by By Jon Land
Then the man smiled and tipped his hat, discolored along the brim by long-dried sweat, before the sole of a boot rose over the camera and swooped down with a thud that ended the transmission.
“I was discharged from the Sayaret upon my return,” Danielle finished. “Reassigned to Shin Bet.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“Procedure, unfortunately, in such matters.”
“Your father couldn’t. . . intervene on your behalf?” Davies posed tentatively.
“He was one of the men who wrote the procedure.” She refocused her thinking. “But none of that matters now. You must tell Levy what’s happened, if he doesn’t know already.”
Shlomo Davies rubbed his hands together, his eyes suddenly evasive as if seeing Danielle a different way. “Are you saying Levy had something to do with what you were doing in East Jerusalem?”
“Just contact him. Please,” Danielle implored the old lawyer, fearing she had let the legend of the Israeli intelligence world down once again.
“Very well.” Davies shrugged and flipped to a fresh page on his pad. He had been practicing law in Israel for four decades, semi-retired from a firm of which he had been a founding partner. “I have informed the Jerusalem police there will be no further discussions with you unless I am present and until you are formally processed,” Davies told her. “That will probably take place tomorrow, at which point you will be transferred to a jail in the city center. I will be informed of that formality, now that I am your attorney of record.” Davies tightened his expression, taking on the glare that had wooed Israeli juries for forty years. “I have the criminal division of my firm already working on motions and have subpoenaed all statements taken from witnesses at the scene.”
“Thank you.”
“For now, if you could just tell me what happened in East Jerusalem,” the old lawyer said, readying his pen. “What led you to shoot and kill your superior, Moshe Baruch?”
* * * *
Chapter 7
W
hat else?” Ben demanded, seated next to Colonel al-Asi in the back of his Mercedes.
“I told you, Inspector, it’s—”
“She killed Commander Baruch. That’s all you know?”
“Calm down, Inspector.”
Ben fought to steady his breathing. Heat brewed beneath the surface of his skin. “I’m sorry, Colonel.”
“No need to apologize. I understand, believe me. The cooperative ventures you and Pakad Barnea worked on were symbols of peace when it still seemed possible,” al-Asi said grimly.
“I thought being together was still possible for us.”
“And you have both paid a great price for making the effort.”
“You’ve got to know something more about what happened.Anything.”
Al-Asi shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Not yet. My contacts are working as we speak. Give them time.”
“But—”
“We’ll wait at my house, Inspector, while you lend me a hand with something.”
Al-Asi had his driver take them to the Kharja neighborhood on the eastern edge of Jericho where a group of well-guarded homes, reserved for the highest officials in the Palestinian government, were clustered within view of the Jordan River. Ben had never been to the colonel’s home before, but was somehow not surprised to find it uniquely western in design, especially the lavish and exquisitely manicured grounds, when the vast majority of homes in the West Bank could barely squeeze gardens into their tiny yards.
Al-Asi led Ben around to the rear of the house. In a grassy area not far away from a decorative fish pool lay the disassembled clutter of what looked like an elaborate children’s combination swing set and jungle gym.
“I was hoping you could help me put it together, Inspector. I’m having trouble reading the directions.”
“You read English better than I do, Colonel.”
Al-Asi frowned. “Not this time, apparently. Come, I’ll show you,” he said and headed toward the wood and steel components mixed indiscriminately with various tools atop the ground.
“We’ve got to put the base together first,” Ben told him, picking out the largest posts.
“You haven’t even looked at the directions.”
“I’ve put a few of these together in my time, Colonel.”
Al-Asi looked relieved. “Then my intuition was correct. I could have workmen assemble it, but I’ve been trying to immerse myself more in day-to-day things. Family life and so forth. I expect to have more time on my hands soon.” He looked over the clutter and shook his head. “This was to be my first project.”
“We’ll have it put together in no time,” Ben promised, starting to separate the pieces, as he had done on three separate occasions back in Detroit for his own family.
Al-Asi’s cell phone rang and he excused himself to talk beneath the shade of a trio of young olive trees. When the conversation was over, he flipped his phone closed and returned to Ben, his expression grim.
“It happened in East Jerusalem. Commander Baruch was leading a detachment of plainclothes police on a security detail.”
“What was Danielle doing on such a detail?”
“By all accounts, she wasn’t supposed to be there—at least, not as part of Baruch’s detail.”
“You’re saying she was there specifically to assassinate him?”
“I’m not saying that at all. That’s what the Israelis are saying.”
Ben fought to cool his emotions again. “How did you learn even this much, Colonel?”
Al-Asi stooped down, careful not to dirty his trousers, and began dragging his tools into a common pile. “I generously provided the Israeli authorities with the locations of two Palestinian dissidents to arrest in exchange for the information.”
“If that’s all you know, you were shortchanged.”
“Not really. I’ve been trying to get rid of these dissidents myself for some time. In any case, this is all my counterparts in Israel know at the present time. Everything remains clouded. Pakad Barnea herself is not answering any questions.”
“She doesn’t deny the charges?”
“No, but neither does she affirm them.”
Ben shook his head vehemently. “Danielle’s not capable of such a thing.”
“She’s been under a great deal of pressure lately, Inspector.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“I was speaking of the past several months. When was the last time you saw Pakad Barnea?”
“You wouldn’t ask that if you didn’t already know the answer,” Ben said and fit a pair of boards together, lining up the holes. “Hand me one of the bigger screws. One of those over there,” he said, indicating the proper item to al-Asi.
“Twelve weeks ago,” the colonel said, handing him the screw. “And much has happened since then, starting when Commander Baruch refused to reinstate Pakad Barnea to her former rank and position.”
“That much I know about.”
“She filed a grievance. I think it’s still pending.”
“It is. But the board is packed with Baruch’s right-wing cronies.”
“The mentality that currently prevails in Israel, unfortunately,” al-Asi noted, sounding profoundly distressed. “There is no longer any room for an appeaser. The desire to- work cooperatively is seen as a sign of weakness.”
“Danielle and I haven’t worked together in almost a year,” Ben reminded the colonel. He slid the wooden dowel into place and then accepted a tack hammer from al-Asi to gently knock it into place.
“Pakad Barnea’s reputation precedes her everywhere, Inspector.”
“You’re blaming me, my relationship with her?”
“I’m not assigning blame, merely explaining it.” “Our relationship is over.”
Al-Asi watched as Ben turned the two assembled pieces over and handed him a second wooden dowel. “Is that what you told John Najarian, the businessman from Detroit so interested in employing you?”
“An
other question you must already know the answer to, Colonel.”
“You’ve decided to take his offer.”
“I’m giving it strong consideration, yes.” Ben leaned the first two pieces of the swing set against his thighs. “I should have known my phone was bugged.”
“Not yours, Inspector,” al-Asi said, flashing his typically wry smile. “His. Back in America by a colleague of mine in the CIA. I trust this unfortunate news about Pakad Barnea will force you to stay among us a bit longer,” Colonel al-Asi added, after Ben had pounded in the second dowel.
Ben reached for a third piece of the base to join the first two. “I need to see Danielle.”
“More chance of me putting this swing set together by myself than getting you into an Israeli jail as anything but a prisoner.”
“Please, Colonel.”
Al-Asi shook his head. “I’ll do the best I can.” He tightened his gaze, uncharacteristically seeming to search for words. “But after what happened in New York, losing the child and everything, I thought you were finally ready to let her go. You know, move on, as the Americans say.”
“Could you, under the circumstances, Colonel?”
Al-Asi frowned. “I suppose not.”
“Neither can I.”
* * * *
* * * *
Chapter 8
Katani, Sierra Leone
T
he trucks thundered over the rise and descended onto the village like stampeding cattle. Chickens scurried from their path and women scooped up small children, clutching them to their breasts and running for their mud shacks. A jeep led the convoy, followed by a pair of open troop carriers packed with military-clad men whose uniforms were a nondescript combination of fatigue and camouflage styles. A few had trimmed the sleeves from their shirts. Others wore only T-shirts stained dark with sweat. The second troop carrier had a covered wagon in tow, the kind of wagon that would normally be used to haul produce to and from the nearest markets.
The vehicles, old with loud clattering engines, rattled to a halt in the village center. Immediately the armed occupants of the trucks spilled out and began sweeping the town, herding the residents they came upon into the center of the street. The villagers cooperated without protest, their eyes wide with fear.
The village of Katani lay southwest of the larger town of Masiaka at the foot of Sierra Leone’s Occra Hills. The temperature this time of year often stretched into the low hundreds and swarms of flies buzzed the air, attacking in bold and relentless droves that left people tired from the efforts to swat them. Flies were nothing new in this part of West Africa, but they seemed to thrive in the heat that had grown oppressive, lingering beyond its predicted end to turn the day air steamy and the nights too thick and soggy to offer any relief.
The troops continued to herd the town’s inhabitants into the town square. A few, either blind or missing legs, lagged behind the others. Muffled sobs sounded. Women clutched babies tighter to their breasts, as soldiers poked at them with the muzzles of their rifles. Other soldiers began a methodical search of the village’s structures, doing their best to destroy everything in their path.
Finally, a tall figure emerged from the back of the lead jeep. Her high combat boots kicked stones and debris from her path as she walked straight down the street, flanked by soldiers holding Kalashnikov assault rifles. A pistol was bolstered on her hip, but she walked briskly with hands clasped behind her back. Her rigid posture further enunciated her over-six-foot frame. Her gait was more glide than strut, her motions smooth and light. Her skin was a rich brown color, unmarked by scars. Her hair, tied tightly atop her head, was the same black shade as her piercing eyes, which seemed almost whiteless in their intensity.
The woman, whose uniform identified no rank, walked past the decaying and decrepit buildings in disgust, ignoring the flies and wrinkling her nose at the stench rising from the poor sanitary conditions. She shook her head, her expression honestly pained as she watched the last of the villagers squeeze against each other atop gravelly, clay-colored dirt marred with tire ruts in which fetid water steamed in the sun. Several were missing hands; still more, entire arms.
The woman moved to the center of the throng, stopping briefly to stroke the head of a baby before she moved on and began to speak.
“I am General Latisse Matabu, leader of the Revolutionary United Front, voice of the people of Sierra Leone. I know you have all heard of me. Most of you probably fear the RUF. You have probably heard stories of our ruthlessness and cunning.”
She stopped and aimed her next words at a man supported by makeshift crutches with a stump for a right leg.
“As some of you can attest, these legends are correct. I have very likely done all the things you have heard about at one time or another, but I have never done them without good reason. And many of the atrocities for which I am blamed occurred before I took over the Revolutionary United Front that fights on your behalf.” Matabu continued walking amidst the crowd, hands clasped casually behind her back. “Still, President Kabbah’s government would have you believe I am a villain.”
General Latisse Matabu stopped and hardened her gaze, meeting the stares of those she passed and watching them cower before her.
“Perhaps they are right. But this is war. And your village stands at a crucial junction between the Occra Hills and our RUF strongholds in Kono. I have heard the government troops have been using your town as a staging post to launch operations against my forces. I have heard they are planning an offensive that would make your village a stronghold.”
Matabu pulled a foil pouch from her pocket and held it high overhead for the villagers to see. “This was found two days ago just outside Katani. A chewing tobacco pouch, its remnants still fresh. American chewing tobacco.” She stopped directly in front of a toothless old man. “Is it yours?”
The old man shook his head.
“Yours?” to a younger man.
The young man shook his head.
A woman next with a baby in her arms. “Yours?” And, without waiting for a reply, Matabu backed away, nodding. “I didn’t think so. But if the tobacco does not belong to anyone in this village, who does it belong to? Who drank the whiskey from bottles we found smashed in the woods? Who ate the rations from the cans my soldiers found in the marsh?”
Matabu began moving again, stopping before a number of terrified villagers and prompting, “You?”
Not surprisingly, she received no response.
“So what am I left to think? That a peaceful village like yours is harboring not only my enemy, but your own? Interlopers, invaders from the outside hired to do the devil’s work.”
A strange smile crossed her face, as if she thought of something shared only with herself. “Perhaps the devil is not so bad. In many parts of my country, I am referred to by another name:
“The Dragon,” Latisse Matabu finished.
She stopped in front of the crowd, her soldiers standing their posts diligently several yards away. “If this is how my enemies choose to think of me, then so be it. But the people of this village do not have to be my enemies. If you are my friends you will tell me what you know of the soldiers you have been harboring. Their weapons, their number, and their movements.” She kicked at some brownish water that had pooled in a rut. “Your streets tell me they have driven their vehicles down them. Your farmland tells me their boots have trampled your land. The Revolutionary United Front does not seek your involvement. We seek only your cooperation in ridding our nation of the pestilence the United Nations and the United States have forced upon it. So what will it be? Who will speak?”
A few of the villagers exchanged glances. None spoke.
“Your silence confirms my suspicions,” Latisse Matabu resumed, “and that confirmation means your village must be punished unless I am satisfied. Punished in a way that will destroy it forever. So speak now or pay the price.”
Still no one spoke. Matabu shook her head and looked up to the sky, as if for guidance.
“I provided a chance for your village to survive and you squandered it. I gave you a choice, something the government troops did not.” Latisse Matabu shook her gaunt, angular head. “Now you must pay for your obstinacy.”
With that, she gestured toward a pair of soldiers nearest to her. Instantly the men hurried to the wagon hitched to the second troop-carrying truck. One of them yanked back a tarpaulin to reveal a large steel-colored crate; coffin-sized, only higher. The other approached the crate, only to lurch backward when it seemed to move, as if something were shifting about inside.