Crossing the Lines
Page 1
Crossing the Lines
A Police Detective Mystery With a Twist
JACOB GANANI
Editor: Ori Ravid
Translation from Hebrew: Rona Mendelson
English editor: Julie Phelps
Copyright © 2018 Jacob Ganani
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781731424945
This book is dedicated to our ever-growing family – Ganani, Koren, Duani and Melamud. We are
already enjoying three generations of pleasure and happiness. Being together is privilege and is the
most important thing of all.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
Epilogue
CHAPTER 1
Hanoi, Vietnam, Vietnamese New Year (Tet Nguyen Dan), February 2015 (Year of the Sheep)
Oded Cantor sat in the opulent lobby of the Hanoi Sofitel Plaza, sipping coffee from a delicate cup that was nothing less than a remarkable piece of miniature art. Savoring the exquisite aroma, he scanned the elevator doors through which people regularly emerged – except for the woman for whom he was waiting. Inclined to notice minute details, he recognized the Chinese design and motifs masterfully integrated into the modern, western decor of the lobby. For a brief moment, his gaze was captured by a large, colorful painting depicting a meeting between a group of local civilians and a French army unit. A flamboyantly-attired French officer stood, imposing and authoritative, over the humbly-dressed and submissively-positioned Vietnamese locals - a thought-provoking reminder of Vietnam’s French colonial past.
A bell announced the arrival of the elevator. The doors slid open to reveal a tall woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a colorful summer dress that suited her shapely figure. Her neck was draped with a pale blue scarf that accentuated her blue eyes and fair hair. She spotted Cantor and waved cheerfully, just as his orderly mind registered that she was fifteen minutes late. She came unhurriedly toward him, unconcerned by his disgruntled expression, the result of his irritation over the delay in the schedule.
“What do you think of the color I chose?” she asked, smoothing her hand over the yellow patterns on her dress. “I read in Lonely Planet that the yellow plum symbolizes their New Year... very thoughtful of me. Right, Oded?”
His expression now became amused. “There’s only one problem, Daphne,” he said. “Yellow has significance in the South, and we’re in North Vietnam… the holiday color here’s pink. But the scarf’s pretty, and it’s the thought that counts. Just don’t tell me you’ll be going up to change -” Her frown of disappointment made him regret his words.
He raised his hand apologetically as she said, “I would go up, but I don’t have anything pink.” Then, abruptly changing the subject: “Why am I not surprised that Dolly and Albert are late? I need coffee!”
“They’ve gone on ahead,” Cantor remarked calmly. “Didn’t care to wait. They asked us to join them at the Great Pagoda. So - coffee now, or later?”
“I simply must have some,” she insisted.
He gestured to the waiter, careful not to comment on her lack of punctuality. In his world, the importance of schedules and precise timetables could not be stressed enough, but the last thing he needed was an awkward atmosphere.
***
Outside the Sofitel Plaza, directly across from the entrance, was a small café. Several tables were set up on the sidewalk. A rope, stretched between two poles, separated the café from a parking zone full of motorbikes, among which was a particularly heavy Kawasaki that towered over the others. It was parked on the curb directly near the road. The key was in the ignition.
A thin, black-haired man of western origin - a gaijin, as the locals would say - sat alone at a table for two adjacent to the Kawasaki. On the table before him were an open copy of Car and Driver magazine, a glass of water, and a cup of coffee. The man sipped alternately from the two glasses without even glancing at the magazine. His gaze was fixed on the hotel entrance.
Meanwhile, in the lobby, Cantor wrapped his arm around Daphne’s waist and guided her out through the hotel’s revolving door. With his other hand, he took out a pair of dark sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on a moment before the tinted glass door ushered them out into the bright sunlight.
He gazed at the street and sidewalk across from him, scanning the 180-degree parameter for irregularities, a routine that was second nature. Indeed, he immediately noticed one inconsistency in the otherwise ordinary scene.
Cantor wondered if he was being paranoid. His gut feeling, upon which he had learned to rely, signaled that something was wrong. A biker, wearing a helmet with the sun visor down, was rising from his chair at the café across the street at that very moment, giving Cantor a sense of déjà vu from another life. People around him lived their lives without constantly looking over their shoulder, yet, although he had been a civilian for over a year now, he still had not gotten used to living as one. His perceptive ear caught the purr of the Kawasaki as the motorcycle passed them and disappeared down the avenue. He chuckled to himself. There was no doubt that his former life had taken its toll.
“Oded, will we pass by the lake? The one where they release fish for luck in the new year?”
“Yeah, Hoan Kiem Lake. And do you know why they release fish into the water? Because according to their tradition, the kitchen god ascended to Heaven riding a carp. It’s on our way, but we’ll see it after the Great Pagoda.”
“How far is the pagoda?” Daphne asked, tightening her grip on his hand as they walked.
“The guy said fifteen minutes,” he replied.
“Strange. It feels like we’ve been walking for ages and there’s no pagoda in sight.”
He smiled. “We’ve hardly walked five minutes yet.”
***
It was the first day of the Vietnamese New Year celebrations. The city sidewalks were overrun with crowds on their way to the temples to pray in honor of the arrival of the Year of the Sheep. It was common practice to throw fake paper money - “ghost money” - into the fires that burned in the designated altars at the pagoda entrance. Burning money was believed t
o usher in a prosperous new year.
Cantor noticed that the houses lining the street shared a common style. The first floor was a usually a shop, while the second floor served as the family’s living quarters. The store fronts were open to the street and, through them, he saw many families sitting on pillows on the floor celebrating with a festive meal. Many peach-colored decorations hung from the ceilings and walls. A pungent scent that reminded Cantor of chicken soup emanated from the houses. The overall spectacle might have seemed strange to the incidental tourist, but not to Cantor, whose photographic memory had preserved everything he had read in the travel guidebook about local traditions.
“Amazing! I just can’t believe how incredible this is!” he heard Daphne exclaim loudly. She raised her voice, trying to overcome the unrelenting clamor of the stream of motorbikes moving along the wide road like a swarm of locusts.
Daphne was right; this was quite different from Saigon, with its car-filled roads, unlike here, where cars went by only sporadically.
To their right, the buildings had given way to an artificial lake. On the adjacent broad promenade stood colorful cardboard and plastic figures set up for family photo opportunities. Here, too, the street was lined with peach-colored decorations, highlighting the holiday’s symbolic color. Cantor reflected that, although this was a seemingly simple third world country, the sights were undeniably impressive.
Ten minutes later, Cantor pointed to the Great Pagoda of the Old City looming in all its glory on the other side of the wide road. A large mosaic of a tiger adorned the courtyard entrance and smoke rose from the ghost money burning on the altars.
“We don’t need to go in, do we?” Daphne asked, surveying the crowds at the entrance to the pagoda with genuine concern.
Cantor tightened his grip on her hand. “I don’t think we’ll be back here anytime soon. It’d be a shame to miss it, don’t you think?”
For a moment she hesitated. “Not soon or probably ever... only how will we cross this road?”
Her anxiety was justified as he observed the two-wheeled chaos that swept the wide road like a raging river.
“Let’s follow him.” Cantor pointed to a local who was stepping off the sidewalk and crossing the road in a straight line at a steady pace, ignoring the flow of motorcycles around him. Before she could protest, he drew her toward him and stepped into the road.
And it worked. The swarm of motorcycles passed to their left and right like a horde of angry bees suddenly discovering an obstacle in their way, but nimbly knowing how to avoid it. For a moment, it seemed as if they wore magic cloaks that protected them from harm.
Yet, that was not the case.
Like a wasp whose homing device had gone awry, a heavy Kawasaki motorcycle suddenly burst out of nowhere and hit Cantor with the full force of a quarter-ton mass accelerated by a 160-horsepower engine. It was a crushing blow. Cantor’s body was hurled through the air as if hit by a tornado and then flung back down to the ground with a gruesome thump. It happened so unexpectedly that even the dexterity of some of the other riders nearby was not enough for them to swerve out of harm’s way and they crashed into one another. Amid all the commotion, the destructive Kawasaki sped away and disappeared. Daphne, whose hand was torn from Cantor’s during the collision, collapsed unconscious onto the road.
The chaos intensified within seconds with the blaring sounds of sirens. The unconscious Cantor was laid on a stretcher and taken into an ambulance. The ambulance made its way to the French Hospital as the paramedics continued their resuscitation efforts. In the emergency room, Cantor was triaged as critically wounded and rushed into the operating room.
The odds were against Cantor, sealing his fate. The chances of survival after sustaining such an injury were a statistical deviation.
But statistics had never reckoned with the healing powers of Chinese medicine.
***
Superintendent Albert Haddad still found it difficult to process how their promising trip to the Far East could be cut short so disastrously.
Two weeks had passed since the accident, and it was five days since Cantor had first opened his eyes and woken from his comatose state. It was soon evident how physically and mentally strong he was. The doctors concluded that the tests showed “zero brain damage and no permanent or long-term physical repercussions.” Nevertheless, they warned that even the best rehabilitation would not return Cantor to his pre-injury condition.
Albert’s turn at Cantor’s bedside had begun four hours ago and would last for another four. Daphne, Dolly, and he each took eight-hour shifts, not willing to leave Cantor alone for a moment. Unusually, Cantor had been granted a private room in Hanoi’s French Hospital. The captain of the local traffic police had found it difficult to hide his embarrassment over the accident involving a foreign colleague in his jurisdiction, and had pulled the appropriate strings.
Cantor turned on his back and opened his eyes to look at Haddad.
“Are you still here, Albert? Aren’t you tired of being a babysitter? Or are they getting along so well without you at the department?”
“Good morning to you, too,” answered Haddad cheerfully. “That’s what happens when you go on vacation with people who don’t know how to cross the street. There’s a Vietnamese breakfast for you here. Would you like some?”
Cantor grimaced and raised his hand dismissively. “More vegetables drowning in mystery bird soup? For breakfast? No, thank you. Is there any chance you could find me a cup of coffee, Albert?”
“Of course you can have coffee, and guess what? You’re now the proud owner of your very own coffee station with a kettle and everything -”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t. It was all Daphne and Dolly, but you must have figured that out.” He switched on the electric kettle.
“Tell me, Albert, is there any news from the traffic police?”
Haddad rubbed his chin with his hand. “Not yet. I understand they asked you if you remembered anything and you told them you didn’t.”
“Yes, they questioned me. I remember everything from that morning until the moment we began to cross the road. That’s where it ends. A black hole. Did the witnesses provide any information?”
“We’ve already discussed this twice.”
“I know, but tell me again.”
“A Kawasaki motorcycle, heavy, 1200cc, came speeding from your left with no apparent attempt to brake. The driver was probably texting -”
“And what about the security cameras? They didn’t catch anything?”
“In the case of the motorcycle, it wasn’t necessary. They found it a few blocks away, a rental. It was rented by a tourist and they couldn’t track down the name given to the rental agency. And before you ask, they also couldn’t find a match with the names going through Border Control or in any of the hotels in Hanoi. They’re also looking at guest houses and smaller tourist lodgings, but, for now, they’re calling it an unsolved hit-and-run.”
The kettle clicked. Haddad poured the water into the coffee cup and handed it to Cantor, who took a sip and sighed with pleasure.
“How are you feeling?” Haddad asked. “Can I send you out on assignments yet?”
Cantor laughed and immediately shuddered and bit his lip as a sharp pain pierced his chest. “Give me a few days, okay?”
“You got it! I’m going to the cafeteria. Can I get you something?”
“Sure. Pita bread with a hard-boiled egg, eggplant and a chopped salad with falafel and tahini on the side...”
“Keep dreaming, Oded... I won’t be long.”
Haddad returned ten minutes later with a meat sandwich and a bottle of Coke. He paused at the door when he saw Cantor’s expression.
“Albert - the Kawasaki. What color was it?”
“Black with a gray windshield. Why?”
“I saw it, Albert.”
“You saw it? Before it hit you?”
“No, I saw it parked in front of the hotel as Daphne and I wen
t out.”
“And?”
“I think the driver looked in our direction and after a few seconds he quickly passed us, heading toward the Great Pagoda.”
“And you saw him?”
“A black helmet and a dark visor, nothing identifiable.”
Haddad stepped toward the window and stood with his back to the room. He asked quietly, “Oded, what do you think about coincidences?”
“That there’s no such thing.”
Haddad turned his head and looked at him. “Your head’s still stuck in the Mossad. Over there, coincidences might never exist. But in the real world… well, all will eventually be revealed.”
“Or maybe not,” Cantor replied. “Albert, how long are you going to keep watch over me like a mother hen? Until all your paid vacation days have run out? Or are you going to break open your kids’ savings as well?”
Haddad leaned forward. “You’re nagging again. Don’t you like me being around, Oded? Well, even if you don’t like it, I don’t give a fuck. Understood? I’ll say it again: the only option is for all four of us to leave this hospital, this city and this country together. So, shut up, okay?”
“I just wanted to say thank you. No need to make such an issue out of it,” Cantor said, smiling.
CHAPTER 2
Hanoi, the French Hospital, a week after hospitalization
Cantor lay on his back, staring at the ceiling above him. His eyes lingered on a black, spider-shaped Rorschach-like stain. He heard the hum of the monitors from which tubes and wires connected to his body. He was no stranger to hospitals. Twenty years of wandering the globe as a field agent for the Mossad had taken their toll. Once again, like a phoenix from the ashes, his broken body had been brought to a place where it would be repaired and returned to relatively normal. Since he possessed the rare ability to adapt to any situation, he was also surprisingly at ease in a hospital, unlike most individuals. Besides, his inability to function physically left him with time to think. Cantor tried to see the half-filled glass in every situation.
This was the first vacation he had taken since leaving the Mossad more than a year ago, his first vacation since turning a new page in his career as a detective in the central unit of the Israeli Police. This was not the only change he had made this year. No longer did his Tel Aviv apartment serve as a way-station, but it had become a permanent residence. Moreover, in the last four months, it had also ceased to be the home of a lonely divorced man. He remembered the first remarks of the woman he had fallen in love with as she took her first steps into the apartment: “This place needs to be turned into a real home...” A real home? What did she mean by that? Maybe make it more comfortable, unlike the spartan conditions he usually kept. An easily solved problem, he had thought at the time. It was simply a matter of functionality, organization and budget, the subjects his rational mind was most fond of.