Asylum City (35 page)

He'd been so naive, such a fool. In retrospect, Yariv realized that they'd only mentioned the legal opinion in conversation. He had nothing in writing to prove that Regev knew anything about it. Whatever he told the police or the press, Regev would simply deny it. Who would people believe—a distinguished Knesset member or an ASA being held on suspicion of murder?

Yariv sank back down onto the plastic chair. “Are you okay?” he heard Inbar ask above him. He waved her away. Let her leave. He didn't need her. If he thought it would do any good, he'd try to persuade her to change her mind, but he knew it was pointless.

“I'm sorry,” she said again. Stupid broad. She rapped lightly on the door.

The guard peered in. “Everything all right in here?” he asked.

“Yes. We're done. I'm ready to leave.” Yariv heard her footsteps fading into the distance.

THE
phone broke Anat's concentration. She was sitting in her office going through the file again. In order to prepare a list of questions for Itai to ask Arami, she needed to know as much about him as possible. Since Itai wouldn't be interviewing him in any official capacity, Arami might simply refuse to answer. She had to do her homework. They'd only have one chance to get him to talk. If they screwed up, Ninio would walk. His lawyer would argue reasonable doubt on the basis of his supposed lack of memory and the fact that his blood and prints were only found on the outside of the door.

Meanwhile, Arami hadn't responded to Itai's e-mail. Anat was worried. They'd expected the promise of a paycheck to be an irresistible temptation. Were they too late? Had something happened to Arami?

At the moment, she was poring over the report of his interrogation by the immigration authorities when he was first caught crossing the border from Egypt. On her desk was every record of his contact with government officials that she'd managed to get her hands on. Her search had even turned up Hagos's deportation papers.

THE
phone was still ringing. Itai.

“Hi,” he said when she picked up. She felt a flutter in her stomach.

“Hi,” she answered, suddenly finding it hard to speak.

“I got a reply from Arami,” Itai stated matter-of-factly. Apparently, he was still upset that she'd leaned on him so hard the last time they met, but there was nothing she could do about it. She was just doing her job. “He ignored my invitation to get together and told me to write him a check and he'd send someone to pick it up.”

“That's too bad, but we knew it was a possibility,” she said in a needless attempt to console him. She could tell he was relieved.

“Can you forward his e-mail to me?” she asked, following the instructions she'd been given by the IT department. They could trace the IP address and find the server he'd used. With any luck, they'd be able to identify the location the message had been sent from.

“What do you need it for?” Itai asked, his suspicions aroused. “Don't you believe me?”

“No, of course I do. I just have to attach a copy to the requisition form for the trip,” she lied.

“Give me your e-mail address.” Anat spelled it out for him. “I'm sending it now,” Itai informed her.

“So what's the next step?” he asked. Anat felt very guilty about what she was doing. She hated deceit and manipulation as much as Itai. He didn't deserve this, but she didn't have any choice. When it was all over, she'd try to make him understand.

“I have to think about it, talk to my bosses, fill them in,” she said evasively before hanging up.

ITAI
paced back and forth in his office. He knew they had to move quickly. The wait was driving him crazy. The police didn't understand the Eritrean regime the way he did. If his slip of the tongue sent the cops to the consulate to ask for their help in locating one of their citizens, they'd never get a chance to talk to Arami. The Eritreans didn't give a damn about procedure and international conventions. They'd go after Arami themselves, and they'd find him and subject him to their own form of interrogation. The French police wouldn't have a clue, and the Israeli police would never hear from him again. He'd simply disappear. That's what happens when you collaborate with a corrupt tyranny that doesn't think twice about murdering its own citizens.

On the other hand, if he wanted to help Arami he might have no other choice than to go to the Eritreans himself. The deputy consul general had hinted that he had valuable information. He had to make sure he got it before the cops did. Unlike them, he knew who he was dealing with.

Itai shut his eyes. Going to the consulate was against everything he believed in. He didn't want any contact with those people whatsoever. If Michal were here, she'd scream her head off. “I can't believe you'd even consider such a thing!” he could hear her thunder. “How can you sell yourself out like that? Don't you understand what you're doing?”

ALTHOUGH
it didn't really come as a surprise, Anat was disappointed when she got the call from the IT department telling her where Arami was. Up until the last minute, she'd been hoping it was just a clerical error, some screwup by the Interior Ministry, the Border Police, the airlines. But it wasn't.

She threw her phone and car keys into her purse, turned off the computer, and stacked the papers strewn across her desk into something resembling a tidy pile. Using the window as a mirror, she did her best to discipline her frizzy hair.

As she walked out the door, she glanced behind her. She wouldn't be back here for a few days. They were very close, but they hadn't pinpointed Arami's location yet.

Her phone rang. Itai. He'd been calling all afternoon. She was reluctant to speak to him. They'd used him to find Arami, and now that the search was almost over, he was of no more value to them.

The phone beeped and she saw he'd sent her a text message: “We have to talk. It's urgent!!!” The three exclamation points were unexpected. She hadn't gotten the impression that Itai was the hysterical type.

Anat was about to call him back when she saw Yaron striding toward her. “Off to Paris,
mon amour
?” he asked with a lascivious grin.

“Beersheba,” she answered drily.

SHIMON
Faro paced back and forth in his backyard. Even the sight of his beautiful flowers wasn't enough to calm his nerves. The light rain was another unwelcome irritation.

The whole operation he'd built up with the Africans was collapsing around him. He'd issued orders to do whatever it took to find the punk who'd stolen his money, but meanwhile, they'd come up empty. Half a million shekels had vanished into thin air.

It wasn't the money, it was the principle. It made him look weak. He'd been too complacent lately. Under pressure from Ehud Regev's hate campaign, the Ministry of the Interior had been making life even harder for the migrants, and he'd been raking it in. It was simple: when the government closed off one road, people looked for another one, some other route that would take them where they wanted to go. The way the government was playing into his hands had made him too confident, too smug. He'd lost the paranoia that was an essential feature of any successful businessman.

He'd just informed Boaz that he was relieving him of his banking duties. After what happened near the old bus station, he couldn't risk him being spotted there again. Too many people had seen him. Lucky the guys he sent found him in time and got him out of there. Otherwise, the cops would have picked him up and who knows what would have happened then.

Boaz had done his best to look indifferent, but Faro had seen the hint of a smile on his face. If it weren't for this lousy migraine, he would have given him a piece of his mind. Where was his gratitude, his loyalty? Without Faro, Boaz would be behind bars instead of in a fancy house in Ramat Hasharon. What did he think? That they were done with him? That they'd leave him alone and let him find some other clients? He could think again. He'd learn soon enough.

Faro looked up at the cloudy sky. It matched his foul mood. Who would he get to replace Boaz? It was always the same problem: he didn't have enough quality people.

He rang Itzik again. “Nothing yet. We're still on it.” He could hear the apprehension in Itzik's voice. Boaz and the Africans were his responsibility. What was Itzik thinking, getting into a car chase and letting John fire a gun in the middle of the street? Where did he think he was? Chicago? The Wild West? Everyone knew how much Faro hated drama. It was dirty, it wasn't smart, and it wasn't good for business. That's not how you got to the top. Criminal negligence, that's what it was.

Of all the problems he had to deal with, the one that worried him most was the disappearance of the “General.” Where the hell was he?

ARAMI
rose quickly when Anat walked into the room. He'd been picked up by local cops in Beersheba, who'd been given strict instructions not to tell him why they were bringing him in.

“What are you doing here, Inspector?” he asked, bewildered.

Yaron appeared behind her. Anat thought she saw a flash of fear cross Arami's face.

“Sit down, please. We just want to talk to you,” she said with a smile. Her orders to the arresting officers had been clear: no cuffs, no use of force. He was merely wanted for questioning. The Internet café from which he'd sent the e-mail to Itai had been under surveillance for two days. She'd gotten the call a couple of hours ago: Arami had showed up and they were moving in.

“About what? Did something happen? I'm sorry that you haven't been able to reach me. My wife in Eritrea is very ill. I felt I had to get out of the city. I need time to think, to consider my options,” he said apologetically.

Anat had sat down with David and Yaron to plan every detail of the interrogation, but now she wasn't sure they'd made the right decisions. She'd gotten so much new information in the past three days that she didn't know where to start.

“You told Itai Fisher you were issued a travel document, that you were going to France,” she began. Itai and David were observing from the next room. It wouldn't surprise her to learn that Yochai was also watching the computer feed in his office in Tel Aviv. Dramatic moments like this were rare in the course of routine police work.

“Yes, well, I just needed to be alone. I've been going through a difficult time.”

“So you took a vacation? In Beersheba?” Yaron said sarcastically. Anat threw him an angry look. Provoking Arami would get them nowhere.

“I'm sorry . . . I've had a lot on my mind lately,” he answered, lowering his eyes.

“Tell me,” Yaron said, going back to the script they'd prepared, “do you happen to know a man by the name of Imanai Kabri?”

Arami's face froze. He straightened up in his chair as if the mention of the name had alerted an invisible puppet master to tug on his strings and pull him upright. His tentative smile vanished, replaced by a stern expression.

“Do you know him?” Yaron repeated, pushing one of the photos Itai had gotten from the Eritrean consulate across the table. It showed a high-ranking officer in uniform.

“Is that why I'm here?” Arami asked stiffly, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression shifted again. He now looked arrogant and self-assured. “Because of lies they told you at the consulate?”

Both cops remained silent.

“You're out of your mind. You can't be serious. Those people . . . that's why I'm here?” he spat contemptuously.

“No, that's not the reason,” Anat said, shaking her head. The change in Arami was startling, even frightening. He had suddenly been transformed into someone else, the person he used to be: General Imanai Kabri of the Eritrean army.

“So what's this all about? Or did you just miss me?” he sneered. It was clear to Anat that he already knew the answer.

“We want you to tell us how you murdered Michal Poleg,” she said, looking him straight in the eye.

ITAI
caught his breath. Because of the role he'd played, they'd “ignored regulations” and were allowing him to watch the interrogation from the observation room.

When the deputy consul general first showed him the picture, he didn't understand. The man in the photograph was dressed in a military uniform studded with medals and ribbons. He didn't look familiar.

“Concentrate on the face,” the diplomat urged.

Itai didn't recognize him immediately. It took him a while to identify the man behind the uniform.

“Is that Arami?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“General Imanai Kabri,” the deputy consul general corrected him.

“Arami is a general? What are you talking about?” Itai was suddenly covered in cold sweat.

Without answering, the man pushed another photograph across the desk.

“I don't believe you. It's not possible. I know Arami.” Itai stood up. He was dealing with the representative of a corrupt and ruthless regime that would stop at nothing. They certainly wouldn't hesitate to invent malicious lies if it served their purpose.

The diplomat coolly produced further proof—more pictures and newspaper clippings. Itai was dumbstruck. Arami, or rather Imanai Kabri, was not merely a high-ranking officer; he was the general in charge of recruiting children. Itai knew very well what that meant. He'd heard enough stories from the asylum seekers about soldiers bursting into classrooms and dragging young boys outside. They were conscripted into the army on the spot, without so much as a chance to say good-bye to their families. For the next thirty years they would serve as soldiers or, more precisely, slaves of the ruling junta. There would be no reprieve, no leaves, no contact with their family. Hagos had been a teacher in Eritrea. He'd witnessed such incidents personally and had described them to Itai. He said the soldiers fired on anyone who dared to so much as look at them the wrong way.