Asylum City (18 page)

Ahmed grabbed her by the throat and sat down on top of her, pinning her to the floor.

“I hear you've got a brother in Israel,” he said, pressing down harder on her throat. “Call him and tell him to come get you. I've had it with you. Your brother has money. If he pays up, he can have you. Got it?”

Liddie didn't respond. She wanted nothing more than to escape Ahmed's prison, but she was too ashamed to tell Gabriel and she didn't know what was waiting for her outside.

“If you want your brother to come, you have to beg. Understand? Otherwise he'll leave you here. He doesn't need the shame of having a whore for a sister,” Ahmed said, slapping her across the face. “You do what I say and he'll come get you. Understand?”

Liddie nodded. He slapped her again. Blood streamed from her nose.

She was so excited to hear Gabriel's voice. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was for everything that had happened, how much she missed him. But she was afraid she'd never see her brother again if she didn't do exactly what Ahmed said.

So Liddie obeyed her jailer. Since then, she'd been waiting, but nothing had happened.

She coughed, hastily covering her mouth. Ahmed said he'd kill her if he heard her coughing again.

It was still raining outside. Liddie lay in the cold room, shivering.

ANAT
climbed the stairs of 122 Stricker Street. Gabriel, his hands and feet shackled, stumbled ahead of her, supported by Yaron. Behind her was Nimrod with his recording equipment, breathing heavily. He'd asked her out a few months ago when they went to record a suspect's reenactment of some other murder. He was twenty years older than she and a hundred pounds heavier, but she'd almost taken him up on the offer just to see her mother's face. Wasn't she always telling Anat that “looks aren't everything”?

At the bottom of the stairs she could hear Amit Giladi, the crime reporter, talking loudly on his cell phone. He was waiting for them downstairs when they arrived, claiming to have permission from the district press officer.

She informed him that there was no way he was coming upstairs with them. Anat was unhappy in general with the practice of allowing reporters to be present at the reenactment of a crime. But this time her natural aversion to the press was accompanied by uneasiness: she couldn't be sure how this would play out or what Gabriel would say.

“Don't do anything stupid, Nachmias,” Giladi said, trying to reach the press officer to prove he had his permission to be there. “My sources tell me you're on the way up. You can use someone like me on your side. Nobody gets anywhere these days without good press and a public relations campaign. A smart woman like you doesn't need me to tell her that.”

Anat was pleased to see that the press officer was unavailable. She took advantage of the fact to order her team to start making their way upstairs.

“You're making a mistake,” Yaron whispered on the way up. “Why not let him come? Everyone else does.”

She looked at Gabriel. He was shaking so badly that he kept tripping over his feet. The last thing she needed now was a media frenzy.

“I want calm and quiet,” she said firmly. After the way he screwed up with Arami, she'd been keeping Yaron on a short leash.

EARLIER
that morning, Anat had joined up with Michal's family at the cemetery when they made the traditional visit to the graveside at the end of the shivah, the weeklong mourning period. They were all there: her parents, sister, brother, and brother-in-law. Anat felt uncomfortable intruding on the intimacy of the occasion. The family was made equally uncomfortable by her presence. They stopped talking as soon as she approached.

Michal's father recited kaddish briskly, as if he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. The rest of the family stood in silence, staring at the fresh grave. When he finished the prayer, Michal's mother wiped her eyes, hidden behind large dark glasses.

In the past week, Anat had checked the alibi of each of the family members. The parents were in their apartment in the posh north Tel Aviv neighborhood of Ramat Aviv. Shai, Michal's younger brother, was with his girlfriend. Dana, her older sister, was at home with her children, and her husband, Shlomi, was in Belgium on a business trip.

They were about to leave when Shai said softly, “I think we should put on the headstone the verse, ‘Whoever saves one life in Israel, saves the world entire.'”

“In Israel? What, she was helping out Jews?” Michal's father spat.

“What difference does it make? It's the principle. Michal was a good-hearted person who helped other people,” her brother answered.

“It makes a big difference. If she helped Jews this wouldn't have happened. She'd still be alive,” his brother-in-law said.

“Shlomi, please,” Michal's mother broke in. “This is a family discussion.”

“And I'm not family?” Shlomi said, offended. “I'm only family when it comes to money? Wasn't I family when you came crying to me that your daughter was throwing away your inheritance?”

“Enough,” Michal's father barked, nodding toward Anat.

Instantly, they all fell silent and looked away.

Anat let out a deep sigh. She was forced to agree with Yochai. The family might be dysfunctional, but there was zero chance that any of them had committed the murder. Besides, Michal had opened the door to her killer late at night. If she were Michal, she wouldn't let any of these people into her apartment at any hour of the day or night.

ANAT
stood outside Michal's door with Gabriel and Yaron. As soon as Nimrod caught his breath, she ordered him to start recording. She'd decided to let Yaron run the show; he'd worked more homicides than she had.

She wasn't too bothered by the lineup. If Gabriel had been an Israeli, Shmuel Gonen's inability to identify him would have carried more weight. It wasn't so dramatic in this case. It was only natural for him to have trouble picking out the right African. Nevertheless, it reinforced her feeling that Gonen's testimony was biased, that as far as he was concerned, any African would do. She wondered if she hadn't been too quick to dismiss Gonen as a suspect.

For the record, Yaron noted the location, the time, and the people present. Everything that was said or done from that moment on would be documented. Once charges were filed, Gabriel's attorney would have access to the videotape.

Yaron asked Gabriel to describe what happened, step by step. Neutral questions were allowed, as long as they didn't lead the suspect.

Gabriel remained silent, looking around in bewilderment.

“Let me get you started,” Yaron said with obvious impatience. “You're standing here. Did you knock on the door? Ring the bell?” He was speaking very slowly, stressing each word as if the person he was talking to was backward.

“The door was open,” Gabriel said, his voice barely audible.

Yaron and Anat exchanged glances. She gestured for him to go on. Gabriel's answer came as a surprise, but at least he was talking. Anat's greatest fear had been that he wouldn't utter a word or that what he said wouldn't fit with the evidence.

“You went in. Where was she?”

Gabriel pointed to the living room.

“Show me exactly where she was,” Yaron instructed, urging him forward.

Gabriel walked to the spot where they had found Michal's body. Anat went and stood where he indicated.

“What happened next?”

Gabriel bowed his head, not answering.

“What did she say to you? What did you say to her? What happened?” Yaron fired at him. Anat motioned for him to slow down.

Silence.

“How was she standing?” Anat asked. “Was she facing you or did she have her back to you?”

“Come on . . . answer the question,” Yaron chided.

Silence.

“I understand this is hard for you, Gabriel,” Anat said. “It's only natural. Just take a deep breath and tell us what happened. That's all we want. We just need to know how it happened. Tell us and we'll be done here. I promise.”

Gabriel continued to stare at the floor.

Yaron scratched his head. Anat recognized the signal. She knew what was coming.

“I think there's a problem with the recording equipment. I have to turn it off for a minute,” Nimrod said with perfect timing.

Yaron grabbed Gabriel by the shoulder, forced his head up, and pulled the African toward him. “Listen up, you idiot. Your act isn't going to work with us,” he said belligerently. Anat debated whether or not to intervene. She decided to wait. Yaron hadn't crossed the line yet.

“I don't envy you if you don't tell us exactly what happened, how you killed her. We won't be so nice to you anymore. We'll start treating you like they did where you came from. We might even send you back there and let your friends take care of you,” Yaron threatened.

“Enough, Yaron,” Anat said quietly, stepping between them and positioning herself next to Gabriel. They had to be quick. The time was indicated at the beginning of the recording. Every minute the camera wasn't running increased the chances that Gabriel's reenactment of the crime would be declared inadmissible.

“Nachmias, I've got the press officer on the line. He'll tell you I have his permission to be here,” Anat heard Giladi's voice behind her.

“Get him out of here,” she ordered Nimrod, who rushed to block the reporter's entry, using his large belly to push him out of the apartment.

“Get off me, you fat slob,” Anat could hear from behind the closed door. “Nachmias, you're making a big mistake. You don't want me as an enemy. You hear me?”

Ignoring the shouts from the hallway, Anat looked back at Gabriel. “Just tell me what happened,” she said gently.

“Did you strangle Michal?” Maybe she could get him to start talking if she suggested something he could deny, she thought.

Gabriel turned his eyes to her but remained silent.

“Did you strangle her?” she repeated. “If you didn't, that's fine. Just say so.”

“Yes, I strangled her,” Gabriel answered softly.

Anat exchanged another look with Yaron. The whole thing was about to blow up in their faces. Back at the station, Yaron had suggested that they have what he called a “preliminary talk” with Gabriel to prepare him before they took him to the scene. Anat had rejected that proposal out of hand.

“Let's start over at the beginning,” she said, taking a deep breath.

“Let me handle this,” Yaron said, almost shoving her aside in his frustration.

“Listen and listen good,” he said, pushing his face into Gabriel's and grabbing his shirt. “Stop lying. We're going to turn the camera on again and you're going to tell us how you had an argument with Michal and how you got angry . . .”

“Stop it, Yaron,” Anat commanded.

“And you hit her with a beer bottle. She fell and hit her head. Got it?” Yaron went on, totally ignoring Anat.

“Stop right now! What do you think you're doing? Are you out of your mind?” Anat spluttered, raising her voice.

Gabriel remained silent.

“Got it?” Yaron repeated, undeterred.

Gabriel nodded.

“How's the camera, Nimrod?” Yaron asked over his shoulder.

“Leave it off,” Anat ordered. “We're not doing this now.”

Everyone turned to stare at her.

“The suspect is agitated. He can't give an effective account of the crime.” Her heart was racing but she managed to keep her voice steady. She had to get back to the station and think this through.

“Don't be naive, Anat. This is how it works. You're just making trouble for yourself. Let it go,” Yaron said insolently.

“Watch it, Yaron,” she answered. “I'm in charge here, and I say we're leaving.”

“WHAT'S
going on? You finished already?” Giladi asked as they passed him in the hallway. Anat headed hastily for the stairs, not replying.

“The press officer promised I could see it,” the reporter insisted, following after her. “If you don't believe me, I'll get him on the line again.”

“There's nothing to see,” Anat said, turning around angrily.

“Why not?”

“Nothing,” Anat said, hurrying down the stairs.

SHIMON
Faro was so enraged that he couldn't keep from screaming at Itzik and Boaz, who stood in front of the boss with their heads bowed. Faro didn't often raise his voice. In his experience, it was more effective to leave people guessing if or when he was going to charge at them.

He was under a lot of stress these days. The Argentinean deal was keeping him up at night. He'd been brokering weapons sales for years, but never anything of this magnitude. And it wasn't only the volume that he was losing sleep over, it was the destination as well. He sold arms to Nigeria, Ethiopia, Namibia, but never before to Sudan, a country boycotted by the whole of the Western world. There were bans on such transactions from here to Timbuktu.

He'd never have gotten involved in the first place if it hadn't been for the promise of a direct supply of drugs from Egypt under cover of the refugees streaming into Israel. He made good money from the refugees, just like he did from call girls and gambling, but drugs were still his major meal ticket. Ever since the shit with David Meshulam, may he rest in peace, deliveries from Lebanon had been almost totally cut off. There was no room for a vacuum in the world Faro lived in. If he didn't provide what people wanted, someone else would. He couldn't afford to let that happen.

He had to face facts. His back was to the wall. Even so, he wouldn't go so far as to sell arms to Iran or Syria, and he kept clear of sophisticated technology. But Sudan was a different story. Army surplus. Blacks killing blacks. No big deal.

Boaz was supposed to go to Argentina to handle the details. As usual, there were two parts to this transaction, the legal side and the rest of it. In order for the deal to go through, the legal elements had to be impeccable, with all the necessary signatures on all the necessary documents.