Peace, Love and Lies: International Mystery & Crime Thriller

  “Try ‘the spark of inspiration’,” Uzi suggested with a smirk. “Come, come and look.” He pulled me to the big windows. A military jeep carrying flag poles was driving along the red carpet and a tough-looking sergeant major was ordering two soldiers on how to place the flags right. In the distant hangars, small yellow tractors were driving back and forth. A large Boeing with no wings was being towed from one hangar to another and on the distant road, I could see vehicles moving among the trees.

  “You see,” Uzi said. “Life goes on. It must. This terrible bombing, a real horror, is actually an attempt to scare us, to stop us and to make us abandon our course. But this really is the answer. These are not some empty phrases that the minister is uttering. Regarding our direction, I think we have guys like Danny with whom you’re having such a hard time, and with whom I never had an easy time either. But these people are different from us, and they see the direction way before any of us do. Maybe one day, you will understand this.”

  Uzi, who had been scouting the room this whole time, suddenly saw Albert, his driver, and signaled him quietly with his finger. Albert was there in a second, with a misleadingly bored look on his face.

  “Please run to the cargo terminal, and check the crates we are taking to Cairo; make sure the press kit is in there: the printer, a tape recorder, and the speaker stand.” Albert was gone at the same speed that he had appeared a second ago.

  “Yakira is a good girl,” said Uzi as if apologizing. “But she doesn’t always remember everything.”

  My beeper went off: “Explosive charge detonated at Megiddo Junction next to the soldiers’ bus stop; two casualties.” I called Haroush. The crew downstairs had finished and there would be no major news up here. It was time to pack up and return to the office where there would be lots of work for us. I guessed that the team leaving for Cairo would depart almost on time. There was sure to be a quick and difficult cabinet meeting with some resolutions that people would appreciate and which would placate the voters until the next bombing. The foreign minister rose to his feet and started walking towards the press room with one bodyguard leading the way, another behind him, and at least one more in the corner of the room. His security detail had been beefed up.

  The press briefing was finally arranged at the edge of the departures terminal and behind the wall of the VIP Lounge. TV cameras were placed on tripods in the menacing line of the scrimmage. The projectors had a blinding effect as I made my way from the VIP Lounge to one of the back rows of the press-seating area. Martin was standing in the second row along with the Anglos, and in front of the battery of microphones stood a young police chief superintendent in a soiled uniform, sweating and searching for words in vain. He gave a detailed and exhaustive technical description of the size of the bomb and the explosion’s effects and then went on to detail all the types of injuries sustained. The reporters were impatient.

  “Was there an early warning?” someone shouted in a hoarse voice from the back.

  “There are lots of warnings all the time,” the officer replied tiredly. “We are on constant alert, but as you know, no matter how hard we try, things like this will always happen.”

  “But today of all days,” squeaked the hoarse voice. “Today, when a delegation is leaving; you should have known—especially at the airport; especially at this particular airport. How did it happen?”

  “It happens,” said the officer. “We are prepared, we are ready, and we are doing everything possible, and it still happens.” He looked like he was thinking, if it were up to him, he would go back to his friends right now instead of trying to answer rhetorical questions.

  “In English. Can we have it in English?” a CBS reporter shouted.

  The police spokesman, wearing a pristine uniform and a ready smile along with a shiny bald head, replied from the corner of the room, “Not yet, not yet. The police commissioner would also like to add a few words.”

  The police commissioner, grim-faced and short-tempered, moved ahead and looked suspiciously at the battery of microphones. A moment ago, he had been trying to comb his hair. He now licked his lips a few times and started reading from a written statement. He spoke about the police being on the alert, about the need for the public awareness and about the death toll. In a solemn voice, he asked again for the public to be alert. He had the same piece of warning that the foreign minister had and couldn’t reveal. I noticed a hint of apology in his tone. The English-speaking reporters lost their patience and they started screaming, “English, English, or else we leave.”

  “He’s not built for this,” I whispered to Uzi standing near me.

  “He sure isn’t,” Uzi agreed. “Have you seen Albert?”

  The commissioner looked at his spokesman, then at the press, and then said, “Alright, alright, I will repeat it all in English.” He then started repeating his hesitant statement with a strong Israeli accent.

  Albert, Uzi’s driver, had gone to the cargo terminal. I wanted to remind Uzi, so I looked for him.

  “Was it a screw-up?” Martin asked the commissioner in English. Martin and the commissioner had known each other very well for many years, but this was not the time for friendly considerations. This was the question on everyone’s mind. There was a long and embarrassing pause.

  “No,” the Commissioner replied hesitantly, as Martin had surely expected. “No, it wasn’t a screw-up. This is one more chapter in an on-going war that isn’t about to end anytime soon.”

  “Do you know whether it was a female suicide bomber?”

  “We are still checking.”

  I was about to leave. I had become tired of the answers we were not being given and the policemen’s exhaustion touched me in a peculiar way. It was contagious. The story here was essentially over. The beeper went off again and informed of another explosive charge. This time it was at Herzliya Junction, and again at a soldiers’ bus stop. The foreign minister had had a warning. Not about a bus stop but on something much more serious than that. A political assassination? There was something in the air. Bad and scary.

  All of a sudden, the usual buzz in the briefing room hushed. There was almost a strange silence. Everybody was gazing at the entrance. The police commissioner paused in mid-sentence and looked around for the reason for all the excitement. Then Danny Taylor, cabinet secretary, strode regally into the room. He had come from a meeting in Tel Aviv. Despite the summer heat, he was wearing a long, black wool coat that I remembered him buying in Moscow. It had a black fur collar and was the closest thing I had ever seen to a royal cloak.

  Next to him, like a silent and barely noticeable shadow, stood his personal assistant, a loyal servant, shadow, nanny, and punching bag. Two unnoticed young aides rushed in behind him; one from the cabinet secretariat and the other working at the prime minister’s spokesman’s office. Two steps behind them and trying to catch up to the group was the secretary’s chief of staff, holding a sophisticated briefcase and panting into her phone while walking.

  Nobody took notice of the entourage. Danny owned the room with an iron fist, attracting all the attention, smiling to all sides, waving to acquaintances, and crossing the room without even glancing at the commissioner who was speechless in front of the cameras that were still pointing at him. For a second, even the most meddlesome of reporters were dumbstruck, and then all hell broke loose as everyone started screaming in unison, “Danny, Danny, is there a cabinet communiqué? What’s happening? What’s going to happen? Where are we heading?” The whole room was his and the show was his. The foreign minister, seated in the corner and waiting for his turn at the podium, had a worried look on his face. He had who raised Danny for many years, was used to Danny running the show.

  The radio’s police correspondent managed to shout the first question, “Since this morning there has been a series of explosions. Danny, what’s going on? Is it a wave of terror? Does it mean anything?”

  Danny was not on the list of speakers at the press conference. He gently twisted his mouth into a
tiny smile and chuckled in a low voice that everyone knew only too well. “The commissioner is here and he probably knows better than all of us,” he said as he finished crossing the room, opened the door to the VIP Lounge and disappeared, leaving everyone behind like a herd of sheep without a shepherd.

  He hadn’t always been like that, my third father. It was strange how he succeeded at anything he put his mind to, but never managed to be a true father. When it all began, he had even looked totally different. Back then, I, too, believed that I would have a real and permanent daddy.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  Mom met Danny Taylor a few days before my eighth birthday. She was a veteran employee at the foreign ministry, and he had arrived as a young cadet to do an internship at the archive in the information division. To his dismay, he was placed under the supervision of Mom—the tough and energetic archive director. But under the slightest of pressures, she turned out to have a kind and compassionate heart. She had an impressive French-European education combined with the emotional intelligence of a company clerk in the paratroopers.

  We were standing that afternoon at Shwartzbaum’s tailor shop for a fitting, and his fat and annoying wife was sticking needles in the straps of my dress, occasionally sticking my shoulder too. I made sure to scream loudly, so that she would say, “Oh, I’m sorry,” and give her husband a look that said, “What a terribly spoiled girl.” I screamed again, irritated that Mom was not listening to me. The fat lady said, “Don’t shout, little one.” Mom looked at the dress and occasionally said quietly, “Oh, how cute you look. How pretty you are.” I could tell that she was daydreaming and her mind was somewhere else.

  “Mom, you have a new boyfriend,” I said as we stepped out. I didn’t even have to ask. She seemed to wake up from a dream and said, “Yes, apparently so, although I am not sure he is aware of it.” On our way home, we stopped at Bethlehem Road, at the Arab’s vegetable stand where she tried to find the prettiest-looking produce. She picked her vegetables so slowly even I could pick them faster, and then said, “Today we will prepare some nice salads and have a small party because your birthday is coming up. You are turning into a mature young girl and maybe I stand a chance with this new guy.”

  “You know,” I told her. “You can’t go on like this with Marcel. He will stay with you as long as you don’t tell him to go away. He loves you so much and he will take any abuse as long as he can stay with you.”

  “And would you like Marcel to leave?” The evening had turned cool. A handful of people were walking briskly on the sidewalks as if in a hurry to get to their refuge and hole up. I liked Marcel. He was actually the only father I had ever known.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “As long as you are with him, you don’t stand a chance with anyone else, no matter how nice he is. You can’t hope for any change as long as you are living with him.”

  I may have gone too far because her eyes turned sad again and she didn’t want to reply. After a long while, she said with a hopeful tone, “But you love him.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said again, and I didn’t want to discuss it anymore.

  “There is a new guy who doesn’t even know it himself,” she said half to herself. “And maybe it doesn’t even stand a chance.” The brief moment of magic between us was gone. We walked gloomily and quickly towards the Bak’a neighborhood.

  Mom stood silently in the kitchen and made the big salad with oil and parsley just as she had learned in Casablanca. As we sat down to eat, she said a little more about that young man who had arrived, younger than her by about seven years, and who was trying his best to make a good impression, working hard and showing promise. “But there is something in his eyes,” Mom said. “Something in his eyes that I know so well. It can’t be fake.”

  “Is he hot for you?”

  “Eat your salad,” she replied instinctively,

  “Yes, that’s exactly the point,” she went on after a while. “Whether he knows it or not. Maybe something good will come of it after all.”

  I wanted to ask her if it was like that because she was his boss but decided not to, at least not for now, wishing not to spoil the evening’s atmosphere.

  Six weeks later, Marcel went to Ashdod to meet friends. I woke up late that night to the sounds of yelling and crying. I remembered the yelling from previous occasions, but it had never been accompanied by crying. Suddenly the door opened and a man in his underwear stepped out holding a bunch of clothes in his hands. It was just like an old black-and-white film. It could have been amazingly funny if I hadn’t been so scared and shocked. The man looked boyish, had a pretty black hairdo and a mischievous look in his eyes. Apart from that, he was fat and unimpressive. I was quite disappointed. Danny Taylor looked like a nerd. He stepped out quickly, seemed very scared, adjusted his hair awkwardly and was waving at me rapidly and politely as if apologizing for not staying for a handshake and some light conversation. And then he was gone.

  I could hear Mom on the other side of the closed door, crying and trying her best to hide her sobs. Marcel was shouting and screaming. Then there was an eerie silence. My heart sank. Had he killed her? I was scared and was crying aloud, like on previous occasions, trying to stop them and to help her get out of it. Later she told me that I had knocked on her door and screamed, “Enough, you two. Enough. Stop it!”

  The door opened. Marcel stepped out and seemed ready to explode at any moment. His eyes were bloodshot. I was ready for him to kill me too. His red eyes were crazy and empty at the same time. It was unlike all previous fights. Never before had I thought that he may hurt me. Usually, it was easy to love Marcel. He was a happy story teller and very generous with his time and money. This time he held a small suitcase in his hand. “Merde, alors!” he said as he stepped out and threw the door shut behind him. He returned after a moment, kissed me hard on the cheek and said, “Je suis désolé, chérie,” and then he stepped out and never returned. The following morning, Mom told me, “That’s it, we are getting a divorce.” She sighed heavily and started to cry. I could feel that she was also happy.

  Danny Taylor was a child of the world. He had been born into the foreign ministry. I heard that many times, mainly from his good friend, Uzi Feinstein. They had met for the first time at the military draft office on their way to the main intake camp. Danny had just returned on his own from Norway, to fulfill his duty and enlist as a Lone Soldier who has no family in Israel. He had made a big impression at the draft office. Uzi was behind him in line. Since that day at the intake camp, Uzi never left Danny’s back. He never tried to overtake him or push him aside or move away. Once, I tried saying that to Uzi, gently, and he wasn’t offended at all.

  “Maybe it is true,” he said pensively. “Watching Danny’s back is not the worst place to be. Danny needs me there and appreciates it. At least most of the time”

  “But what about your own life? Don’t you have your own ideas and goals? You are not less talented than he is”

  “Relax, little girl,” he said, and I wasn’t sure if it was because I was so wrong or so right.

  Uzi was my good friend and used to visit with Mom and me when Danny would travel for weeks, leaving us by ourselves. Sometimes, when Danny would stay out the entire night, Uzi would visit Mom. I knew there was no chance he would ever have to run away from Mom’s room wearing only his underwear. He just wasn’t the type. Uzi could talk for hours about his good old days with Danny, during the military service and the early days of their career in the ministry.

  They were placed together in the military intelligence branch. Uzi had learned Arabic at school and was a gifted pupil. Danny had returned from Norway where his father served as the ambassador of Israel. He grew up mostly in France but completed most of his high school years in Germany. On the first night at the military intake camp, he’d apparently studied his companions carefully and tried to decipher the slang words and the social codes of the stuck-up kids from the poor towns.

  His Frenc
h astounded everyone but what surprised them, even more, was his quick and elegant way of fitting in. He was a nerd with a very sharp sense of social skills.

  “As soon as he found out that there was nothing more he could learn from those Moroccan kids,” Uzi explained, “he lost interest in them and overnight he became the unchallenged king of our platoon.”

  “But I am of Moroccan origin too,” I protested.

  “You are another type of Moroccan,” Uzi stated decisively.

  When they started learning about regulations and procedures at the military intelligence training school, their beds were side by side and together they prepared their beds and equipment for the commander’s review. Uzi would oil and clean their rifles and fold the blankets on both beds because he had always had a penchant for neatness and cleanliness. He didn’t mind at all, washing both their clothes. In exchange, Danny would recount tales of Oslo and of the girls at Paris’ Belleville neighborhood.

  “When he was twelve,” Uzi proudly recounted to anyone willing to listen, “he hit on a Parisian girl who was fat and older but very sexy, at Luxembourg Gardens. On that occasion, Danny was living out a fantasy in which he saw himself as a prince in a palace, fulfilling his right to bed the female servants. Imagine that. There was another French girl, the daughter of a Jewish millionaire, who chased him throughout basic training and intelligence school, but at that time Danny had started sleeping in the staff quarters with the head of human resources. Unbelievable. He was a genius in sweet-talking them. He’d make them admire his intellectual maneuvers and want to mother him at the same time.”

  Uzi had hoped to be assigned a meaningful job with military intelligence at a base located atop a remote mountain in the north. Danny was the one who arranged for them to be placed in a base in Tel Aviv, because—as he explained—the girls there are much more normal, not the cheap and low-level quality of girls who were stationed in the remote listening posts around the country. Besides that, he knew some interesting girls in nearby Jaffa who were well worth a visit. He also believed that the restaurants in Tel Aviv were far better. Uzi covered his shifts for him while Danny painted the town red. When it was time for the commander’s review, Uzi offered to polish his shoes because he was ashamed on behalf of the rest of the room for Danny’s disrespect. Danny reluctantly agreed. A strong friendship grew between the two, and it remained steadfast when after two years Uzi became sick with jaundice and was hospitalized for three months at Tel Ha-Shomer hospital. Danny visited him a few times on his way to visit his parents who were back in Jerusalem, staying and chatting with him for a while. When Uzi recovered, they moved into an apartment they shared in the center of Tel Aviv, in one of the uglier tenements, and joined together the school of political science at Tel Aviv University. Danny spent most evenings out on the town. Sometimes he would return in the morning with two girls and would send one of them into Uzi’s room.