Disappearance (13 page)

CHAPTER 12

Motti's house was centrally situated in a new settlement called Timorim on a ridge overlooking the Jezreel valley. The house was large and comfortable. Motti's dad, a construction foreman by trade, built them a two-storey palace.   The second floor was part living quarters with the rest being   a   huge  patio overlooking the valley.  Motti, who was heavily into music and sound recording, turned the magnificent patio into the center stage of the Jezreel valley nightlife.  He erected a stack of powerful loud speakers at the house end of the patio facing the valley, driving them to the limit with state-of-the-art amplifiers and disc jockey equipment from a glass booth he designed adjacent to his bedroom wall.  The rest was a bare dance floor.   In the summer he would cast his spell on the valley and no one dared miss his parties with beer and drinks at cost and a chance to mate.

Eitan and Motti were school classmates. Eitan was one of the few people who did not religiously attend Motti's parties, but he was always an honored guest.

They arrived late in the hunting Jeep, walked in hand in hand, and were immediately surrounded by friends and acquaintances.   Naomi was swept away to the dance floor.  Eitan put his hands to his ears trying to block the thunderous music and discern what people were saying to him.

Someone caught him from behind and forced him back into the house.   Too surprised to resist, he felt himself being virtually dragged into Motti's bedroom.

Lieutenant Nadav Carmon, in civilian clothes, was sliding the glass door behind them, shutting out the noise.

"What in the...?" Eitan began protesting.

The lieutenant approached him, flashing a photo in his face.

"Are you insane?" Eitan objected, ignoring the photo.

"Take a good look Eitan," Nadav said with a sense of urgency that surprised Eitan.  He tried to focus on the photo but could not comprehend what he was seeing

"Know what it is?" Nadav persisted.

"Not really, Nadav!"  Eitan objected once more, a little angry at the inconsiderate tactics.

"It's from the negatives you found Wednesday!"

"The raid..?" Eitan queried, surprised.

The lieutenant nodded silently.  Eitan took a closer look.  He studied the photo carefully but failed to see the point.  He looked at the lieutenant for help.

"The girl's name is Karen Glass," Nadav offered.  Eitan gave him a blank stare.

"She was kidnapped three years ago near Kiryat Shmona and never found.”

Eitan's heart missed a beat.  He recalled the incident instantly. The hunters were asked to assist in the search.   They had talked about it for weeks.

He needed to make sure he understood what was being said. "This turned up in the film I found on those terrorists?"

Nadav nodded silently.

Eitan was beginning to understand.  "Why are you telling me this?" he suddenly asked, suspiciously.  "I thought I was an intelligence hazard.”

"You are," Nadav said, managing a half smile, "but this time I need you.”

Eitan kept silent, staring unconvinced at the intelligence officer, waiting for further explanations.

"Have  a  seat  and  listen  to  the  rest  of  it,"  Nadav  said assertively.

They sat down on Motti's bed.  Nadav pointed to the photo. "See the skinny, mean-looking guy?  He was one of the three you guys eliminated.”

Eitan swallowed hard.

"He is, or was, Abdul Haleem Shams, also known as Raul. One
of  the  most notorious terrorists in our area. We've been after him for years.”

He paused to let Eitan appreciate the magnitude of the event. "See the big dude with the mustache?   That's Abu Mustafa Kaddam, Raul's partner, simply known as Mustafa.  He's just as bad.”

Eitan turned and closely studied the lieutenant. He seemed too concerned not to be sincere.

"You still haven't answered my question," he persisted.  "Why are you involving me?"

The lieutenant wasn't finished. He took out the other two photos.

"See the village showing through the window?" he asked with growing excitement pointing at the right photo.

Eitan nodded.

"I had it cross checked with aerial photographs.” He paused, setting the stage for his dramatic conclusion.

"And…" Eitan said impatiently.

"This Arab village is none other than Jalabia, just a few miles north of Kibbutz Geffen, the place where the girl had been staying.”

Eitan recalled the search stories. There wasn't a stone in the Upper Galilee or the Golan Heights that had not been turned.

"When were these photos taken?"

"Must have been close to the time of the abduction."

"How can you tell?"

"Current aerial photographs of the village show a significant difference in building formations," Nadav explained.              "The formations in our photo are much closer to the layout in aerial photographs from about three years ago.”

Eitan nodded knowingly and Nadav went on.

"I'm supposed to turn in my report on Sunday but I got a strange feelin' about this one.  I did some cross-checking on the story through old newspaper articles.  My gut tells me I better dig in a little deeper before I turn it in.”

"What's your plan, Nadav?" Eitan asked impatiently.

"Interview a newspaper reporter!"

"Are you out of your mind?   You want to get the press involved in this?"

"No, I just want to talk to the reporter who followed the story.”

"Can you make sure he'll keep quiet?"

"I can't be sure of anything Eitan, but from what I gather, something happened that  made  her  lose  interest  mighty quick.”

"Are you authorized…?"

"No," the lieutenant cut him off. "That's why I want you with me.”

"I don't get it," Eitan muttered.

"I need you to corroborate the story.”

"With whom?"

"The reporter.”

"Bullshit Nadav!"  Eitan erupted.  "One look at these photos is all the corroboration you need.”

The lieutenant lowered his gaze.  They were silent for a while before Eitan got up and approached the sliding glass door.

"When were you planning to see this reporter?"

"Tonight, right after seeing you.”

"Sorry old pal but I'll take a rain check on this one. I have less than two months to go and I'd hate to get myself in trouble. Besides, Naomi would hang me if I left her alone tonight.  I'd advise you to think this over real good before you stick your nose where it doesn't belong, but I know it's useless.  You've made your decision.”

The lieutenant nodded fatefully, attempting a final desperate plea as Eitan slid the glass door open.

"Since when did you start avoiding trouble?" he shouted over the deafening party noise.  But Eitan had already disappeared in the rowdy crowd.  Nadav placed the photos back in his shirt pocket, fetched his briefcase and stood up to leave.

Eitan was right, he thought.  He knew better than to bypass military   regulations,   especially   with   delicate   intelligence matters, a business that was supposed to be done straight by the book.  He slid out through the bedroom's front door and quickly moved down the stairs through the peaceful house. Motti's parents were never around at party time.

"Leaving so soon?"  He heard a voice challenge him playfully. She had followed  him  through Motti's bedroom and was watching him from atop the stairs.  Nadav barely managed a smile.

"Sorry Malka, there's a few things I got to take care of..." he began apologizing.

"It's one o'clock at night," she said disappointedly, "for God's sake, chill out soldier!"

"I can't," he argued, tempted to drop the entire matter, "I've got to leave now.”

She began moving seductively down the stairs twisting her body with every step.  Her long tanned legs moved gracefully toward him.  Her pretty face radiated desire.

Nadav began to stagger back only to be confined by the front door.  She pinned him to it.  He smelled her breath.  She was noticeably drunk.  She began unbuttoning his shirt.  He gently caught her hands.

"Malka, please…"

"Come on, soldier boy, let's repeat last week's performance," she mumbled unsoundly, ignoring his pleas.  He looked into the glassy brown eyes.  They fluctuated in and out of focus. He picked her up and carried her to the living room couch. She kissed his face and guided his hand between her legs.  He kissed her back and felt her body go limp, then he fetched a blanket from an adjacent room, carefully covered her, and slipped out of the house, wishing her sweet dreams.

I'll make it up to her, he promised himself.

The party on the second floor patio was in full swing, sending music waves across the peaceful countryside.  He located his military Jeep among the numerous scattered vehicles and jumped on board.

Eitan was waiting in the passenger seat.

"What was that you said about avoiding trouble hotshot?"

"Oh, nothing," replied the lieutenant, relieved to see him there. They smiled at each other.

"What made you change your mind?"

"Three things," Eitan began, counting with his fingers.  "One, you aroused my curiosity.  Two, I feel partly responsible, and three, I'd hate myself if I didn't help you make an ass of yourself," he concluded with a triumphant grin.

"I'll accept that," the lieutenant laughed, igniting the Jeep.
"What about Naomi?" he added as they pulled onto the dirt road overlooking the sparkling valley.

"She'll get over it," Eitan said smiling knowingly, "she always has.”

"I'm sure they will," Nadav mumbled partly to himself.

"Where we goin'?"
  Eitan hollered over the distracting engine noise.

"Tel Aviv," Nadav replied, flooring the gas pedal, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

CHAPTER 13

Sarah Price had had a bad day.

It started at four in the morning with her chasing a drug smuggling story in Bedouin villages around the southern town of Beer Sheba.  She was following a lead offered through her intricate web of informants, expecting to witness an all-out bust of Arab drug dealers smuggling heroin across the Negev, but by the time the desert sun had climbed significantly over the Syrian-African fault, Sarah had realized she was chasing ghosts.

It was a worthless tip.  Neither the police nor the smugglers showed up.  When she finally decided to give in, she found herself practically dehydrated, on a deserted hill, among an assembly of camels and numerous desert insects.

She reached her apartment in Tel Aviv at eleven that morning finding two messages from eager newspaper editors and a message from her mother complaining for the millionth time about her dad “forgetting” to  take care of the transfer of ownership on the apartment. She threw her gear on the bed and stripped down to her panties.  Frantically, she rolled open her windows, hoping for any kind of breeze that would relieve the unbearable heat.

It did not help much. The humid air stood still.

She opened a side door and stood half naked on her tiny balcony overlooking the smog saturated city, feeling the sweat pour down her body.

It was a typical, mid-morning, commotion-filled upheaval, in the streets down below.  Cars were stuck in the entrance to the parking lot. Horns were blowing left and right, drivers were ready to go at each other, and the police as usual, were nowhere to be found.  The small shops and restaurants were hysterically active with shopping traffic. A band of taxi drivers from the station at the end of the street stood around a Lotto stand and children on summer vacation ran around aimlessly. Sarah wondered how sanity was kept under these conditions and was instantly reminded
of  her reality with a whiff of strong aroma making its way up from the French restaurant she resided above.

She went back inside, aimed her clamorous antique fan inches
from the cluttered bed and stretched out in front of it.  It blew warm air but succeeded in drying her body.   She debated whether to call her mom.  Unwilling to get involved, she had made her stand clear. Let her deal with father on her own.

He had left them for another, when Sarah was five.  Eliezer Price, the big time corporate lawyer, moved in with his secretary, arranged a swift divorce, and relocated to Haifa.  Nurit Price was left with Sarah and two-year-old Uri.  Sarah had often wondered why her mother never remarried.   It wasn't from lack of eager pursuers, she knew that for a fact, nor was it from a love still kindling for the old man.  It was, Sarah suspected, the result of a victim complex she developed since her dad left them, a complex so entrenched it would not allow her to get on with her own life and it seemed her mother was set on fully exploiting her misfortune.

Initially Sarah became the link between her parents, privy to their fights and occasionally conciliating.

When he turned twelve, Uri was "convinced" by both parties he needed a father figure, moved in with his dad.  Sarah was heartbroken.   Her little brother was her only solace through trying times. She became distant, shutting herself from painful family matters, concentrating on her studies and on bettering her social position.

Smiling to herself, she recalled the ironic circumstances that brought about her flourishing correspondence career.

She became the senior editor of her high school's news flyer, a year after joining as a junior reporter.  She had wanted to impress the friends who had helped her attain the flyer's entry level position, and ended up uncovering a juvenile car thief ring a few of them were involved in.  She lost her popularity with the friends she turned in, but gained the respect of her fellow reporters.  The flyer's senior editor soon recommended her as his replacement when he graduated.

At seventeen she knew her career was destined to involve the media.  She spent her pre-military time working for minimum wage as an assistant reporter for Haaretz, the country's leftist newspaper.

Her two-year military service was spent as a reporter for Galei Tsahal, the IDF radio, and shortly after completing her service, she registered as a communications major at Tel Aviv University.

Supporting her studies by working as an investigative reporter for Maariv,  one  of  the  country's  leading  tabloids,  she completed her bachelor's degree with honors three years later, becoming a freelance investigative reporter right out of the shoot.  Armed with seven years of journalism experience she felt she could outperform regular newspaper employees and make a better living at it.

Using her savings to buy a 1969 Volkswagen Beetle, Sarah left her mother's comfortable three-bedroom apartment in Ramat Hasharon for a one-room studio on Maccabi Street in the heart of Tel Aviv.  Three years later, she had become one of the most sought after freelance reporters in the country, catering to any form of media that had use of her talents. Television was becoming a hot item but newspapers remained Sarah's favorite.   They provided her with the most freedom and allowed her to bring forth her creative writing talents.

She had a lean, five feet four inch frame, with rather small breasts rarely supported by a bra.  Rather careful observation was needed to detect the charm under her untarnished look. Her ivory skin was contrasted with silky black hair cut very short, giving her a manly appearance. Her face was a unique blend of sharp features and smooth satin skin.  Her nose was pointy and straight, her lips were thin and pale, and her eye sockets were somewhat puffed, giving her narrow-grooved almond eyes, an oriental look.  Her typical dress code included well starched jeans, a tee-shirt, dark sunglasses, a pair of hiking sandals, a worn out backpack where she kept her travel and reporting  gear,  and  an  assortment  of  baseball  caps  she collected over the years from friends who traveled to America.

As she lay on her bed daydreaming, absent-mindedly wiping the sweat off her body, she marveled at her ambivalent life, wondering if she could ever settle down.  She was undeniably attractive when she made an effort, but men, though not from lack of trying, had a difficult time tolerating her erratic life style. Being more absorbed with chasing hot news
items, she never managed to develop a meaningful relationship.

She decided to ignore the messages.

The phone woke her up at two.   It was Menachem Rivlin, senior editor for Maariv.

"Wake you up, Sarah?" he asked cheerfully.

"Yeah…" she answered lethargically, trying to focus her thoughts.

"Find any drug smugglers down south?"  He carried on in his merry mood.

"You know it was a flop Rivlin!  What are you so cheerful about?"

"Nothing in particular, just
like to prove you wrong once in a while."   He had practically begged her to follow a different story the night before.

"Did you call just to rub my face in it or do you have anything of substance to say?"

"As a matter of fact I do have something, Sarah.  I just received another report substantiating the child abuse account from yesterday. Are you interested?"

"Lay it on me Rivlin, I'll take anything at this point," she said, hating the theme but needing the money.  Child abuse cases made her stomach cringe.

"It's a kindergarten in Netanyah.  Reports have been coming in about filth, neglect, and child abuse.  Several parents have filed complaints to no avail.”

"Why don't they pull their kids out of there?" she said irritably.

"Beats me, Sarah. From what I gather, it is still operating under dreadful conditions.”

"Who's the director and where do I find him?"

"The director and owner lives in Netanyah North.  His kindergarten is in midtown.”

"Phone numbers?"

"The kindergarten should be in the phone book."

"How late are they open?"

"Can you make it there before four-thirty?"

"No problem Rivlin, I'll have the story on your desk Sunday morning.”

"I'm sure you will Sarah." He clicked off.

She hopped out of bed, brushed her teeth, studying her weary look in the mirror, slipped into fresh underwear and put her morning clothes back on.  The Beetle was boiling hot as  she  opened  its  creaking  door  and  slithered  in,  getting burned by the blazing seat and barely able to hold on to the heat-radiating steering wheel.  She pulled out of her confined sidewalk parking space, sweating profusely once again, and sped down a few narrow side streets, short-cutting several major trouble spots.   She eventually merged with the jam packed main road connecting Netanyah and Tel Aviv and commenced battling the northbound traffic.

She reached the kindergarten at three.  It was deserted.

A ragged looking one-storey building, it had an equally impoverished-looking playground.  Its once polished yellow paint was now pale and peeling. Cracks could be seen running diagonally across its walls and along the sidewalk leading to its rusty front gate.

She found the place broken into and entered its shabby front office.

She surveyed the office, letting her eyes adjust to the dim interior. The sauna-like heat had a lingering soggy stench.  A metal filing cabinet stood locked behind an office desk facing the entrance. She peeked inside the toilet adjacent to the front office and then opened the door to the adjoining room.   It was a rather large hall with
several metal cribs to one side and an empty activity space surrounded by broken shelves.  Two large ceiling fans hovered above, standing still in the airless room.   Some of the darkened shades that were left open provided her with enough light to inspect the place.

She took a closer look at the rusty cribs and looked around. There were no other adjoining rooms except for two small toilet chambers.   She went over to look at them.   An aging carcass stench came from within one of them.   She hit the light switches in the small rooms and quickly surveyed both.

Two dead mice lay on their backs in the bigger of the toilet chambers.    She shuddered, feeling goosebumps spreading across her body. She despised mice, especially dead ones.

-------

“I've lost it...” she thought, summing up the last 24 hours. Rivlin will not have his story and she had just wasted a full day chasing fairytales.  She shook her head in disgust, angry at herself for being so careless.

The French bar and restaurant beneath her apartment was where she ended up on such dreadful days.  She sat dejected on a barstool, draining her frustration in a glass of scotch, wondering what had gone wrong.

Two young men walked in.  The bartender motioned them in her direction.

"Sarah Price?" the taller of the two asked.

"Who wants to know?" she asked drunkenly.  It was three in the morning and she was in no mood for conversations.

"I'm Nadav Carmon and this is Eitan Barlev."

She looked at them dumbly.

"Is there a place we could talk privately?" 
the tall one asked seriously.

"Talk," she blurted, looking around, "we seem to be alone."

They exchanged glances.  The tall one took something out of his shirt pocket and stuck it in front of her face.

"You recognize the female?"

It took her a while to focus on the photo, and a while longer to locate the female, but when she finally identified who she was seeing, a sickening feeling engulfed her and she sobered up instantly.

"Why do you ask?" she queried weakly.

"Do you recognize her?" the man pressed on.

"Yeah," she admitted, realizing it was pointless to deny.

"Then let's talk."

CHAPTER 14

Sarah led them up the narrow stairway to her apartment.  She fussed with the lock, pushed the door open, flicked on the lights and invited them to sit on her bed.

She excused herself, seeking the solace of her tiny bathroom, stuck her head under the sink and drained
herself in cold water.  She needed to organize her thoughts.  Her head was pounding.  The Karen Glass affair had resurfaced.  It was her very first scoop coming out of school.   Celebrating her graduation in the northernmost town of Metula, she had received an urgent call from Rivlin instructing her to 'get her pretty ass' to Kiryat Shmona to cover the case.

She dried her head and face with the towel, took a deep breath and stepped out.

The two sat uncomfortably on the bed.

"Who are you guys?" she demanded, feeling a bit more stable.

"Never mind that," the tall one said, "we just need you to answer a few questions.”

"Look," she snapped, "I'm in no mood for an interrogation of any sort.  If you want anything out of me you better state your claim or scram out of here. Do we understand one another?"

The shorter, stockier one spoke for the first time.