Murder in Jerusalem (9 page)

“Zadik,” Matty Cohen said, breathing heavily and wiping the sweat from his ruddy jowls with his hand, “I've got to talk to you for a minute.” He looked around suspiciously, grabbed Zadik by the arm, and whispered, “Or with someone from the Police Department, it's about something…I…last night…” Zadik, too, looked around, taking in the department heads standing in the doorway; the head of Maintenance was already in the office making himself a cup of coffee, while Max Levin and Inspector Eli Bachar were on their way to a side office that Aviva had requisitioned for them.

“Okay,” Zadik said to Matty Cohen. “But just for one short minute, and then we've got to get this meeting started. Come, step outside.”

They stood in the hallway. Matty Cohen peered toward the stairway and to the far end of the hallway, as if to verify that no one could hear them. “Listen,” he said, a note of urgency in his voice. “Last night I came to the String Building, I was on my way up to the roof to put a stop to the filming, Benny Meyuhas's project, but in the end I didn't get there because my kid, the little one, you know, I've told you, he's got spastic bronchitis, my wife didn't know what to do and I had to get him to the emergency room. That's why I didn't hear anything about Tirzah until I came in this morning and saw the death notices.”

Zadik looked at him, impatient. “But what's this got to do with Tirzah? And what have you got to tell the police?”

“That's just it, I…” Matty Cohen hesitated, passing his hand over his huge belly. For a moment they could hear only the voices that burst forth from the television screens in every room, sentence fragments from which they could discern certain words, like “Hulit factory”; Zadik caught wind of Danny Benizri's name alongside Matty Cohen's noisy, quickened breaths. Cohen whispered, “I think I saw Tirzah there, next to the scenery flats. I was walking up above, you know, on the catwalk toward the roof, I was holding on to the railing, and I looked down,…I saw her with someone, I'm almost certain it was Tirzah, not completely sure but almost, and there was someone there with her, a man or a woman, I only heard Tirzah saying, ‘No, no, no.'”

“What time was this?” Zadik asked.

“I can tell you exactly, since I told you that because of my kid…my wife called just then…a minute later she phoned, and that was at ten minutes to twelve. She'd said right from the start that I was crazy for going out in such bad weather in the middle of the night to catch them filming, as if…”

Zadik suddenly felt weak, and leaned against the wall. In a shaky voice he said, “Ten minutes to twelve? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I told you, my wife phoned just then.”

“But they say that she apparently died at around twelve,” Zadik said, thinking aloud. “You understand, that means that…it's as though…but you're not certain it was Tirzah you saw?”

“No, not completely,” Matty Cohen admitted. “Fairly certain, but I don't know who…”

“So let's forget about it for a little while,” Zadik advised. “Later, after the meeting, we'll talk about it, maybe we need to…but then the police will be all over the place here and…let's wait a bit…”

“Zadik,” Aviva called out to the hallway, clearly displeased, from her desk just outside his office. “Everyone's waiting in there. What should I tell them?”

I
f you don't pull your head out of your own heap of garbage, you'll never know what's happening on your own street—even if you are a smart guy like Shimshi,” Rachel Shimshi announced. “When he's stuck in his own shit he can't see nothing.” She tightened her grip on Esty's arm and pulled her down next to her at the edge of the sofa. Of the five women gathered in front of the television in her living room silently watching black clouds of smoke encircle Danny Benizri as he stood at the entrance to the tunnel, Rachel was most worried about Esty—not only because she was pregnant after a string of troubles that had made them think she would never be able to give birth, but because of the promise she had made to Adele. During Adele's last days, when she was barely able to utter a word, Rachel had promised to watch over her daughter.

Esty shook off Rachel Shimshi's grip, stood up from the sofa, and, pointing at the television, shouted, “Let go of me! Do you see what's going on here?”

“No one here's blind, we all see what's going on,” Rachel Shimshi said, her eyes on the black smoke pouring from the tunnel that had completely engulfed Danny Benizri. Years earlier, Danny Benizri had visited their home, had eaten with them, and because of that Shimshi thought he was on their side and had specially requested his presence, alone. When Rachel had awoken at two a.m. and found Shimshi dressing in the dark like a thief, she had tried to stop him. She told him there was no point to it. She still couldn't calm down when she thought about how he had tried to get out of the house without her noticing, how he had taken his clothes into the kitchen and dressed there; he had even placed his shoes in the hall, thinking he would manage to leave without waking her. Shimshi didn't want trouble. But a woman, even if she's only given birth to one baby, is never able to get a decent night's sleep again. And if you've raised six children, well, forget it, one ear is always open, listening for their cries. Ever since they were born, she's heard every little noise. Noise? Even when there's no noise at all, it's enough that somebody just shifts in his bed. On tiptoe, barefoot, Shimshi went to the kitchen. He didn't even drink coffee or turn on the light. How many times had she told him there was no point to waging war, that the owners of the factory would win out, as always: the rich get richer from every little thing, it's only the poor that get screwed. How many times had she told him that it was a waste of time, that they'd already lost everything anyway, that they were better off getting their severance pay and taking their chances. But Shimshi, he couldn't give in, especially not him: he was the local union leader; he had to set a good example. But why did he have to take Avram with him, with Esty here, pregnant, after so many troubles? And not just Avram: he'd taken four trucks from the factory.

Ever since Shimshi had left home that night—with the expression he'd had on his face when she caught him, she would have thought he was headed for some other woman if she didn't know him so well—she'd had this movie in her head, something starring Clint Eastwood she'd seen a while back. She couldn't remember the name of the film, but these scenes kept playing again and again where this guy does things his own way, even if it means he'll die for it, die fighting the scoundrels. That's what they certainly were, scoundrels, she knew it for sure, all those politicians in the government, and that labor minister—it's clear the woman would never lift a finger to help anybody. Rachel had told Shimshi “over my dead body” and had tried lying in front of the door, and if he'd tried to fight with her, she would have managed to stop him for sure with her fingernails. But Shimshi was no fool. He knew her too well. He refused to fight; instead, he got down on his knees next to the door and said, in his quietest voice, “Rachel, do me a favor, I don't have a choice. If I don't do this I won't even have my honor left. Try to understand, this is bigger than everything, bigger than paying the electricity bill.” She could not stop him. He did not want to tell her what exactly they were planning; she thought they were going to shut themselves up inside the factory. But now, what she was watching on television, well, she'd had no idea they were talking about dynamite and blowing up the tunnel and kidnapping the minister. Not a clue. Nothing, either, about wanting Danny Benizri there. But Shimshi had looked at her in that particular way he had, and she no longer had the heart to give him more trouble than he already had—and anyway, she understood it wouldn't do her any good.

It was high time to empty the ashtrays and make some more tea. Rachel Shimshi narrowed her eyes to slits: the television people were stalling for time, while here, all the girls were waiting for her, like she was their leader or something. As if it wasn't enough already that her husband headed the union. Fanny, tugging at the ends of her yellow hair and patting her baby's back even though he had already quieted down, smoked cigarette after cigarette. Esty, too, with that big belly; even after she'd finally gotten pregnant she didn't stop smoking. And Rosie, with her legs swollen from diabetes. If you looked at them, all you would see was—there was no denying it—a sorry bunch of women. And the children, what would be with them? Better not to say a word about what she thought about that, what would happen to their children. She already knew what would become of their men, whether Danny Benizri managed to help them or not: they would wind up in jail, every last one of them. Her Shimshi and Fanny's Gerard and Simi's Meir and Esty's Avram. To leave behind a woman in her first pregnancy after all those troubles and run off in the middle of the night with a bunch of old men who have nothing to lose; that's what she herself said to Shimshi when she caught him trying to slip out of the house at two in the morning without her noticing, thinking she's some old lady who doesn't hear well anymore. You're an old man, she'd told him, you don't have the strength for these kinds of wars anymore. That's exactly why, he'd answered: because I'm old I have nothing to lose. It wasn't that she didn't understand him: and how she understood him. But when a guy like him, with his intelligence, someone who cared about his kids and grandkids, about little Dudy just one month away from his bar mitzvah; how could he have planned all that—fire and smoke, kidnapping the labor minister—without breathing a word of it to her? Only someone bent on self-destruction would kidnap the minister of labor and social affairs and set an ultimatum for blowing himself and everything else up. Here in her living room the girls are shouting. What are they shouting about? she wonders. Only God can help them now, only He knows what will happen.

 

In the backseat of the mobile communications van speeding toward the Jerusalem–Etzion Bloc bypass road, Danny Benizri changed out of his blue shirt and into a black turtleneck he had in his bag, calculating that he had twenty minutes until he would be on the air again, twenty minutes until they would reach the tunnel. In those twenty minutes he would have to have a word with Tikvah, and calm his mother down. He knew he could not appear too elegant or self-satisfied; that would come off very badly on-screen if he were reporting from the field or even inside the tunnel, with all those explosives and everything. He was glad he had his khaki windbreaker along; it looked good, as though in the hustle-bustle of an emergency he had not had time to get it all together. Before he had even finished shoving his arm into his sleeve, his cell phone rang and he knew exactly what to expect. “What is it, Tikvah? What's wrong?” he asked, feigning ignorance, because perhaps she had not heard the news yet and did not know what was happening. For a long moment he listened to the cries of Danny-I'm-so-frightened she managed to slip in between sobs, and then said, “Tikvah, calm down. First of all, calm down. Pretty soon the baby will start crying too. Oh, there, she's started up, see what you've done? There's nothing to be frightened about, you know Shimshi and his whole family, they won't do a thing to me. Not to me or anybody else.”

For a moment she stopped wailing, but she reminded him what Shimshi had said on television, how he had threatened to blow himself up with everyone.

“So he said he was going to blow himself up,” Danny said dismissively. “So what if that's what he said. Haven't you learned anything yet? It's all for the purpose of attracting attention. Tell my mother, tell her…calm her down, tell her everything's just…tell her not to…not to call me now.” Quickly, before she had time to start crying again, he asked about the vaccinations and the visit to the Mother & Child Clinic and the droplets of salt water that Tikvah had tried to drip into the baby's nose on the recommendation of the pediatrician Tikvah adored and he could not stand. After that he looked at the rain-washed streets out the window of the van as it raced through the city. Who could have guessed that the morning would pass thus, beginning with talk about Tirzah's death and ending with a mad dash to the bypass-road tunnel. Then again, the day was not over yet, nothing was over yet: at the entrance to the tunnel, not far from the parked police vans, black smoke was billowing from within, where Moshe Shimshi, in a gray woolen cap and blue dungarees, was waiting for him.

Zohar, the military correspondent, moved aside, his mouth askew. “The asshole won't let me in,” he whispered to Danny Benizri. “He knows I'm from Israel Television, but he won't let me in. They're waiting for you—and only you—like you're the messiah.”

Danny Benizri spread his arms in a gesture of humility as if to say he had not brought about any of this, then eyed Zohar with suspicion, slapping him on the back. “Good job, Zohar, you did really nice work here,” he said. It is easy to stir up envy in someone you work with without ever doing anything to provoke it, without even noticing it at all, and then one day you find yourself with another enemy, just because once someone asked only for you. What could he do about it? After all, he had not intended to take anything away from anyone. It was not his responsibility. On the other hand, to lose an opportunity like this would be simply inhuman. “Listen,” he said, clearing his throat, “I don't…,” but Zohar had already turned away and was gathering his belongings.

“Go on already, get in there,” Zohar said as he climbed into the van. “I'm leaving this guy here for you,” he added with a grin as he put his hand on the shoulder of Ijo the cameraman. “You owe me one: they caught us with our pants down, no soundman, nothing. Ijo is your whole crew.”

“Will they let him in with me?” Danny Benizri called to a policeman armed with a megaphone who was standing near Moshe Shimshi.

The policeman shrugged, turned to Shimshi, and pointed to Ijo. “Are you willing to let the cameraman in, too?” he asked.

“Just Benizri,” Shimshi answered, his eyes downcast. “Only him and nobody else.”

“If you need me, I'll be waiting right here,” Ijo said, handing Benizri the video camera and the monitor he had taken from the van. Danny Benizri approached Shimshi cautiously, fearful of his reaction to the camera or the monitor. But Shimshi took a long, silent look at him and said, finally, “You see? You didn't come visit us at home, so we're meeting here.”

Benizri forced a smile. He knew there was nothing to fear, he had known Shimshi for years, way back from the time he was a junior television researcher and Shimshi was already active in the Histadrut, the General Federation of Labor. It seemed funny to be wary of Shimshi at all, but still he felt a certain panic awaken in him. Maybe it was Shimshi's quick, noisy breaths, or Shimshi himself, who looked like he was stuck inside some sort of nightmare. It is a known fact that fear can turn a harmless creature into something quite dangerous when it is pushed into a corner.

“Listen,” Shimshi said as he pulled him into the tunnel. “We have a problem here.”

Benizri's palms grew moist, the handle of the monitor sticky in his hands. Shimshi ran ahead into the tunnel, and he followed suit, the monitor and the video camera slowing him down. From a distance he could see the two trucks that were blocking everything behind them. A group of men in blue dungarees and wool caps stepped aside to make way for him to pass by. A gray Volvo was parked on the far side of the trucks, and already from a distance he recognized Azriel, chauffeur to Timnah Ben-Zvi, the minister of labor and social affairs, who stood with his elbows on the roof of the car, his head between his hands. Shimshi came to a sudden halt at the car. Azriel straightened up, ignoring Shimshi, fixing his large bright eyes on Danny Benizri and rubbing his heavy chin with a trembling hand.

“Where's the minister?” Benizri asked.

Azriel indicated the back seat of the Volvo with his head. “She's not in good shape,” he whispered. “I don't know what to do.”

Shimshi cleared his throat. “That's it, what I was telling you,” he explained to Benizri. “We have a problem, she doesn't…how should I say, she doesn't feel so well. Better we should finish this business quick.” He removed his wool cap and thrust his fingers into the thinning gray hair plastered to his scalp.

“What's wrong with her?” Benizri asked, alarmed. He breathed deeply and coughed as a cloud of black smoke filled the tunnel.

“She didn't feel well,” Shimshi said as Benizri laid the monitor at Azriel's feet and rushed to look inside the car.

The minister of labor and social affairs lay crumpled on the backseat of the car. Someone had placed her purse under her head. Her eyes were closed. Benizri squeezed inside the car. “Is she conscious?” he asked.

“She passed out!” Shimshi called.

“My ass, she passed out!” shouted one of the two workers standing nearest the car. “She's just pretending. It's all a big act.”

Benizri pressed her wrist; her pulse was faint and irregular. He looked at her ashen face and listened to her labored breathing, then took a look around the car and proceeded to lift her into a sitting position. He removed her black wool jacket and unbuttoned her light blue blouse.