, David got out of the car. The masses of milling people provided him with protection, and he was happy for a chance to stretch his legs. Cars streaked by. Neon flashed. For all the shabbiness of Tel Aviv he recognized the city was alive. The latest Israeli pop tunes poured out of record shops. Uniformed army kids on leave, rifles slung over their shoulders, strode the wide sidewalks in search of girls. Young couples stood in line at cinemas. Street money changers and dope dealers plied their trades. The cafes were filled – people sat in them gesturing, arguing. He caught tail-ends of conversations: the mess in Lebanon, a deal on diamonds, a place to get a good TV set cheap. No visible religious people. Clothing was lurid. Flesh showed hot and moist. There was an atmosphere of informality, sex, flirtation. The modern hell-bent Israel.
Peretz entered a modest restaurant, took a table facing the street, ordered a blintz, ate it slowly, then sat watching the parade.
"Look how sharp he is. Like a big cat poised to strike." He and Dov watched from a cafe across the street. Three detectives were in Peretz's restaurant. The others were scattered about on either side of Dizengoff.
"Yeah, he's changed since he did those loops around the square. Street life turns him on. So, what's he up to? What's his move?"
"He's getting ready now to look for what he wants. And then go after it," David said.
It was more than an hour before Peretz moved again, just after midnight when the crowds began to thin. He called for his check, paid it, then took off fast. The circle formed around him, scurrying to keep up. He led them a little further down Dizengoff, then turned abruptly left on Arlosoroff.
"Shit!" said Dov. "He's headed for the beach."
It was the famous bathing beach of Tel Aviv where Halil Ghemaiem had been picked up. Crowded with innocent bathers, mothers and children by day, this long wide stretch of sand became a sordid flesh-market at night. Prostitutes of both sexes congregated, but despite complaints the Tel Aviv police were unable to contain them. Patrols went out, engaged in sweeps, but as soon as they left the whores returned.
; Here, on the sand, away from the lights, figures moved like phantoms, dark gray silhouettes against the yellow-tinged night sky. The tide was out, the beach was wide, and something phosphorescent created sparkles in the tiny waves that lapped the shore. A solemn sort of dance, David thought, as he watched the transactions taking place. Figures approached one another, huddled, discussed in quick subdued tones the services required and a range of price. If no arrangement could be made, they separated again. If a bargain was struck, they moved together off the sand.
He felt useless. Peretz was out there searching for a victim and all he could do was stand by and wait. Something frightening too, he thought, about being so close to madness as it filled and drove a man.
Dov kept his back to the water, didn't want his radio seen or heard. "Contact," he whispered, "hundred fifty meters south. Foggy. Difficult to see. Shoshana thinks it's a boy. Okay-Uri says they're walking south together now, edging closer to the road. Says they're headed for the Sheraton taxi stand."
They exchanged looks, then ran back to their car.
No difficulty tracking the taxi; it drove straight to the Zion on nearly empty streets. The boy got out first, waited while Peretz paid. David got a good look at him: young, Arab, slight, with fine smooth features and dark skin. So, another male, but not a transvestite. This one wore a white tennis shirt, scuffed sneakers, and tight-fitting faded jeans.
"Seems Mr. Meir Shikun likes the boys." Dov had just returned from the lobby to their room next door to Peretz's. Micha was standing, his ear pressed against the wall. David lay exhausted on the bed.
"How often?"
"Maybe four, five times. Clerk didn't want to talk, but when Uri told him this was homicide he blabbed. Says Peretz always makes the same moves-checks in, goes out, then comes back very late with a 'friend.' "
David turned to Micha. "Hear anything?"
Micha shook his head. They were talking and laughing, but not anymore."
"What do you think?" David asked Dov.
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