by [Kamal
D
anielle drove toward the West Bank queasy with anxiety after her attempts to reach Ben by phone had failed.
The checkpoint to enter the West Bank was just ahead, and Danielle readied her identification and pass. The line for those with passes was thin compared to the snarl of cars and supply trucks awaiting clearance. She quickly reached the front and handed her badge and pass over to the soldier.
“One moment please, Pakad,” he said, instead of simply waving her through.
She watched him disappear into the guard house and tapped the steering wheel impatiently. The soldier returned with a captain by his side.
“I’m sorry, Pakad, your pass has been canceled,” the captain informed her stiffly.
Danielle stiffened. “That’s impossible. There must be some mistake.”
“Even so, we cannot let you through until it is straightened out. I’m sorry,” he repeated, and backed away.
There was no sense in arguing the issue, because Danielle knew there was no mistake at all. Giott and Baruch were shutting her down, making sure she did not continue this pursuit on her own. The officials of this checkpoint would undoubtedly inform them of her appearance here, if they hadn’t already, impelling her superiors to take even more drastic measures to control her.
Danielle swung her car around, facing Israel again. But her mind was racing. She had come too far now to go back. There were other ways into the West Bank and she would try them all, if that’s what it took.
* * * *
A
s Ben hoped,Shaath hadleft noguard atDalia Mikhail’svilla. Hehad simply secured the front door with a police padlock that took the standard key many officers had in their possession. Ben unlocked the door and stepped inside. He expected the townhouse would already have been looted of its many treasures. To his surprise, the interior looked undisturbed other than for the footprints left behind by the parade of cops on the night of the murder. Ben remembered Major al-Asi’s interest and figured his men had kept watch over the villa until al-Asi had determined there was nothing inside he needed.
Ben made his way through the first floor slowly, recalling his many past visits, still feeling the presence of his father’s mistress inside and half expecting to be greeted by her ever-present, reassuring smile. There was so much of her in the treasures she had spent a lifetime collecting, so much of her personality present in these pieces that fit each space as though they’d been made for it.
Ben stopped in front of the armoire and paused briefly before opening it. He would soon know if his hunch was correct, if he stood any chance at all of proving Mohammed Fasil’s plot might still be active. The door opened easily and he felt his heart hammering against his ribcage as he reached inside to grasp the Chinese Buddha chest Dalia had insisted he hold in his hand just one week before.
Secrets . . .
He set the chest on a table before closing the doors to the armoire. Settling into the nearest chair, he eased the chest’s thin ebony doors open. Hands trembling, he reached in for a computer disk and what looked like a note folded around it.
* * * *
D
anielle had pulled over and parked her car back a few thousand yards from the checkpoint amid a tangle of other vehicles, hoping the authorities were too busy to notice. To drive miles to another entry point would cost her time Ben might not have. He needed her now—they needed each other— and every minute made a difference.
Her eyes fell on the line of Palestinian vehicles creeping forward. The papers of each driver were being carefully checked out and the vehicle inspected. She could see a number of cars stacked up on the shoulder, their owners removing the tires one by one so their insides could be carefully examined. The soldiers overseeing the process seemed to be enjoying themselves.
“Need to get through?”
Danielle turned toward a woman who had suddenly appeared alongside her.
“There is no shame in being turned away,” the woman continued. “It depends what kind of mood they’re in.” She was about Danielle’s age, a Palestinian woman of natural beauty and features quite similar to hers. “Maybe I can help.”
She must think I’m Palestinian too, Danielle realized.
“How?” Danielle asked her.
“See the produce truck ten from the front? It’s coming from Gaza. There’s room for you in the back.”
Danielle walked over to the truck the woman had indicated to take a closer look. It was crammed with bushels of fruits and vegetables that were already poking out through the sides and spilling over the top.
“You said there’s room?” she asked the woman.
The woman shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s comfortable, but at least you’ll get where you want to go.”
* * * *
Chapter 54
B
en unfoldedthe note,tense withanticipation. Herealized he’d been holding his breath and now released it in a melancholy sigh as he saw his own name at the top and began to read.
Ben—
There’s so much I want to tell you, but let’s start with the obvious: if you’re reading this, it means I’m gone and you’ve proven yourself to be the great detective I know you are. I couldn’t tell you about this in advance because I couldn’t stomach your even suspecting the truth about me so long as I was alive.
To begin with, I had nothing to do with your father’s death. He came back to me because he knew the Fatah group I was a part of was the only hope of lending leadership during the occupation. But his proposed methods differed from theirs. They did not share his breadth of vision and he did not share their desire for violent resistance. He was making things very difficult for them, so they opted for what they saw as their only option. I was not part of the decision, and made myself believe the Israelis were responsible until years later when I learned the truth.
History has proven your father right, I suppose. All these years later, our methods have changed little and accomplished even less. In any event, the computer disk in this chest will tell you everything I know about the operation Mohammed Fasil was running. It details my part in it. I know no more than certain details. Strange, but it was Fasil who brought me the Buddha chest. He asked me to hold it for him and when he was no longer in a position to come back for it, I appropriated the chest for my collection.
It has obviously come in handy, hasn’t it? I knew you would know where to look, you and no one else. You are so much like your father. I can’t tell you how much I miss him. He loved his family, Ben, and he wasn’t happy being over here away from you. I don’t think he was planning to stay much longer. He would have probably left earlier if it wasn’t for me, because he didn’t know how to say good-bye. Not just to me, but also to this world he loved much more than me.
Welcome to that world, Ben, and do with the disk whatever you must.
Allah Yunsrak
Dalia
Allah yunsrak—May Allah grant you victory—instead of a more traditional closing. Dalia was giving him another signal, knowing that if Ben ever read this he would be in the midst of the biggest struggle of his life.
Ben held the letter in his hand for a very long time before moving. The disk visible inside the Buddha chest resting on his lap didn’t seem as important as her words. Those words had brought clarity to his life, but in the clarity there was pain. Why should he be surprised? There was pain in everything, but the most pain lay in surprise, and Ben had suffered a life full of them. Stability was something he had seldom known and, ironically, had sought upon his return to this world, just as his father before him.
And, like his father, he had become a hero, only to find that alone wasn’t enough. There was always more to do, more that had to be done.
Ben removed the disk from the chest and brought it to Dalia’s computer. He turned the machine on and slid the disk into the slot.
A single icon appeared on the screen. Ben clicked on the icon and the computer whirred to life. He waited expectantly and an
xiously until the screen glowed alive with long columns of figures in what looked like some kind of balance sheet.
Ben scrolled through the disk’s contents, studying them carefully. The balance sheet was actually a list of expenditures detailing huge amounts of funds and the paper trail of their transfers all across the globe. The money, millions of dollars in select foreign currencies and gold certificates, had originated in Iran and been distributed into a number of bank accounts through New York City and . . .
Ben’s heart skipped a beat.
. . . Moscow!
The nonexistent name and address in New York City he and Danielle had found in Fasil’s Tel Aviv hotel room flashed through his mind. But Moscow? What was the connection to Moscow?
He paused to sort out the facts. Dalia had obviously been in charge of keeping track of large amounts of money transfers. She had moved funds from Iranian accounts which must have been subsequently used by Fasil to purchase something. Significant deposits into Moscow banks indicated Russian involvement. And New York City, he knew from his life in the States, was a hotbed of Russian underworld activity. An infinite number of black market goods were brokered, including weapons-grade nuclear materials! The collapse of the Soviet Union had led to the worst fears of the world being realized. The vast Cold War arsenal they had amassed was being broken up, destroyed for the most part, but distributed in amounts significant enough to empower fringe groups with an efficacy only modern weapons could provide them.
The thought terrified Ben. What else would have cost Fasil so many millions of dollars? What else would give the murder brokers of Iran their money’s worth? And, in all probability without realizing any of this, the Israelis had destroyed Fasil’s cell. Sheer good fortune had left the operation in limbo, assuming Fasil did not have a contingency plan in effect. Ben believed his return to Jericho for the second meeting immediately before his murder meant he had not taken delivery of the goods yet. But they would be waiting for him—or someone else—in New York City.
How was Fasil to have picked those goods up? And why had he opted to stay in Israel under an alias instead of somewhere in the West Bank?
Ben did not have those answers, but this disk was the proof he needed to give to Mayor Sumaya. No one would be able to deny the existence of a horrifying plot any longer. They would have to take action and risk the consequences.
Ben ejected the disk, replaced the plastic sleeve, and tucked it carefully in his pocket. Halfway to the door, he remembered the Buddha chest and retraced his steps in order to return it to the armoire. To do otherwise seemed a disrespect to Dalia, especially since this was the final piece she had added to her collection.
Added because its real owner had died. And now, as a result, the evidence was in the hands of the authorities. The irony of that was chilling; Ben left to ponder it on the drive back to the Palestinian Authority building.
* * * *
B
en entered the mayor’s office without waiting to be announced.
“Mr. Mayor,” he started, and paused expectantly as the big desk chair swung around from the wall on which hung Arafat’s portrait.
Ben found himself staring into the one cold eye of Commander Omar Shaath.
“Where is the mayor?” he posed lamely.
“Called to Gaza by Arafat,” Shaath replied, “to help plan the upcoming the peace talks. He won’t be back for some time.” Something between a snicker and a smile crossed the commander’s lips. “I have taken over all official duties in his absence.”
“I need to talk to the mayor,” Ben said.
“And I need to talk to you, Inspector, because as my first official act I am ordering your arrest.”
With that, a pair of Palestinian police officers stepped through the door behind Ben, guns in their hands.
“You’re a damn fool.”
“Please raise your hands in the air, Inspector.”
Ben did as he was told. “I insist upon speaking to the mayor!”
“He doesn’t want to speak to you.” Shaath rose to his menacing height, as the officers yanked Ben’s arms behind him and clamped on a set of handcuffs. “You will like our detainment camps, Inspector,” he said, coming around the desk. “They’re modeled after the Israelis’.”
* * * *
D
anielle could never recall a time when she’d been more uncomfortable. Though the truck had been only ten vehicles from the checkpoint when the woman had helped her climb into its rear, the maddening stops and starts, combined with the cramped quarters and the stifling darkness, made the hour it took to reach the front seem more like a day.
At the checkpoint, the rear door of the truck was opened and light streamed through her confines. But its contents were so tightly packed that the guards’ inspection was merely cursory. The door banged shut and Danielle again found herself in darkness.
Once the truck got rolling, the slightest bump in the road sent what felt like prickers digging into her back. She wrapped her arms around her face to protect it from the shifting contents and weaving branches.
The truck rumbled and bucked, rattled and jittered, each bad stretch of road threatening to shake it to pieces. As time went on, the road improved and the trip became easier until the truck creaked to a halt and she felt the emergency brake being applied just before the engine was shut off.
We’re here, she thought, waiting patiently for the bushels about her to be hoisted away before trying to exit. Those last minutes were the worst, the toughest to bear. She could hear voices issuing instructions, men heaving the supplies from the bed.
As the fruit boxes layered above Danielle were removed, the light from the sun blinded her for a moment. She stumbled to the rear. A hand helped her up atop the truck’s rickety rail, and then she jumped down into the waiting arms of two men standing beneath her.
“Thank you,” she said, her vision clearing to the sight of a circle of men each of whom held a gun trained on her.
I know this place, she thought as her eyes focused. This isn’t the West Bank, it’s Israel!
“Hands up! Hands up now!” a voice commanded in Hebrew from behind Danielle, while an armed figure glided toward her from the front.
It was a figure she recognized, or thought she did anyway. Everything was falling together, making the worst kind of sense.
“Your gun please, Pakad,” ordered a man with a jagged scar down his face, a man who looked like a double of Abu Garib, the Wolf.
* * * *
S
haath led the way downstairs, his officers holding Ben by either arm. Ben imagined a car would already be waiting outside to take him away.
They reached the first floor and Shaath started to turn toward Ben gloatingly, when Major Nabril al-Asi appeared before him. Four of his Protective Security Service plainclothesmen stood between al-Asi and the door.
“I am assuming jurisdiction in this matter, Commander,” al-Asi demanded.
Shaath stiffened, clearly unsure how to proceed. He drifted back toward Ben almost protectively.
“It would not be wise to question my authority, Commander, not if you wish to enjoy a long career. I need not remind you that the Security Service takes precedence over all local concerns.”
When Shaath didn’t respond, al-Asi advanced and pulled Ben away from his escorts.
“Thank you, Commander. You may return to your office.”
Shaath remained motionless.
“Thank you, Commander.”
This time Shaath turned and, with his men, retraced his steps up the stairs.
“Get those off him,” al-Asi ordered as soon as they were gone.
One of the major’s men unfastened his handcuffs and, dumbfounded, Ben stretched his arms before him.
“I told you I never get in the way of a man doing his job, Inspector,” al-Asi explained, as he led Ben toward the front door. “And, clearly, yours is not finished.”
Ben wondered if he’d found a willing audience and was about to
speak when al-Asi continued.
“I’m afraid I can do nothing further to assist you.”
Ben continued outside alone, turning back toward al-Asi when he was halfway down the steps leading into the Palestinian Authority building.
“But you can tell me who really killed my father.”
Al-Asi regarded him tentatively from the doorway. “Is that something you really want to know?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
“You deserve that much,” al-Asi nodded. “Unofficially, of course.”