‘During the course of our inquiries, it has emerged that shortly before her death Mrs Kleinberg was doing some research into Barren Corporation,’ explained Ben-Roi.
One of the lawyers asked what sort of research. Ben-Roi filled them in on the article about the Romanian gold mine.
‘She was also looking into a man named Samuel Pinsker. In 1931 it appears this Samuel Pinsker discovered the whereabouts of a long-lost ancient Egyptian gold mine known as the Labyrinth of Osiris.’
The legal was straight in, asking what possible relevance this could have to Barren Corporation. Nathaniel Barren silenced her with a sweep of the fingertips. Much the same gesture Genady Kremenko had used to silence
his
lawyer. Two men who were used to being obeyed without question.
‘Continue, Mr Ben-Roi.’
Ben-Roi shifted in his seat.
‘It seems this ancient gold mine was located somewhere in the middle of Egypt’s Eastern Desert. Not so long ago a Barren subsidiary named Prospecto Egypt were doing survey work in precisely that region.’
The other legal dived in, asking what on earth any of this had to do with a murder inquiry in Jerusalem. Again, Barren waved him quiet.
‘Could you tell me a bit about Prospecto?’ asked Ben-Roi.
‘Mickey?’
Barren motioned to one of the suited executives, a slick young man with neatly razored sideburns and a chunky designer watch.
‘They were a small subsidiary operation,’ explained the man, his voice clipped and precise, like his appearance. ‘Oversaw a two-year exploration licence in the central Red Sea mountains. When the licence lapsed, the company was wound up.’
Pretty much what Zisky had told Ben-Roi earlier.
‘It was run as a separate entity?’ he asked.
No, replied the man, it had been managed directly out of Houston, with a sub-office in Cairo.
‘Did it find anything?’
Some limited emerald deposits, apparently. Very poor quality, way too low grade to make extraction viable. And a couple of phosphate beds. Again, far too limited to warrant further development. ‘Other than that, a lot of sand and rock.’
‘No gold?’
‘No gold.’
‘No labyrinths either,’ quipped the other executive, drawing a ripple of laughter. Ben-Roi smiled, going with it, then switched the conversation.
‘I understand gold-mining produces a significant amount of toxic waste.’
Yet again the legals swooped, yet again Barren waved them quiet, which made Ben-Roi wonder why he’d bothered having them there in the first place. Raising the oxygen mask, the old man took a series of deep, grating breaths, his eyes never leaving the detective. Once he was done he lowered the mask and sat back.
‘I have to confess, Mr Ben-Roi,’ he wheezed, ‘that it is not immediately evident – either to me or to my colleagues – how an understanding of the technical intricacies of gold-mining will assist you in bringing a murderer to justice. On the basis that it
will
assist you, however, and also on the basis that we have always enjoyed excellent relations with the State of Israel, I am happy to give you the benefit of my fifty years experience in the industry.’
He didn’t
sound
especially happy, but Ben-Roi wasn’t about to labour the point.
‘So, to answer your question: yes, gold-mining does produce substantial levels of toxic overspill. The processes have improved over the years, but whichever way you cut it, it’s still a dirty business. Always has been, always will be. Like all beautiful things, gold has its downside.’
‘Is arsenic part of the downside?’
He watched Barren closely as he said this, scanning for any discernible reaction. As before, there was none.
‘It can be,’ replied the old man. ‘Cyanide’s the main off-product, but if the gold’s being broken out of arsenopyrite, then yes, you’ll get a lot of arsenic residue as well. Which in the long run ends up being more damaging because the degradation rate of arsenic is so much slower than cyanide. Would you care for me to go into more detail?’
Something in his tone seemed to dare Ben-Roi to say yes. He didn’t, not wanting to get pulled into a chemistry lecture. After the day’s events he could feel tiredness gathering around the margins of his brain and he wanted to get as much ground covered as possible while his mind was still sharp. He changed angle again.
‘According to the newspaper article I mentioned, the waste from your Romanian mine is taken back to the US.’
There was a pause as Barren eyed him, then:
‘That is correct.’
‘You do this with the waste from all your mines?’
The question drew a dismissive snort.
‘Do we hell. The tailings from our other operations are disposed of on site. Subject, of course, to the laws of whatever country the site happens to be in. We only go to the trouble with Drăgeş because it was a stipulation of getting the concession. A goddamn expensive stipulation, I might add, what with the cost of shipping, immobilizing, landfilling. But then it’s such a rich deposit we can absorb the cost. Forty million ounces of gold at concentrations of 35 grams per tonne – take it from me, Mr Ben-Roi, in gold-mining terms that’s the mother lode.’
‘And of course at Barren Corporation we’re delighted to play our part in safeguarding the environment,’ chipped in the second of the two executives, a balding man with heavily bagged eyes and a distinct paunch overhanging the trousers of his Armani suit. ‘We take our green responsibilities extremely seriously.’
‘Extremely seriously,’ echoed Barren, his tone suggesting he thought quite the opposite. Ben-Roi shuffled his feet, staring at the old man, sensing he was somehow missing a trick, not asking the questions he ought to be asking. Maybe he
should
have put the interview off, left it till tomorrow when he would be less weary. He was here now, though, doubted he’d get the opportunity again, so pushed on.
‘Does your company have any links with the port of Rosetta?’ he asked. ‘On the north Egyptian coast.’
Barren’s finger-drumming started up again. ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ he replied. ‘And since nothing happens in this company
without
me being aware of it, that would be a no.’
Smiles from his employees.
‘What about a man named Genady Kremenko?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Dinah Levi?’
A fractional pause, too fleeting for Ben-Roi to tell if it signified anything, then:
‘Never heard of him either.’
‘It’s a her.’
Barren shrugged. Ben-Roi stared at him, trying to read his face, work out if he was telling the truth or was just extremely adept at lying. He couldn’t decide – the latter, he sensed, although he’d yet to see any evidence for it – and after a brief pause he changed tack yet again, dancing round like a boxer trying to work an opening.
‘Going back to Prospecto a moment,’ he said. ‘I understand the company was headed by your son, Mr Barren.’
The old man’s gaze hardened fractionally, as if he didn’t welcome mention of his offspring. The first reaction since the start of the interview.
‘We still with your investigation here?’ he growled, his hand tightening around the oxygen mask. ‘Or just general interest in the way I structure my business?’
Ben-Roi ignored the barb, assured him it was very much to do with his inquiry. Barren peered out from the screen, his massive head seeming to tremble slightly like a rock about to topple and start rolling. Then, with a grunt, he clasped his hands.
‘Your understanding is correct,’ he said, thumb playing round the curve of his thin gold wedding band. ‘We were bringing William on board at the time, getting him familiar with the organization. Running Prospecto was part of that process.’
Ben-Roi hesitated, doodling on his pad, then:
‘He’s quite a colourful character, your son.’
It was deliberately provocative, and he braced himself as he said it, anticipating a sharp retort. The legals sat forward, like Dobermanns straining at the leash, but again Barren didn’t loose them. Instead he sat in silence a moment, then, unexpectedly, smiled. An unsettling expression, like a wound opening up across the bottom of his face.
‘I’m a plain-talking man, Mr Ben-Roi,’ he growled, ‘so let’s you and me talk plainly here. As you are obviously aware, my son has a . . . history. Thanks to the gutter press, it’s not exactly privileged information. And on the basis of that history you’re thinking perhaps under his direction Prospecto – what? Went rogue? Discovered some sort of lost Aladdin’s cave and started working it behind our backs? Then maybe bumped off a journalist because she found out about it? Am I hitting any chords here?’
A couple, acknowledged Ben-Roi, although he wouldn’t have put it quite that bluntly.
‘Well, I like blunt, sir. Blunt leaves no room for doubt. And I’m telling you bluntly that you’re way out of line. Way out of line and way off the mark. Firstly, because as I’ve already told you, nothing happens in this company –
nothing
– that I don’t know about. Secondly, because even if it’s the remotest goddamn desert on the planet, you don’t operate something as big as a gold mine without people finding out about it. And thirdly, and most importantly –’ he leant right into the camera as he said this, his face filling the screen – ‘because whatever the hell else he is, for good or ill, my son is most certainly
not
some sort of Al Capone figure running around calling hits on anyone who happens to get on the wrong side of him. That’s fantasy land, Mr Ben-Roi, and frankly I would have expected better from a representative of one of the world’s great police forces. I trust that settles the point.’
Ben-Roi acknowledged that it did.
‘Good. You bring my family into this again and the interview’s over. Your career too, if I have anything to do with it. Just there please, Stephen.’
This to the figure who had leant into frame from Barren’s left. Some sort of valet or manservant to judge by his dark uniform and deferential manner. He remained in shot long enough to place a glass of water on the desk in front of the old man, then backed out and disappeared. Lifting the glass, Barren sipped, his forehead rucked into a concertina of angry wrinkles.
‘That it?’ he muttered, eyes looming over the glass’s rim like a pair of bluebottles. ‘Or are there any other crackpot theories you want to run by me?’
Ben-Roi held the stare, refusing to be intimidated. There were other bases he would have liked to have covered – Barren’s Egyptian gas field tender for one, and also the list of companies the Dinah woman had given him earlier. He could sense that he was now on borrowed time, and anyway, the comment about ending his career had riled him. Rather than continuing to jab around the margins, therefore, he went straight in with a roundhouse right.
‘Mr Barren, do you have any idea why the Nemesis Agenda believe your company murdered Rivka Kleinberg?’
The comment brought an immediate and furious dressing down from the legals, who on this occasion weren’t reined in by their employer. Ben-Roi let it wash over him, his attention focused unswervingly on Barren’s face, analysing the effects of his words in much the same way as a geologist will analyse earthquake readings on a seismograph. The old man was angry, no question about it, his jaw thrusting out, his mouth clamped into a threatening scowl. At the same time there was something in his eyes that didn’t quite tally with the rest of his expression. Difficult to define what exactly – although his screen image was crystal clear, the fact that he wasn’t actually there in person somehow made it harder to interpret such tiny pointers. It certainly wasn’t fear. Nor guilt either. More a sort of knowing wariness, as if the comment hadn’t come as quite as much of a surprise to him as it had to everyone else in the interview.
‘Explain yourself, sir,’ he snarled.
‘With pleasure,’ said Ben-Roi. ‘Earlier today I was held at gunpoint by Dinah Levi, the woman I mentioned earlier, who I have reason to believe is Rivka Kleinberg’s daughter. She is also a member of the Nemesis Agenda.’
Barren said nothing, just glared at him, still with that curious disconnect between his face and his eyes, as if the former was registering one thing, the latter something completely different.
‘You’ve heard of the Nemesis Agenda, I believe.’
The oxygen mask crumpled under the force of the old man’s grip.
‘You’re goddamn right I’ve heard of them. Only two days ago they brutalized one of my employees in Cairo. If you have a description of this woman I sincerely hope it’s been passed over to the relevant authorities.’
‘I
am
the relevant authorities,’ said Ben-Roi. ‘And yes, a description has been circulated.’
Suddenly he was feeling very awake, very clear-headed.
‘Four days before she was killed,’ he continued, ‘Rivka Kleinberg met with this woman. She asked the Nemesis Agenda to hack into your company’s computer system to look for information about a gold mine in Egypt and the port of Rosetta.’
He gave it a couple of seconds, allowing that to sink in, then:
‘It was Dinah Levi’s belief that her mother was pursuing a story that had potential to damage Barren Corporation. It was also her belief – her
firm
belief – that to prevent that story getting out, Barren Corporation, or someone associated with it, killed Rivka Kleinberg. So I repeat the question: do you have any idea why she might think that?’
Ben-Roi had had bad looks in his time – as an Israeli policeman in Jerusalem, rarely a day went by when he didn’t get bad looks – but nothing even remotely approaching the one that was currently emanating from the conferencing screen. Such was its malign intensity that even the legals were reduced to silence, the room around Ben-Roi seeming to narrow and recede so that it was just him and Barren alone in the ring together. There was a pause, the only sounds the angry grate of the old man’s breath and, from the corridor outside the suite, the muted rattle of a room-service trolley. Then, slowly, Barren sat back, his suited bulk spreading and filling the chair like a flow of hardening magma.
‘I can tell you exactly why she thinks that, Mr Ben-Roi,’ he said, his voice a guttural rasp, as if his throat was clogged with sandpaper. ‘She thinks it for precisely the same reason that people who oppose the State of Israel choose to believe its policemen go about deliberately shooting Arab kids, and anti-Semites get off on the idea that Jews drink babies’ blood. Because she and her psycho friends hate us. Not for anything we’ve done, mind you, not for any laws we’ve broken, but because of what we represent. And what we represent is the triumph of capitalism. Money – that’s what we’re about, Mr Ben-Roi, and I make no bones about it, and no apologies for it. We obey the law, we pay our taxes, we lend our support to an array of worthwhile causes, but the bottom line is: we make money. And they can’t stand that. Can’t stand the fact that I sleep well at night and don’t wake up in a cold sweat agonizing about the fact that some fucking tree fell down in the middle of the Amazon. They’ve been hounding us for the best part of seven years and have never once managed to turn up any evidence of wrongdoing, so frankly it’s no surprise whatsoever to me they’re now trying to pin a murder on us. I’m just amazed they haven’t accused us of the Kennedy assassination yet.’