Asylum City (27 page)

“Inbar, I'm home,” he called out cheerfully when he came in. He'd been wound up tight the past few weeks and had been taking it out on her. She was consumed by the wedding arrangements, obsessing over insignificant details, when he had a cloud hanging over his head that threatened to change his life forever. It was too much for him to deal with. Once she asked for his advice deciding where to put his aunt Bella and uncle Ephraim and he completely lost it. He couldn't care less where his mother's cousin sat. “Do what you want with them,” he flared, getting up and going into the bedroom. He heard her crying in the living room and slammed the door shut.

HE
found Inbar in the bathroom, smoking a cigarette. She was clearly upset. It turned out she'd gone to invite Sarah Glazer to the wedding. They hadn't been planning to invite the nosy old lady from across the hall. Why should they? It was enough that they had to deal with Inbar's grandmother with her wheelchair and Filipina caregiver. He didn't want any more old people there to put a damper on the evening. Yariv thought the subject was closed, but he should have realized that Inbar didn't have a backbone. She needed everyone to like her. Unable to bear the old lady's resentful looks each time they passed in the hall, she'd gone to bring her an invitation.

Mrs. Glazer was delighted to get it. They chatted for a while, and she told Inbar how she'd met a policewoman downstairs who asked all sorts of questions about stolen bicycles, his in particular. Irate, Yariv marched across the hall to talk to their neighbor. She told him that the cop's name was Anat Nachmias. He'd suspected as much.

The fact that Nachmias was slinking around behind his back asking questions, even interviewing his neighbors, made Yariv's blood boil. He was incensed that she didn't believe him, that she was checking out his story about falling off his bike as if he were a common criminal.

STILL
seething, Yariv stormed out of the police station, jumped back into Inbar's car, and sped off. Now he was stuck in a traffic jam caused by a stoplight that had been shorted out by the rain. He punched the steering wheel angrily and honked at the driver in front of him. The asshole kept letting other cars cut in.

He'd had big plans for his confrontation with Nachmias. He intended to cut her down to size, put the fear of God in her. And he tried his best. He yelled and screamed and threatened to ruin her. He even used one of Regev's tactics and accused her of having a dirty penchant for Africans and being a traitor to her nation. But she just sat there calmly, refusing to rise to the bait.

Yariv leaned on the horn, warning off a car that was trying to cut in front of him. In the end she'd turned the tables on him. It was her silence that got to him. Now he was the one running scared.

THE
call from Argentina put a big smile on Shimon Faro's face. Boaz reported that everything was going very well. There was no cause for concern. You have to know when to take risks in business, Faro thought, and he was very glad he'd taken this one.

I moved forward in conditions of uncertainty, keeping a steady hand on the wheel, he said to himself, phrasing how he would describe his actions in the interview he'd never give. Yesterday, the Israeli company he'd set up had sold its consignment of weapons to an Argentinean enterprise, just as it was obligated to do by the Defense Ministry tender it had won. All the documents had been properly signed and were on their way back to Israel.

What the Defense Ministry didn't know was that the Argentinean company had no intention of honoring its obligations. The surplus armaments weren't going to the Argentinean military, but to a Peruvian firm, which, in turn, would sell them to Sudan. If any allegations were directed against Faro, he'd simply claim that he had no control over the Argentineans. To his dismay, he, too, was an innocent victim of their duplicity.

That wouldn't be entirely true, of course. The Argentinean company would indeed be violating the terms of their contract, but it wasn't accurate to say that he had no control over them. He had an agent there, a company director appointed by a Brazilian firm. Entirely by chance, his name happened to be Boaz Yavin.

The good news just kept coming. This time it was Itzik. Faro was still upset with him for allowing that aid worker to take a picture of Boaz.

Itzik informed him that with the help of the “General,” they'd be able to get their hooks into an assistant state attorney. Faro's dream was finally about to come true. He had plenty of government officials and cops in his pocket, but no prosecutor. The ASA in question represented the state in petitions filed by African migrants. He could be his golden goose.

“He did what? Is he crazy?” Faro asked when Itzik told him how the “General” had caught the prosecutor in his net. Faro was disappointed. He thought the “General” was smarter than that, more careful. At the very least, he hadn't expected him to keep that sort of information from him for so long.

“The only thing that matters is that he delivered in the end,” Itzik said, trying to smooth his boss's ruffled feathers. The “General” was in charge of recruiting customers for Faro's bank. He took a lot of weight off Itzik's shoulders.

Faro was still angry, but he decided to let it go. The “General” might make a mess, but at least he cleaned up after himself, which was more than he could say for some of the birdbrains who worked for him. The question was what to do now. You couldn't rush these things. You had to take your time, not gobble down the fish as soon as you caught it.

Ninio was a bad boy. The worse they were, the more scared they were, and the easier it was to manipulate them. When they set their sights on Boaz, Itzik told him he had two options: work for them or go to jail. Boaz wasn't eager to work for Faro, but he was even less eager to go to jail. And look how it paid off for both sides. Nowadays the accountant was closing million-dollar deals and had a beautiful home in Ramat Hasharon. He had nothing to complain about.

Finding good professional people wasn't easy. That's why Faro always treated them well. After he got over his initial shock and natural resistance, Ninio would see how much he had to gain from cooperating with Faro.

But he had to move cautiously. An ASA was no patsy, not just another clerk in the Interior Ministry or another corrupt politician. It would be a shame to miss this opportunity because of some stupid mistake. On the other hand, he had to make it clear to Ninio as soon as possible that they knew everything. And in view of that fact, the prosecutor now had a new employer and new priorities, and he'd better get used to it.

He decided the best course of action was to have Shuki Borochov talk to him. Shuki was a lawyer, but Faro liked him anyway. They'd been working hand in hand for years. When it came right down to it, there was no one more suited for recruiting people in the legal profession than Shuki.

“CAN
I help you?” Yariv said sullenly to the well-dressed man who was waiting for him outside his office. Still worked up about his encounter with Nachmias, he wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone.

“Shuki Borochov. Pleased to meet you,” the man said with a pleasant smile, extending his hand.

Yariv took it reluctantly, intending to give it a perfunctory shake, but Borochov didn't let go.

“I'm an attorney myself. I happened to be in the building and I wanted to meet you in person before I left,” he said, striding into Ninio's office without waiting for an invitation.

“I'm sorry, but it'll have to be some other time. I'm very busy.” Yariv stood his ground in the hallway. Ordinarily, he'd give the man a few minutes of his time. It was enough to see his suit to know he didn't work for the State Attorney's Office, and most likely he didn't represent illegals, either. Yariv needed contacts in the private sector, especially the kind of prosperous attorneys this one appeared to be. But today he just didn't have the energy. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

“Of course, of course. I'm sure a prosecutor like yourself is very busy,” Borochov answered, still smiling. “I won't keep you. I merely want to compliment you on the fine job you're doing.”

The vote of confidence improved Yariv's mood slightly, but it wasn't enough to drown out the echo of his outburst at the police station. It was still resounding in his head and making it hard for him to carry on a normal conversation. He walked into his office and gestured to his guest to take a seat. Borochov lowered himself into a chair, the smile still glued on his face.

“Aloni and I were just talking about you,” Borochov said. “I read some of your cases. I could see from the way you phrased your arguments that they were the product of a brilliant legal mind. If I'm not mistaken, you haven't lost a single case.”

“Are you involved with illegal aliens?” Yariv asked suspiciously. Since when did lawyers start applauding each other? He hadn't gotten compliments like this from another attorney in his entire career, no matter how much he deserved them.

“No, no, not at all. Just interested. It's a fascinating legal issue.” Borochov rested his hands on his large belly. From the looks of it, he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon.

Yariv desperately needed to be alone for a while, but he had the feeling that it would be a mistake to show his visitor the door. The man was apparently on good terms with Aloni, he didn't represent illegals, and his clothes were expensive. It wasn't worth it to Yariv to pass up an opportunity like this because of a nobody like Anat Nachmias. He had to pull himself together.

“I view it as a calling. I see myself as the dam holding back the tide, you know what I mean? If I fail, we'll be flooded,” Yariv said facilely, spouting the formulas that were music to Regev's ears.

“It's so good to find an idealist in our profession. It's a rare pleasure,” Borochov replied, smoothing his tie. Yariv could hear the rustle of the silk.

“I imagine it's not an easy matter to deal with,” Borochov went on.

Yariv didn't answer. He'd learned to be wary when he spoke about illegals. You could never tell where the other person stood on the issue. More often than not he'd deliver his credo only to be rewarded with a sanctimonious lecture about human rights, compassion, and all the other crap. The opposite happened as well. He'd say something about the migrants' rights and get a tirade about ticking bombs, catastrophic results, and the Jewish character of Israel. The zealots on both sides tried his patience.

“The human rights groups,” Borochov said, leaning closer, “I'm guessing you're not a fan.”

“The courts don't make my job any easier, either,” Yariv said, deciding to play it safe. Lawyers were always bitching about the legal system.

Laughing, Borochov played along. “I always say if we're nice to them now, it will just be crueler for them later when we're forced to put a stop to it. I'm sure you get my drift.”

Yariv nodded. His guest was paraphrasing one of Regev's favorite arguments.

“Maybe after the recent incident, the bleeding hearts will finally come to their senses. I understand the woman who was murdered was one of them,” Borochov said calmly. “That's what happens. If you go to sleep with dogs . . . how does it go?”

“You wake up with fleas,” Yariv completed automatically. The reference to Michal made him uneasy.

“I represent a large financial organization that employs Africans now and again, so I'm very familiar with the problems that can arise,” Borochov continued.

“What's the name of your organization?” Yariv asked, glad for the change of subject.

“It doesn't matter. Monotonous work. Just fiddling with numbers all day. I'd be happier if I were doing something important, like you.”

Yariv nodded, smiling in response to the flattery. For the first time, the grin on his face wasn't forced.

“Now that I think about it, we might be able to be of help to each other,” Borochov said, clapping his hands in delight. It seemed to Yariv that his enthusiasm was excessive.

“Help? How?”

“That's my motto in life, Yariv. Can I call you Yariv? When people work together, they can achieve much more. Ask anyone who has made a success of himself. He'll tell you the same thing. Don't you agree?”

“I'm a civil servant, Mr. Borochov. I don't think I can help you. You understand,” Yariv said warily.

Most prosecutors would kick Borochov out for even suggesting such a thing. Yariv would probably have done the same if it weren't for the fact that his first conversation with Regev had gone down a very similar track. If he'd slammed the door in the politician's face, he would have missed out on one of his most important connections.

“Shuki, please. Call me Shuki. And I didn't mean to imply that you can help us, heaven forbid. I meant we can help you,” Borochov said amiably, smoothing his tie again.

“How can you help me?” Yariv was still suspicious.

“We can help you be even more successful, reach your full potential. When you win, we all win.”

Yariv remained silent. Borochov wanted something from him, but he couldn't figure out what.

“There are shortsighted people who go around saying things . . . you know what I'm talking about, don't you?” Borochov had lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Shortsighted people? What exactly do they say?” Yariv asked, trying to give the impression that he was in control of the conversation, although he had no idea what Borochov was driving at.

“It's not important. Just talk. Not worth concerning yourself over,” Borochov said with a knowing smile.

What the hell was he getting at?

“I'm really very busy,” Yariv said, standing up. If he had something to say, let him say it. His time was too precious to waste playing games.

Borochov rose and held out his hand.