Crossing the Lines

by Jacob Ganani

  “I understand. Reshef, you said? Okay, I’ll let him know. You spoke with Oded Cantor.” He replaced the receiver and wrote down the message on a note.

  Very strange.

  ***

  At his desk, about 10 feet away from Cantor, Inspector Uri Tzahor was trying to make the unnatural transition from his morning fitness exam to his own private mountain of paperwork. Passing by him on his way to fetch coffee, Cantor disrupted his thoughts.

  “There’s no way you passed, huh, Uri?”

  “You’d be surprised. I’m a shark, I am! Truth is, I’m a shark who was granted a few exemptions. How’s it going?”

  “Stuck. You?”

  “Same. C’est la vie,” concluded Uri with a sigh. “Anything new with White Night?”

  “Negative, I’ve heard nothing. Waiting on something from Azar.”

  “Yeah? For what?”

  “Doesn’t matter. How long are you staying today?”

  “Till late. You wouldn’t happen to be talking about your appointment to special investigator?” Tzahor rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

  “Aren’t there any secrets in this place?” Cantor asked.

  “It depends on your rank,” Uri joked.

  “Yeah, sure... I’ll keep you posted.”

  Yeah, sure.

  CHAPTER 10

  Ezra Sexta despised mobile phones, yet always carried two with him. They were great potential for trouble. He was sure that the network providers had placed the interests of the establishment before those of their customers. They never hesitated to provide the authorities with location data, destination and call logs, and, of course, they allowed wiretapping. There were even special state budgets set up to compensate companies for information provided, thus avoiding the need for a warrant.

  The first phone, the “white” one, was registered in his name and he conducted his private life and legal businesses from it. He used it briefly and sparingly, as he believed in the old proverb “Death and life are in the power of the tongue.” The second phone, the “black” one, was not registered to anyone. It was a prepaid burner phone that, while carefully operated, ensured it could not be traced - a phone for special ops, or, more accurately, a different phone for each op, at the end of which the device was destroyed and replaced with a new one and a new number. The limited calls from this device were conducted, without exception, in code. They were concise, never longer than thirty seconds. Johnny claimed that calls shorter than thirty seconds could not be traced. Sexta, aware of how quickly technology was advancing, hoped Johnny’s information was up to date.

  He was sitting in traffic on Namir Road when the white phone rang. Unknown caller. This was not unusual, considering that some of his colleagues favored anonymity. He paused the symphony that was playing on the high-end audio system of his prestigious Mercedes E-Class and pressed the answer button without saying a word. He waited for the caller to identify himself.

  “This is the courier delivery service,” said a low, thick voice that sounded as though it was coming through a towel. Sexta immediately recognized the speaker, but waited for definitive identification.

  “Package or letter?” he asked the arranged question.

  “A subscription to the National Geographic.” The right man.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Sexta.

  “The matter is that your guys screwed up. We need to meet.”

  “Why? It wouldn’t be healthy for either of us to meet,” he said, ignoring the accusatory tone.

  “You’re right, it’s not necessary. Just tell me how you’re planning to compensate for it.”

  “Compensate? We’ve settled everything already. Haven’t we?”

  “We had, until you messed up and complicated matters for me. Now I require compensation… a new arrangement.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then the next issue will not be delivered this week. The courier has fallen ill. Very ill.”

  In other words, the weekly activity roster of the Investigative Division would not make its way to his table.

  Sexta quickly gathered his thoughts. Admittedly an error had been made, but from what Johnny had explained, there was no chance the cop was implicated. So this was an attempt at extortion, something he could not afford.

  “We don’t renegotiate the terms of our deals. They never expire.”

  The voice sounded distinctly unimpressed: “Are you sure about that?”

  “I am.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  Sexta suppressed his desire to retort with venom. Instead, he said, “I expect to receive my magazine issue tomorrow as usual or I’ll unsubscribe.”

  He hung up without waiting for an answer, feeling the anger swell in him. This was a problem. Apparently, the cop was now convinced that he had become irreplaceable and believed he could successfully extort him. Only extortion was his game, and no one could defeat Ezra at his own game. Ever.

  CHAPTER 11

  Cantor glanced at the clock again, 13:30pm. His letter of appointment was long overdue. The sluggish pace at which he was going over his paperwork did not warrant a lunch out. A sandwich or boxed salad would have to do - basic, tasteless food from the cafeteria. Haddad and Gantz, whose desks stood next to his, had not yet returned from visiting the Sexta brothers’ place of business. Cantor doubted that this visit would yield anything productive, but at least they were out of the office and could enjoy a reasonable meal in one of their favorite eateries, while he chose the lesser of the evils among the repetitive cafeteria menu, of which he had already grown tired.

  He shoved away the case file that had occupied him for the past few hours and rubbed his sore eyes. He then brought forward the newly created White Night folder and opened it. He took out the two pages he had written in the early morning hours from the desk drawer and filed them in the folder. His eyes skimmed over the writing.

  First question: when exactly had he learned the details of Operation White Night? The answer he had written, though accurate, was not really of any consequence. After all, he wasn’t the traitor, if such a traitor even existed. The key to this investigation was the exact order of events and the opportunities derived from them. It required thorough digging.

  Second question: when did each of the team members hear about the operation for the first time? The theoretical answer, based on current information was: at the operational meeting, a meeting whose agenda was not preannounced. (Validate with each one separately.)

  Third: list all the people who knew about the operation before that meeting (Command, Intelligence, others?).

  Fourth: time frames and windows of opportunity.

  The light on his desk phone flickered. An internal call. Cantor heard the nasal voice of Ami Zweig.

  “Cantor, a brief consultation,” he said.

  “Go ahead, Ami.”

  “I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. Can you come meet me?”

  “Something urgent?”

  “Don’t think so. It concerns certain information. Give me a call before you head out.”

  “Are you sure we can’t review it over the phone? I’m drowning in paperwork here -”

  “Unfortunately, no, but you must have kept your schedule open for various unplanned forays… right? It won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  “Yes... unplanned forays… we learned about those in that time management workshop, didn’t we? Okay, Ami, I’ll get back to you.” He heard Zweig’s wheezy chuckle. At least he wouldn’t be needing a memory workshop.

  The door opened and a delivery boy came in with his lunch. As he signed for the delivery, he heard the voice of Matilda, the department’s inexhaustible secretary, calling Dan’s name. He looked up and saw Dan Farhi coming through the door, tossing his James Bond-style briefcase on his desk.

  “Keep practicing, Farhi... even the local police league won’t take you on,” Matilda teased as the briefcase slid across the desk and landed on the floor.

  “I’m sur
e...” Dan chuckled at her then noticed Cantor. “What’s up, Oded?”

  “Stagnant,” he answered honestly. “I’ve got a message for you.” He handed him Reshef’s note.

  Farhi read it again and again. He seemed confused. “What is this, Cantor, some kind of joke?” He was not smiling.

  “Something’s unclear?” Cantor asked.

  “All clear, but you’re sure this message is for me?”

  Cantor stared at him. “Let’s see, is your name Dan Farhi?”

  “Last time I checked.”

  “So it’s for you.”

  Farhi gave him a strange look. For a moment, Cantor thought he wanted to say something, but then he seemed to reconsider. Then, avoiding his eyes, he said, “Thanks Cantor.” He turned and walked to his desk with the note held between thumb and forefinger as if he was holding something loathsome.

  Gets better every minute, thought Cantor, and made a note to review any information he had involving Farhi. At that moment, a uniformed officer came in and handed Matilda a brown paper envelope. She glanced at the name of the recipient and at the red stamp marked “Private and confidential” and brought it over to Cantor’s desk.

  “Cantor, it’s for you. Sign here, please.”

  Cantor opened the envelope and withdrew the letter of appointment. He signed, and the officer left.

  “Confidential? It’s like MI5 over here...” Matilda blurted out sarcastically.

  Cantor glanced at her. “Careful, Mattie. If you find out too much, I’ll have to kill you.”

  “You should be careful, Cantor. That’s also how layoff notices arrive.” She always had to say the last word.

  He smiled at her and, with a sigh of relief, took the stack of files on his desk and stuffed them into the bottom desk drawer. He felt a new rush of adrenaline flowing through him. Finally - the freedom to operate outside the box with broader clearance and resources. His preferred territory.

  ***

  All too aware of time constraints, Cantor acted quickly. If he failed to produce prompt results, unfavorable decisions could be made about his future. He had only twenty-four hours before he needed to hand in his first progress report to Azar, and he had better have something to show.

  His first phone call was to Surveillance with a request to tap all the phones associated with Sexta, The Palace, his houses and, of course, his cell phones.

  “Your department already placed this request and almost everything’s already covered,” Prosper, the head of Surveillance surprised him. “Did you discuss this with Haddad? I thought this was his project.”

  Cantor, who was caught off guard by the fact that Haddad did this without his knowledge, quickly recovered. “Okay. Can you send me the transcripts of last month’s recordings?”

  “Negative, we didn’t transcribe them yet, because no one ever asked. You must be aware we’re short on manpower, so if no one asks, then we assume it’s probably not urgent,” Prosper replied without a trace of apology in his voice, and Cantor realized that the fishing nets in the marina were not the only ones full of holes.

  “Well, can I at least get the list of phone numbers under surveillance?”

  “No problem.”

  “Prosper, I’m sending over my authorization. Please confirm that this is being handled. Thanks.” He hung up and immediately sent a scanned copy of the letter of appointment. Five minutes later, a wiretapping specialist named Eddie called and promised to check the material and update him accordingly. Cantor mentioned that it was urgent, but Eddie’s quick and positive response reminded him of what Azar had said about the power of a special letter of appointment. It turned out that Azar had not exaggerated.

  The next phone call was to Amiel Zweig, who immediately asked whether he was already on his way to see him.

  “Not yet. I’m calling on another matter.”

  “Okay, how can I help?” he asked.

  “It’s about the call transcript you presented in the White Night briefing. When were cameras installed in The Palace, and are you in possession of any more recordings?”

  Zweig, who had an excellent memory, did not need to check his records in order to answer. “Cameras were installed two months ago, and Intelligence’s transcripts are up to date.”

  “So I understand you have it in with Prosper?” Cantor couldn’t help himself, and in response Zweig gave a shriek that sounded like an attempt at a giggle.

  “Prosper does no favors for anyone.” His voice returned to its usual seriousness. “We simply transcribe the calls here, spending more of the budget we don’t have. We transcribe from the original recordings. It’s imperative that Intelligence stays on top of things.”

  Cantor had an idea. “Why don’t I go over the transcripts after we have that meeting you requested? I’ll do an initial screening and you can send over only the files I need.”

  “Sure.”

  “So I’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning, okay?”

  “Excellent, thank you.”

  Killing two birds with one stone. That’s how he liked to get things done.

  CHAPTER 12

  Wednesday - Morning

  With a notepad under his arm, Cantor walked toward the most easterly building in the headquarters compound. In front of the building was an enclosed square of grass on which the national flag stood tall. A number of shrubs around it pretended to be a garden. The Intelligence Unit occupied the entire third floor. He entered the lobby and called Zweig, who invited him up.

  He was already waiting for him at the office door, shook his hand and promptly offered coffee. Cantor declined and asked if it would take more than a few minutes.

  “Depends,” Zweig replied, “but I do have a percolator and the coffee’s already made.” Cantor nodded his head in agreement and thought about how far percolated coffee was from the hurriedly-made black sludge the detectives usually drank.

  It was Cantor’s first visit to Zweig’s office and his eyes moved around the room, scanning and memorizing every detail. The first impression of the room was one of exemplary order.

  “Tell me, Ami, how do you manage to keep everything so organized?” he asked rhetorically. He looked admiringly at a giant whiteboard. The board was obscured by three opaque screens that made it impossible to see what was on it. His gaze scanned the filing cabinet drawers, all closed and locked. In the corner of the room, he saw a large safe with a blinking red light, indicating that it was locked. This was not common practice in the middle of a workday, as the lock contained a time-delay feature. In all his time on the force, Cantor had never seen such an organized police officer.

  Zweig stood next to a neat and beautifully arranged coffee corner and poured coffee from the percolator into a paper cup. Cantor pointed to the little milk jug and shook his head. “No sugar either,” he added.

  “I understand you’re in a hurry, so I’m preparing it ‘to go.’” Zweig apologized for the disposable cup. Cantor had renewed hope that the meeting would be brief.

  “So?” he asked, bringing the delicious coffee carefully to his lips.

  Zweig did not hurry to reply. He looked thoughtfully out the window and, after a few seconds that seemed much longer to Cantor, turned slowly and looked at him.

  “Can I ask a personal question?”

  “If the answer isn’t too personal, sure, why not?”

  “Do you, perhaps, have a hobby, Cantor? Something that has nothing to do with work, something you like to do in your spare time?”

  Cantor was confused. Leisure pursuits, currently, and through virtually every period he could think of, were certainly his Achilles’ heel. Most of his time was devoted to work, in the understanding that success requires hard work and dedication. Besides, he knew no other way of life. The result, as expected, was one-dimensional and unvaried.

  “Not lately, not really.” What the hell was this?

  “Actually, that’s pretty much as expected,” Zweig said in a considerate voice. “You detectives never stop.” Cantor
wondered if he was about to hear any more insights into hobbies, but was relieved when Zweig turned abruptly to the matter at hand.

  “White Night. I understand you’re investigating the possibility that someone on your team, completely theoretically of course, held relevant information while not under supervision?” Zweig’s voice was neither judgmental nor accusatory.

  “Yes, I’m just getting started. I haven’t sat down with the people yet, but I’ve managed to send each of them an activity audit form. I began as soon as I received my letter of appointment.”

  “You’re efficient,” Zweig replied. “That’s good.”

  Cantor ignored the compliment. “In any case, I already checked against what I know: from the moment we received the details, all six members of my team, without exception, were under constant supervision. The operational meeting was the first time we saw the material, and from that moment until deployment, no one left the briefing room and no one had any contact with the outside. Those are the facts.”

  Zweig moved away from the window and went toward his chair, a simple office chair of the kind most senior officers would not have chosen. He sat down and glided his hand over the polished wooden desktop. Cantor’s gaze lingered on a spot where a ray of sunlight highlighted the wooden grain without revealing a speck of dust. Zweig’s shrill voice interrupted his momentary wonder at the total absence of dust.

  “I agree with your assessment. We have well-organized procedures for such processes, precisely to prevent information leaks.”

  “Definitely,” said Cantor. “So you concur with my findings? You’ve no information that leads you to suspect my team at this stage, from what we know right now, I mean.”

  Zweig remained silent. Cantor waited, feeling the tension well up inside him. He sensed that Zweig had a bullet waiting in the chamber. He forced himself to lean back and let his eyes wander.

  “Did your kid put that together? It looks really challenging,” he said, pointing to a large, multi-piece jigsaw puzzle that hung on the wall. The pieces were all different shades of blue and Cantor wondered at the amount of patience required to complete such a task.