Asylum City (25 page)

Anat nodded emphatically.

“With him, I'm not surprised. He thinks he's some kind of hotshot. Barely says ‘shalom' when he passes me on the stairs. But I expected more from his girlfriend. She's so sweet. Always smiling, always polite. But it's their decision. I don't go where I'm not wanted.”

“When's the wedding? Maybe they haven't sent the invitations out yet?” Anat suddenly felt the need to console the lonely old woman. “If you ask me, I'm not sure there's going to be a wedding.” Mrs. Glazer leaned closer as if she were about to share a secret. Her words took Anat by surprise. Ninio had made a point of telling her he was getting married soon. In fact, he repeated it several times.

“At my age, you can sense these things,” Mrs. Glazer said with a trace of pride in her voice.

“Why do you think there won't be a wedding?”

Mrs. Glazer shook her head. “I'm not uttering another word. I don't want them to say later it came from me,” she said, placing her hand on her heart.

“Anything you tell me is confidential,” Anat said, keeping as straight a face as possible. Her mother played the same game. She always declared dramatically that she wasn't going to utter another word “so they can't say later,” and then delivered a long monologue that didn't miss out on a single detail of what she wasn't going to utter.

“They've both been down in the dumps lately. And they're always fighting and yelling at each other. Him especially. Before our wedding, me and Sefi, may he rest in peace, we were skipping in the streets. You're not married?” she asked accusingly, looking at Anat's bare ring finger.

Anat chose not to respond.

“You kids aren't in a hurry these days, are you? You think you have all the time in the world, and then by the time you're ready, nobody wants you. Take my advice, Inspector, some things are best done when you're still young and pretty.”

“Do you know what they fight about?” Anat asked in an effort to get the conversation back on some kind of track. Any minute now the woman would try to set her up with her wonderful grandson.

“It all started when she went away for a few days,” Mrs. Glazer went on, happy to continue gossiping about her neighbors across the hall.

“What happened?”

“If you want my opinion, when she got back she found out he cheated on her,” the old lady whispered. There was a look of pure pleasure on her wrinkled face.

“You think so?” Anat said, urging her on.

“Are you sure this has to do with the stolen bicycles?” Mrs. Glazer asked suspiciously.

“It's all connected,” Anat assured her.

“Well, his whole face was swollen. A man comes home drunk in the middle of the night with bruises on his face. Where was he? With his mistress, that's where.”

Anat nodded. Mrs. Glazer had a dubious theory about the connection between a sore face and a mistress. But mistress or not, it didn't matter. Yariv Ninio had lied to her again.

ITAI
was going over the books when the three men walked in. They caught his attention immediately. Asylum seekers who came to OMA for the first time were hesitant, confused, frightened. They'd just arrived in Tel Aviv after being released from the detention camp down south and had nothing but the clothes on their backs. They came to ask for help.

But these men were dressed in custom-made worsted suits designed to keep them warm in the chilly weather. They strode briskly and confidently across the room, ignoring the curious looks of the people crowding the office.

Itai had been trying in vain to get Arami on the phone ever since yesterday when the item appeared on the news site. The interpreter didn't show up for work today. He'd never missed a day before and was invariably punctual. Itai wanted to apologize, to assure him that he wouldn't let anything bad happen to him, that he would take personal responsibility for his safety.

“Itai Fisher?” one of the men asked in a polished British accent. He looked to be in his forties. The other two took up positions behind him.

“That's right. And you are?” Itai replied, standing up to greet his visitors. His job involved recruiting donors and applying to philanthropic organizations for grants. He allowed himself to hope these gentlemen represented such an organization.

The stranger smiled and reached out his hand. Itai caught a glimpse of the gold watch on his wrist.

“I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Tapsmariam Apoworki, and I have the honor of being deputy consul general of Eritrea in Israel,” he said smoothly.

The introduction wiped the smile off Itai's face. He knew that Eritrea was a brutal tyranny with no freedom of speech, movement, or religion, and no free press. It was a place where every male was conscripted into the army for life and the citizens were routinely terrorized by the government. In fact, Eritrea led the world in the number of refugees who fled the country in search of a safe haven, whether in Israel or elsewhere. Tens of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands, of Eritreans were in refugee camps in Africa. Hagos had told him a lot about life in Eritrea. He said it was important that Itai know, even if he couldn't fully understand. No one who was born in a democracy like Israel was capable of understanding what it meant to live in constant fear for your life, he claimed. There was a consensus among human rights organizations that the Eritrean regime was one of the most repressive in the world. In Itai's opinion, the very fact that Israel maintained diplomatic relations with such a regime was scandalous.

“What can I do for you?” Itai's tone left no doubt as to his distaste for his visitors. He wasn't a zealot and he shied away from slogans, but he couldn't help thinking that these men served Satan. How could he imagine for a second that they were potential donors? Their expensive clothes, silk ties, gold watches, pricey cologne—they were all the marks of the corrupt mercenary regime they represented, a regime that flagrantly stole from its citizens.

“We're looking for Mr. Arami Ligas. I understand he works here, that you are in contact with him. We thought you might be able to help us,” the deputy consul general replied with the same practiced veneer of refinement.

“What do you want with Arami?”

“We just want to talk to him.”

“What about?” Itai shot back.

The diplomat didn't answer. His silence angered Itai, but it also frightened him.

“Mr. Ligas is a citizen of Eritrea. We would like to talk to him. We were unaware that he was in Israel, that is, until yesterday when we saw the item on the Internet,” Apoworki said finally.

“I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” Itai interrupted. The men were making him very nervous. “You aren't welcome here. The people who come here are victims of your government. I have no intention of helping you in any way.”

“There's no need to get upset, Mr. Fisher.”

“Please leave.” Itai was unimpressed by Apoworki's cordiality, gentlemanly manners, or excellent English.

“Don't worry, Mr. Fisher, we're going. We don't want to keep you from your work. If you happen to see Mr. Ligas, please let him know we'd like to speak with him.” The deputy consul general held out a vellum business card with gilt embossed lettering. “We'd be happy to speak with you, too, Mr. Fisher, if you'd like to pay us a visit.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Itai barked. He was so furious, he was shaking. Israel had deported Hagos on false pretenses. But it wasn't responsible for his death. His blood was on the hands of the regime these men represented.

“I'm sorry to hear that. Where our country is concerned, it's not all . . . how should I put it? Black and white.”

Itai slumped back down onto his chair. He'd never imagined that talking to the reporter would lead to Arami's persecution by one of the most ruthless governments in the world. Arami had been a human rights activist in Eritrea and was forced to flee for his life. Itai had placed him in danger again. Maybe Gabriel, too.

ANAT
lay awake in bed, papers strewn all over the covers. For the past few nights she hadn't been able to sleep. She listened to the monotonous patter of the rain on the window. Her eyes hurt from reading in the dim light of her bedside lamp.

Yariv Ninio had lied to her and to the Bar Association. What else was he guilty of? She knew only too well that despite everything she had discovered thus far, she still didn't have a smoking gun, especially not when everyone else was convinced the murderer was already in custody. She needed more. And she needed more time to get it.

David had called half an hour ago and said he wanted to see her in his office in the morning. “We have a lot to discuss,” he said laconically. He seemed to be in a good enough mood. At least she didn't pick up on any recrimination or anger in his voice.

Who would listen to her? All she had was a theory based solely on the statements of two women well past their seventieth birthday.

The cell phone on her nightstand rang, startling her. Anat reached out for it.

Grisha.

“Your murderer's white,” he said with no preamble.

ITAI
decided to try Arami one more time before turning out the light and attempting to get some sleep. He'd called his number over and over again since the visit of the three “dark angels.”

“Where have you been? I've been worried about you,” he exclaimed with huge relief as soon as he heard Arami's voice.

“You don't act like you're worried about me. Why did you do it? I trusted you,” Arami cut in.

“I'm sorry . . . the reporter . . . he promised,” Itai stuttered.

Silence.

“I've been looking for you. I want to apologize. And also . . . something happened today.” Itai took a deep breath before telling Arami about the men from the consulate.

Arami remained silent.

“Arami, are you all right?” The lack of response was unnerving.

“Why did you do it, Itai? Do you have the slightest idea what it means?” Arami asked finally in an agitated voice.

“I'm so sorry . . . if there's anything . . .” How could he get it so wrong? His job was to help people, not make things worse for them.

“It's probably a good idea for you to stay away from OMA for a while,” Itai said, the guilt eating at him. “If they see you're not here, maybe they'll stop looking.”

“I can't do that. People need me. And I need the money for my family.”

“We'll manage,” Itai said reassuringly, although he had no idea what they'd do without an interpreter. Since Hagos's deportation, Arami was the only one they had. “It's just for a little while. Naturally, we'll continue to pay your salary.”

More silence.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked again.

“You've done enough already,” Arami retorted, disconnecting.

ANAT
took a deep breath before entering David's office. “I think you did the right thing,” he said as soon as she sat down, disarming her immediately. He was sitting at an angle, his right leg, in a cast, resting on a footstool. Not surprisingly, he had a cigarette in his hand.

Anat made an effort not to display her huge relief. She was thrilled to hear he agreed with her. His opinion meant a lot to her. Besides, she was sick of being treated like a pariah.

“You were right, but you weren't smart,” David added, bursting her bubble. Anat's disappointment showed on her face. She should have expected it. The carrot and the stick. That was his management style, as well as the way he conducted interrogations.

“You know what your problem is?” he asked. It seemed to Anat that there was more than a trace of empathy in his voice. She hoped she wasn't imagining it.

“I'm sure you're going to tell me.”

“You're an outstanding detective. Intelligent, thorough, one of the best I've ever worked with. But you don't understand politics.”

“What's that supposed to mean? I don't suck up to the right people?”

“It means you don't understand how the system works and what it demands from you.” Despite his harsh remarks, David's voice remained calm. “You never stop a reenactment in the middle. Especially not when there's a reporter standing outside. And especially not when the suspect is the only one you've got.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let Yaron put words in his mouth?” Anat protested.

“Come on, Nachmias. You've got to understand. A homicide makes everyone itchy. Particularly the bosses. The whole world is breathing down their necks: the RC, the Chief, the minister, the press, the victim's family. And in a case like this, you've also got politicians like Regev in the mix trying to milk it for all it's worth. The only way to get them off your back is to trot out a suspect. As soon as you have somebody in custody, everything quiets down. No more pressure. Then you can start investigating. You got it backward. You kicked up a storm instead of calming the waters. You tried to force them to admit the only suspect you had wasn't the killer. No wonder they got their backs up.”

“So what happens now?” Anat asked. She didn't have the patience for a lecture on the workings of the system.

“Nothing. I spoke to Yochai. He's willing to overlook it this time. Your first homicide—there were bound to be hiccups,” David answered, blowing smoke in her face.

“I meant what happens to Gabriel?”

“He's going to jail.” David crushed the cigarette out.

“But he didn't do it. He didn't kill her,” Anat fired back.

“That's not what he says. It's not what his lawyer says, either. I'm betting he'll cop a plea very soon.” David lit another cigarette. She wondered how he made it through a whole flight without smoking.