by By Jon Land
They rode the elevator alone to the sixth floor. The uniformed guard accompanied her every step of the way to Hershel Giott’s office, making sure she went inside.
Giott was already standing when she entered, obviously having been forewarned she was on her way. Three other men, two in formal dress uniforms, sat in a ring of chairs before his desk. She recognized them as her three immediate superiors, including her captain, the chief of detectives, and the deputy commissioner. The way they were seated, in deference to Giott, indicated they were going to be silent participants in whatever transpired.
“Close the door, Pakad,” Giott said, leaning his knuckles against his desktop.
Danielle closed the door and approached slowly. The commissioner of the National Police waited until she was standing in front of his desk, the eyes of her other superiors burning into her from behind, before he continued.
“I regret that this meeting has become necessary. But we all feel your performance in recent days has left us no choice. This especially pains me because I feel I was in error in reinstating you to your former position in the National Police.”
Giott’s expression became even more grim.
“Pakad Barnea, we have serious concerns about the manner in which you have proceeded with your investigation into the murder of Hyram Levy. We are aware, for example, of your unauthorized visit into Jordan yesterday.”
“I was following up a crucial lead, sir.” Danielle knew she shouldn’t have spoken until specifically asked to, but she couldn’t help it.
“Without obtaining the proper authorization or diplomatic credentials.”
“It was a cooperative effort. An exchange of information, that’s all.”
“You mean, that’s what it was supposed to be, Pakad. We understand things became quite dangerous, violent and potentially embarrassing to the State of Israel. A diplomatic nightmare, in fact.”
Giott stopped to give Danielle a chance to respond, then continued when she remained silent.
”Pakad Barnea, the status you attained as a result of your heroics two years ago was enough to warrant an exception being made regarding reinstatement at your previous rank and level. But that same status does not allow for your repeatedly going against established procedures and”—here Giott looked almost hurt—”not being totally forthcoming even when questioned directly. I refer to the matter of me asking you if a second copy of Hyram Levy’s phone records existed.”
”I told you it didn’t.”
“And was that correct?”
”As far as I knew at the time you asked me. Before the original copy disappeared. It turned out I had an extra,” she said, eager to protect Yori Resnick and hide his complicity.
”You also utilized National Police resources, providing unauthorized material to aid in a concurrent Palestinian investigation into another matter, did you not?”
“It was an even exchange. And the Palestinian investigation you’re his referring to may not be an altogether different matter at all. The cases are connected.”
”You have proof of this, Pakad Barnea?”
Danielle looked down. “Not firm proof; not yet, sir,” she admitted, and she could almost feel the scalding stares of her superiors blazing into her from behind.
“And yet you are convinced that Palestinian assistance is vital to your pursuit of Hyram Levy’s killer.”
“I didn’t think so at first. I do now.”
Giott’s eyes continued to narrow. “Let me get to the point: the Palestinian detective you are working with, he is familiar to you, isn’t he?”
“He’s the same one I liaised with on the serial killer case two years ago.”
“On a sanctioned basis at that time.”
“Yes.”
“And you continued to see him after your investigation was concluded.”
“Not professionally.”
Giott didn’t respond right away. “No, I suspect not.” He gazed beyond her at the three men, who had not been invited to say a word. “Pakad Barnea, it is wrong to confuse personal feelings with professional duty. I know this because I made the same error with regard to your reinstatement. Not only did I return you to an investigatory position, I assigned you a high-profile case when it should have been clear to me the recent trauma you had suffered left you in no condition to handle it.”
Danielle bit her lip to keep from shouting out in protest.
“Because a portion of the onus for these events falls on me, we will not be asking for your resignation. You will be suspended for one month, after which you will be free to return to the National Police in a position to be determined later. Is that clear?”
Danielle wondered what would happen if she confronted Giott right now with the truth about the man Hyram Levy had sent to her hospital room on his behalf. Esteban Ravel formed an inescapable link between Giott and whatever had led to Levy’s murder. In fact, under different circumstances, she would consider the man who had just suspended her to be a crucial, if not material, witness. Now, though, she had been so discredited that any questions she posed, based on information obtained from Harry Walls in Haifa a short time before, would be inalterably tainted. Giott had successfully managed to cut the link.
“Is that clear?” Giott repeated, louder.
“I’m sorry. Yes.”
He no longer even bothered to regard the three police officials who sat behind her. “You will leave your identification cards, access strips, and all other materials belonging to the National Police with me for the duration of your suspension, Pakad Barnea. You will not enter this building for any reason. You will not establish contact with any members of your investigation team, and you will immediately cease all ongoing cooperative efforts with the Palestinian. To disobey any of these orders will be grounds for immediate dismissal and could lead to formal charges being levied against you by this department. Is that also clear?”
“Very.”
What was clear was that Hershel Giott, a man she trusted and who had been like a second father to her, had destroyed her career to keep her from getting at the truth he likely had knowledge of. He had preempted her efforts to uncover not only Hyram Levy’s killer, but also the reason behind his murder, thereby protecting some greater secrets that would remain veiled now as a result. She believed more firmly than ever that the abortive bombing in Atarim Square was designed specifically to assassinate Max Pearlman. And she was certain Giott knew this as well.
“Very well,” he said dismissively, “I believe we are finished here.”
* * * *
T
he worst thing about her suspension was having to go home and stay there. And if being alone wasn’t bad enough in itself, she was alone with the knowledge that a killer named Esteban Ravel was at large. Should he learn of her interest, he would come for her. A top-notch black bag, deep-cover man. A specialist, Harry Walls had called him, who obviously frightened even his fellow Mossad agents.
Danielle would have to prepare herself. But she sat on her couch through the afternoon and well into the evening doing anything but, turning the facts over and over in her mind. When darkness fell, she switched on only the table lamp she could reach, lacking the motivation to move from her seat. She knew the feeling of depression well enough to sense herself falling into it again. Just like when she had returned from the hospital, her child lost then. Her career lost now.
The phone rang, jarring her, and she snatched it clumsily to her ear.
“Hello.”
“Pakad Danielle Barnea?”
“Sabi?”
“How quickly can you get to Haifa? There is something I think you should see.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 51
W
hen are you going to tell me what exactly is going on?”
“After you’ve seen it for yourself,” Faustin replied.
Ben had parked his car in clear view of the entrance to the Einessultan refugee camp half a block away. The camp was located on the ou
tskirts of Jericho, at the very edge of the oasis that exists amid the vast desert plain. To the south lay a grove of orange trees, to the north rolling hills of desolation. An abandoned Israeli military encampment was visible from the camp’s entrance to the east.
It was past midnight, and traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, was thin, almost nonexistent. Whatever they were looking for within the endless cluttered rows of stone houses built on a slight upward grade, Faustin obviously hadn’t seen yet.
“How about your first name?” Ben resumed. “Can you tell me that, Superintendent?”
“Mathilde.”
“French?”
“It’s not my real name,” she said noncommittally, “just the one I was given. I keep it as a memory.”
Ben decided not to press her, knowing her answers would continue to be as evasive as they had been since they had first met earlier in the day.
“You’ve taken a personal interest in this case,” Faustin continued. “I can tell.”
“And if it hadn’t been for you, that personal interest would have got me killed.”
“At least you tried. Missing persons cases, especially children, receive very little attention.” Ben thought he almost saw Faustin smile. Her mouth looked uncomfortable with the effort. “That’s why there are so few records at Interpol to be communicated between one country and another, if there were any countries interested, that is.”
“You sound bitter.”
“I have my reasons.”
“Personal as well as professional, it sounds like.”
“You have a good ear “
“Care to share them, Superintendent?”
“No.”
“It’s just that I’ve had some experience with bitterness, too.”
“I know.”
Ben looked at her again. Faustin’s stare was fixed outside the windshield, riveted on the refugee camp entrance as if in search of prey. “From al-Asi?” he asked.
“Before. The records of your exploits were available from Interpol.”
“In Detroit or Palestine?”
“Both.”
“So you know pretty much all there is to know about me.”
“Yes.”
“While I know virtually nothing about you.”
“That’s right.”
“And it will be difficult to learn any more if you keep your answers to one or two words.”
“True.”
“Why were you following me, Superintendent? I expect you can tell me that much?”
Faustin glanced back at Ben again, looking slightly annoyed. “You sent a request to Interpol for records on similarly patterned disappearances or abductions.”
Ben nodded. “And you came to Jericho to deliver them personally.”
“I was already here.”
“Because of the elusive Al Safah.”
“On his trail, yes. You don’t believe in him, do you?”
“No,” Ben replied, half-lying.
“Do you know how long the file on him at Interpol is?”
Ben shook his head.
“Just over a page, enough to list the inference and innuendo that surrounds him, no more.”
“What do you expect? You’re talking about a man who reportedly has never been seen, can’t be identified.”
“I’m talking about a criminal mastermind who hides behind the greatest disguise there is: an international legend.”
“Or a spook story, a ghost.”
Faustin continued to fix her gaze out the windshield. “A ghost who was in this country in the past month. That’s why I’m here.”
“And how did you learn that?”
“A tip.”
“A tip about a man no one knows ...”
“This person knew Al Safah, knew him from the very beginning.”
“I don’t suppose you can introduce me.”
Faustin’s unchanging voice slowed a little. “Not anymore: the source is dead. I never met her myself. There was one phone call, that’s all.”
“A woman?”
“What’s the difference?”
“None, I suppose. Except that Colonel al-Asi has now been in touch with your superiors.”
“I would have expected as much.”
“You’ve been on indefinite leave from Interpol for six months.”
Faustin did not turn from the windshield.
“Up to that point your superiors had only good things to say. They did not say, though, how you mastered the skills I witnessed the other night in the butcher shop.”
“I saved your life.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I’d say you owe me something in return.”
“Name it.”
“Stop asking me questions.”
“Just one more, Superintendent. Why’d you bother?”
“I already told you: I thought you might be getting close to Al Safah.”
“Meaning you believe he is still in the area.”
“Even if he’s gone, I’ve got a hard trail to follow for the first time. All the years, all the disappointments. Even Al Safah had to get careless sooner or later.”
Ben settled back in his seat. “When I was a boy I heard he cooked and ate children. Is that true?”
“No, but he cuts out the eyes of those who get too close, so even after they’re dead they won’t be able to identify him.”
Ben shivered, thinking of Nazir Jalabad’s eyeless corpse and the hot poker that had mutilated Ibrahim Mudhil.
Faustin looked at him as though she could read his mind. “I think you can see, Inspector, why no one can identify this man the world calls a ghost.”
Faustin stopped when an approaching car’s headlights caught her attention. She tensed and slumped lower in the passenger seat.
The car parked across the street from the entrance to the refugee camp and turned off its lights. An old sedan—a Volvo, Ben thought.
“Can you make out the license plates?” Faustin asked him.
He raised the small binoculars to his eyes. “White.”
“Palestinian . . .Just as I thought.”
“What’s happening?”
“Watch! Don’t let them see you! . . . There! Look!”
Ben’s eyes followed hers to the camp entrance. A girl was heading toward it from the inside in the company of a man who looked to be in his twenties. He was overweight and wore a dark shirt that hung out over his belt.
Ben raised the binoculars again.
“Careful! They might see you!”
He ducked his head lower beneath the cover of the dashboard and focused the binoculars on the steadily advancing girl. On closer inspection she looked to be about twelve or thirteen, the same age as the Shabaz girl who had disappeared from the Deheisha camp he had visited. She wore jeans and a print shirt. The jeans were frayed and tattered. The print on the shirt had faded. In most other places the style would have been called fashionable; here it was impoverished.
Ben peered through the binoculars. The girl definitely seemed to know the man walking by her side, or at least felt comfortable with him. He led her off the camp grounds toward the waiting car, reached the back door just ahead of her, and opened it.
In the few brief seconds the light stayed on, before he closed it behind the girl, Ben glimpsed another young face on the other side of the backseat.
“There’s a second girl in the car,” he told Faustin.
She didn’t look surprised at all. “When they drive off, follow them.”
“We should have a second car for this.”
“They won’t be expecting a tail, don’t worry.”
The Volvo’s headlights came back on. Ben started his car as the Volvo came forward and slipped past them. Not rushing, he waited until it was safely ahead before pulling around to follow.
It had been a long time since Ben had been on a moving stakeout; he couldn’t even remember when exactly, although it was well before he took up pursuit of the Sandman back in his days as a Detr
oit detective. He quickly recalled the basic tricks to it, and, as Faustin had suggested, the Volvo’s driver obviously wasn’t expecting a tail.
“Don’t lose him!” she warned, leaning stiffly toward the dashboard, eyes held wider than Ben had seen them yet, perhaps afraid the Volvo might vanish from her view otherwise.