by By Jon Land
“Apparently, Commander, I am.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 45
T
hat could have gone better,” Ben said, when Moshe Baruch was gone.
“It went the only way it could.”
“You sound resigned to your career in law enforcement being finished.”
“I don’t care about my career at the moment,” Danielle shrugged. “I know someone out there still wants me dead.”
“Because of these murdered Holocaust survivors.”
“You were listening.”
Ben tapped his right ear. “Pressed to the door as soon as Baruch closed it behind me.”
“Then you know I have my own problems to worry about.”
“You mean your own case. Three murdered Holocaust survivors.”
“That we know of,” Danielle acknowledged, choosing to omit the late Captain Bain’s mention of her father. “It could be more.”
“I suppose I’ll have to go to Tel Aviv by myself, then.”
“Without proper authorization? You’ll end up in an Israeli jail until your friend Colonel al-Asi comes to get you.”
“What choice do I have?”
“I’ll come with you.” Danielle checked the watch lying on her night table. “It’s almost eight a.m. We’d better get started now if we want to reach Abasca Machines in Tel Aviv by ten in all the traffic.”
“Thank you, Pakad.”
“I like to finish what I start, Inspector.” She tightened her gaze. “Which is more than I can say for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going back to America?”
Ben felt his stomach drop. “I’m not.”
“But you’ve been offered some big security job back in Detroit.”
“Colonel al-Asi told you, didn’t he?”
“He found out I was in the hospital and called last night to see how I was doing.”
“I had the phone shut off.”
“It rang anyway. Your job offer happened to come up in conversation.”
“Al-Asi doesn’t want me to go, wants me to come work for him instead. He told you so you could talk me out of going.”
“Don’t let me stop you, Inspector. Go home, if you want.”
“Would it bother you if I did?”
“Our child needs a father. We had everything worked out.”
“No, Danielle: You had everything worked out. All I could do was nod my head because you weren’t offering me a choice.”
“You wouldn’t be leaving if the baby was healthy.”
“Who said I was leaving? I haven’t decided what to do yet, and when I do the baby’s health will have nothing to do with that decision.”
Danielle’s eyes looked at him the way they had on so many of their nights together. A long time since he had seen that gaze. “I can’t do this without you, Ben, not now.”
“You heard what the doctor said, Danielle.”
“Run away then! Do what you want!”
“I want to stay here. I want us to be together. It’s you who—”
“—Wants to raise my child as a Jew who can be proud of his legacy? Guilty as charged. And if you thought seriously about it, you’d know I was doing the right thing.”
Ben stared at her intently. “That’s not the issue now, and you know it.”
“You’re giving up,” Danielle shot at him.
Ben lowered his voice to the tone he used when he stroked her hair while they lay in bed together. “Sometimes it’s the best thing you can do.”
“Move on, you mean.”
He moved to the edge of her bed and sat down beside her. “Come with me.”
“Depending on what I decide to do about the baby?”
“Whatever you decide to do.” Ben thought of the conversation Danielle had just finished with Moshe Baruch. “It’s not like our careers are keeping us in the Mideast.”
Danielle let herself smile. “A suspended Israeli cop and a Palestinian detective... We make as great a team as ever, Ben. Now let’s get to Tel Aviv.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 46
A
basca machines was an Arab-owned business machine sales and service store in the commercial center of downtown Tel Aviv. Ben had learned that the company’s main business was a new line of digital copiers and full service office machines it was offering for lease. Apparently the lead provided by Zeina Ashawi, about Shahir Falaya’s job in Israel being crucial to the blackmail scheme engineered by four classmates, had been wrong.
That seemed to be even more the case when they finally reached the site. Abasca Machines was located on the ground floor of a three-story building just off Allenby Street in Tel Aviv’s bustling financial and business district. Standing on the sidewalk after risking their lives by crossing the traffic-choked street, Ben and Danielle looked through the plate glass window at a neat array of copying machines of various sizes and designs. A few of them took up large portions of wall space. There were both new and remanufactured machines available. The shelves lining two of the walls were filled with the smaller copiers and fax machines.
Danielle flashed her identification inside, knowing it would not hold up to the scrutiny of a simple phone call to National Police. Commander Moshe Baruch had not requested that she return it, perhaps because he was hoping to catch her doing something as stupid as this.
Tabar Azziz, the store’s owner, was a portly man with a tiny balding head that was bright red across the dome. His smile showed a host of missing teeth, and he was dressed casually in baggy blue pants and a white shirt. His chewed-off fingernails were stained by ink.
“Welcome to my store,” he greeted, after a subordinate had fetched him from the back room. “Please, please, tell me how I can help you. I like police. I help you any way I can.” He gave Ben a closer look. “You are not Israeli.”
“Palestinian.”
Azziz drew back a little. “The two of you work together?”
“The case we’re on calls for it,” Danielle explained.
The surprise remained clear on Azziz’s face. “You would like some tea perhaps? I just made some, both hot and cold.”
“Thanks. Maybe later,” Danielle said.
Azziz looked hurt that his offer had been turned down. “Then tell me how I can help. I want to be of help.”
“You had a young employee here,” Danielle started.
“Shahir Falaya,” from Ben.
“Who was found dead outside of Jericho four days ago.”
Tabar Azziz nodded, interrupting before either of them could continue. “I know. Terrible news, terrible. A good boy, a good worker.”
“You had no problems with him?” Ben asked.
“He was late a few times because of the checkpoints. A few times they would not let him through at all.” Azziz went out of his way not to sound critical.
“You should feel free to tell us the truth, Mr. Azziz,” Danielle prodded.
“Truth?”
“Did the young man ever ask you for money?”
“You mean, his weekly pay?”
“Beyond that.”
“Like a loan?”
“We were thinking more like a demand,” Ben said.
“I want you to know, Mr. Azziz,” Danielle picked up, “that whatever we discuss here will remain strictly between us.”
Tabar Azziz nodded, though it was clear he didn’t understand what she was talking about.
“So if this boy found out something about you or your business, you may tell us.”
The trust vanished from Tabar Azziz’s eyes. “Shahir Falaya was a good boy, I tell you. I take him under my wing, bring him with me on service calls. He had a future here. He had a knack for machines. His father was an auto mechanic, I think, before he was exiled. I don’t know what you’re talking about, making up this trouble between us.”
“What do you know about the boy’s death, sir?” Ben asked him.
&
nbsp; “It was terrible. Tragic.”
“It was murder.”
“Yes, terrible. Tra—”
“Not random murder, sidi. This boy was killed because of something he knew, something he was involved in.”
Tabar Azziz’s fat round eyes filled with fear. “You think he was involved here! That it has something to do with me? That is why you ask me these questions?”
“Mr. Azziz,” Danielle started.
“I am good citizen. I pay my taxes, stay out of trouble. All my life I live in Israel. When the other Arab merchants strike, I don’t strike. When they call for boycott, I don’t boycott. Never am I accused of anything!”
“We’re not accusing you,” Ben said, realizing there was no longer any point to it. “But another of this boy’s classmates told me that his job was a key to something he and some other students were involved in. Something criminal.”
“Not his job here.” Azziz shook his head. “No, I don’t understand how this could be.”
“Perhaps if you explain what the young man did for you,” Danielle said.
“Why don’t I show you instead?” Tabar Azziz suggested.
* * * *
T
he back section of the store was filled with boxes and even a few large crates of equipment. Orders waiting to be filled, machines for display, and inventory of some of the smaller machines that sold more frequently.
“Very competitive business these days,” Azziz explained, leading them to a work area behind a half wall. “Sometimes we lease machines, other times just provide service contracts. Sometimes is company that pays us. Sometimes, depending on warranty agreement, is manufacturer that pays us. Very competitive. This is where I teach Shahir much of the business.”
Judging from the stains beneath the man’s fingernails, Ben had expected the work area to be lined with the exposed guts of machines littering the tables, bleeding ink. But everything was pristine, almost antiseptic. Nothing broken in view.
“We can’t make repairs here,” Azziz said, as if reading his mind, “it usually means we have to send piece to factory or order new one. Most of our work is caused by jammed paper, bad toner, or burnt-out microchip. Even an entire circuit board.”
Danielle slid up a little closer. The slight motion felt sluggish, partly from the fatigue she still suffered, but partly from the sudden sensation of carrying extra weight. It was the first time she had noticed it. “Circuit board?”
“The digital machines you were looking at in the display area have dedicated hard drives. Nonvolatile memory instead of the volatile memory of the smaller machines. Makes things easier but also more complicated. Something’s wrong, the machine usually tells us exactly what. It doesn’t, we have to test all the connections, check the integrity of the various chips. Replace the entire board, if necessary. I went to school for this,” Tabar Azziz said proudly.
“Did Shahir Falaya go to school for it too?” Ben asked.
Azziz looked at the spotless floor. “This was his school.”
“What happens if a chip is bad?”
Azziz gazed at Danielle, clearly perplexed. “Sometimes we replace it. Sometimes, like I said, we replace the entire board. Depends. Warranty policies and service contracts are very strict and specific.”
Ben moved to a state-of-the-art digital copier/printer that had been unpacked in sections and was yet to be assembled. He noticed a computer screen resting on the counter over it.
“So these machines are digitally based,” he said. “But what does that mean exactly, this nonvolatile memory?”
“The older machines, until just a few years ago, they were like big cameras. Pages go through and they take a picture, then reproduce the page. You want a hundred copies, machine has to take a hundred pictures. Not anymore.”
“No?”
“Now the machine still takes the picture but instead of making copy, it sends picture to chip. Then the copy is made from the chip and stored in the machine’s permanent memory before being copied.”
“How?”
“Each user has his own dedicated file. Everybody happy until something goes wrong.”
“Then they call you,” Ben said.
“If I’m lucky.”
“What about fax machines?” he asked, and the agitation in his voice made Danielle turn his way. He didn’t look back.
“With bigger machines, you don’t need them anymore. With the bigger machines like this one,” replied Tabar Azziz, drawing a hand over the latest Xerox model unassembled on the floor before him, “you don’t need anything else. Phone lines connect them to every office in company.”
“And Shahir Falaya knew how to replace these chips,” Ben said, feeling his heart quicken, “and the entire circuit boards.”
“I taught him, Inspector.”
Ben and Danielle looked at each other, realizing they might well have found exactly what they’d been looking for.
“Apparently,” Ben said to Azziz, “you taught him too well.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 47
H
ans Mundtwas inthe PetraHostel reviewing his notes and letters once again when the door to his room splintered with a thunderous crash. He spun in his chair, thinking of the gun he had left on the bureau, but had no time to lunge for it before the pair of steel-eyed men wielding pistols of their own barged in. Mundt saw they were trailed closely by a tall, dark woman whose face was smeared with thick pancake makeup.
“Do you know who I am, Mr. Mundt?”
“I have no idea,” Mundt said and sat back down, making sure to keep his hands in view. One of the men had taken a position directly before him, while the other was careful to block Mundt’s path to the balcony and possible escape.
“You should. Apparently, we have quite a bit in common.”
“Like what?” Mundt said, noticing the woman kept the right side of her face cocked away from him at all times.
“The three names you passed on to a certain former official in the Israeli government. I would like to know how you came upon them.”
Mundt studied the expressionless hulks flanking her. “What interest is it of yours?”
The woman took another step closer, even with her guards now. “You recognize my accent, Mundt?”
“German.”
“Like yours.”
“Yes.”
“And if I told you my reason for being in Israel was the same as yours, what would you say?”
“That I doubt it very much.”
“Hans Mundt,” she said, still hiding one side of her face. “Son of Karl Mundt, a guard at the largest of three Nazi forced labor camps outside of Lodz, Poland until his death. You were a member of the East German secret police, Stasi, until that organization was disbanded upon reunification. Just what have you been doing with your time ever since?”
“Why don’t you ask Abraham Vorsky? I mean, that’s who told you where to find me, isn’t it?”
“With good reason. He thought you might have spent your time gathering the names you handed over to him last night. Thought I might know you, that you might have worked for me.”
“Worked for you?”
The tall woman came closer to him still, let him see just a bit of the hidden side of her face. “Do you know who I am now, Herr Mundt?”
Mundt nodded, realizing the truth of her identity. “You’re a relic.”
“I prefer to think of myself as one who refuses to stop pursuing relics. Just like you. And that’s the reason I am so interested in your work.”
“It doesn’t concern you.”
“It concerns me that the additional names you provided last night to Vorsky on that disc in the restaurant did not check out.”
Mundt fought not to show any response. Vorsky had not been as easy to fool with the second set of names as he thought. Then again, Mundt had not counted on this woman’s involvement. Vorsky he could fool, but her...
“They are all Holocaust survivors,” Mundt insisted. “Just l
ike the first three names I gave Vorsky.”
“Not according to my information, Herr Mundt. And my information is most accurate.” The woman took another step closer. Dabs of sweat smeared her thick makeup, making her face look spotted. “You would be long gone by now if Vorsky had not made only half the file you wanted available to you. He and I are both curious about your sudden interest in Paul Hessler.”