Sanctuary (25 page)

No one responded.

Decker said, “Uh,
ani
can come back.” He realized he was speaking with his hands. Something he had never done before. “Uh,
ani ba
—”

“I understand you,” Menkovitz broke in. “Don’t break your teeth. Sit.” The old man took the chair behind his desk and motioned Yalom and Decker to two office chairs.

Decker sat. “Thank you.”

Menkovitz said, “Moshe tells me you are
mishtarah
—police,
nachon
? So what news have you to make an embittered old man feel better.”

Decker said, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Menkovitz’s eyes narrowed and homed in on Decker. “So tell me, Mr. Policeman, what the
hell
do you know about loss?”

“Not much.”

“That’s right, not much! You are just like all spoiled Americans led by a draft-dodging president. You know nothing of loss because you don’t know what is dear. Because America is the land of plenty and everything’s cheap. Even life.”

“Not to me,” Decker said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s why you here?” Menkovitz gave him a dubious look. “You here because someone pays for you. A free holiday.”

“I’m here on business,” Decker said, calmly. “Your daughter’s death.”

“That’s what you say,” Menkovitz said. “You lie through your teeth.”

Decker was silent.

Menkovitz rubbed his face. “When do you ship my Dalia back to me so I can give her decent burial?”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Decker said.

“It’s not very good.”

“You’re right.” Decker leaned forward. “It’s not very good. The whole thing stinks and again, I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean much, but it is the truth. I have four kids of my own and there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t worry about them.”

Menkovitz was silent, then he sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I come to Palestine, I fight in ’48 and I fight in ’56. In ’67, I’m too old, they give me civil duty—
haggah
. I watch streets as Jordanian soldiers pour into the city like a
mabul
. You know what is
mabul
?”

“Flood,” Decker said.

“Right. Like flood, they come into the city,” Menkovitz said.

“Much soldiers,” Yalom agreed. “Like
mabul
.”

“You were scared, Moshe?” Menkovitz asked.

“
Lo
,” Yalom stated curtly. “After Treblinka…” He waved his hand in the air.

Menkovitz said, “I was not scared. I am a fighter. But this…” He lowered his head. “I have no more fighter, Mr. Policeman. I just want my daughter home so we can bury her on our land. That is all.”

Decker had no other answer except silence. Then he said. “We’re on the same side, Mr. Menkovitz.
Help
me.”

Menkovitz stared at Decker, then said, “You want some tea? I do. Moshe,
rotzeh teh
?”

“
Betach
,” Yalom answered back.

Menkovitz put in requests over the intercom. Then he turned to Decker and said, “What do you want to know? Dalia was always a good girl. A little spoiled. That’s
why she liked America. There it is not a crime to be spoiled. Here people don’t like it. She married young. And she married a mean man.”

Yalom spoke up and pointed an accusing finger at Menkovitz. “She marry man like papa.”

Menkovitz allowed himself a brief smile. “Yes, Arik was like me…too much like me. He was short-tempered and a
hondler
. Even at times, a
gonif
.”

Decker knew
gonif
meant thief. He raised his eyes.

Menkovitz said, “You don’t think Arik is a thief? Let me tell you something, Mr. Policeman. You see Bursa, today. You see all the people. They are
all
thieves. If not thief today, then tomorrow they will be thief. Arik was a tomorrow thief.”

The two old men began to quarrel. Decker suspected the cantankerous routine predated the death of their children. He waited them out.

Finally, Menkovitz said, “Yalom don’t like me calling Arik a thief.” The argument with Moshe seemed to have revived him. “So ask you questions. That is why you’re here.”

Decker said, “Mr. Menkovitz, what were you and Kate Milligan talking about?”

Menkovitz stared at Decker. There was a knock on the door, then it opened.

Teatime. The secretary came in carrying an oversized salver. She set it down on Menkovitz’s desk, poured tea, then passed around a plate of finger sandwiches. Menkovitz picked up a sandwich of olive and cream cheese and popped it into his mouth. Yalom chose egg salad. Decker passed the first round.

The secretary smiled at her boss, then kissed the mezuzah, and left. Menkovitz asked, “Why you want to know about Kate Milligan?”

“She and Arik Yalom weren’t on good terms.”

Moshe Yalom sat up in his seat. “What you mean?”

Decker said, “The two of them had exchanged a series of angry letters.”

“
Ma
?” Yalom turned to Menkovitz. “
Ani lo mayveen
.”

Menkovitz translated. Both men seemed confused.

Decker said, “I had just spoken to Milligan in the States. She claimed to be working on a big case in Los Angeles that took up a great deal of her time. So I’m surprised she’s here.”

“Me, too,” Menkovitz said. “She don’t come to Bursa many times. She don’t like Jews.”

Decker paused, remembering how she had told them that diamond cutters were clannish and gossipy. He had told Marge that she had meant the Jews. “Why do you think Milligan doesn’t like Jews?”

“Because she don’t like Jews.” He translated his conversation for Moshe Yalom, then went on. “She thinks they are dirty thieves. So we are thieves. We are
little
thieves. VerHauten is
big
thief—
anak
. You know what is
anak
? Goliath is
anak
. Og is
anak
.”

“A giant,” Decker said.

“Yes, a giant. VerHauten is giant thief,” Menkovitz continued. “Like a mix-up Robin the Hood. Steal from the poor, give to the rich.” He shrugged. “I don’t like it, but so what? I’m not in Dachau, I am a happy man.”

“Did she ever have a problem with the Jews specifically?”

Menkovitz shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe yes, maybe no. Who needs excuse to hate Jews?”

Decker said, “Why is Milligan here, Mr. Menkovitz?”

“She looks at the stones. How many come from VerHauten, how many come from Russia, how many come from other African country.” He hesitated, then said, “Why was Arik mad at Milligan?”

Decker said, “According to Milligan, Arik Yalom had become threatening and abusive toward her and toward VerHauten. According to Arik’s letters, he was being cheated by VerHauten.”

Menkovitz translated Decker’s words to Yalom.

“VerHauten cheat all peoples,” Yalom piped in.

Menkovitz said, “How was VerHauten cheating Arik?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Decker said. “Arik had some landholdings in Angola that he wanted to sell to VerHauten. VerHauten passed.”

“Passed?” Menkovitz asked.

“VerHauten passed up buying the land. They weren’t interested.”

“It wasn’t good land?”

“It might have been very good land,” Decker said. “But for whatever reason, VerHauten didn’t want to buy it. Then there were a few letters…let’s see how I can explain this.”

Decker paused while Menkovitz translated to Yalom.

“Let’s try this. VerHauten said that the land Arik was trying to sell them wasn’t even legally owned by Arik. Do you understand?”

“
Cain, cain
,” Menkovitz said. “Did he own land?”

“Kate Milligan seems to say no. But I definitely saw land deeds that belonged to Arik. That’s why I wondered what you and Kate Milligan were talking about. Maybe she asked you about land deeds?”

“She says nothing about land deed. Only talks about diamonds.” Menkovitz translated for Yalom, then turned quiet.

Decker blew out air. “Mr. Menkovitz. Milligan doesn’t work for VerHauten anymore. I know that. And I have a feeling you know that. She’s on her own now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Menkovitz didn’t answer.

“So why would she bother asking you about your diamonds?”

“She still does work for VerHauten.”

“As an international lawyer, not as the director of marketing and sales in Overseas Operations. She wouldn’t be asking you questions like that anymore.”

“But she did.”

“Is that all she talked about, Mr. Menkovitz? Just diamonds?”

Menkovitz hesitated. “She’s interested in Arik’s busi
ness. I don’t know why. Arik is small time. But she keep asking questions.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I don’t know. She should talk to the partner, Shaul Gold.”

“Shaul Gold,” Decker said, mildly. “Did Ms. Milligan ask you some questions about Shaul Gold, sir?”

“Yes, and I wonder why.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Have I seen him? Have I heard from him since the murders? Do I know if he is in Israel?”

“And what do you say?”

“I tell her nothing.” Menkovitz was matter-of-fact. “I don’t like Milligan. I don’t like the way she acts. She has power and is bully with it. She would have been a fine Nazi.”

“Why do you think she was asking about Gold?”

“I don’t know, I don’t even ask. Because if I ask, I could say something wrong.”

Decker said, “Have you heard from Gold?”

“Why do
you
want to know?”

“He’s disappeared from the States. He claims to be looking for your grandsons. I’d just like to know where he is, why he fled from America so suddenly.”

“If he goes to Israel, it isn’t fled.”

Decker felt his heartbeat quicken. “Then he is here, isn’t he?”

“He has nothing to do with this terrible thing. He is an honest boy. He loved Dalia.”

“So I heard.”

“You hear but you do not understand.” Menkovitz shook his head. “Yes, he loved her. But after she marry Arik, there is no funny stuff. She is good girl. He is good boy.”

“Shaul Gold is looking for your grandsons, am I right?”

The room was quiet. Decker didn’t wait for an answer. “Mr. Menkovitz, do you know where your grandsons are?”

Again, Menkovitz shook his head.

“But they’re here.”

Menkovitz picked up a cucumber sandwich. He put it in his mouth and chewed slowly. “Take some food. It will help you think.”

Decker thanked him and picked up egg salad, ate it and sipped his tea, making sure he didn’t rush anything. Then he said, “Where are your grandsons, Mr. Menkovitz?”

“I don’t know.” He turned to Yalom. “Do you know where they are, Moshe?”

“Just they are here, not
where
.”

Menkovitz said, “We heard from them maybe two, three days ago. My wife…she was so happy they are alive. Dovie, the little one, say they are here in Israel. And they are both here in Israel. But they are not together.”

“They split up?” Decker asked.

Menkovitz nodded.

Swell! Decker thought. “And Shaul is looking for them?”

“Shaul knows the boys are afraid. He thought they come to Israel to hide with us. Shaul knows we help the boys any way we can. Shaul looks for the boys to find out
why
they are afraid. Because Shaul is afraid, too. If he finds out why boys ran away, maybe he finds out who did this terrible thing to my daughter.” He looked at Yalom. “To our children.”

“Do you know where Shaul Gold is?” Decker asked.

“
Lo
. Shaul says he looks for the boys, then he will call me. I ask Shaully where are you staying, but he won’t tell. He says it’s better if I don’t know. I think he’s right.”

Decker noticed that Shaul had become Shaully.

Menkovitz straightened in his seat. “I wish I could help, but Dov tells me nothing. Shaul tells me nothing.”

“Dov didn’t give you
any
idea where he might be staying.”

“
Lo
. Only he and Gil are apart and we should not look for them. I want to, of course, but Dovie says
no, no, no
! Don’t look, he will call later.”

Decker allowed himself a pat on the back. He had been the
right
man for this case
because
he was Jewish. Rina had drummed it into him. Every identified Jew alive looked to Israel for sanctuary. The Yalom boys were no exception. And if Honey needed a city of refuge, she and the family were probably here as well. He said, “Dov hasn’t called you yet?”

“Not yet. So I wait.” Menkovitz sipped his tea. “Yes, I wait. My wife waits. The Yaloms wait. We don’t say anything, we just wait. And wait and wait.” His eyes misted. “I hope he don’t wait
too
long. I am an old man. I’d like to see my only grandsons before I die.”

As if she didn’t know, the sign said it all: Tourists were advised to turn back. If not, they traveled the roads at their own risk.

Rina plowed ahead, tailing the Fiat at a brisk pace.

Congestion eased as they moved out of downtown Jerusalem. The road wound its way out of the city, framed by old Arab homes—big houses with doors and grillwork painted blue to ward off the evil spirits. Flower boxes decorated the balconies, impromptu gardens springing up in empty spots. The hillsides were lush with vegetation. It must have been a wet winter. Farther along, past the old houses, were the newer Israeli developments. Hundreds of attractive-looking apartment houses waffled into the
mountainside. Then as fast as they appeared, they faded. Once again, the ground was opened for cultivation.

Rina passed olive groves, citrus groves, and cultivated fields. Here was strong land. Here was fertile land. And here was contested land.

The sun was high, beating downward with unmolested power. The road to Hebron bordered on the Judean Desert and Rina had forgotten how hot the Mediterranean sun could be, even in the tail end of winter. She switched on the air conditioning.

The road continued to ebb and flow through hilly terrain. Rina kept her eyes not only on the Fiat but on her rearview mirror. Though in hostile territory, Rina was calmed by the slew of army jeeps she had passed—in front of her, behind her. In about ten minutes, she knew she’d hit Bet Lechem—Bethlehem. Once the Christian Arab city had been a sleepy little berg that had catered to Christian tourists wishing to see the Church of the Nativity. It had been full of tiny little shops stocked with religious articles and icons. The stores had done a bang-up business around Christmas and Easter. But when the uprisings had swung into full gear, tours had been canceled. The result? Lots of empty shops.

A few moments later, a large block of Israeli soldiers came into view. Rachel’s Tomb. Once visible from the road, it was now blocked by a wall. It was a holy spot for the Jews, especially infertile women. They would go there to beseech God for children, in the same manner that Rachel
Emainu
had beseeched the Almighty thousands of years ago.

Rina felt comforted by the army’s presence, by the Uzis the boys held. There were many of them. So young. Dressed in khaki greens, the kids weren’t much older than Sammy. Rina briefly flashed on her other life, how it might have been for her boys if she and Yitzy had stayed in Israel. It had been her loneliness that had propelled them back to the States—to Rav Schulman’s yeshiva. And just as soon as they had settled in the United States,
Rina wished they’d never left Israel. Everything had gone downhill after that.

After incanting a quick prayer, Rina passed through the square blocks of Bet Lechem without incident. It was the same town she had known—open-market fruit and juice stands, cafés with Arab men passing around the hookah, playing long games of backgammon. Rina passed women balancing baskets on their heads as they walked down dusty roads in sandals or bare feet. Their hair was swathed in colorful scarves, their bodies covered with long, intricately embroidered black dresses.

Abruptly, Rina realized that the Fiat had become a dot in the distance. She sped up, the car grunting as it accelerated, hugging the road as it twisted and turned. Once the Fiat was in striking distance, Rina allowed herself to relax.

The hillsides had changed, no longer walls of rock. Instead, the mountains had been terraced, carved into steplike mesas of cultivated lands. This ingenious job of landscaping had been done hundreds of years ago, the barriers of granite and limestone still holding back the forces of Mother Nature with grace and beauty.

The Fiat moved rapidly and so did Rina. They passed the turn off to Efrat, a town that had been mislabeled as a settlement. Settlements to Rina conjured up images of temporary inhabitance—people with backpacks wandering through fields, pitching tents and sleeping on the ground. Efrat was anything but. The town was perched atop the hill and was filled with modern apartment houses and sprawling private homes. It had its own school system, its own libraries, its own stores, and of course, its own synagogues. Rina had lots of American friends who had moved to Efrat to enjoy the fresh air, safety, and open land. Now, with the Arabs set to patrol this land, Rina feared for their safety.

Rina thought about that as she drove farther into the West Bank. The road became not only emptier but decidedly more Arab. For every car she passed with an Israeli
license, Rina had passed five with Arab plates. Her rental was a target, as vulnerable as if she were a blip on a radar screen. She rechecked her door locks, glanced in her rearview mirror, scanned the area for signs of an ambush.

Everything appeared quiet. Another oncoming army jeep passed her in the opposite direction. It gave her courage to continue.

The Fiat was speeding by now. The terraced mountainside had become a blur of rock. When it made the turn into Hebron, the wheels screeched. Rina followed, the air-conditioning blowing full force at her face. But the frosty air did little to relieve the internal heat. Sweat was running down Rina’s face, seeping through her clothing. The armpits of her blouse had become darkened stains. Taking the turnoff, Rina slowed as the roadway narrowed to the entrance to the city.

Then things began to move in slow motion, the area growing dense with people as she delved deeper into the village, into the marketplace. Hostile, hateful stares cast upon her, the heat of anger born thousands of years ago and nurtured steadily by blood and revenge. Rina kept her eyes straight ahead, hands clutched to the steering wheel. She wanted to check her doors again, but that would show fear. Fear is always an invitation for trouble.

The city seemed to reproduce before her eyes, the crowd thickening with each second that passed. The marketplace began to close in on her, fruit stands spilling onto the roadway. Donkey-driven carts sided her Subaru, animal and human faces staring into the car’s window. Some eyes were curious but most were unfriendly. Rina attempted to act outwardly calm, but inside her heart pounded furiously.

Not an army jeep in sight.

A “ping” echoed inside her car. The slightest sensation of movement—as if someone had tapped the trunk. A sudden rush of adrenaline shot into her system. Were
the tires just spitting out gravel or was someone stoning the car?

The Fiat had slowed to accommodate the heavy traffic of cars, carts, and camels. Rina’s Subaru was nudging against the Fiat’s back bumper. She was directly behind the car and that wasn’t good at all. But where was she to go? She was
trapped
in congestion.

A louder clunk against the trunk of her car, this one heavier, more meaningful. She wanted to turn around but didn’t dare. A glance to her right showed she was hemmed in by another donkey cart. Her eyes panned her surroundings, assessing her options. In the distance, a flash of army green.

Another hard clunk against her car.

Rina slid down into her seat, amazed by how calm she was. All those safety drills she had done when she had lived out here years ago. It had all come back.

The Fiat slowed, then hooked over to a small unpaved lane, not much more than a rut in the ground. Rina was not about to follow an Arab car into the isolated hillside. She had eavesdropped on Milligan’s conversation, had gotten the Fiat’s license plates, had tailed it into Hebron until it headed for the mountains. She had done enough. It was time to go home.

Heart hammering in her chest, Rina did an abrupt U-turn and headed back to Derech Hebron, once again into town. Sweat poured off her forehead as she carefully drove the car back through the marketplace. Everything seemed under control.

Then the deafening blast inside her car! Light flying, stinging her face! Instinctively, Rina ducked, but managed to keep control of the car. A donkey brayed, someone kicking at her car door, the sound of curses hurled in her direction. Through tear-stung eyes, Rina saw a streak of olive pass by.

An
army
jeep!

With finesse worthy of a race-car driver, she twisted and turned the Subaru, nearly knocking down a fruit
stand, until she was tailing the jeep, until a platoon of army green came into view. A half dozen jeeps and dozens of soldiers—men and women in Israeli uniforms armed with Uzis!

Pools clouding her eyes, Rina realized where she
was
! Directly in front of her vision was a limestone building with a dark, cavernous archway for its entry. She had reached
Ma’arat HaMachpelah
—the Tomb of the Patriarchs. The ancient burial place of the holy ancestors. She brought the choking Subaru up a steep gravel hill, then pulled over and parked. Laying her forehead onto the steering wheel, she wiped glass off her hands and buried her face in the crook of her sweat-soaked arms.

She wept aloud.

Decker was trying to remain calm, but wasn’t succeeding. Having given up on Rina’s return to the Bursa, he went back to the hotel, deciding to wait for her there. But another hour had passed since she had left, two in all, and Decker was downright frantic.

He hadn’t any idea where Rina had gone; he hadn’t a clue on how to proceed to find her. All he had was the license plate of the Subaru. Decker had called the rental agency and had asked in English if their cars had been equipped with tracking devices. The two people he spoke to hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was talking about. He hung up in disgust, his stomach sizzling in its own juices.

The harsh ring of the phone made him jump. He grabbed it and muttered an angry hello.

It was the long-distance operator.

Fuck! Now something was wrong at home. And here he was, sick with worry ten thousand miles away
.

Thanks to good old fiber optics, the voice on the other end was familiar and clear. An instant wave of relief came over him. It wasn’t his mother-in-law or the baby nurse or Sammy or Jake. It was Marge.

Decker caught his breath and said, “What
time
is it over there?”

“Two in the morning. What’s it over there? About one in the afternoon?”

“About.”

“Yeah, I’m all messed up with the time zones. I called your hotel yesterday—four o’clock in the afternoon my time. Some indignant desk clerk informed me in no uncertain terms that it was two o’clock
A.M.
over there and she was not going to wake you for anything less than an emergency. I figured I’d call back later. You’ve been busy?”

“Nonstop since we arrived yesterday.” Decker took out his pad and pencil. “I take it you have some news?”

“First, a quick update on the Honey Klein case. I got a call from a Sturgis in West LA. I told him you were in Israel and he told me you should get a job as a clairvoyant.”

“Honey is here?”

“No one’s certain, but Manhattan police think so. Right after Klein’s murder, they set up a specialized team to go out to the village—a couple of Jewish cops on the force who could speak Yiddish, including one woman. The men were mute, of course. With the women, it was a different story. While they weren’t exactly chatty, some things about Honey did come out. She had been talking for a long time about going to live in Israel. Then, right before Honey left for vacation, one of the neighbors saw a thick envelope sitting in front of Honey’s house; the return address was a federal office building. She had asked Honey about it. Honey had replied that she had updated their passports.”

“Interesting,” Decker said. “Do they have any evidence she was involved in her husband’s murder?”

“No evidence. But police have got a motive.”

“Let me guess. Her husband had been abusing her and the children. She wanted to get away, but he wouldn’t let her. So she took the kids and fled.”

“You’re on the right track, but not quite.” Marge paused. “You being Jewish and all, Rabbi. Maybe you can explain this to me. Yes, Honey wanted to get away from her husband. She had been asking for a divorce for over a year, but Gershon Klein wanted to stay married. Now this is the part I’m confused about. Apparently, if you’re a devout Jew, a wife can’t get a divorce if her husband doesn’t want it. Is that true?”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“How’s that possible, Pete? We have
laws
in this country.
Equitable
laws.”

Decker was quiet. How could he possibly explain it to Marge when he didn’t understand it himself. “She can get a civil divorce, Marge, but she can’t get a religious divorce. Without a religious divorce, a Jewish woman can’t remarry.”

There was a long pause over the line. Then Marge said, “I don’t know about you, but that seems imbalanced to me.”

“Me, too,” Decker admitted. “I think it stinks. Has New York concluded
how
Gershon Klein died?”

“He drowned,” Marge said. “Rather he
was
drowned.”

“What kind of water was in the lungs?”

“It was fresh water, not seawater. They think he drowned in a bathtub. And they think Honey did it.”

“It would have been hard for Honey to get him into a bathtub,” Decker said. “Gershon had stopped bathing a while back.”

“Stopped bathing? Why? Now that couldn’t be religion.”

“It had nothing to do with religion,” Decker said. “Sounds like the guy was undergoing a breakdown. Go on.”

Marge said, “The next part is speculation but I’ll run it by you anyway. New York seems to think that Honey had intentions of calling it in as an accident. But she suddenly panicked.”

“I can see that,” Decker said. “It’s one thing to drown your husband in a frenzy of anger. It’s another thing to explain away a dead body.”

Marge said, “New York thinks she dragged the body out of her house—”

“This had to have taken place at night.”

“I would think so. Anyway, she dragged the corpse down to her husband’s office and left.”

“The body was shot.”

“Yeah, they figure Honey purposely shot the body, trashed the office to make it look like a robbery, then told everyone that Gershon was out of town in Israel.”

“Then Honey called up Rina,” Decker continued the story. “She made arrangements to be out of town when the body was discovered.” He became angry. “She
chose
to stay with a woman whose husband’s a cop. Got to give it to her. That took balls.”