Lineup (21 page)
ZIV
was about to give up hope. He’d been waiting at the top of the highway ramp for half an hour, and no one had showed up. A few cars slowed down, but none of them stopped. Why didn’t they come? Whoever “they” were.
The cold of the early December night reached down to his bones. He shifted his weight from foot to foot in an effort to keep warm. Then a squad car came by and he turned his back to the road. The last thing he needed now was to be picked up again for a rape he didn’t commit and miss his meeting with Faro.
When he saw the silver Land Rover slowing down around the curve, he figured it was another false alarm. But he was wrong. The car pulled up beside him, the front door was thrown open, and a man he didn’t recognize ordered him to get in. He spoke with an Arabic accent.
This time, the man in the back wasn’t Meshulam. Ziv’s relief was nipped in the bud when he heard the click of the doors locking. There was no chance he’d be able to get away again. There was no trick he could pull that would get him out of here.
A shiver went through him when he saw they were on the road to Shaar Ephraim. Why the hell were they taking him to the West Bank?
He hoped the soldier at the border crossing would order them to stop, or at least ask where they were going, but he just gave them a bored look and waved them through. He didn’t seem to care why an Israeli car was heading to a place no more than spitting distance from Tulkarem at one thirty in the morning. He looked at the winding road up ahead. At this time of night, it was totally deserted. This wasn’t the first time he’d been here. He’d passed through the same border crossing dozens of times as a soldier. But then he’d been traveling in an armored military jeep and carrying a weapon, not riding unarmed and unprotected in a civilian car, being transported to an unknown destination. Back then he thought he was invincible, that the difference between wishing for something and making it happen was only a matter of believing in yourself. What a naive fool he’d been.
A car was coming toward them at high speed, its headlights blinding him. He knew that what he was doing was crazy, but what choice did he have? What other course of action could he take? If he didn’t do what they wanted, they’d hurt Gili. The only way to get them off his back was to convince them he hadn’t informed on them to the cops, that the fact they were looking to charge him with another rape was proof enough he hadn’t said anything.
A car appeared behind them, sitting on their tail. The driver leaned on the horn. Was he going to end up getting killed in a car crash? He turned to look at the man beside him, but he kept his eyes focused indifferently straight ahead, apparently unconcerned by the car no more than a couple of yards back.
All of a sudden, the second car sped up and passed them, disappearing around the next bend in the road. Ziv peered out the window. All he saw was darkness. What would he do if they ordered him out of the car here in the middle of nowhere? Or worse, they could order him to get out and then shoot him, leaving his dead body by the side of the road. Maybe that’s what Faro wanted, to stage his death to look like the work of terrorists.
They passed a sign showing the distance to Shufa, Safarin, and Beit Lid. Not far beyond was the settlement Einav. Where were they taking him? The sound of a ringtone made him jump. The driver answered, speaking rapidly in Arabic. After disconnecting the call, he said a few words to the man in the back, and Ziv saw him nod in response through the rearview mirror.
Another car appeared close behind them, blinking its lights. The driver slowed and stopped on the side of the road. The second car passed them and pulled up in front. It was a Subaru van. Clearly, the operation had been mapped out very carefully. Nothing was being left to chance.
“Get out,” the driver commanded. Ziv heard the sound of the doors unlocking.
He stepped outside, his body trembling from fear and cold. This was his last opportunity to change his mind. He wouldn’t get another one. He might still be able to make a run for it and try to lose them in the darkness. Why was he doing this? Why the fuck was he sticking his head in the lion’s mouth?
He knew why. He had no choice. He’d been over it a million times in his head and each time he reached the same conclusion.
Taking a deep breath, he strode quickly toward the van. The back door was open, a sign for him to get in.
MESHULAM
figured he must be hearing things when he thought he recognized Nevo’s name in a phone conversation one of George’s guys was conducting in Arabic. Impossible. What did they know about Nevo?
He hadn’t been here long, but he was already climbing the walls. He was forced to sit like a prisoner in a tiny room in a godforsaken village in the middle of the West Bank, surrounded by Arabs. In an endless cycle, he paced back and forth, sat down on the bed, got up, and paced again. He didn’t have a moment of peace. The idea that he was responsible for Faro being under arrest was driving him crazy. The worst part was that there was nothing he could do about it.
The man was still talking on the phone. Meshulam lay down on the bed. It was late. Maybe he could get some sleep. At least it would be a way to pass the time. Tomorrow or the next day he’d go back and resume the search for Nevo. He was closing his eyes when he heard Nevo’s name again. What was wrong with him? When did he start hearing voices? Was the hunt for Nevo fucking with his brain?
He got up and opened the door. Samir, at least he thought that was his name, stopped in midsentence and stared at him, the phone still pressed to his ear. The two organizations had an efficient working relationship, what Faro liked to call “synergy.” George brought the drugs in from Lebanon to the West Bank, and Faro sold them in Israel.
Meshulam motioned for him to ignore him. He wanted to be sure he’d heard right, that he hadn’t imagined it. But Samir was obviously surprised to see him there, probably thinking he was asleep. He ended his conversation with an abrupt “yalla.”
“Who were you talking about?” Meshulam asked.
Samir didn’t answer. To be honest, he hadn’t expected an answer. He knew very well that wasn’t the sort of question he was allowed to ask.
“Did I hear you mention Ziv Nevo?” He had to know.
Samir turned his back and walked away in silence.
Meshulam knew he shouldn’t be doing this, that he was taking a big risk, but he couldn’t stop himself. He called the attorney, Shuki Borochov, to try to find out why George’s people were talking about Nevo. If anyone knew the answer, it would be Borochov.
“You won’t believe it,” Borochov said when Meshulam made the call from a public phone half an hour later. The tense wait for an opportunity to slip away almost drove him out of his mind. “All the cops in the country are looking for the stupid motherfucker, and out of the blue he contacts Noam and says he wants to talk to Faro.”
“Faro? What about?” Meshulam asked, stunned. Why would Nevo want to talk to Faro? Did he know the bomb was his idea?
“The asshole didn’t even know that Faro was arrested.” Borochov laughed maliciously.
“What did he want to talk to him about?” Meshulam asked, cutting off the lawyer’s hearty laughter.
“Noam says the guy’s clueless. Nevo told him he’s innocent, he didn’t rape anyone, he needs help.”
“What kind of help?” Meshulam was still having a hard time making sense of it all.
“Maybe he needs money, an attorney, you know, help. What difference does it make what he wants? Noam’s got a brain in his head. He called me right away, and I did the math,” the lawyer said, sounding very pleased with himself.
“What do you mean?” Meshulam couldn’t stand the way Borochov was always patting himself on the back.
“We can use the idiot to negotiate with the cops. He gives us leverage. They’re dying to get their hands on him.”
“So he’s coming here?” Meshulam was beginning to understand.
“You got it. It’s a good thing you’re there. A real stroke of luck. You keep an eye on him. Faro needs him. He could be his ticket out.”
NACHUM
was lying on his side on the lumpy hospital bed, gazing out the window at the city below. Despite the splendid view of the low-rise buildings crowded together in the foreground and the blue sea beyond, he was anxious and restless. For the twenty years he’d been a cop, no one had ever questioned his loyalty. He’d always seen himself as a company man. Although he himself was critical of certain procedures, he’d steadfastly defended the force whenever it was attacked, emphasizing the good work they did that never made it into the papers and proudly wearing the shield. And now he of all people was about to do something that could only be defined as the exact opposite of loyalty.
He stared in frustration at his bandaged knee. If only he could, he’d go it alone. But that wasn’t possible. He needed help. All morning he’d debated whether or not to make the call. He still wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing.
Yes, he could call Ohad and tell him what he’d found out. But the simple truth was, he didn’t want to. This was his investigation, and he intended to see it through. He’d show Ohad and Navon and all the other backstabbers in the precinct that he wasn’t dead yet. He could still do his job. They didn’t deserve to have the fruits of his labor fall into their lap so easily. His ribs were aching, impelling him to change position. Besides, it was his mistake and his responsibility to fix it. Being on suspension made it that much harder for him. He didn’t have any authority or the resources of the system to rely on. But it also helped him see things from a fresh perspective, without any vested interest. He wouldn’t get in the cops’ way, but he wouldn’t give them a leg up either. We’ll see who gets to the finish line first, he thought.
There was a soft rapping on the door. He turned his head quickly, flinching from the pain.
Before he could say, “Come in,” Amit Giladi walked through the door and stood by the bed, shocked at the sight of his battered face.
“What happened to you?” he asked incredulously.
THE
last time they’d met had been in his office, when he’d tried to convince Giladi that the Regev case was still a high priority and they were making every effort to find the rapist. The reporter had been skeptical. His questions were pointed and snide, and he’d refused to accept his explanations. There was something disconcerting about Giladi. A pale, skinny guy, he looked harmless and insubstantial, but when Nachum tried to brush him off with vague answers, he proved to be very determined.
Other reporters tried to ingratiate themselves with him in the hope of gaining his cooperation, but Giladi never made an effort to be likable. He asked probing questions with dogged persistence. Nachum despised him as much as he despised every other journalist he’d ever come into contact with, but he had to admire this quality in him. In a way, he reminded him of himself.
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Nachum said, gesturing to the bright orange plastic chair by his bed.
Amit didn’t take him up on the invitation to sit. He just stood where he was, staring at Nachum, waiting for the answer to his question. The detective had no intention of satisfying his curiosity.
“I want you to help me catch the north Tel Aviv rapist,” he said quietly.
Giladi looked at him in surprise. “You mean Ziv Nevo?” he asked.
“No,” Eli said, shaking his head. A wave a pain shot through his jaw. “The real sonofabitch.”
The reporter listened in silence as Nachum expounded on his theory of the rapist’s personality. He debated whether to tell him about Mrs. Glazer and the tattoo she’d seen or about the rings taken from the two victims but decided to keep the information to himself for the time being. He’d share those facts with Giladi if he showed himself to be reliable. And it was a good idea to hold on to a few things he could use later as incentives to keep the reporter going if their independent investigation got bogged down, as investigations often did. “Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?” Amit asked when Nachum was done.
The plan had taken shape in his mind last night after he talked with Michael Aronov. Since he was incapacitated, he needed someone else to be his eyes, legs, and mouth. Amit Giladi was the most viable option on the meager list of candidates for the job. Besides, even if he didn’t like to admit it, there was a certain similarity between the work of the cops and the press, particularly when it came to investigative reporters.
“I’ll tell you what to do. Together, we can solve this case. It needs a fresh pair of eyes. And with your energy and hunger for a scoop, the role fits you like a glove.”
Unexpectedly, Giladi didn’t jump at the opportunity. He seemed reluctant to take him up on his offer. When Nachum had envisioned how this conversation would go, he’d anticipated questions and objections, but also excitement and eagerness to collaborate with him. He was giving Giladi the chance to get in on a major case, to do something that would culminate in an unprecedented scoop, as well as another occasion to embarrass the police and show up their incompetence.
“What’s the problem?” he asked, leaning toward the reporter to create a greater sense of intimacy between them, even though the slightest movement was agony.
Giladi passed his finger lightly over his upper lip and remained silent.
“I understand it’s an unusual proposition,” Nachum said, looking him in the eye, “and I can imagine what you’re thinking—‘I’m a reporter, not a cop. I don’t have the time or resources to spend months investigating a rape.’ But listen, Giladi, I’ll be guiding you the whole way. And there are some concrete actions we can take. If they pan out, we’ll catch the creep much sooner than you think.”
“Like what?” Nachum was happy to see he was finally showing interest.
“Like the Zodiac Café,” he said, telling him about the lead he’d gotten from Aronov.
“So you’re suggesting I plant myself there for hours, maybe days or weeks, waiting for Mr. Rapist to show up? And then what? How am I supposed to know it’s him, and what am I supposed to do about it?” Nachum couldn’t tell if it was mockery or disappointment he detected in his voice.
“I’m suggesting we work out a plan. There are things I can teach you that’ll make it easier.” He couldn’t give up now. Some people couldn’t see the positive until you cleared away all the negative.
“What about the cops?” Giladi cut in.
“The cops need time to rethink their initial concept. They’ll get there eventually, but it’ll take a while, and that’s time we can’t waste.”
“Do you know where Nevo is?” Giladi asked abruptly.
“No,” Nachum answered firmly. “I have no idea.”
The reporter gave him a skeptical look.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” he repeated, keeping his voice calm and steady. “But it doesn’t matter. He didn’t do it.”
“What happened to you?” Giladi asked again, gesturing toward Nachum’s battered body.
“That doesn’t matter either. It has nothing to do with the case,” he said, earning another skeptical look from the reporter. He was annoyed that Giladi was focusing on side issues and not the big picture.
“I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime,” he went on, not letting up. “If it works, you’ll get the credit, the recognition. The Sokolov Prize, that’s what they give outstanding journalists, right?”
“I’ll make a deal with you, Nachum,” Giladi said after a short pause. “I’ll quit asking you about the beating you got if you give me another tip about the case. Something no one else knows.”
“I think I’ve already given you quite a lot.” Giladi’s cockiness was getting on his nerves.
“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
Nachum looked at him in frustration, wondering what he was thinking when he chose Giladi to be the partner who would help him crack the case. He didn’t really know anything about him. But then again, he didn’t have many options, did he? He could barely move.
Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought to himself. If he wanted Giladi’s cooperation, he’d have to let him in on what he knew, he’d have to trust him.
“The rapist takes a ring,” he said finally, telling him about the connection between the Regev and Aronov cases.
Giladi remained silent. Nachum had decided that was all he was going to get. If that wasn’t enough to persuade him, he’d give up.
Giladi rose.
“I’m in, Nachum. I have to get my editor’s approval, but I’m in,” he said, reaching out to shake the detective’s hand.
NACHUM
lay in bed replaying the conversation in his head. Something was needling him, something in Giladi’s smile, in the fact that he was so anxious to leave. Something seemed off, despite the reporter’s promise to return as soon as he got approval from his editor.
