Asylum City (38 page)

As soon as Faro got the word that the accountant had been picked up, he shut down the whole banking operation. If the cops came looking, they wouldn't find anything. At most, a few Africans drinking coffee.

The “General” had turned on him, but at least he'd given him time to regroup. He could have ratted on Faro, but he didn't. He only handed them Yavin. Shimon appreciated the consideration. Although their relationship ended on a sour note, the “General” did him a little favor at the last minute. As a reward, his death would be quick. Shimon wouldn't make him suffer.

Yavin's future was less certain. The man liked money, no question about it. But did he like it enough to be able to cope with prison life? Shimon had people inside who'd be keeping an eye on him. If he showed any sign of breaking or having second thoughts, they'd have no choice but to silence him for good.

It was a shame he had to close the bank. He'd built up a thriving business and had been planning to expand it. But in the final analysis, he couldn't complain. He'd be well compensated for his pain and suffering. The customers who'd emptied their accounts in time had gotten their money, less commission, of course. The rest weren't so lucky. The bank was no longer offering its services to the public. If Yavin were available, he'd have him draw up a balance sheet. As a rough estimate, Faro thought the unclaimed funds totaled over twenty million. Not bad.

Faro was curious to see how the government would deal with the wreckage he'd left behind. The migrants now had nowhere safe to keep their money, and a lot of them had lost everything. When the inevitable crime wave struck, the authorities would be very nostalgic for the days of Faro's bank. But the idiots still didn't get it. Without him, things were going to be a lot worse.

Faro was through with the migrants. He'd find another outlet for his business acumen. He already had a few ideas.

ANAT
hurried down the stairs, hoping to leave the frenzy of work behind before they called her back. There was rioting around the old bus station, migrants attacking migrants, Israelis attacking migrants, migrants attacking Israelis, Israelis attacking Israelis. There were incidents of looting, and a few Molotov cocktails had been hurled at the African restaurants. They'd gotten the word that MK Ehud Regev was on his way, which would just add fuel to the fire. In situations like this, they'd need all hands on deck. Reinforcements would be called in from every division.

Before that happened, Anat needed a break. She had to breathe fresh air. Eylon had called and told her that Boaz Yavin wasn't talking. They were hoping he was the loose thread that would help them unravel a whole crime organization, but it turned out that there was a tight knot in that thread and they couldn't undo it.

They were still obliged to release Kabri. He'd kept his part of the bargain and given up the “Banker.” It wasn't his fault if they couldn't use Yavin to get to his boss.

Anat got into her car. She'd been going nonstop for the past month. Economic Crimes would handle Yavin; that wasn't her domain. An unfamiliar song was playing on the radio. It was four in the afternoon, still light out. Winter would be over soon. She couldn't remember the last time she'd left work before dark.

She glanced at the people strolling leisurely down Ibn Gvirol Street. The cafés were full. Sometimes it seemed like she was the only one in the city who had a job to go to.

Anat felt deflated. What now? Her mother was right: she buried herself in her work. Here she was, with time on her hands, and she had no one to spend it with.

She hesitated a moment and then grabbed her phone, pressing the number quickly before she got cold feet. Itai picked up on the second ring. The other day in the patrol car, she'd found it hard to resist the urge to take his hand. There was no point in denying it: she'd been attracted to him from the moment she first set eyes on him.

“What's up?” he asked. She could hear the wariness in his voice.

“Nothing . . . I just,” she stammered. What was she thinking? To him she was a cop, nothing more. This was very unprofessional of her. “I just thought,” she said, taking a deep breath in an effort to slow her racing heart, “I thought now that it's all over . . . you might like . . .”

Silence.

She was lousy at this.

She heard raised voices on the other end. How could she be such a moron? In the middle of the riots—that's when she decided to ask him out.

“I'd be very happy to get together with you,” he said, breaking the awkward silence.

Anat felt her face go red.

“Actually,” he went on, “I was also thinking . . . I mean . . . you owe me a trip to Paris.” It was Itai's turn to stammer.

They set a time and place. Anat smiled to herself. If anything came of this, they'd have to find a better “how did you two meet” story than “we were at a funeral.”

She looked at her reflection in the window of the car alongside her. She didn't have anything to wear. Maybe she would use the free time she'd grabbed to look for a dress. It had been a very long time since she'd gone shopping for herself.

Her phone started ringing and the beeper in her bag came to life.

“Nachmias?” It was Amnon, the duty officer. “Male body at 25 Ben Yehudah Street. Possible homicide.”

Anat glanced at her reflection again. Her hair was its usual frizzy self.

“On my way,” she said.

ONE
of the most enjoyable stages of writing a book is the research. It gives me a chance to delve into new realms and meet new people. In all my previous books, I had some knowledge of the subject before I began. But I knew nothing at all about the issues dealt with here. The journey I was led on, the people I met, and the things I learned had a strong impact on me, and they continue to resonate with me. I owe a sincere debt of gratitude to all those without whose help this book could not have been written.

To my editor, Noa Menhaim, who was by my side every step of the way. A full partner in the process, she accompanied me on visits to the neighborhoods around the old bus station in south Tel Aviv, offered her support and excellent advice, and, most important, was brutally honest and never cut me any slack. Quite a few of the ideas in this book are hers, and I am pleased to say that because of her, quite a few of my own ideas will never see the light of day. Noa, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

To my mentor, Amnon Jackont. Although he did not edit this book, his advice and the things he taught me are with me wherever I go.

To Michal Pinchuk, the director of ASSAF, Aid Organization for Refugees and Asylum Seekers in Israel, who was the first to introduce me to the subject. She provided me with fundamental concepts that were a huge help to me. The story Itai tells at the funeral is based on real events related by Orit Rubin of ASSAF at a conference organized by Physicians for Human Rights in collaboration with the Sheba Medical Center at Tel Hashomer and UNHCR, the UN Refugee Agency, in Israel.

To Sharon Harel, assistant protection officer at UNHCR in Israel, who sat down with me several times to share her profound knowledge of the issue. Her valuable insights and balanced approach were a constant inspiration to me. The tour she took me on, the things I saw there, and the asylum seekers I met are carved deeply in my memory.

To Michal Zmiri, the social worker who runs the women's shelter at the old bus station, whose description of herself as “doing God's work” is a gross understatement. To Ilan Lonai, for the riveting tour of the area one rainy Friday afternoon, and the personal stories he shared with me.

To Irit Gabber Shahar, who patiently answered my abundant questions and offered me insights from her experience as a UN worker. I am also grateful to her for taking the time to read an early draft of the book and for her valuable comments.

To all those who are so near, and yet so far from us, who agreed to allow me a glimpse into their harsh lives and tell me their stories. I was astounded and aghast to hear about the ordeals they had been through. To my chagrin, I must admit that it was only after I started researching the subject that I began to notice their presence among us and actually see them in the street.

To attorney Yadin Elam, who deals daily, and with inestimable dedication, with cases many lawyers are unwilling to touch. He is a credit to his profession. The manifesto he outlined for me (including citations of court decisions) clarified the relevant issues and was of great help to me when I sat down to write this book. By the end of our meeting I understood how Itai would behave and, no less important, exactly who Yariv was.

To attorney Erez Melamed, for his legal advice and for referring me to sources of information that proved to be extremely useful.

My research was greatly aided by members of the police force. I found them to be dedicated, professional, and astute. As a citizen of Israel, I am thankful that such people are on the force.

The tour I was taken on by Chief Inspector Aviv Shpentzer of the Levinsky Precinct, in which he explained the issues from the perspective of the police, was one of the most thought-provoking experiences of my life. The commitment and sensitivity with which the police handle the social problems in south Tel Aviv is inspiring.

I wish to thank Chief Superintendent Miri Peled, who agreed to talk to me about her work as a detective. After meeting with her, I knew the hero of this book would be a policewoman.

Finally, I am extremely grateful to Hila Gersi, who spent long hours explaining police procedure and answering a multitude of questions. Our meetings were invariably interesting, informative, and enlightening. It was an honor for me to get to know her.

To the journalist Yaniv Kobovitz from
Haaretz
. The stories he told me during a tour of Lod sparked the urge to look more deeply into the subject.

To my brother-in-law, Nimrod Ram, my CTO, for explaining computers, and to my mother-in-law, Dr. Daniela Ram, my CSO, for explaining genetics (and, of course, for babysitting the kids). And last but not least, to my sister, Einav Shoham, my legal adviser.

To my brother, Shiran Shoham, who read an early draft of the book and offered me his unique perspective.

Thanks also go to Lee Feller, for highly pertinent comments on the first draft of this book.

To Tamar Bialik, who is always my first reader, for her wise comments and for all of our work together.

To the director, Eitan Zur, who watched the book unfold from the beginning, for cues and suggestions, and especially his eagerness to learn more.

To Eilon Ratzkovsky, for his support and encouragement.

To Kinneret Zmora-Bitan, for their unswerving support for so many years (this is my tenth book!), and particularly to Yoram Roz and Eran Zmora for their sage guidance.

To Ziv Lewis, for opening the door to the publication of my books in other languages, for championing my choice of subject, for his commitment and encouragement, and for his instant replies to my e-mails at any hour of the day.

To Riki Danieli, for her perceptive advice throughout the years. She always helps me understand what I need to do and how to do it.

To Daniel Roz, who is about to hear much more often that “Liad Shoham is looking for you.”

And, of course, to Ido Peretz, for his devoted efforts.

To Sara Kitai, for her smooth, deft translations, which leave readers wondering whether my books were originally written in English.

To my parents, Haya and Avi, for their never-ending support.

And last, but actually first, to my children, Rona and Uri, and my wife, Osnat, for all their love.

PHOTOGRAPH BY OREN DAY

LIAD SHOHAM
is Israel's leading crime writer and a practicing attorney with degrees from Jerusalem's Hebrew University and the London School of Economics. All his crime novels have been critically acclaimed bestsellers. He lives in Tel Aviv with his wife and two children.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.

LINEUP

COVER DESIGN BY JARROD TAYLOR

COVER PHOTOGRAPH © OJO IMAGES LTD/ALAMY

ASYLUM CITY
. Copyright © 2014 by Liad Shoham. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Originally published as
Ir Miklat
in a different form in Israel in 2013 by Kinneret Zmora-Bitan.