The Kabbalist (18 page)

“I
am Brother Pedro,” said
the young monk in the brown habit. “Father Rafael does not feel well today.
Unfortunately, you will not be able to see him.” He spoke good English with a
foreign accent.

“I remember you from
that night,” said Danny. “I am here to complete a few details for our
investigation. Perhaps you can help me.”

“I am not sure I am
allowed to discuss this with you.” Danny felt the hesitation in the young man’s
voice. “We usually leave the communication with the outside to Father Rafael.”

Danny tried the
informal approach. “This is not official. I only need to fill in a few details.
Whenever you feel you cannot answer, just say so, and I’ll understand.”

Brother Pedro was
silent and looked confused. Danny hurried to put his foot in the small crack
that opened up for him. “Did you know Father Fernando?”

“Father Fernando was my
best friend here,” replied Pedro immediately without thinking.

“But he was many years
your senior.”

The monk looked
surprised. “What has age got to do with it? Father Fernando was a saint. He
welcomed me here when I arrived from Brazil three years ago. He took care of me
like a father, guided me in holy studies and also opened a window for me to
worlds I never knew existed.”

“Really?” Danny
displayed interest. “What type of worlds?”

“All men of the church
I knew before him were good Christians. But Father Fernando was interested in
much more than the Holy Scriptures…” He paused for a moment. “Don’t get me
wrong. He knew the Scriptures better than anybody I had met, but he also had
fascinating ideas about the links between Judaism and Christianity, ideas you
don’t usually hear in the Catholic Church… he believed there was holiness in
everything. Nature and science captured his imagination. However, most of all
he was interested in history, mainly the history of the ancient land of Israel
and the birth of Christianity. He had full command of ten languages, including
Latin, Hebrew, Arabic and Aramaic. He had a Ph.D. in history from Oxford.”

“Is that so?” Danny was
genuinely impressed. “Is it common for monks to go to universities?”

“Well, it is done,” said
Brother Pedro, “but they usually pursue religious studies and theology. Father
Fernando was not an ordinary monk. Apart from the church, early Christian and
Jewish history were his life. He once told me that he had joined the Carmelites
in order to come here. He fulfilled a dream by serving in the Holy Land.”

“Was he in touch with
academic life here?”

“Sure. He published
articles once in a while, taught courses for post graduate students at the University
of Haifa. He even guided one of the students through his doctoral thesis.”

“Do you happen to know
the name of that student?”

Brother Pedro shook his
head. “It was before I came here.”

He closed his eyes.
Danny waited.

When the monk opened
his eyes again they had a misty look about them. “Father Fernando was a saint and
a genius combined in one man. And this great man treated me as an equal and a
friend. I
was
his friend, but I was
not
his equal. In the beginning,
I could not believe he had real interest in me… but he was like that, not a
trace of condescension about him. He was a good soul who only wanted to give.
He taught me almost everything I know.” He stopped to wipe a tear from his eye.
“This thirst for knowledge… is what killed him.”

Danny froze. “Why do
you say that?”

“What do you think he
was doing in the library in the middle of the night? These were his favorite
hours for studying and writing. He usually slept less than four hours a night
and even less during the past few months…”

Danny was alerted. “Was
there any specific subject he has been investigating lately?”

Pedro was silent.

“Do you know about any
specific documents he was studying?” Danny kept pressing on.

“What do you mean?” A
note of suspicion crept into Brother Pedro’s voice.

“We have not been able
to find near the… body, any book or notebook, and I wondered…” Danny
immediately realized his mistake.

Brother Pedro’s expression
changed and Danny thought he saw fear there. The monk obviously had let himself
be carried away by his memories and was led into exposing his feelings about
his dead mentor. But now he was back in reality. Danny wanted to slap himself
for being so careless.

“I am sorry,” said the
monk. “This was not a very good idea. I am not at all sure I should be talking
to you. You had better talk to Father Rafael… perhaps tomorrow.” He was
shutting down.

“I understand.” Danny realized
he had lost his man. “Anyway, I thank you for sharing with me your feelings
about Father Fernando. I know this must have been a great loss for you. We will
find who was behind this terrible crime.”

Brother Pedro nodded
silently. He kept his head down, staring at the floor. After a while, he raised
his head, and his eyes met Danny’s. “What does it matter now?” He said quietly
.

L
uria stepped out of
his car and looked around. The ‘Margalit’ restaurant was located in a three-story
building in Downtown Haifa, where the Turkish Market used to be. It was an old stone
building, yet thoroughly refurbished. The quality restaurant specialized in North
African food and was a well-known establishment, which occupied the two lower
floors. From a spacious office on the upper floor, Ze’ev Srur managed his
legitimate businesses, which included beside the restaurant, import of
cigarettes, wine and liquor, and also his less legitimate businesses, which
included protection, gambling and other dubious enterprises.

*    *    *

Ze’ev Srur was the
uncrowned king of Haifa’s underworld. This status, which he never acknowledged
but was very proud of, was acquired through years of hard work. He was born to
a poor family, the eldest brother of four sisters. From a young age, he worked at
the small greengrocers stand his father managed in Haifa’s Turkish Market.
Margalit, his sickly mother, took care of her five children and worked at
cleaning offices to make ends meet. She died of cancer when he was fourteen.
Young Ze’ev Srur learned very quickly that in order to survive he had only
himself to rely on. When he was fifteen, he was arrested for stabbing a man who
had harassed one of his younger sisters. It was the only time he had ever spent
behind bars. Since that day, he learned the subtle art of keeping out of the
reach of the law. It did not prevent him, however, from taking over more stands
in the market, and then a few stands in Haifa’s Seamen’s Market, where one
could buy all kinds of smuggled goods. In time, he accumulated more power. By
the time he was twenty five, he was already up to his ears in power struggles,
from which he emerged as the leading figure in Haifa’s criminal world. With the
money he had accumulated, he founded his legitimate businesses. The house where
his office was located, as well as the famous ‘Margalit’ restaurant, which was
the apple of his eye, was the very house in front of which he used to sell
vegetables in his father’s small stand. Ze’ev Srur has completed a full circle.

Yet, he never forgot
where he came from. He turned the wretched synagogue where his father used to
pray, into a magnificent shrine, which he named after his father. He then put
the old man in a penthouse, in a luxurious neighborhood up Mount Carmel. Srur
liked to think about himself as a faithful Jew, just like his father. He
donated funds to rabbis and had his special Kabbalist guru in Safed, whom he used
to frequent for advice and blessings. He became a philanthropist and financed a
new research lab at the Rambam Medical Center, where his mother had been
treated, and had a ward at the medical center named after her. He also donated
generously to many charity funds. Nevertheless, Srur was always within the
sights of the law. For years he has been the number-one target on Haifa
Police's list.

He was accustomed to
being visited by representatives of the law, but nobody ever succeeded in
pinning anything criminal on him or on his less visible businesses. Whenever a
crack in the armor surrounding him appeared, potential informants were suddenly
seized with amnesia, turned deaf and dumb, left the country or simply
disappeared. A few attempts at indictment promptly collapsed. These were used
by Srur’s gifted attorney, Yigal Porat, in campaigns he waged through the media
against the wild intimidation directed by the police against his client, a
leading businessman, a solid citizen and a generous contributor to charity. The
police, claimed Porat, refused to forget the single incident in his client’s
past when, as a young boy, he tried to protect his sister from a violent man,
and turned the struggle against him into an obsession. Hints were also made
about discrimination on ethnic background, Srur being a Sephardi Jew. Repeated
failed attempts at nailing Srur were invariably followed by a farce in the
media orchestrated by Porat, making the Haifa Police look like fools.
Consequently, all police investigators were warned against supplying fuel for
the next scandal, and every contact with Srur had to be authorized by Haifa
Station’s chief or his deputy.

*    *    *

That morning, Luria tried
to get Arnon’s approval for meeting Srur, but both Arnon and Commander Levran,
the station chief, were summoned to meetings at the Police Headquarters in
Jerusalem. Luria decided to pursue his investigation. He would get Arnon’s
authorization after the fact. This was not the first time he had done that. The
two had each other’s full trust.

The day did not start off
very well. The forensic results from the Ben Shemen woods, sent by Chief
Inspector Maimon, arrived and established Illuz’s gun as a likely murder weapon
in the Stella Maris case. However, they did not present any findings regarding
the man who had supposedly met Illuz on that stormy night. Just as Luria had estimated,
no clear traces could be identified, since the muddy ground was totally blurred
by the rain and by the group which had found Illuz’s body.

However, there was one
thread of evidence he was now hanging on to. The record of Shlomo Illuz’s
mobile phone calls arrived at Luria’s desk that morning. Illuz made and
received a few calls on his last day, but after midnight, there was only one outgoing
call. It was very short, lasting about thirty seconds. It was made at 02:20 to
the mobile phone of one, Ze’ev Srur.

*    *    *

Luria crossed the street,
climbed the stairs and stood before an impressive glass door. The styled
inscription on the door read ‘Margalit – Import and Export’ and was decorated with
a logo design of a blue sapphire. On the other side of the door, he could see
the reception desk with the elegant secretary seated behind it.

Luria rang the bell.

“Yes, please,” the
voice coming from the intercom was pleasant yet assertive. He saw the secretary
looking at him through the door.

“Superintendent Luria,
Haifa Police,” he said into the microphone. “I would like to speak to Mr.
Srur.”

After a moment of
hesitation, Luria heard a buzzing sound. He pushed the door open and stepped
in.

“Superintendent Luria.”
the secretary was a groomed woman in her late thirties. “It has been a long
time since we had a visit from you or your friends. To what do we owe this
unexpected pleasure?” The chilly tone in her voice could not be mistaken. Ronit
was Srur’s devoted secretary, and rumor had it that she was also his mistress.

“It is always a
pleasure to see you, Ronit. You are getting more beautiful by the year.” She
did not smile and he added, “I wanted to have a few words with Ze’ev.”

“Mr. Srur is a very
busy man, Superintendent, and you have not made an appointment. How do you even
know he is here?”

“I am sorry. Something
urgent came up. Isn’t he here?”

“He is, but he is very
busy this afternoon. Let me check with him. Please sit down.”

She knocked gently on
the door and stepped in. A few minutes later she was back. “Mr. Srur will be
available for you in fifteen minutes. Is this OK?”

“This is perfect.”

“Will you have
something to drink?”

“Not at the moment.
Thank you.”

After about twenty
minutes, the phone on Ronit’s desk buzzed. She picked up the receiver, listened
for a while and put it back. “You can go in now.”

Luria rose from his
seat, walked to the door, opened it and stepped in.

Ze’ev Srur’s room was
huge, elegantly furnished and with the small mandatory bar in one corner of the
room. Srur was seated behind an enormous desk in a spacious leather executive
chair. “What can I do for you, Superintendent?” he asked in a quiet and
authoritative voice, a voice used to being obeyed.

Luria noted to himself
that the man did not bother to stand up and offer his hand. Srur just sat in
his chair, pointing to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. Luria sat down.

“Before you begin,” said
Srur, “I would like you to understand something. I have no warm spot in my
heart for the police. You have been harassing me ever since I was a boy. You
have never proven a thing against me, yet you keep persecuting me, always
trying to hurt me or my business. I have become a respected citizen and a
benefactor of the community, but you still keep on with your games. You will
receive from me all the respect you deserve, Superintendent, but if you try to
bully me, like you guys tend to, you will have to deal with my lawyer.”

Having spoken his
piece, he leaned back in his chair and stared menacingly at the detective. “I
hope I have made myself clear,” he added. “Now you can speak. Please remember
that talking to you is a gesture on my part. I don’t have to do it.”

Luria was irritated but
knew he had to play the game. “Well, Mr. Srur, what does the name Shlomo Illuz
mean to you?”

Not a muscle moved in
Srur’s face, but Luria thought he saw something in his eyes. “Shlomo Illuz…”
Srur was searching for the right words. “I know him from the days we both used
to help our fathers in the market. Life has never been easy for the poor guy.”

“Shlomo Illuz is a
thief and a burglar with a history of at least ten convictions.”

Srur sighed. “Yes. I know
he has messed up his life. He made many wrong decisions. It is hard to blame
the wretched fellow. His father died... the business went bankrupt… he had to
support a big family at a young age… it was not easy for the poor bastard.”

“How is he connected to
you?”

“I help him every now
and then. I give him work so he can support himself.”

“What kind of work?”

“Odd jobs, a security
guard in the restaurant, running errands… simple stuff, but this guy… he always
ends up in trouble. What is it this time?”

“Just a minute,” Luria
struggled with Srur’s tendency to dominate the conversation. “First, I would
like to know when you last had any contact with him.”

The two were now
staring at each other, each trying to estimate the hand the other was holding.
“I last saw him more than a week ago,” said Srur. “He was here. I paid him for
some errands he had run for me. I have not seen him since. What has he done?”

“Did you hear about the
murder in Stella Maris?”

“I sure did. It was on
TV and in all the papers. Beats me why anyone would want to kill a monk.”

“We have a good reason
to believe that the murderer was Shlomo Illuz.”

“No way.” Srur
responded immediately. “Not in your life. Illuz is not exactly a boy scout, but
a murderer? You make me laugh. He does not have the balls for this kind of
stuff. He just isn’t the type. Go find someone else.”

“I don’t think he
planned it,” said Luria. “It was probably a burglary that got out of control. However,
this is not the point.”

“What
is
the
point, then?”

“The burglary and
murder took place during the night between Sunday and Monday, somewhere between
1 and 2 AM.”

“So?”

“At 02:20 Shlomo Illuz
made a phone call.” Srur moved uneasily in his chair. “The call was to your
mobile phone, Mr. Srur.”

“I see.” Luria heard
anger in Srur’s voice. “I knew that fool would eventually get me messed up in his
crap. I told him a thousand times never to bother me outside working hours and
certainly not on my mobile.”

“Can you tell me what
it was all about? What was so urgent that he had to call you at such an hour?”

“Well, the man calls me
in the middle of the night, telling me he is in big trouble and saying I must
help him.”

“What trouble?”

“You really think I
bothered to find out? I was fuming.”

“What did you tell
him?”

“This nobody rings me
up in the middle of the night. I am with... a woman, and this dog whines that I
must help him. What do you think I said? I told him to piss off. I told him
never to bother me again at such an hour and to call me back in the morning if
this was
really
urgent. That’s all. After that I disconnected.”

“A minute ago you told
me you had not heard from him for over a week.”

“Are you playing with
me?” Srur became irritated. “I told you I had not
seen
him for over a
week, and had you not reminded me, I would not even have remembered this ten
second call. So I take it that this imbecile is really up to his neck in some
kind of trouble.”

“More than you can imagine.”

“What do you mean by
that?”

Luria said it slowly
while observing Srur’s face to see his reaction. “Illuz is dead.”

“Did you say dead?”

Luria scanned Srur’s
face carefully and could not decide whether the man was genuinely surprised or
just pretending to be. “Totally dead,” he replied. “’Murdered’ would be a
better definition. I saw the body myself.”

“How did it happen?”

“I hoped you would be able
to help me figure this out.”

Srur’s face turned red.
“Are you implying something, Superintendent?”

“No. I am just trying
to understand what happened. You knew Illuz personally, and you are the last to
have spoken to him that night… well… I thought you might help.”

“I told you everything
I knew."

“Are you sure?”

Srur rose from his seat
in anger. “Superintendent Luria, I am a busy man. You came here without setting
up an appointment, and I received you with all due respect, but
you
do
not respect
me
. You are making insinuations and trying to intimidate me.
I have no interest in this conversation anymore. This meeting is over. Next
time you want to talk to me,
if
I agree to receive you, you will behave
like a civilized person.”

“Just a moment,” Luria
felt angry with himself for his clumsiness. “I did not mean to offend you…”