Dark Waters (14 page)

Maybe Cline had been trading for access to GG&B.

Tailing Cohen and Weizman down the hall, Jordan surveyed the surroundings. Cameras were mounted in the corners near the doorways. Solid steel doors lined the corridor. Magnetic key cards were required to open them. Cohen swiped her card at the last door on the left.

“This is where the maintenance carts are stocked. In addition to supplies, there is a time clock in here and a small TV for when the workers take their breaks.”

Jordan remembered the laptop in Tibi’s apartment and wondered if he’d ever used it here. “Are employees allowed to bring in their own computers?”

The supervisor looked uncomfortable and shook her head. Jordan avoided eye contact with Weizman.

“No,” Cohen said. “Najm and the others had no need for network access and had no time to sit around playing computer games. They were not even allowed to bring in iPods. No distractions. Just work.”

Weizman picked up on Jordan’s line of questioning. “Say he did want to gain access. How does GG&B control entry to the system?”

“I’m not at liberty to share that information,” Cohen said. The woman was on full alert.

“We’re only asking questions,” Weizman said.

“I told you. There is no way for him to have gained access.” Cohen’s hands trembled. The idea frightened her. Was she worried she might be blamed if there was a breach?

“Let me rephrase. Who controls access?”

Cohen set her jaw. “It’s controlled at the highest level.”

“Which is . . . ?”

Cohen straightened her shoulders. “It is a C-level decision. It’s up to the CEO and the COO. They decide who and the depth of access someone is given. For example, I am only allowed to view the maintenance records.” The scrunch of her face showed that it pained her to admit the imposed limit. It took only seconds for the smug look to reemerge. “Najm had access to nothing.”

“Didn’t you tell us that Tibi had access to the executive level?” Jordan said.

Weizman shot her another look, but Jordan felt the point was worth making. Someone with computer savvy could hack into almost any system, provided he had access to a computer and enough time.

Cohen shifted her weight foot to foot. Now she turned toward the hallway. “There is nothing for you to learn here.” Ushering them back into the hall, she checked to make sure the door was locked. “It is very sad about Najm. He was a good worker and a kind young man.”

Jordan thought of the butchered Dizengoff Apartments manager and the attempt to kidnap Lucy. Najm was a real prince, all right.

Weizman blocked Cohen’s retreat down the hall and jerked his head toward a door marked maintenance carts. To her obvious consternation, he ordered her to open the door and insisted on going over every inch of Tibi’s maintenance cart. Standing to the side, arms crossed over her chest, Cohen watched while Jordan helped Weizman sift through bottles of floor cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner, soap, and hand towel refills. A feather duster, mop, and broom sprouted from the holder on the end. They found nothing unusual.

Finally, he called off the search. “Ms. Cohen, you’ve been a great help.”

Cohen relaxed her shoulders and forced a smile.

“Now I’d like to see the executive floor,” Weizman said.

“I can’t allow that.” For the second time, Cohen seemed scared.

Weizman rubbed his chin. Finally, he asked, “Then who can?”

Cohen bounced her gaze from ceiling to floor and wall to wall. There was no escape. She glared at Weizman. “Peter Graff, our COO. I’ll see if he’s available.”

Weizman smiled. “Thank you.”

Back in the lobby, Jordan pulled Weizman aside while Cohen placed the call upstairs. “That woman is terrified.”

“She should be,” Weizman said. “She stands to lose her job.”

“Why? It isn’t her fault her employee was a terrorist.” Security appeared tight, and Jordan imagined there was an arduous employment screening process. “How can they fire her over something Tibi did?”

“She is head of the maintenance department.”

Cohen was in a no-win position. She oversaw a staff of Israeli Arabs that probably didn’t like her and that the other employees eyed with suspicion. No wonder she was reticent to call Graff.

Cohen spoke into the phone, handed the receiver to the receptionist, and walked toward them. “Mr. Graff is in a meeting. It may be a few minutes. Perhaps you’d rather come back?”

“Thank you,” Weizman said. “We’ll wait.”

Twenty minutes later, the carpet was wearing from Weizman’s pacing back and forth in the lobby, and Jordan’s nerves were frayed.

“That is not helping, Noah. Will you please sit down?” The words had barely escaped her mouth when the elevator doors opened. Jordan stood up.

Two men stepped off the elevator. One she recognized as Peter Graff, COO of GG&B Engineering. His picture in the company brochure did him justice. Tall and lean, his black Armani suit draped his thin frame and spoke of money. His dark hair was gelled into place, his tan was perfect, and his shoes were polished: the quintessential executive of a billion-dollar company.

Then Jordan looked at the other man and her world tilted. She recognized him from her past.

H
addid felt like a bird in the hand. Trapped.

After the shootout, he and the others had fled to the safe house. Yousif had been gravely injured. He still lived, but he needed a doctor. Fayez paced like a caged animal, each pivot ratcheting up Haddid’s anxiety. Basim was on the phone, explaining the situation to Zuabi.

“Yes,
Za’im
.”

Based on the high pitch of his voice, Haddid concluded that the conversation was not going well.

“The woman who was after the girl was the same woman that Haddid saw at Najm’s house. They took her away in handcuffs, but mark my words, she is Shabak.”

Haddid could hear Zuabi railing through the receiver.

“
Wuled el kakhbah
!” he shouted. Son of a bitch.

Basim bobbed his head up and down. “
Aasef, Za’im. Aasef!
”

Haddid thought it bad strategy for Basim to be apologizing. They were all being blamed.

“What is he saying?” Fayez said. “It is not our fault that a crazy woman charged in and ruined our plan.”

“Salaam, Za’im.”
Basim hung up the phone.

“So?” Fayez demanded. “What does he say?”

“He says that without the information, the mission is done.”

Fayez ignited into a frenzy. “How can he expect us to find the USB drive with Marine guards watching the apartment and Shabak involved? What does he expect from us? Maybe they have already found it. If we take the girl, the wrath of the Americans will come down upon us. There is nothing more we can do.”

“Zuabi doesn’t care about your fear,” Basim said. “He wants action.”

Haddid watched as the tension between the two men escalated. He did nothing to stop it. With Allah’s help, maybe they would kill each other.

“Are we supposed to blast our way in?” Fayez grabbed hold of Basim’s sleeve. “Did you tell him we are a man short? Did you tell him that Yousif is dying?”

“Calm yourself, Fayez, and lower your voice!” Basim yanked his arm free and gestured toward the bedroom where their friend lay dying. “Zuabi wants us to prove our loyalty. He fears one of us may be playing both sides.”

Haddid looked up and realized both men were staring at him. He swallowed, trying to control his fear. “You think it was me who sold out my brothers?”

“The Shabak agent let you walk away.”

“I did not walk. I
ran
.” Haddid looked from one to the other and placed his open hand on his heart. “I barely had time to escape with my life, and now I am back here with you to finish the job.” Haddid forced himself to show strength. If they sensed any hesitation on his behalf, his wife and son would be in grave danger. “Whatever Zuabi wants is what we will get.” He locked eyes with Basim and waited. At last, his cohort smiled.

“How are we going to get the information Zuabi wants?” Fayez asked. “We don’t even know where to begin. We don’t even know if the child has what Zuabi wants. How do we know the
Americans don’t have it by now? Or worse, Shabak. There’s no way the three of us can sneak past the guards and into that apartment. It is an impossible task.”

“Enough!” Basim ordered. “Shut up, Fayez. You babble like a little girl.” Basim stared toward the bedroom where Yousif lay injured. “Do you remember what Zuabi said as we left?”

“He said, ‘Don’t come back empty-handed,’” Haddid said, feeling a new fear niggling at the pit of his stomach. “What are you thinking, Basim?”

“We may not be able to get our hands on the child, but we have access to another bargaining chip.”

Haddid’s stomach churned like a washing machine. “What are you saying?”

“The girl goes to the office of Alena Petrenko.”

“The doctor,” Fayez said. “This means she is sick.” He grinned, but then his smile faded. “Wait! How is this good?”

A wave of nausea enveloped Haddid. He didn’t like the direction Basim was going with this.

“The doctor is not a normal type of physician. While you tended to Yousif, I did a little research,” Basim held up his smartphone. “Dr. Petrenko has a website. On it, she describes herself as a ‘bioenergy healer.’ She claims she can cure patients by ‘realigning their energy flow.’”

“She sounds like a lunatic Jew,” Fayez said.

Basim grinned. “To me, she sounds like someone taking advantage of a man desperate to save his daughter. The question is, to what lengths will he go to save the only doctor he believes can cure her?”

“He will give everything,” Haddid said, thinking of his own Sami. “Provided he has it to give. You understand he may not have what we want. If the Americans found the USB drive, there will be no more trades.”

“There is one way to find out,” Fayez said. “It is better than sitting around here waiting for Yousif to die, or for Zuabi to decide we are not to be trusted.”

“Fine,” Haddid said. “I will go.” Then he could warn the doctor and buy himself time to figure a way out of this mess.

He started to rise when Basim cut him off. “No, Haddid. You have done enough. You will stay here with Yousif. Fayez and I will take care of this.”

J
ordan stared at the Russian standing beside Peter Graff. Had he recognized her? She had changed a lot in nineteen years, but he had hardly changed at all. The decades had turned his blond hair white and softened his carriage, but his blue eyes still shone like freshly glazed ice, and his mouth curved in a smile that never moved past his lips.

The last time she had seen him, she had been six years old, standing over her father’s casket, watching this man comfort her mother. Jordan remembered that when he knelt down to hug her, she had pulled back, and her mother had scolded her. Jordan had never expected to see him again and had never wanted to see him. But she had not forgotten him—would never forget him—and the shock of encountering him left her stunned.

The man shook hands with Graff and headed toward the door. Jordan tracked his movements until he disappeared from sight. Then she edged away from Weizman to stand near the large windows. The Russian walked down the steps toward a dark sedan at the curb. Her heart slammed against her sore ribs, adding to the pain of memories.

“I can’t believe he beat us here,” Weizman said.

“Who?”

“Ilya Brodsky. The man with Graff. He’s Batya Ganani’s boss.”

“That’s not possible.”

Weizman frowned. “Jordan, are you okay?”

She shook her head to clear it. “I know that man. Twenty years ago he lived in Russia. I think he worked for the government.”

“What are you talking about?” Weizman demanded.

Jordan gripped his arm. “Keep your voice down!”

The lobby was empty except for the four of them. Graff and the receptionist were engaged in conversation and fortunately didn’t show any interest in Weizman and Jordan’s discussion.

Jordan leaned in toward Weizman. “I’m telling you, that man is from St. Petersburg. He was a friend of my father’s.”

“You must be mistaken. Brodsky is from Ukraine. He’s an Orthodox Jew. There is no way he ever worked for the Russians.”

Jordan couldn’t shake her memories. “I’m not wrong, Noah. He used to come to our house. My father introduced him to me as
Dyadya
Ilya—Uncle Ilya.”

“Go on.”

“He frightened me. My father explained that he was a very powerful man, named after a
bogatyr
, Ilya Muromets.”

“What is a
bogatyr
?”

“It’s a mythical Russian figure similar to the Western knight-errant. Muromets was considered the greatest
bogatyr
. He was known for his spiritual power, integrity, and dedication to his homeland. There are many Russian stories about his exploits.”

“Muromets sounds like a positive role model.”

“I think that’s how
Dyadya
Ilya fancied himself.” By Jordan’s recollection, he laughed too loud and drank too much vodka. Her mother always seemed nervous when he was around.

He had come to their house two days before her father’s death. Jordan had been reading in the living room when she heard her father arguing with him in the den. Creeping to the door, she peered inside to see her father seated on the sofa with Ilya, standing
before him, yelling. He had told her father that he would never be allowed to leave Russia. Two days later, her father was dead.

The last time she saw Ilya had been at the cemetery. Her mother had wept in his arms. Moments later, he bent to Jordan’s level, flashed a thin smile, and told her how sorry he was. She would never forget his cold, blue eyes—or her feeling that he had lied.

“Detective Weizman.” This time it was Graff’s voice that penetrated her thoughts. The sedan was no longer at the curb. Ilya Brodsky had disappeared into the bustle of Haifa.

The COO of GG&B crossed the lobby toward them, and Jordan did her best to concentrate.

Weizman plunged right in. “We have some questions regarding the death of Najm Tibi.”

“Yes, yes,” said Graff, “Terrible thing. Your office called.” The COO shrugged. “I’m afraid Shin Bet beat you to it. I’ve just spent the last hour going over the files and computer records with Colonel Brodsky. We found nothing out of the ordinary.”

Jordan tried making eye contact with Graff, but he kept his focus slightly off target.

“No suspicious activities?” Weizman asked.

“Not a thing.” Graff sounded too casual. He was covering up something. “Tibi was exactly who he seemed to be. A maintenance man. There was nothing sinister going on.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we looked for ourselves,” said Weizman.

This time, Graff made eye contact. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Detective.” His gaze flitted to Jordan. “This has moved beyond all our pay grades.”

Weizman’s expression hardened, but he remained silent.

Graff was an American, so Jordan tried the patriotic card. “This is an official investigation about a possible act of treason. Your government would appreciate your cooperation.”

Graff sized her up. “I appreciate your concerns, but Colonel Brodsky assures me that he’s handling this matter himself. If you have any questions, I suggest you speak with him. Now, if there’s nothing more . . . ?”

Jordan was stymied by his lack of cooperation. When neither she nor Weizman spoke, the COO nodded and turned away. The tassels on his loafers bounced as he walked. Once the elevator doors had closed, Jordan spun on Weizman.

“Why would the colonel involve himself in this investigation? There must be something really important at stake.”

“Yes. Israel’s national security,” Weizman said, heading for the exit. “Just like you are concerned about America’s. If he’s keeping something quiet, it’s for a good reason.”

Jordan trailed Weizman through the outside doors and down the steps. “So that’s it? We just go back? Five people are dead.”

Weizman hesitated slightly. “It is what it is.”

“Can’t you call someone and get a warrant? Somehow force Graff to let us in?”

Weizman reached the curb and turned. “That’s not how it works in Israel.”

“This is our investigation. Surely you can arrange a subpoena.”

“Not now.”

“You know as well as I do that Graff knows something. How can you let that go?”

Weizman moved around the cars. “Once Shabak takes over, it is out of my hands. I’ll make an official request for answers, but for now, my hands are tied.”

With their investigation into GG&B Engineering derailed, Jordan walked toward the car. Without Weizman, there would be no access to GG&B. Daugherty had ordered her to stay clear. If he found out she had disobeyed his orders, he might yank her off the case.

“What about going through back channels?” Jordan asked. She had no illusions about Brodsky sharing, but Weizman had to have contacts.

He depressed the car door opener, and the car beeped as the doors unlocked. “Shabak is not large on reciprocity. Their policy is ‘need to know,’ and only when it serves them.”

That made sense. From her memories and the little she knew about Brodsky, he was a man who thrived on control. If only they could gain access to the information he wanted to hide.

“How much do you know about the colonel?” she asked.

“Brodsky?” Weizman buckled his seatbelt. “He is the son of Holocaust survivors, immigrated to Israel in the early nineties.” Weizman inserted the key in the ignition. “He’s an honorable man, a great asset, and loves this country. He has a big heart.”

That didn’t sound like the man she knew as a child. Even at six years old, Jordan had picked up on his lack of emotion. He didn’t seem to care much for anything or anyone. He viewed her father as a catalyst, a means to an end, though he did have a soft spot for her mother.

“Do you know what the Russians thought of Israel?” she asked.

Weizman cranked the engine and shoved the car into gear. “Why do you keep insisting he was affiliated with their government?”

“Because I think I can prove it.” Jordan pulled out her cell. There might be a picture.

A green light on her phone indicated she had a message. Swiping the screen, she discovered two missed calls from embassy phones and a voicemail message waiting. Something had happened.