by Liad Shoham
Some of the women were pregnant; others had recently given birth. They all shared the same story: they had been brutally raped by their Bedouin guides in Sinai.
The OMA office was a noisy place, filled with the sounds of chatter, shouting, weeping, and occasional laughter. But in the shelter there was only silent despair. It seeped into the walls and mixed with the stench. The women sat on their beds not speaking, absorbed in their own thoughts. They regarded what happened to them as punishment. Convinced they were to blame, they were ashamed to tell their story and afraid of the outside world. They wanted only to be left alone, to forget, and, if they could, to rid themselves of the poison growing in their body. Periodically the silence was broken by a crying baby, a baby whose mother hadn’t found a way to abort it in time, a baby nobody wanted.
Dahlia, the social worker, and her small team of aides did their best to get the women back on their feet, teaching them to sew, knit, and perform simple tasks that would enable them to support themselves. As soon as they felt a woman could fend for herself, she was asked to leave in order to make room for one of the many others who needed a bed. OMA did what it could to help the women after they moved out of the shelter.
Even though Itai visited the shelter regularly, the experience invariably left him shaken. He always needed time to pull himself together afterward. But today he was unnerved by something entirely different than usual.
Dahlia had pulled him outside into the back alley, still wet from the rain, and told him that a few days ago the women had witnessed a confrontation between Michal and three Israeli men, one dressed in a suit and tie, right outside their window. Michal was yelling at the man in the suit, accusing him of being a thief, taking advantage of the refugees, stealing their money. The other two men pounced on her, grabbed her by the arms, and dragged her away.
This was the first Itai had heard of it. Dahlia said she urged the women to report the incident, but as only to be expected, they refused to talk to the police. They didn’t trust anyone, especially policemen. In fact, not surprisingly, they didn’t trust men in general.
Ever since Itai had learned that Gabriel was a suspect in Michal’s murder, he’d been racking his brain trying to think of a way to convince the cops that the idea was absurd, that they ought to be looking in a different direction. He knew it wouldn’t do any good to tell them Gabriel wasn’t capable of such a thing. He needed something more solid.
The incident Dahlia described might persuade them to take Michal’s allegations more seriously. It was no longer simply a matter of what she thought she saw and what she thought it meant. Now he could also tell them what they actually did to her. She’d lied to Itai. She hadn’t left it to the cops to deal with the “Banker”; she’d confronted him and his goons herself. According to the women in the shelter, they assaulted her in the street. They were probably the ones who roughed her up near her home as well. They were professional criminals, and there was a lot of money involved. They wouldn’t let a little girl with a big mouth interfere in their business. She must have gotten too close, so they decided to make the problem go away. They squashed her like a bug. He had to go to the police. They wouldn’t be able to ignore him anymore. They’d have no choice but to go after the “Banker.”
Chapter 25
MICHAL Poleg’s murder was a headache for Shimon Faro. It was just the sort of thing that could do him in. In the end, men like him were brought down by something stupid like this, not by anything major.
For a year now he’d been investing a lot of effort in his private banking system at the old bus station. He alone could take credit for the idea, the planning, and the execution, and he took a lot of pride in what he’d accomplished. The business was already raking in millions. If the blacks kept coming, he could easily double or triple his earnings. He had to admit that he was frustrated by the need to keep it all under the radar. He imagined himself giving interviews to the financial press about how he identified an opportunity and made brave decisions, and now it was paying off. He could see himself sitting in a café like any respectable businessman, a tape recorder on the table and an ambitious journalist opposite him with a notebook and a look of awe on his face. “I did it all with my own two hands,” he’d say to the fawning reporter. “I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.” But Faro knew better than to entertain such thoughts. The only time men like him gave interviews was when they had a noose around their neck. Besides, the suits in the financial circles in Tel Aviv would never accept him as a legitimate businessman.
Still, no one else had seen the economic potential of the Africans as soon as they started to fill the streets around the old bus station. Who doesn’t want a bank where they can keep their savings, transfer funds, and borrow money? It was a basic human need, just like gambling and hookers. If he didn’t provide these services, someone else would. Migrants who tried to go through legal channels were buried in red tape and had to pay exorbitant fees. And when Interior Ministry inspectors started staking out the banks near the bus station and picking up illegals, Faro’s revenues soared. He had his people spread the word: there was another bank they could use where there was no red tape and no inspectors, and it charged next to nothing. He even composed a little jingle in his head, something catchy in the style of the songs the army entertainment troupes used to sing. He loved those old songs.
Faro had originally gotten into the banking game because of the Bedouins in Sinai. They had a good thing going. They negotiated a price to take the Africans to Israel, and then halfway there they demanded more and held them hostage until they paid up. Where did they get the money? They called their relatives in Israel or Europe or wherever and said they had to send it. That worked fine as far as it went, but there was one hitch: getting the money to the Bedouins wasn’t easy. That’s where Faro came in. His organization had proven itself very adept at collecting and transferring funds. And they were already working hand in hand with the Bedouins in the drug-smuggling business.
After Faro got the system up and running, he expanded his banking activities in new directions. Today, if an African wanted to send money home to his family, he used Faro’s bank. Faro had tried to do something similar with the Asians a few years ago, looking to set up an unofficial channel through which the foreign workers from the Philippines, Nepal, China, and the rest of the Far East could send money back home. That enterprise had failed miserably and cost him a bundle. But where he couldn’t pull it off with the slant-eyes, he’d scored big with the Africans. First of all, unlike the Asians, the Africans only moved in one direction. There was nobody in Israel who was going back to Sudan or Eritrea and could act as a private courier. Also, the Asians could send their money to some major city and tell their family to go and collect it. But the families of the Africans lived in refugee camps or some godforsaken village in the middle of nowhere, and that’s where the money had to go. And number three, the Asians had entered the country legally. They had passports and they could purchase money orders at the post office. Most of the Africans didn’t have papers. They needed someone like Faro who could move cash around, didn’t demand to see any documents, and charged what he felt was a fair fee for his services.
Faro got the job done. He knew people all over Africa. He’d been selling army surplus on the continent for years. He bought outdated munitions from the Defense Ministry, ostensibly for sale to some friendly country (although even the ministry knew that wasn’t where they were going to end up), and auctioned them off to the highest bidder. The ministry didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell. The army wasn’t using the stuff anyway. As long as he didn’t try to get his hands on new technology, nobody cared. Yes, one way or another, the blacks were a very nice source of income.
Faro’s bank was also making a hefty profit from savings accounts. Since most of the migrants couldn’t open an account in an official Israeli bank, even if they wanted to go through all the hassle, they walked around with their cash in their pocket—sometimes with everything they o
wned on their back as well. They ran the constant risk of being robbed by other migrants. That’s where Faro came in. He offered them a place to deposit the money. Admittedly, it was a while before that idea took off. The Africans were reluctant to give their money to anyone, especially Israelis. His people had to explain that if they didn’t hand over the cash willingly, they’d have to take it from them by force. But even if his customers initially agreed out of fear, they soon learned that what they deposited in Faro’s bank they got back, minus a reasonable commission, of course. When it came right down to it, he was doing the cops a favor.
Today the bank was a well-oiled machine. The Africans used it to transfer funds, keep their money safe, and take out loans when they got laid off and had to support themselves until they found another job, or when they needed cash to ransom relatives being held hostage in Sinai. They might not be happy about the arrangement, but what other option did they have?
If only those stupid blacks didn’t spend their money as soon as they got it, if only they gave a little more thought to the long term, Faro could increase his earnings tenfold. But there was nothing he could do about that. It was a problem of mentality and the fucked-up way they were brought up.
Government policy was also playing into his hands. In fact, he originally got the idea for the savings accounts when he read about the Templars in the nineteenth century. Those German bastards made a killing from pilgrims. They set up posts along the route to the Holy Land and told the pilgrims the place wasn’t safe. Leave your money with us, they said, and we’ll give it back to you on your way home. The ones who went home got their money back, but what about all those who stayed in the Holy Land? It was the same with the Africans. When one of his customers was deported, the money in his account went straight into Faro’s pocket.
It hadn’t been easy to set up the machinery. He had to find migrants to use as go-betweens. His people didn’t work with end users. It was always best to keep a healthy distance, and besides, there were issues of communication and trust to be considered. It was rough going at first, but as soon as the “General” hooked up with him and became a major player in the operation, things went much more smoothly. The “General” was what they called a “strategic asset.” Faro was lucky to have him. He recruited new customers and rode herd on the go-betweens. He was very effective, and very ambitious.
For things to go without a hitch, there were also palms that needed to be greased in the ranks of the Immigration Police so he could be sure the right people got deported. Nowadays, when a cop picked up a migrant and told him, “I say you’re from Ethiopia, not Eritrea, so wave good-bye to Israel,” there was a good chance he was working for Faro.
He still hoped to have someone from the State Attorney’s Office in his pocket. That would be sweet. Controlling the State’s objections, trading on who got deported and who didn’t—it could take his business to the next level and dramatically increase his earnings. He hadn’t managed to pull it off yet, but he was a patient man. He already had beat cops and immigration cops at his beck and call, and he’d ferret out a prosecutor, too. It was only a matter of time.
He heard that Michal Poleg had gone to the Economic Crime Unit with information about the man she called the “Banker,” but that didn’t worry him. His contacts told him nothing would come of it. It even tickled him that she gave Boaz such a respectable title.
Faro was more upset by the fact that the Poleg woman had confronted Boaz in the street. That sort of public scene wasn’t good for business. He sent Ilya and Noam to scare her off, but they got carried away and roughed her up. He didn’t like that. He didn’t approve of gratuitous violence, particularly when it came to women. But it wasn’t the end of the world. He’d decided to let it slide.
But now that cunt had gone and gotten herself killed. As far as he knew, it wasn’t the work of anyone in his organization. Faro kept a very close eye on his people ever since that incident with David Meshulam, may he rest in peace, who’d gone behind his back and almost killed the lady ADA.
Still, even if none of his men were involved, it was no reason to be complacent. You could never tell where a police investigation might lead. And there were plenty of cops who’d be very pleased to pin the murder on him. He didn’t need that kind of bother now.
A little bird had told him the cops were looking for some scar-faced African. At least that was good news. Faro had ordered Itzik to use all of their connections to find the African and get him to confess to the cops. He told him to pay for the information if he had to, and he was willing to pay the guy, too, so he’d have something to send home to his family.
The last thing he needed now was complications. He had to keep a low profile so he could continue to expand his business in peace. He had rivals who envied his success and wanted a piece of the pie. Even the fucking terrorist organizations recognized the potential of the migrants. Muslims from Sudan donated part of their salary to Hamas agents in Israel, who sent it to the West Bank to buy weapons to kill Israelis with. Hamas also had agents in Sudan who could pass money to the families of the migrants. They actually offered the same service Faro offered, but while he did it to make a profit, they did it to finance terror.
Faro didn’t want Boaz Yavin behind bars. He was planning to send him to Argentina next week. A big arms deal was going down. Michal Poleg’s murder had come at a very bad time.
He had to get a move on. He had to locate the African with the scar and turn him in as soon as possible. The “General” needed to make it his first priority, and he’d better deliver. Faro had a business to run, goddammit!
Chapter 26
ARAMI was waiting for Gabriel in an alley near his apartment. He’d missed their meeting yesterday when those boys started chasing him. He only managed to escape with the help of the old man, who let him out of the Jewish church through the back door. After that, he was too scared to go back to where he was supposed to meet Arami. He’d gotten away from them once, but he might not be so lucky the next time.
“The police are hunting for you. They’re going around telling people to look for a man with a scar on his cheek,” Arami had warned him last night on the phone after he told him what happened. So Gabriel’s suspicions had been right. He broke out in a cold sweat. The words “the police are hunting for you” took him back to another time and another life in the country he’d fled. He’d crossed thousands of miles to find a better life, and here he was, right back where he started from.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel,” Arami said somberly after they embraced. “I tried, but I can’t get you the money I promised.”
Gabriel gazed at his friend in despair. He’d been counting on him. Where would he get what he needed? Time was running out. He wouldn’t be able to pay. Meanwhile, Liddie was suffering. She sounded very sick on the phone.
“Listen, Gabriel,” Arami said, interrupting his dark thoughts. “Something happened yesterday that might solve at least one of your problems.”
“What? What happened?” Gabriel asked expectantly. He desperately needed good news, something that would help him figure out what to do.
“Someone stopped me outside the OMA office and asked about you. I don’t know who he was, but he looked important. He said he was looking for you.”
“Why? What did he want?” Gabriel asked fearfully.
“He said he wanted to give you money for Liddie . . .”
Gabriel kept his eyes fixed on Arami, waiting to hear the catch.
“But there’s one condition.”
“Just tell me what it is. I’ll do anything to save Liddie.”
“You have to go to the police and say that you killed Michal.”
Chapter 27
YARIV was at the computer, preparing his response to Michal’s complaint to the Bar Association. The past few days had been a roller-coaster ride. Sometimes he was up, convinced he was safe because the cops were directing all their efforts at finding the African. But at other times he was down. Like yesterday, when Gal
it Lavie marched into his office and took him to task for pumping her intern for information. Under any other circumstances, he would have answered her in kind for her patronizing tone. But he panicked and just apologized profusely, chalked it up to curiosity, and kept repeating how sorry he was.
He hoped that would be the end of it, but he couldn’t be sure. What if she told the cops? They could decide to shift the focus of their investigation. He called Kobi again and his friend told him he had nothing to worry about. Galit liked to think she was better than everyone else, and never missed an opportunity to tell them so. In Kobi’s opinion, Galit wouldn’t do anything about it, and even if she did, what difference did it make? The cops were looking for a black illegal, not a white attorney. Besides, Kobi said with a knowing laugh, when did the police start second-guessing themselves?
YARIV reread the complaint for the hundredth time. Michal claimed that Hagos’s death was the direct result of Yariv Ninio’s actions and his insistence that the deportees were not in any danger.
Now that Michal was dead, nobody was showing any particular interest in her complaint. It was highly unlikely that the Bar Association would exchange information with the Foreign Ministry. And there were very few people in the ministry itself who even knew of the existence of any legal opinion written by Dr. Yigal Shemesh regarding the fate of the deportees. Yariv still had to submit a response for the record, but with Michal out of the picture, they’d file the whole thing away and forget about it. Why bother with lengthy explanations?
“The undersigned has no knowledge of the legal opinion referred to in the complaint. The alleged facts presented are solely figments of the complainant’s imagination. No such document has ever come to my attention,” Yariv typed, watching the words take shape on the screen. That was the best way to go about it, he thought—deny everything. If he never saw the document and didn’t know of its existence, then he didn’t do anything wrong.