Fire in a Haystack: A Thrilling Novel (Legal Mystery Book Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter1

June 2015, Ten Years Later

Ofer Angel drove across the Tel Aviv promenade, ignoring the irritated honks of the drivers who crawled behind him. All four hundred ccs of his Kawasaki ZXR’s engine grumbled beneath him in a continuous growl. The sun slowly sank into the sea whose stormy waves became a hydra-headed monster with bushy white eyebrows.

No view in the world can equal that of the Tel Aviv Sea, dancing with blue-gray shades, and no scent can match the salty smell of the waves crashing on the shore, he thought.

He parked his motorcycle at the entrance of the Hotel Dan Panorama parking lot and took off his helmet.

The drowsy security guard at the doorway glanced with indifference at the young man in front of him and didn’t say a word. The hotel lobby was chilly. He passed through the revolving doors and filled his lungs with air conditioned air— a welcome change after being forced to inhale the smell of Banana Beach’s overflowing trash cans from across the road. To his surprise, Jacob Rodety was not waiting for him at the entrance, even though it was precisely six o’clock. Not really like someone who’s supposed to have proper British manners, he mused to himself.

He walked about the illuminated lobby, the hallways leading to the elevators and the restrooms, and the various coffee corners. He also peeked into the bar. Even though it was early evening, he recalled that for those who lived with the British, it was never too early for a decent drink.

Rodety, to his disappointment, was not there either.

He marched up to the windows overlooking the sea. The orb of the sun was already halfway below the horizon, and the evening was about to begin in earnest. He lounged comfortably on one of the velvety armchairs but was unsuccessful in his attempts to simply enjoy the tranquil atmosphere until Rodety finally showed up. Yitzhak Brick and attorney Gideon Geller awaited their arrival in the office. They weren’t very fond of lateness in the Law Offices of Geller, Schneider and Associates. Mr. Rodety, a guest of Mr. Brick—who is the firm’s most important client— should have been familiar with those rules.

Ten more minutes passed and there was still no sign of Rodety. He had many distinguishing features that Ofer reviewed from memory—a short and rounded man with little hands and a British accent that had attached itself to his native Hebrew; he swayed unsteadily as he walked, looked and paced like a fat, pouchless kangaroo, dressed in a pale shirt and a tie decorated with dancing hippopotamuses holding umbrellas. It was easy to like the guy, but his disrespect for the schedule was infuriating.

He recalled the time they spent together the previous night, right after Rodety arrived for the weekend on a flight from London. 

Attorney Geller had given him specific instructions. “Clear our guest’s mind a little bit. Take him to have some fun in all the appropriate places, and remind him what a city that doesn’t sleep looks like.”

Rodety had been waiting for him in the lobby the night before, hands in his trouser pockets, an expensive, high quality brandy-brown business bag on his shoulder. A thick strap allowed him to sling it over his shoulder, and Rodety didn’t let go of it for an instant. The office had approved an open tab, and so Ofer didn’t hesitate and took him to the Red Mullet.

They sat at the restaurant’s bar on Ben Yehuda Street. Rodety drank straight Chivas Regal, and he drank as if he were a camel taking on enough water to last for a month of travelling in the desert. Judging by the wrinkles lining her eyes, the bartender was in her late thirties and had probably seen her share of elbow-benders. But she was convinced this one could drink them all under the table.

At Rodety’s request, she poured herself a glass of whiskey as well.

He raised his glass and muttered a toast with a glazed stare, “To life! Even though in our line of work, no one lives forever.”

At the time, the toast didn’t seem unusual. No one lives forever in any line of work.

After an hour filled with repeated pourings, Rodety asked, “Listen, son, perhaps you could take me to a place where one could wash his eyes with some Zionist breasts?”

Ofer wasn’t really sure he understood Rodety’s meaning. He repeated and asked twice what his firm’s client had just requested, to make sure he hadn’t misinterpreted his intentions.

Although this wasn’t the kind of request he knew how to immediately handle, he didn’t hesitate for too long. In his mind’s eye he saw the law firm’s senior partner, Gideon Geller, announcing ceremoniously in one of the general staff members meetings, “Let this simple rule always guide you—in our office, no service request, large or small, should ever be refused.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, they sat in front of a pile of dancing boobs and twisting bodies gleaming with sweat at the Paradise Club in the Ramat Gan Diamond Exchange District.

Rodety immediately got rid of his jacket and hung it in the darkened entrance hall of the club, feeling right at home. They made themselves comfortable in an isolated sitting area. The dim candlelight was enough for them to notice everything around them was dark red—the furniture, the carpets, the sofas and the drapes. Rodety fished a bundle of greenish bills from his pocket and invited two dancers, one dark and one fair, to sit with them. Their buttocks were adorned with tiny G-strings and their breasts, Zionist or not, were about to explode from their bras. The two young hostesses invested some extra attention in their capering and gyrating, which became more and more teasing and steaming as the bundle of bills in Rodety’s pocket dwindled.

“Son, let’s drink some whiskey,” Rodety suggested.

“I’m not so good at drinking whiskey,” Ofer apologized, “gives me heartburn.”

“I guess you never suckled it from the right breast. Without knowing something about whiskey, you won’t be able to accomplish anything in the world,” Rodety hurriedly explained. He rose, went to the entrance hall and came back with his jacket.

He drew a small silver flask from his jacket’s inner pocket and took a long sip. “This is fine whiskey, trust me. Eighteen-year-old single malt Glenfiddich Scotch whiskey. Made just a short time after you were born. It’s been waiting ever since for this festive moment in an oak barrel. You’ve never tasted anything like this in your life. It’s not really alcohol, it’s a medicine,” Rodety explained his entire viewpoint about the drink he always carried so close to his heart.        

Rodety’s insistent pleas continued. Ofer felt uncomfortable refusing him. “All right, I’ll take your word for it, if you insist.” He took a sip from the expensive-looking flattened flask. Heat waves immediately spread throughout his body.

“This is really something else. A pleasant surprise. It’s hard to believe such a small bottle can contain such a great pleasure,” said Ofer.

A wide smile of contentment spread across Rodety’s satisfied face. “Oh… nice… now you’ve learned the secret. A fine whiskey doesn’t burn, it warms you up. Like a miniature candle that spreads a nice fire in your intestines. Like cooking on a kerosene burner.”

Ofer had to admit he wasn’t especially suffering. All the dancers, the ones who danced next to the bar and the ones beside them, now appeared prettier, perfectly built and filled with desire, and he found himself enjoying the occasional fluttering touch of Zionist breasts on his face and shoulders.

“Tell me, kid, aren’t you the son of the late Mordechai Angel?” Rodety suddenly became serious. He motioned for the two girls to leave them. A quick spark flashed through his pupils. He cleared his throat a bit.

Rodety’s question had landed Ofer right back onto the solid ground of reality. “Yes, that’s me,” Ofer immediately admitted. “Did you know him?”

“Of course,” he said, “of course. I knew him through and through. He was an exceptional man.”

“Yes, I know.” Tears choked Ofer’s throat as he recalled his father.

“How’s your mother?”

“She’s fine, you know how it is…she’s coping.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Rodety. “She’s something else, your mother.” 

Ofer stared at Rodety who returned to taking long drafts from the spout of his personal flask. A sudden illumination caused him to recognize the man who was now sitting in front of him, the man who drank and joked around with him. Only when Rodety’s face changed and became serious, his mind was invaded with the powerful realization of where he remembered that fattish, drunk kangaroo from. The dim memory transformed into reality and a scream almost escaped his lips.

Rodety was the mustached man from his father’s funeral. The man whose whiskers Ofer swore he’d one day pluck off his face. Only, since he took that oath, about ten years were added to his age and to the age of the man in front of him.

“I remember him well. He was a real tough guy, your father. Stubborn. The word ‘compromise’ did not exist in his vocabulary…but, how life goes round and round…who can understand God’s sense of humor? His jokes are certainly not funny…” Rodety said.

“What…why do you say that?” asked Ofer, openmouthed. Everything he had seen thus far contradicted the possibility the Rodety was a God-fearing man. So much time had passed that he had nearly forgotten his father.  And now the thought that he was about to hear, for the first time, what had really happened to his father pounded at him wildly.

“He overstepped his boundaries. You understand? He was a talented and hardworking man who allowed himself to do things he shouldn’t have done. You understand? You can’t illegally break the rules of the place which feeds you and provides for you. You work in a law firm, right? So you must realize what the consequences of such actions are. Especially in a factory that has to do with national security.” And again he asked, “You understand?”

“What exactly did he do?” asked Ofer, avoiding a positive or negative answer, feeling he had an opportunity that would not repeat itself.

“He took some things without permission and passed them on without permission. Simply put, he stole information from the company he worked for and sold it for a lot of money. And when they caught him…the shame of it killed him.”

Rodety grew silent and sucked his flask until there was nothing left in it to drink. They sat utterly still for a few more minutes. Rodety withdrew completely into himself and said no more. 

Ofer began to shift in his seat with unease. Out of the blue, Rodety said, “Now, I need to stay here by myself…”

A thousand different questions arose inside Ofer, but he knew this wasn’t the appropriate time to ask them.
There’ll be other opportunities
, he comforted himself. He had said goodnight to Rodety, leaving him alone with his fine leather bag and his empty flask, bid him good night and hurried to get out of that smoky heaven with its clouds of cheap perfume.

But now it was already a quarter past six in the evening. And Rodety’s tardiness was simply too much. Ofer ceased dwelling on last night’s activities and walked to the hotel’s front desk impatiently.

“Excuse me, could you please give me Jacob Rodety’s room number?” he asked.

The receptionist, a short-haired blonde wearing a crimson uniform, lifted a pair of eyes reddened by sleeplessness. Then she returned her gaze to the computer screen in front of her and squeaked with her plum-like mouth, “I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to provide our guests’ room numbers.”

“Oh, wait, he’s in room 613,” Ofer suddenly recalled, hoping his memory did not deceive him.

“In that case, you can simply call from over there.” She pointed with an elongated fingernail towards a shiny telephone on the corner of the desk.

Ofer obediently crossed to the telephone and dialed the room number. Long and orphaned sounds echoed in his ears. For lack of any other option, he crossed the lobby, went inside the elevator and pressed the button for floor number six.

The elevator door opened. In the corner of the corridor stood Chinese ceramic vases. On the walls were hung paintings depicting children loading haystacks onto a wagon. “Where will you find children riding a haystack wagon nowadays?” Ofer chuckled as the dark-blue carpet silenced the sound of his footsteps.

He stood in front of the door staring at the hammered copper numbers 6-1-3. The yellow head of a chambermaid dressed in a bluish robe, flashed for a moment in the corridor’s right corner, and then disappeared. He lightly tapped the door with his finger. There wasn’t any answer. He struck the door with his open palm, still no answer.

He shouted, “Mr. Rodety, please open the door,” but he was speaking only to himself.

Anger began to bubble up inside him. He lost his patience.
What was wrong with this guy? He could have taken a taxi and reached the office by himself like any other client. This is not what I studied law for
, Ofer thought
. I’m not interning at Geller, Schneider and Associates, the kind of law firm most students can only dream about, to do this kind of job.

He tried to call aloud “Yaakov” and “Jacob,” but that didn’t help either.

He didn’t hear the chambermaid approaching him until she almost touched him. He turned to her, startled, when he heard the sound of her breathing. In front of him stood a handsome, ageless woman, slightly taller than he was and very thin. She wore a light-blue gown and flat-heeled white shoes, and her gold braid was pushed to the front to draw attention to it.
She must have heard the knocking or the curses or both
, he said to himself.