"I had help from a local lady reporter name of Gael Rubin. She wrote a series of articles on Stone, something very difficult to do because it's almost impossible to get near the guy. He's a take-over specialist who operates with a lot of secrecy."
"What do you think?"
"Don't know yet. But the operation here doesn't fit with those crummy offices we saw."
"You got pictures?"
"I shot some off the TV."
"Have the consulate wire them to me. So—what does your pretty reporter girl say?"
"Did
I
say she was pretty, David?"
"She is, isn't she?"
"Yeah, she is." Dov laughed. "And she says Stone is sinister. Says that except for the religious stuff he plays it quiet, stays in the background, always works through proxies. Then, when he's ready to gobble something up, he strikes out of nowhere like a shark."
He told her: "Here I am working on a murder case that in some tangential way involves my brother, my father, and myself. And now it seems to involve you too. Your old lover has somehow stumbled into some strange back room of it. At least I think he has. So many intersections..." He shook his head. "I think this could only happen here. Only here, Anna, in Jerusalem...."
Micha confirmed that Holyland Arts had funded the design of "Circle in the Square" and that Israeli military engineers had done the actual work, paid for out of an IDF cultural and recreational fund.
"Far as I can tell, no specific individual authorized it. The way it works with this fund is that once properly prepared papers are filed in the appropriate manner they get shuffled through the bureaucracy from desk to desk. Each officer adds his initials and several months later the project comes out the other end approved."
"If that's how it works then I pity Israel," David said. But still he wasn't satisfied. "Bring in Sokolov," he instructed Micha. "Time now to put him on the grill."
There was something about the old man that filled David with ambivalence. His face bore the stamp of vulnerability one saw often in the older generation of European-born Israelis. The look of internal disturbance, of having been deeply and indelibly wounded in the past, totally opposed to the famous "Sabra look"—the strong, set, committed features and direct unblinking gaze. A disturbed face but David knew he must distrust his sympathy. Often those who looked most disturbed had been deformed in sinister ways.
Was Sergei evil? Targov had told Anna that he was, but examining him now, across the small table in the tiny basement interrogation room, David could not be sure. There was pathos in the taut forehead, the terrible teeth, the bushes of white hair that sprang Ben-Gurion style from the sides of his shriveled head. His eyes, greatly magnified by his extra-thick spectacles, were frightened. No wonder—he had received an official summons; the man had spent fifteen years in Soviet camps.
Still, there was a hint of craftiness that belied the injured stare. David recognized the face of a man who could channel his hurt into a mercenary rage. He knew the type—the cheater, the stealer, the professional litigant, the man who behaves as if money can salve his wounds.
"Before I start asking questions, let me make several matters clear. We're investigating a case in which you may or may not be involved. As of now you're not a suspect, and we have no plan to bring any charges. However, if you lie to us you'll be charged with perjury, and, I warn you, the penalties for that can be severe. I say this because I want you to understand that there's nothing to be gained by concealing the truth."
Sergei nodded, his face alert and tense.
David flicked his finger at the pile of drawings which Micha had removed from the walls of Sokolov's bedroom and which now lay between them on the table. "We know you didn't make these. We know you were paid to sign them and claim authorship of 'Circle in the Square.' For us that's no crime. What we want to know is how you came to sign these drawings. Who approached you? What did they offer you? What deal did you strike? And, most important,
why...
w
hy did
they
need
you?"
Sergei hesitated. His hugely magnified eyes blinked and darted and finally came to rest. They were aimed at the place where David's forefinger touched his signature on the top drawing of the pile.
"This is your signature."
Sergei nodded.
"But you didn't make these drawings?"
Sergei shook his head.
"Who asked you to sign them?"
"I received a letter from the foundation."
"The Holyland Arts Foundation?"
"Yes."
"What did the letter say?"
Sergei coughed, then looked nervously away. "That my situation, as a new citizen and a sculptor, had come to their attention. That I was invited to come in and discuss the possibility of receiving a commission to create a public work."
"So you went to the foundation offices. Whom did you meet?"
"Mr. Hurwitz."
"Igal Hurwitz?"
Sergei nodded.
"So what did this Mr. Hurwitz have to say?"
"He was sympathetic when I told him about my loss of sight. He convinced me this would be no problem—that it would be possible for me to conceive a work and then leave its execution to someone else."
"Had you ever been involved in conceptual art?"
"I was a carver. My specialty was carved ballerinas."
"Did you tell this to Hurwitz?"
"He said it didn't make any difference."
"Did he then suggest a particular 'conception' to you?" Sergei hesitated. "Well?"
"Yes."
David tapped the pile of drawings. "And this is what he suggested?"
"Yes."
David sat back. "You're being truthful. I appreciate that you're not trying to mislead me or shade the truth. Let's go a little deeper now. Who brought up the matter of money?"
"Hurwitz did."
"What did he say?"
"He told me there would be a fee."
"Did he say how much?"
"Depending upon the size of the final work, it would range between five and ten thousand dollars."
"That's quite a lot of money just to sign some drawings."
"Apparently it was worth it to them." Sergei smiled. It was that smile that caused David to decide that he disliked him, but he kept his dislike to himself.
"Yes, I see that," he said. "Of course they wanted your signature. But didn't you think it a little strange to be offered foreign currency?"
"The foundation is American."
"But Hurwitz was Israeli."
"He was a foundation employee. He made that clear."
"And you didn't ask him any questions about why you'd been chosen, or why the fee would be so large, or what the 'Circle in the Square' was supposed to represent?" Sergei shook his head. David sat back again. "Yes," he said, "I understand. There you were being presented with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Here was this foundation representative offering you a substantial sum of money, and not only that—also legitimacy as an environmental sculptor. Who were you to question what was behind this fortuitous stroke of fortune?"
"Exactly!" Sergei smiled; his interrogator understood him. There was no danger for him here, no need to conceal the truth.
"So you signed the drawings?"
"I signed them, of course."
"All of them?"
"Yes."
"Without asking any questions?"
Sergei smiled again. "I don't believe I said a single word."
"Of course not. Why should you speak? To ask questions then could have blown the deal. In fact the drawings were already prepared, weren't they? They were right there waiting for you in the office when you arrived. And the money was there too, wasn't it? A pile of it. Cash." David gazed at him. "The drawings were there, and the pile of cash right there beside them. That's how it was, wasn't it?
Wasn't it?"
Sergei nodded eagerly. His interrogator was such an intelligent man. He seemed already to know the answers to everything he asked.
"And you never asked any questions, and you have no idea why you were chosen, and that's all you do know."
"Yes!" Sergei exclaimed. "Yes!"
David leaned forward. "So why is it that you went back and demanded additional money?"
Sergei shook his head. "I never did!"
"Several days ago you were seen returning to the foundation offices."
"I went back—yes! I saw Hurwitz—yes! But I never demanded anything."
"So why did you go back?"
"I
needed a loan."
"You'd already spent the full ten thousand!"
"Life is expensive here, difficult for an immigrant. You must know that."
"Yes, I know," David said. "The foundation had helped you. Now you hoped that they might help you again."
"That's it!"
"Did Hurwitz agree to make the loan?"
"He said he'd have to consult the Dallas office."
"And now you're waiting to hear?"
"Yes, I'm waiting. I'm waiting…." Sergei's eyes glazed over as his voice drifted off.
Seeing that he was finally exhausted, David stood up and extended his hand. "Congratulations, Mr. Sokolov. You are now a legitimate Israeli artist. We appreciate your coming in. Sergeant Benyamani will return you to your home."
Later, with Micha, he examined the videotape of the interview. "He's slick. He could be lying, but I don't think he was," Micha said. "The setting was too intimidating."
"He lied about the loan."
Micha agreed. "But he's shrewd, shrewd enough not to ask questions when he sees a pile of cash."
"They were shrewd to pick him," David said. "He was perfect. He made a perfect schnook."
"The one thing I don't get is Hurwitz. We know he dealt with Ephraim Cohen. But we know Cohen wasn't the phony cop who took the names at the scene of the accident."
"Suppose 'Hurwitz' was a floating false identity. Shin Bet guys like tricks like that. Suppose everyone involved in this thing carried Hurwitz papers. Whenever one of them needed a false name, he simply called himself Igal Hurwitz. And if anyone asked any questions, he'd just reach into his pocket and pull out his Hurwitz ID."
"That's good, David. Sure. That makes sense." Micha hesitated. "Now what do we do?"
"You go down to Tel Aviv and check with Immigration. See if there's any record of a Harrison Stone entering Israel this past spring."
The following night he was staring out at the city while Anna struggled with her music. For a moment he thought he heard something promising, as if she were breaking through at last.
The telephone rang. He went into the kitchen to answer it. "It's me." He recognized Stephanie's voice. "I can hear her practicing. Works late, doesn't she?"
"She works," David said, "until she gets it right."
"Yeah—well, that's really great." Another pause. "Listen, about our last encounter, I know you're not too happy about some of the things I said."
"Forget it, Stephanie," David snapped. "Just say what's on your mind?"
"Strictly business. Okay. I called because for a while now I've been hearing various odds and ends. You may remember that we discussed your murder case."
"Way I remember it, you tried to warn me off."
"I was worried for you, David. Then I heard you
were
off of it. I forgot about it until this afternoon when I happened to pick up something new."
"What?"
"The ninth."
"The ninth what?"
"I don't know. But there was something emphatic about the way this source of mine—"
"Who?"
"Can't tell you that."
"What can you tell me?"
"
Come on, David, give me a break. This man, whom I'm not at liberty to name, moves in what we call extremist circles. He keeps his ears open, and, for as long as I've known him, he's been a highly
reliable source. Today, at our regular get-together, he mentioned he's heard that something big is due to happen soon. Then he muttered something about the ninth. Since today's August fifteenth, I figured he meant a month from now. But there was this sense of urgency, you know—of imminence. And since it was in the context of the killings, which he once told me meant a lot more than met the eye, I thought I should, though I have no idea what any of this is about, call you up and pass the information on."
"Tell me more."
"Can't. Can't jeopardize this relationship over an internal Israeli matter."
"How do you know it's just internal?" She was silent. "Have you any idea, Stephanie, how many times I've been deliberately misled on this? I hope you're not trying to do that now, because—"
"You're fucking impossible! I try to help you and you practically accuse me—oh! never mind! You know, David, I think that sometimes, really, you do expect too much. Anyway I'm running late. So, anyway," she paused, a little mournfully, he thought. "I hope we run into each other one of these days...." And, when he didn't respond to that: "Well, that's it, I guess. Good-bye."