Authors: Hesh Kestin
She has gotten through the first folder, marking it up in her neat way in a red pen she has brought from home, a good thing, because there is not so much in the desk as a rusty nail to write with.
The file concerns the case of a young Druze from Daliyat al-Carmel, just inland in the hills from her own home in Caesarea. The Druze make up a minority of about a hundred thousand in Israel, practicing a religion that split off from Islam a thousand years before. The community voluntarily undergoes conscription to the IDF, many Druze having risen to leadership positions in the Army and Police. Awkwardly, they have done the same in Lebanon and Syria, where there are even larger concentrations. In a practice known as the border telephone, Druze families who are split by the artifice of lines on a map regularly gather at the Syrian border to call out to each other. The military authorities permit this, not so much as a humanitarian gesture but because the Druze are valued as fighters in both armies. And to gather information.
The file in Dahlia’s hands describes a young Druze farmer, one Majid Halabi, a reserve corporal in the IDF, who was caught crossing the border
back
from Syria. He is suspected of working for Syrian intelligence. Investigation has revealed that Halabi is in serious debt, a sign of motive. But according to his written statement what he needs more than money is a wife on whom to spend it, for whom to build a house, with whom to establish a family. Because he is closely related to other members of his clan in Daliyat al-Carmel, he claims to have gone to Syria merely to acquire a bride who is not his cousin. Through the border telephone arrangements were made for him to meet three candidates. According to his statement, more damning than exonerating, he had crossed back and forth three separate times. Though this in itself is enough to guarantee a prison sentence, Police Intelligence is recommending “moderate” extraordinary measures to discover whether his visits to Syria have another dimension.
What
, Dahlia asks herself,
can “moderate” mean? Is there a menu, or does each interrogator follow his own instincts?
There is so much she does not know. She turns back
to the file: It has not been established what, if anything, Halabi was carrying when he crossed over into Syria; in any case, Intelligence questions whether he could have gotten away with the crossings without the cooperation of the Syrian Army or the Mukhabarat, Syria’s secret police. Though the border is fenced on both sides, its length over mountainous terrain hardly makes it impregnable—in some spots one can look down on the fence from only a few meters further along the same barrier. Is Halabi a suitor or a spy? Complicating the problem is the vocal Israeli Druze community, which is exerting pressure on the prime minister’s office to resolve the matter one way or the other. Dahlia is in the midst of reviewing her own notes when the door opens.
“Nice dungeon.”
Without thinking, Dahlia stands. Whoever this is, his insignia indicates he outranks her by two grades, but that is not what draws her to her feet. She is seated in the room’s only chair. “Welcome, deputy commissioner.”
“Shem-Tov, Kobi,” he says crisply, last name first, a practice inherited from the British, who administered what was then Palestine from its capture in World War I to their withdrawal in 1948. Even civilians introduce themselves this way. It often confuses foreigners. Blue eyes, square chin, well over six feet—Dahlia thinks the man looks like an advertisement for the native Israeli, subspecies
militarus professionalis
. He does not look like a cop at all. Even at the highest ranks, like Chaim Zeltzer, Israeli policemen affect a kind of sloppy impermeability. Not here: no slouch, shoulders set back, blue uniform pressed to within a millimeter of perfection. The deputy commissioner’s short blond hair is topped by a black-and-white knitted skullcap in a checkerboard pattern that appears to have been hand-crocheted. White ritual fringes dangle down his trousers at the sides. This Orthodox gear normally would be signal enough that Kobi
Shem-Tov is one of those religious men who shield themselves from physical contact with women, and thus from temptation. For the black hats it is absolute—with the crocheted-skullcap crowd one can never be certain. On the other hand, the guy is clean-shaven, which suggests flexibility.
At once, as though reading her mind, he resolves the problem.
She puts out her hand in return. “Dahlia Barr.”
His grip is relaxed but firm, the tight flesh of his hand cool. “I know.”
“I’m glad someone does.”
“You’d be surprised.” He grins. “Headquarters considers you a one-woman tsunami. Enjoying your accommodations?”
“I’ve worked in worse.”
“In the Army we call it hazing.”
“You’re Army?”
“Fresh meat. From Army Intelligence to Police Intelligence.”
“Why do
police
and
intelligence
sound like a contradiction in terms?”
“We’re improving. I was Zeltzer’s big acquisition, until now.”
“Ooh, Zeltzer,” she said. “Sounds like fun.”
“One is subordinate to the rank, not the person. Good commanders are not necessarily pleasant.”
“Is Zeltzer a good commander?”
“What do you think?”
“I think he’s a piece of shit.”
“That’s because he doesn’t like you. I wouldn’t like you either if Zalman Arad had stuck you up my ass.”
“Charming.”
“Zeltzer’s expression, not mine. Meanwhile, I have no intention of descending from the sixth floor to the second sub-basement every time I need to consult with you on matters of interrogation.” He smiles. “You appear surprised. In confidence, not to be repeated, it did not take long for me to understand
that there are zero rules for what we may call elevated levels of interrogation. Somehow or other Zalman Arad received an unhappy memo to that effect. You are the result. Now kindly stop smiling and pack your papers. I’ll show you to your office.”
“And what, pray tell, is this?”
“Zeltzer being vindictive. Or just teaching you an early lesson.”
“I’m beginning to like you, Kobi.”
“That is entirely my intention. It’s a bit of a secret, but as a condition of my transfer to the Police I not only demanded your job be created but helped pick you for it. Just because our enemies use torture is no reason we should follow. We’re better than that. Directorate meets at fourteen hundred hours.” He points to the files on her desk. “Be prepared.”
At the Lebanese border IDF troops comb the ground. Three armored personnel carriers and a dozen jeeps stand with their motors running. Helicopters hover overhead, above them a single drone transmitting live video to the rear.
A jeep pulls up. A lieutenant colonel, about thirty-five, his face a deep olive, steps swiftly out, removing his sunglasses. He carries a Micro Tavor rifle, one of the first to be issued. Eventually the weapon will replace the Galils and M-16s that are the standard personal weapons of the IDF. The Micro Tavor is not issued to just anyone in khaki.
A young captain disengages himself from the group of even younger officers around him. “Shalom, Gadi,” the captain says, recognizing the superior officer at once: Lt. Col. Gadi is a legend whose commando exploits are part of the unwritten lore of the IDF officer corps. Even so, in the IDF officers and enlisted men are called by their first names. Israel remains a first-name society—even in elementary school students call teachers by their first name. The IDF is perhaps the only army in the world where a private will address the chief of staff with easy familiarity, even to the extent of using his nickname. “Yaron, sir. I had no idea you were in this sector—”
“Socialize later. Report.”
“We got here twenty minutes after radio contact was suspended.
Seven dead. Two jeeps destroyed, RPG, the lead vehicle abandoned, motor still running. Blood on the ground from there through the fences. Ambush point sixty meters south. We found twenty-two hang gliders. Unbelievable, hang gliders.”
Gadi points to the first fence.
The young captain nods. “Twenty-three sets of tracks, another set of boots dragged.”
Gadi replaces his sunglasses. “Very good, Yaron. Continue searching.” He has a mild lisp:
thearching
. “You have about ten minutes before the tanks arrive, after which there won’t be a track on the ground that doesn’t look like hamburger.”
For the briefest moment Gadi wishes his old intelligence officer had remained in the Army. Kobi Shem-Tov had been the best field intel man in the IDF, like himself a veteran of the chief of staff’s commando unit. Now where was he? Adjudicating parking tickets? Who would be making these decisions today, some kid fresh out of intelligence school?
“We’re going in?”
“Not my decision.”
“Request permission to join, sir.”
Gadi smiles bleakly. “Yaron . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s leave operational staffing to the brass. You okay with that?”
“Okay, but not happy.”
“In this place there’s nothing to be happy about. Anything else?”
The young captain looks suddenly sheepish. “I almost forgot.” He reaches into his placket pocket. “This was found in the sand.”
“A cigarette butt?”
“Not one of ours, sir. Lebanese.”
“Clearly. Only one?”
“Where the infiltrators were dug in, near the hang gliders, maybe twenty more.”
“In the same spot?”
“In a pile.”
“One person, twenty cigarettes. How long does it take to smoke twenty cigarettes?”
“I’m not a smoker, sir.”
“It has to be hours. Are there tracks going the other way?”
“None that we could find.”
“Yaron, get these men searching a hundred and eighty degrees from the ambush point.” Gadi pulls a military cell phone from his chest pocket. “Skull, this is G-One. Requesting a general alert, status red. The entire eastern sector to a depth of twelve kilometers. Full air. We know how many crossed back. We don’t know how many stayed behind. I’ll remain at the scene.” He listens, then snaps it shut.
“Sir, with your permission. There are twenty-two hang gliders. All of these are accounted for.”
“How so?”
“Aside from the one prisoner on foot and the other dragged, twenty-two sets of tracks.”
“You ever see those videos where a hang glider instructor takes up a trainee?”
“Fuck. We don’t know how many actually came over?”
“Exactly. Have your men search for tracks going the other way.”
“I’m sorry, Gadi. I—”
“Yaron, is there anything that makes you believe this discussion is not over?”
In the south, a cloud of dust rises as the first units of a tank brigade approach. In a few minutes, the sound will be deafening.
In a windowless meeting room, bare but for a large flat-screen on one wall, four officers sit around a conference table. Along with Zeltzer, Kobi, and Dahlia is a darkly intense man wearing thick tinted glasses and an even thicker mustache. He is Chief Supt. Zaid Jumblatt, the highest-ranking Druze in the Israel Police.
Jumblatt smoothes his mustache, first one side, then the other. “So you are saying none of these three are candidates for extraordinary means?”
“None of these
is
a candidate,” Dahlia says, not so subtly advancing the case for grammar as well as civil rights. “Two Arab troublemakers, would-be politicians. A university student and a housepainter. We still have free speech in this country.”
“There is a difference between free speech and incitement, madam.” In not using her rank, Jumblatt is making sure she knows who is the professional. “They incited to riot.”
“A demonstration,” Dahlia says. “My mother demonstrates every week before the Knesset. For one reason or another, thousands do. It’s called democracy.”
“With rocks?”
“Chief Supt. Jumblatt, even
if
rocks were thrown—”
“Are you questioning
whether
rocks were thrown? We have six injuries. Chief commissioner, if we don’t make an example
of these two, we will have twenty more just like them tomorrow, and two hundred more next week. I know these people. They hate us.”
Dahlia closes her file. “Hate is not yet a crime in the State of Israel. Pending further information my decision is final. Nobody touches them. Incitement to riot is indeed an offense. In consequence, the matter will be referred to the Office of the State Prosecutor. Our hands will be clean. And that includes the case of the young man who crossed and recrossed the border.”
“With all due respect, madam,” Jumblatt says, “this is bullshit.”
“You’re a Druze, chief superintendent. You have relatives in Syria?”
“I don’t cross the border illegally.”
“There
is
no legal way to cross that border. We are in a state of war with Damascus. The man says he’s looking for a wife. According to his file he was found to be in possession of nothing more formidable than an erection.”
“Madam, you are new to this—”
“Chief superintendent,” Dalia says quietly.
Zaid flashes a reluctant smile. The back of his mouth is largely gold. “Chief superintendent, then. If this bastard is not made an example of, we’ll have Druze crossing back and forth like ants at a picnic. In one hour I can know his every secret.”
Kobi taps a pencil against the plastic water bottle in front of him. “Change, Zaid. Get used to it. From this point forward, it has been decided by powers higher than those in this room that independent counsel will make any and all decisions regarding enhanced measures. At this moment in the history of the State of Israel that independent counsel is Chief Supt. Barr.”
“Three cases,” Zeltzer says from the head of the table. “Three negatives. Why am I not surprised?”
Kobi raises his water bottle and sips from it. “With all due respect, Chaim, we have a situation before us that is a bit more urgent. And certainly more grave.”
Zeltzer hawks up and spits into his handkerchief. “Brief her.”
Kobi picks up the remote control in front of him and kills the lights. “Dahlia, I believe you know this man.” The flat-screen comes alive with a head shot of Mohammed Al-Masri. It is the beginning of a slide show: Al-Masri on CNN, Al-Masri with his wife and child at an anti-Israel rally at United Nations Plaza in New York, Al-Masri in the El Al departure lounge at Montreal International Airport, Al-Masri in detention at customs at Ben Gurion Airport. Finally, the suitcase, tan plaid with blue piping.