Keepers of the Gate - [Kamal & Barnea 04] Page 3

  “Thanks to Paul Hessler,” Turkanis continued, making no effort to hide his excitement, “the Arrow Two system is now successfully deployed and the State of Israel is the most safe and secure she has ever been.”

  Hessler smiled broadly and beckoned his son Ari to join him. The old man clapped his son on the back and closed both hands over Ari’s as they shook in celebration. Father and son both acknowledged the crowd with courteous waves. Paul Hessler waited until the noise in the control room had abated before he finally spoke in a strong, deep voice that belied his years.

  “My son and I are, of course, ecstatic with the results of today’s test. But the credit lies more with people like you, and those in the design center, as well as the assembly line. People who refused to quit and never wavered in their commitment to a safer Israel. You are a credit to your nation, as well as your parents and grandparents, many of them refugees like myself who dreamed of the day all of us will now live to see.”

  The story of Paul Hessler, Nazi labor camp escapee, was well-known to all those gathered in the control room. They applauded again and Paul Hessler waited for them to stop before he continued.

  “My role in this was small. I don’t even understand how the system works. My God, I can’t even program the clock on my VCR.”

  Laughter filtered through the room. Hessler turned to foreign minister David Turkanis.

  “While I gratefully accept your thanks and your congratulations, I am mindful that what we have accomplished only magnifies the importance of the work that remains to be done. My son, myself, and everyone at Hessler Industries is thankful that the day has finally come when no Israeli need ever fear harm from an attack by an enemy missile. Whatever part I have played in it...”

  Paul Hessler let his voice fade. He looked around at the reverent expressions on the faces transfixed before him, eased his arm over his son’s shoulder again and let it stay there.

  “Whatever part I have played in it,” he resumed, “is the least I could do for my country.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 4

  B

  ack in her office, Danielle was staring at Michael Saltzman’s open file when the phone on her desk rang. The desk was metal with a thin wood veneer badly scratched by the office’s previous occupant. A single window behind the desk overlooked the parking lot and provided enough sunlight to fade the topmost portion of the filing cabinet squeezed into the corner. Her own chair and another with frayed vinyl upholstery fronting her desk composed the remainder of the office’s scant furnishings.

  Danielle fumbled the receiver on the way to her ear and cleared her throat. “Barnea.”

  “The Rav nitzav would like to see you, Pakad,” the familiar voice of her superior’s assistant ordered.

  “I’ll be right up.”

  “Now, please. And bring your file on the Saltzman case.”

  Danielle pushed her chair away from her desk, knowing what awaited her in Moshe Baruch’s office on the fourth floor. Assigning her cases like Michael Saltzman’s suicide was meant as extra punishment for Danielle doing everything she could to prevent him from being named head of Israel’s National Police. The former number two man at Shin Bet, the country’s internal security service, Baruch had taken over as commissioner on an interim basis following the stroke and subsequent death of Danielle’s mentor, Hershel Giott. She had never expected Baruch to seek the job on a permanent basis, was convinced he had done so as much as anything to terrorize her.

  After all, they hadn’t gotten along when he was her direct superior at Shin Bet and he had taken offense at her request for a transfer back to National Police after her miscarriage two years earlier. Upon securing the commissioner’s job, Baruch’s first order of business had been to bypass Danielle for both of the high-ranking deputy slots that had been promised her. She remained a chief inspector, forced to be at the beck and call of a man who a few months earlier had gone from tense antagonist to sworn enemy.

  Baruch wanted her to quit.

  Danielle refused to give him the satisfaction.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” she asked, after being escorted from the elevator to the Rav nitzav’s office. Baruch had had the bare walls repainted and most of the furniture replaced since taking over for Hershel Giott. All that remained of her beloved mentor was the hardwood desk that had so dwarfed Giott but seemed small when measured against Baruch’s massive frame.

  “Yes, Barnea,” he said. His huge forearms were emphasized by the short-sleeve shirt he always wore. He was a bear of a man, thick and hairy on every visible inch of flesh. Baruch seemed to notice Danielle had come to his office empty-handed. “You were instructed to bring the Saltzman file with you.”

  “I haven’t completed it yet.”

  He looked puzzled. “I thought your interview was this morning.”

  “It was. I have some loose ends to tie up, that’s all.”

  “Loose ends? It was a suicide.”

  “I like to be thorough.”

  “Just so long as I have it by the close of business today,” Baruch said indifferently, letting Danielle see just how little her work meant to him.

  He delighted in giving Danielle cases that could more appropriately be handled by local authorities, especially involving children, no matter how trivial and superfluous the required work might be. Just routine, indeed. She hadn’t headed up an actual case for almost four months now, and Baruch clearly had no intention of assigning her one anytime soon.

  The head of National Police let his elbows settle on the desk. “Is there a problem, Pakad?”

  “None.”

  “I would have expected there wouldn’t be, considering that I’ve lightened your load in view of your condition.”

  “Have I forgotten to thank you?”

  “Along with your manners, yes,” Baruch said, gloating, since Danielle had not officially informed anyone at National Police or the government about her pregnancy. Clearly he wanted to show her not only that he knew but also the damage he could do as a result, should the identity of the child’s father be released for public consumption. The knowledge Baruch kept tucked away in his pocket like an old bill assured an uneasy truce between them, keeping Danielle from doing any more against him than she had already done.

  She had been one of the first women to be selected for service in the Sayaret, Israel’s elite commando unit, and then the youngest woman ever to achieve the rank of chief inspector with National Police. Her brief tenure with Shin Bet had followed, during which time she was assigned to the case that had changed her life forever by pairing her with a Palestinian detective named Ben Kamal in the West Bank.

  “Have you given any thought to how much longer you wish to stay on the job?” Baruch asked her coldly.

  “No,” Danielle replied.

  “I think an extended leave could be arranged, considering the extenuating circumstances.”

  “I wasn’t aware there were any,” she said.

  “Then just feel free to keep the offer in mind.”

  “Thank you.”

  Baruch’s deepset, neanderthal-like eyes fixed on her with typical coldness. “Have that report on the Saltzman boy on my desk by the end of the day,” he reminded her.

  * * * *

  B

  ack in her office, Danielle found her voice mail light flashing. She recognized the voice as that of her obstetrician and listened apprehensively to his request that she call him back at her earliest convenience.

  “I’d like to see you this afternoon,” Dr. Barr said, as soon as he came on the line.

  “Can’t you tell me over the phone?” Danielle asked, her heart starting to hammer in her chest harder.

  “It would be better if we discuss this in person. How is this afternoon for you?”

  “Well—”

  “I have an opening at four o’clock.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I’ll see you then,” the doctor said, and hung up before Danielle could press him f
urther.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 5

  F

  awzi Wallid, acting mayor of Jericho, arrived at the hospital waiting room a half hour after Ben.

  “How is the young officer, Inspector?”

  “They rushed him into surgery. We won’t know for a while.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  “He was too young to be part of the detail. I should have known that.”

  Wallid clapped Ben lightly on the shoulder. “You should know that a computer disc contained in the envelope Mahmoud Fasil passed to Abdel Sidr contained Fasil’s entire network. The president will be most pleased. I’m sure commendations will be coming.”

  “What about Sidr?” Ben wondered.

  “Our soccer star claims he was just a messenger, that Fasil threatened to kill his family if he didn’t cooperate.”

  “He’s probably telling the truth.”

  “We’re checking out his story.” Wallid noticed the blood staining Ben’s shirt. “You’re not hurt, are you, Inspector?”

  “It’s the young officer’s blood. I’d rather it was mine.”

  “You’ll call me as soon as you hear something.”

  “Of course.”

  Flanked by a pair of Palestinian policemen, Fawzi Wallid started for the door and then turned back around. “And please send the young officer my best.”

  “As soon as he’s well enough to hear me.”

  Ben started walking down the hall to continue his vigil closer to the surgical wing on the second floor. The hospital building was a modern three-story complex with a white-stone finish that helped it blend in perfectly among the buildings around it. It was laid out in a rectangle around a centrally placed parking lot and courtyard hidden from casual view from the street. Ben hoped to find a chair by a window that faced the courtyard to avoid the stomach-knotting feelings of claustrophobia that struck him whenever he was inside a hospital.

  He stepped out of the elevator on the second floor and nearly collided with a sobbing woman who held a damp handkerchief pressed against her nose and eyes.

  “Excuse me,” Ben said. “I’m sorry.”

  The woman looked up, saw Ben’s police badge dangling from his neck and lunged at him, grabbing his shirt.

  “Please, you must help me. My son!” the woman ranted, ringing Ben’s sweat dampened-shirt with her fingers. “My son is dead!”

  Ben eased the sobbing woman away from him and gently pried her hands from his shirt. “I’m afraid I—”

  “You’re a policeman, aren’t you? Then help me. Help me!”

  “I can refer you to—”

  “They brought him here,” the woman persisted, grabbing hold of Ben again. “They did not tell me he was dead, only that he’d been hurt and I should come down immediately.”

  Ben nodded; that had been one of the procedures the Palestinian police had enacted on his advice.

  “My phone wasn’t working. He was here for hours before they reached me.”

  The woman dropped her handkerchief and Ben retrieved it from the floor.

  “He goes to work in Israel, every day after school,” the woman muttered in a voice muffled by the sobs and the handkerchief soaked with her tears. “Today he doesn’t show up, so they call to ask me where he is. But then it is hours before I get another call to come to the hospital.” She looked up again. “They found him on the side of the road.”

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss,” Ben said, trying to sound soothing. “But accidents are investigated by—”

  “This wasn’t an accident!” the woman screamed, loud enough to draw the attention of all those in the hall. She grabbed Ben’s wrist and yanked him closer. “My son was stabbed. He was murdered!”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 6

  A

  ri Hessler rode in the backseat of the Mercedes sedan with his father to Ben-Gurion Airport where their private jet was waiting. Even through the car’s windows, they could feel the desert heat melt away the farther they drove north. Just before the highrise buildings of Tel Aviv came into view, Paul Hessler had to lean forward to tell his driver to turn the air conditioning down.

  “It went well this morning,” Ari said, looking up from his laptop computer.

  “This early deployment is strictly public relations,” Paul Hessler replied, not turning his gaze from the window as Israel slid by beyond him. “We’re still six months to a year away from being ready. I don’t know what the government is thinking.”

  “They are thinking that they will finally be safe.”

  Hessler looked over and studied his son’s expression. “I can tell there’s something else on your mind.”

  “I’ve been looking at the figures.”

  “And?”

  “To get this far this fast has placed us considerably over budget. The cost overruns are monumental. In short, we’re deeply in the red. As much as three hundred million dollars.”

  Paul Hessler’s expression didn’t change. “Consider it an investment.”

  “With no potential for return,” his son scoffed.

  “Really? Then tell me why the Americans agreed to underwrite the Arrow project in the first place?”

  “Because they want a missile shield of their own.”

  “Exactly. But the testing they have done so far was found to be in violation of the SALT treaty. The project stalled and Congress was not about to dedicate two billion dollars for what many perceive as a white elephant anyway. What was the alternative?”

  “Develop the project somewhere else,” Ari Hessler said, realizing.

  Paul Hessler patted his son’s face affectionately. “Now you’re learning what that business school couldn’t teach you. The way the world works.”

  “We lose money developing the Arrow for Israel...”

  “But then we sell the technology to Washington once it is proven.”

  “Very risky.”

  “You don’t beat out Raytheon, General Dynamics, Grumman, or Martin-Marietta without taking risks.”

  Ari Hessler folded the newspaper in his lap. “I should have figured this out by myself.”

  His father shrugged, as the car slowed onto the entrance ramp for Ben-Gurion Airport. “You were too busy working on your thesis.”

  “I’ve been working on something else I need to talk to you about.”

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “This is a big one. A huge one. You’re not going to believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “It can wait until we get back to New York. That way you’ll have something to look forward to when we get home.”

  * * * *

  A

  ri was Paul Hessler’s fifth child and the older of two with his second wife. His first wife had died at the age of forty-six after bearing four children, all daughters. Two of those were divorced themselves now, one had never married, and the four had combined to produce seven grandchildren Hessler doted upon at every opportunity.

  He had married his second wife just short of his fiftieth birthday and her gift to him had been two children, miraculously both sons. The younger, Max, would be graduating from college later this year with a degree in theater and no interest in business. But Ari was truly his father’s son, sharing his looks as well as his interests.

  Ari had turned his attention back to his laptop, freeing Paul to gaze out the window and let his mind drift back to the past. For some reason the memories had been very clear of late, especially those of the day his second life had actually begun in the late fall of 1944....

  * * * *

  H

  e remembered sloshing through the muddy marshland of the Polish countryside north of the city of Lodz as he ran, remembered swinging round to look toward the sounds of the pursuing soldiers only to have his face raked by a low hanging branch when he turned back. The ground had dropped off suddenly and he fell heavily into a gully, coming up with a mouthful of muck.
He gagged and spit it out, as the freezing rain slapped at his back and soaked his thin shirt.

  Paul heard a branch snap at the top of the rise and clawed at a tree to pull himself to his feet. He could hear the soldiers’ muffled voices now, the low clatter of their rifles clapping against the heavy coats that shielded them from the frigid cold.