Agent on a Mission

by Rose Fox

  “Hah, now we’ve got rid of him again and if he was after us, he’s probably using all the curses he knows,” the cab driver rejoiced.

  “Yes, but he also understands we’re on to his game and know that he’s following us,” Naim said, his eyes searching for the Mazda, which was nowhere to be seen now.

  The beeps that introduce the news were heard on the radio and the driver turned up the volume.

  “An hour ago, a car exploded on Gordon Street in Tel Aviv injuring three passersby, including a two-year old boy and two others. Extensive damage was caused to the surrounding buildings. The circumstances of the explosion are not yet known and the police are investigating.”

  Naim straightened up and caught his breath loudly.

  “It appears that a powerful device, attached to the car, caused the explosion. The police have released that the registered owner of the car is Advocate Abigail Ben-Nun.”

  Naim was upset and couldn’t calm down. He made a call and while he waited for someone to answer, he noticed the white car behind them in the side mirror. It was the Mazda with a yellow license plate and the digits 010-10, following them at a constant distance. The driver in the car seemed to resemble the person who had occupied the seat behind him on the plane. Naim exhaled a long breath.

  An hour later the landscape changed to a wide expanse of sandy terrain, small flocks and a scattering of tents. Naim directed the driver to the tents of the Ka’abiah tribe. He spoke very little and it was clear that he was still tense and agitated by the news. The driver noticed it and his heart raced with fear.

  “Where are you from?” he asked Naim hesitantly.

  Naim didn’t hear him and didn’t reply. Suddenly, he noticed that the driver was glancing at him in fear.

  “What, what did you ask?”

  “I asked where you come from in Israel. Where do you live?”

  “I’m from the Negev” he said. Having caught on to the driver’s apprehension, he added with a smile, “I’m not an Arab, I’m Bedouin.”

  The driver responded with a brief smile and remained silent.

  “What’s your name?” Naim asked the driver.

  “Yosef. I’m from Lod and as you know it’s a city with a mixed Arab and Jewish population. I have several Arab friends and…”

  “But I told you, my friend, I’m not Arab. What’s more, I served in the IDF.”

  “Really?! The driver now seemed completely surprised. The tension disappeared from his face and without noticing, he let out a long sigh of relief.

  “Unbelievable, right?” Naim asked, pleased with the change in the driver’s demeanor.

  “What did you do? I mean, in the army.”

  “I was a tracker, a scout. I served in the North, on the Syrian border.”

  “Very nice, very nice.” The driver smiled from ear to ear. He hesitated and then asked interestedly, “I saw earlier that you were disturbed by the news we heard. What happened?”

  “I heard something that worried me and I’m going to find out about it when I get home.”

  Naim was always very cautious. He never shared his worries and apprehensions with anyone. His life had been riddled with dangerous situations, so he had always taken care to be secretive and keep his thoughts to himself.

  The cab had been driving for over an hour on the Arava roadway when they saw the white signpost with “Yotvata” emblazoned on it. Yosef asked Naim whether he would like to stop for something to drink.

  “Why not?” Naim replied, suddenly feeling he needed a short rest.

  Yosef turned right at the gas station and some large buildings on which the “Yotvata” sign appeared. They both got out of the cab and stretched their legs.

  Inside the huge structure, they wandered around between the enormous refrigerators filled with milk products and, around them, on the shelves, mugs and other kitchen utensils painted white with black spots, like cowhide, were displayed. Naim pulled a large bottle of ice cold water out of the refrigerator and placed it on his sweaty forehead as he made his way to the cashier.

  When they walked back to the cab, they looked like old friends.

  They continued driving and went off the highway onto the yellow sandy road. They drove past scattered tents and palm trees and in the distance the triangles of the tents, so familiar to Naim, began to appear. He directed Yosef towards them and a smile arose on his tired face.

  When Naim and Yosef got out of the cab a throng of children gathered to welcome them. The younger ones giggled mischievously and after a few minutes dispersed to return to their games among the tents.

  “Family, you know,” Naim said. He rested his hand on Yosef’s shoulder and directed him towards the dark tent.

  “Come and meet Leila, the mother of this tribe.”

  A tall and impressive woman stood at the entrance to the tent. A baby with light-colored eyes clung to her robe and the driver hurried towards her.

  “I am Yosef. I brought Naim home,” he said and extended his hand to her. Leila bobbed slightly to acknowledge him, but did not extend her hand and he withdrew his.

  “Yes, this is my sister-in-law,” Naim said, “and you are invited to enter the men’s tent and escape the heat.”

  Afterwards, when Yosef took leave of them all, his piercing glances at Leila were not lost on Naim or Leila, herself. The two of them exchanged phone numbers.

  * * *

  The cab driver blew his horn and Abigail came out of the tent and got into the cab. It was Dan, who was familiar with the route now and remembered his fair-haired Bedouin client, who had travelled with him several times. He had been called to take her home to Tel-Aviv.

  Today the traffic was very heavy and it took almost three hours to reach Tel Aviv. It took an additional half an hour to reach her street. Abigail got out of the cab and passed the place where she had left her car. She surveyed the dark stain on the sidewalk and the section of missing bushes in the hedge of the adjacent house, noticed the blackened soot marks and shuddered.

  From there she hurried to her apartment house, walked up to the first floor, knocked on one of the doors and waited. She heard footsteps of someone coming to the door and Abigail knew that she was being viewed through the spyglass in the door. The door opened and an older man smiled at her and shook her hand.

  “Abigail, we were so worried about you.”

  “Yes, I can imagine. I decided to leave the car here and take a cab to my family in the desert to see my little girl, Arlene,” she said.

  “You were so lucky.”

  “What happened? Please tell me,” she asked.

  “I don’t know where to start. Burned parts of the car flew all the way up here. Come look, they hit the shutters and the windows and broke them all. What a mess.” He threw his hands up and his agitation was apparent.

  “Yes and an enormous fire broke out there and destroyed the hedge of the building beside it.”

  Abigail sighed. She pressed his arm, trying to express her sympathy.

  “Have you come back home to us?”

  “Yes, what can I do, I have to run back and forth between Arlene, whom I’ve left with her grandmother and my home in Tel Aviv.”

  “If you need anything, you know where to turn,”

  Abigail went back down to the entrance, opened her mailbox and struggled to pull out all the mail that had jammed it up. Then she quickly walked up to the second floor and entered her apartment.

  When she opened the front door, she stood frozen to the spot. The kitchen floor was littered with her possessions. Draws of utensils had been pulled out and their contents thrown on the floor, knives and forks thrown everywhere. Clearly, someone had conducted a search thinking that he would only find what he was looking for, here, in her kitchen.

  The floor was slick with oil that had dripped out of a cracked plastic bottle. Another bottle of green olive oil remained standing on the counter, a single tall, narrow unbroken bottle in the middle of what looked like the aftermath of an earthquake. Abigai
l stepped carefully over the broken plates and glassware to go and look in the other rooms, but there, everything was in order. The pillows and coverings on her gilt bed were untouched and still taut and neatly pulled over the sheet. The closets were closed and when she opened the doors, she saw that they had not been rummaged through. She went back to the kitchen and wondered why it had been so thoroughly searched.

  Abigail picked up the phone from the dresser and dialed a number. Someone picked up and she said quickly, “may I speak to Michal?”

  “Who are you, Ma’am?”

  “Advocate Abigail, speaking.”

  “Hello, Abigail, Michal’s with the boss. Shall I tell her you called?”

  “Who am I speaking to?” Abigail asked.

  “You’re talking to the desk sergeant.”

  “Good, well if I’m talking to the desk sergeant, I’ll use the opportunity to register a complaint and report a break-in,” she said. “As regards to robbery, I’m uncertain. But a very thorough search has been made of my kitchen.”

  “Are you filing a complaint, Advocate, Ma’am?” the desk Sergeant asked.

  “Yes, of course, please register the complaint. I would like someone to come to the apartment to investigate. I’ll wait for you at 25 Gordon Street, second floor.”

  “I’m writing it down. When did the break-in occur, Ma’am?”

  “I don’t know. It must have been sometime this week.”

  “It’s a pity you’re only reporting it now, because it means we lose momentum in catching the thief.”

  “I’ve only just come home and discovered my whole kitchen turned upside down on the floor. I haven’t checked if he ate what I left in the fridge,” she laughed.

  “Okay. Please don’t touch anything. Wait until the investigating officer arrives.”

  In the meantime, Abigail stayed in the dining nook and opened the numerous envelopes in her mail. Two of them bore the address of the city hall and dealt with rates and taxes and there was another clean white envelope, without an address or a postal stamp. At the bottom of the pile was an envelope marked with the logo of ‘The Dor Institute’.

  She began by opening the envelope from ‘The Dor Institute’. The letter inside was written in a somewhat laconic but business-like tone:

  ON 25/3/15 A DNA TISSUE MATCHING TEST WAS CARRIED OUT ON THE MR. ADAM

  AYALON, IN ADDITION TO THE TEST CARRIED OUT ON THE CHILD, ARLENE BEN-NUN. IN COMPARISON, A 99% MATCH WAS FOUND.

  The long awaited notification no longer moved her. Abigail folded the paper and put it in her bag. She turned to the unmarked envelope and opened it, but it was empty. She shook it and out fell a white printed note:

  ABIGAIL, MEET ME AT CAFÉ AROMA

  ON THE CORNER OF FRISHMAN AND DIZENGOFF STREETS,

  ON FRIDAY, APRIL 2ND AT 7.00 P.M. SHARP.

  Abigail stared at the small note. It had been typed on a manual typewriter, the kind hardly found anymore. She wondered whether a man or a woman had written it and whether it was worth going to such a meeting. She folded it at once, then crumpled it, rolling it into a tiny ball and put it in her pocket.

  Now she looked at the disarray in the kitchen from the angle of the dining nook where she was sitting. She wanted to know whether the intruder had found what he was looking for and she wanted to find it before the police arrived.

  It occurred to her that the person who had searched her apartment was also responsible for putting the white envelope in her mailbox.

  She stood facing the scattered objects and perused them slowly. Then, she went to her room to fetch her small camera and having found it, it was quite clear to her that the motive for the break-in had not been robbery.

  She took care to photograph the oil stains on the floor. Abigail estimated that at least two days had gone by since the break-in because the outer edge of each oil puddle had contracted and the oil only remained moist in the center.

  A ringing at the front door startled her. She opened the door to Michal, her friend the detective, and a handsome young policeman, who accompanied her.

  “Oh, I see that someone was in dire need of something from your kitchen drawers,” said Michal.

  “Folks, I leave it in your hands,” Abigail said and retreated to the dining nook.

  The young policeman whispered something to his policewoman partner and she answered him out loud. “Yes, this is the apartment where Abigail’s sister was murdered.”

  Michal looked around, peeped into the tidy rooms and returned to the kitchen.

  “Make a note of what Abigail, Advocate Abigail, tells us,” she instructed her partner and they sat down at the table. Abigail deliberately omitted to mention the note she had received and also did not share her idea with them that the unknown intruder was apparently the same person, who had invited her to meet him at Café Aroma.

  “Is there any new information about my booby-trapped car?” Abigail asked.

  “That’s out of my hands now.” Michal reported.

  “Why, what happened?”

  “They told me at the station or, more accurately, I was unambiguously instructed that matters to do with you are out of my hands now and have been transferred to someone, who is less involved with you than I am.”

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  Some weeks earlier, the telephone in Justice Ayalon’s pocket rang.

  “Ayalon?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Anton here. How are you?”

  “Hello Anton, you beat me to it. I intended calling you because we need to plan our trip.”

  “Fine, we can talk about that, too.”

  “That, too? What else is there?”

  Anton ignored the question. “We need to have a little chat, just the two of us.”

  “About what, for example?”

  Anton, once again ignored the question. “Let’s say, this evening. I need to clarify something.”

  “Oh, as serious as that?”

  “It may be nothing, I just need an explanation.”

  “Now you’ve got me wound up and interested. Come this evening at seven. My place, or yours?”

  “Whatever you decide.”

  “Okay, let’s meet here, at my place. I’m in Florentine in Tel-Aviv. 8 Yair Stern Street. I’m living alone here.”

  When Anton arrived, it was already dark. Almost all the small businesses were closed and parking was available. He got out of his car and entered the building at number 8. The building was old but had clearly been renovated and spruced up. On the wall, there was a brass plate engraved with blackened letters. Anton stopped to read it”

  In memory of

  Yair Stern

  The head of the Jewish Underground Organization-

  Freedom Fighters of Israel,

  who was shot to death by the British on the top floor of this building, where he hid in a closet.”

  The entrance hall led to an open inner courtyard that was common to the buildings surrounding it. Anton saw a door in one of the walls, knocked on it and waited. The sound of footsteps was heard from inside the apartment and the door opened narrowly. Adam Ayalon dressed in a tricot shirt and shorts opened the door wide and welcomed him with a smile.

  Anton sat down in on a hard-backed armchair, looked around and asked, “Hey, why are you here?”

  “Ah, I moved here about two months ago. At this time of the day it’s quiet but during the day, the noise is terrible. Traffic, merchants and a lot of businesses around, but I love this quarter. It’s my old Florentine neighborhood.”

  “Great, it’s a wonderful neighborhood but I meant to ask why you’re living alone.”

  “Ah,” Adam laughed. “I understand. It’s just better for me now. The truth is that I have some problems and I don’t seem to be doing a good job of being a husband. I just seem to be ruining whatever good is left. So, I decided to leave and live on my own.”

  Adam poured some red wine into two glasses and offered one to Anton. He twirled th
e glass and stared into the wine.

  “Adam, listen,” Anton said. “I don’t want to meddle in your affairs, but I have been drawn into matters affecting you and apparently also into your problems and I’m concerned for you.”

  “Drawn in? What are you worried about?”

  “You know the saying, ‘one crime leads to another’? Perhaps that’s putting it a bit too harshly, but it seems to me that you’re out of control lately.”

  Adam frowned, looked at Anton and waited tensely for him to continue speaking.

  “It starts with a certain advocate and may end up with costing you your appointment as a judge.”

  Adam gulped down his drink and sighed. He lowered his gaze to the empty glass and was silent. Gloominess crept into the room and Adam went into the small kitchen and switched on the light on his way. He apologized that he would prepare something cold to drink right away and then peeked out from behind the kitchen door and asked;

  “Would you prefer something hot to drink? Tea, coffee?”

  “You know what? I’ll have coffee. In the meantime, I’m enjoying the view outside. It’s the first time I’ve looked out of an apartment window and only been able to see people’s legs. It’s most unusual and interesting.” He said and approached the window.

  Behind him, the clinking of cups was heard. Adam came carrying a tray with cups of black coffee and small plate of savory sesame bagels. A light bulb fused suddenly and startled them and they laughed.

  “I got a fright,” Adam said. “Look, I’m very tense. To tell the truth, everything here is very old and needs fixing, but I really love the place.”

  “If that’s the case, you could buy an apartment in this building and live here permanently, why did you come back here on a lease?

  “Right, that’s something to think about.” Adam said as he drank noisily from his cup. Afterwards, he pressed the remote control and his television set lit up.

  “It’s eight o’clock already. Let’s watch the news.” He said as he sank back in his armchair.