Dark Waters (12 page)

Jordan gripped the small drive in her hand. “Who are the others?”

Ganani turned her head away.

“There was one man with Tibi at the al-Ajami apartment,” said Jordan. “A dead man. Are you saying someone else was there?”

Ganani nodded, wincing in pain.

“Did he get away? Did he take something?”

“He didn’t get the information they were after. He may have gotten away with the information that Tibi planned to trade.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“No, but I found him when he found you.”

“He was one of the men at the doctor’s office.”

“Yes.”

Jordan tried piecing it together. “Why borrow a dead man’s car?”

“Because you don’t have one of your own. These men walked across the border. They must have known that the car wasn’t registered to Tibi and that it wouldn’t have been reported missing yet. Do you know how many green Foresters there are in Israel? All they have to do is switch plates again, and they will still have transportation.”

“What information do you think is on this drive? It must be pretty important.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ganani said.

“Of course it does.”

“No,” Ganani said. “It’s only important that it never gets used.”

“If you never find out what they’re after, how do you stop them from trying again?”

“Timing.”

“The peace talks.”

“I think, for now.”

Jordan tightened her fist on the USB drive in her hand. “It would seem you know quite a bit, Ganani.”

“And you know everything I do.” The Shin Bet agent pushed herself out of her chair.

“Stop right there,” said Jordan.

“We had a deal. You have the drive, and you have beaten me twice. What more do you want?” She wore the same smirk she had in the Israel police station, and it ticked Jordan off.

“Give me your embassy pass.”

Ganani took it off slowly and pushed it across the desk. “It will just be reissued.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it.”

A
fter the MPs picked up Ganani, Jordan got a call from the tech lab. She ran the stairs to the fourth floor, pounding out her frustration on the concrete steps. What the hell had Cline been up to?

The tech who’d come in handed her a form.

“I needed it yesterday,” she said, looking around for a pen.

“Get in line.” The tech plucked a pen from his pocket and handed it to her.

“How long before you’ll know anything?” she asked, signing her name and handing everything over.

“Hopefully, sometime tomorrow. We’ll call you.”

“You’re kidding. We need to know what’s on there immediately.”

“You and everybody else. Right now, we have every free hand setting up the IT network for the secretary’s speech and visit. I’m just one person.”

“You might be holding the key to who killed Steven Cline.”

The tech scrubbed the side of his face with his hand. “Enough already. I’ll move it to the front of the line. I will do my best to get you some answers, but
no
promises.”

“You rock.”

“Yeah?” The tech turned away. “Tell my mother.”

*

After a quick trip home for a power nap and a shower, Jordan was back in the office by 6:00 a.m. Daugherty passed her doorway on his way in.

“You’re here early,” he said.

She stood and went after him in the hall. “I wanted to talk with you.”

Daugherty jerked his head for her to follow him to his office. He made a beeline for the coffee machine. “Shoot.”

While he started a pot of coffee, Jordan sat down in a chair by the desk. “I think Cline was trading state secrets.”

“Want some?” he asked, grabbing some mugs out of the cupboard and cream from the small refrigerator. He poured himself a double of cream.

“You did hear what I said?” Jordan had expected more of a reaction. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

He lifted the pot in her direction. She shook her head.

“It would bother me a lot if he’d actually succeeded. It appears he didn’t.” Daugherty carried his mug to his desk. “Now tell me again what happened, and this time I want details, starting with what happened at the doctor’s office.”

Jordan recapped the events, beginning with the attempt to kidnap Lucy, finding the USB drive, and Ganani’s visit to her office.

“You took on a Shin Bet agent? You don’t look too much worse for the wear.”

“That’s because I kicked her ass.” Jordan rubbed her shoulder. “You should see Ganani. I think I broke her nose.”

“Good job.” Daugherty sounded impressed.

He should be. Jordan hadn’t incapacitated the woman, but she’d done some damage.

“Now, from what I just heard,” Daugherty said, refocusing on the matter at hand, “you think Cline is connected with some
radical Jewish movement and was attempting to pass off encrypted DSS intel to some joker tied to the PLC?”

Put like that, her theory sounded farfetched.

“Sir, it’s a fact that Cline, or at least his wife, has connections to people tied to some radical Jewish factions. Based on recent events, it seems clear his intent was to pass information to Najm Tibi. We won’t know what until we crack the files.”

Daugherty turned his chair and stared out the window. “Have you questioned his wife?”

“She’s refusing to speak with anyone. She has her rabbi, Tiran Marzel, acting as her voice. He claims it violates her religious beliefs to speak to anyone outside her religious sect during this period of mourning.” Jordan leaned forward, wishing she could see Daugherty’s face, maybe read his expression. “Rabbi Marzel was once connected with Kach, a Jewish nationalist extremist group that operated out of the West Bank. He now leads a group of Neturei Karta living in Bnei Brak.”

“Tell me about them.” His voice sounded clipped, and he kept his back to her.

“The Neturei Karta is a group of ultra-Orthodox Litvish Jews—Haredis from the former Grand duchy of Lithuania.” In the present day, the region included Belarus, Lithuania, Ukraine, and the northeastern Suwalki region of Poland.

“What’s their philosophy?”

Having lived in Tel Aviv for nearly two years, Jordan was surprised he didn’t know.

“The Neturei Karta opposes the political ideology of Zionism,” she said. “In a nutshell, they believe that Jews are forbidden to have their own state until the coming of the Messiah.” This made them a potential recruiting ground for anti-Israeli factions. “Marzel is a self-proclaimed follower of Rabbi Meir Kahane.”

“I’ve heard the name. Refresh my memory.”

“Kahane founded the Kach Party and supported the annexation of all the land occupied during the Six-Day War—the Sinai Peninsula, the Gaza Strip, the West Bank, East Jerusalem, and the Golan Heights—all of it. He also advocated the forced transfer of the four million Palestinians living there. Kach’s main focus was to disrupt the peace process and oppose any steps taken to hand the land back to the Palestinians.”

Daugherty swung his chair back around and set his coffee on the desk. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Kahane die?”

“Back in 1990, which is when his son formed a splinter group called Kahane Chai, or ‘Kahane Lives.’”

“As I recall, the son died, too. Neither of these groups has been active for years.”

“True.” Kach and Kahane Chai still existed, but the groups had been banned from participating in Israeli politics for making threats against politicians. Ironically, now they refrained from violence in hopes the government would lift the ban and allow them to run members for political office. Jordan doubted it would happen.

Daugherty took a sip of his coffee. “I don’t see the relevance.”

“There was a third splinter group called Irgun Yehudi Lohem, or EYAL, better known as the Fighting Jewish Organization, formed by a man named Avishai Raviv. He’s the man they believe planned and executed the assassination of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. That’s where Marzel comes in.”

Raviv was alleged to be an agent of the Israeli Domestic Intelligence, better known as Shin Bet or Shabak. His original assignment was to gather information on right-wing extremists. Many believed Shin Bet established EYAL in order to spy on extremist groups. One of the most outspoken was Rabbi Tiran Marzel.

“And you think Rabbi Marzel partnered with Cline?”

“I think it’s possible.”

Daugherty tapped the side of his mug. “Tell me about this Tibi character.”

“He seems to be more of an opportunist for hire than a true jihadist. All anyone has to do is look inside his apartment to see what he was about. Suffice it to say, he liked the finer things. Detective Weizman confirms it.”

“What else do we know about him?”

“He was a maintenance worker at the GG&B Engineering headquarters in Haifa. He swept floors, mopped, cleaned blinds—that sort of thing.”

“And he lived in Yafo, in al-Ajami?”

“It’s not that uncommon. Some of the embassy employees commute from Haifa. It’s all highway. An hour’s drive, tops. A coveted position at GG&B would be worth the commute.”

“For an Israeli Arab.”

Stated like that, it sounded bigoted. Not exactly what she had meant.

“I mean for anyone,” she said. “GG&B designed the National Water Carrier and is the go-to on all issues connected with water, energy resources, and waste management. They’re in business for the long haul, pay top wages, give good benefits, and have lots of prestige.” Jordan waited to see if he connected the dots the way she had. GG&B held the key.

“What’s your theory, Jordan?”

He apparently wanted her to spell it out.

“The goal of these groups is to disrupt the peace process, right?”

Daugherty nodded.

“Maybe what they’re doing is connected with the National Water Carrier?”

“No way,” Daugherty said, dismissing the idea. “Israeli security is impeccable. Everyone here depends on the water, including the
Arabs. Terrorists have tried chemical spills, poisonings, bombings.” He ticked the items off on his fingers. “You name it, it’s been tried.”

“What if they’re planning something that’s never been tried before?”

“Let’s back up the truck. Consider what we have to go on. A maintenance worker and Cline, who you’ve loosely connected to a radical sect of Judaism . . .”

“His wife, Tamar’s, connection to Neturei Karta is fact,” Jordan said, trying to establish her case. “It’s logical to assume her husband is also connected. If Cline had information for Tibi, then Tibi had something for Cline.”

“I’ll concede that it looks like Cline might have been radicalized, but it sounds like you’re suggesting the Neturei Karta is in cahoots with the PLC.”

“They share a common anti-Zionist belief. What’s the old Arabic saying? ‘I against my brother, my brothers and I against my cousins, then my cousins and I against strangers.’”

“That doesn’t mean they’ve formed the Brotherhood of Anti-Israel.” Daugherty picked up his mug. “Let’s face it. There are plenty of Jews in this country that don’t even talk to each other. How the fuck could enemies plan a covert op?”

“I’m not saying they’ve joined ranks. But they could both want something the other can provide. They could have separate agendas and still be facilitating each other’s plans.”

“You’re sure it’s not about money?”

“Positive. I checked Cline’s bank records. There haven’t been any unusual transactions.”

“Maybe he has hidden accounts.”

“None that I could find.” She tapped her finger on his desk. “There’s no evidence money was the motive, so it has to be about a cause, about beliefs. There’s no way Cline would come away empty-handed.”

Daugherty’s mouth tightened. She couldn’t tell if he was angry with Cline or angry with her because of the tack she was taking. It was time to press.

“I’d like to pay a visit to GG&B,” she said.

“No.” His answer came hard and fast.

“Sir, if I’m right, I’m convinced the information Tibi was trading came from GG&B.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“We walk away.”

“Jordan, what you have is a gut feeling and a boatload of conjecture. GG&B carries a fleet full of political clout. We’re not riling them up without proof.” Daugherty cupped his hands together. “Call Weizman. Let the local police investigate.”

“Sir, the Palestinians may not have gotten what they came after, but what if these guys have a backup plan?”

“You bring me some proof, and I’ll let you widen your investigation. Until then, we need to focus on protecting the secretary of state against the enemies we know.”

“Damn right, we do,” said Dan Posner, stepping into the office. “You find out anything useful, Agent Jordan?”

“Dan,” Jordan said. Pushing herself out of the chair, she turned to Daugherty. “I’ll check with the tech guys and see how close they are to having answers.”

“Keep me informed,” he said, waving Posner toward a chair. “Have a seat. Want some coffee?”

“Guess this means you’re off babysitting detail,” Posner said as she walked past him.

How much had Daugherty told him? “Not until we figure out what’s going on.”

“You better get to it, then.” Posner plopped down in the seat she had vacated, as if squashing her like a bug.

The meeting was over.

I
f Daugherty wanted proof that Cline had been trading information, Jordan intended to find it. Then maybe he would let her dig into Tibi’s tenure at GG&B. Somehow the information Cline wanted and Tibi’s work were connected.

Until then, she did have other options. She could still look at Najm Tibi’s known associates. If only they knew whom the other person was in the al-Ajami apartment the night of the murders—the one that Ganani let get away. And there was Tamar Cline.

Maybe it was time to pay the grieving widow a personal visit.

Up until now, Rabbi Marzel had blocked all attempts to talk with her, claiming she was in
aninut
, or intense mourning. But she was also an American citizen, and her husband’s death was a matter of national security. It didn’t sit well with Jordan that the rabbi was blocking her investigation. They needed to know what Steven Cline had been doing the past week while he was supposed to have been stateside, who he had been associating with, and if there had been any changes in his normal routine.

Fitting with Haredi religious customs, Weizman had expedited the release of Cline’s body for immediate burial. The funeral service was scheduled for 1:00 p.m., followed by the widow sitting Shiva.

Jewish custom allowed for friends and family to be at graveside and to then pay their respects to the bereaved at home. Jordan knew she might not be welcomed. But she was a colleague of Cline’s, and maybe the widow would feel like talking.

Jordan opted not to check with Daugherty regarding her newest plan. Stopping off at her apartment to change into a dress, she found the mail piling up in the hallway, most of her stuff still in boxes, and every hemline in her closet two inches above appropriate funeral wear. She opted instead for a clean uniform and a dark silk scarf to cover her head.

She checked her appearance in the full-length mirror. She looked official, which was better than exposing her bare knees.

*

Tamar Cline lived in Bnei Brak, a dusty subdivision on the east side of Tel Aviv. According to the guide books, it was home to nearly two hundred thousand Haredi Jews. Poor and densely populated, it had begun as an agricultural community but had grown into one of Israel’s largest cities. The community was close-knit. Its residents chose to keep to themselves and follow traditional practices, including dress codes and gender separation.

Jordan punched the address of Bnei Brak Cemetery into her GPS and followed its directions. Getting there wasn’t difficult. The polished high-rises of Tel Aviv slipped into her rearview mirror, their places taken by two- and three-story buildings composed of white concrete. Laundry flapped from balconies, and contemporary Western dress morphed into the conservative costuming of the Haredi Jews.

Parking on the street, Jordan locked her gun in the glove box, buttoned her shirt to the neck, draped the scarf over her head, and headed into the burial ground. A crowd was gathered near an
open grave on the far side—men gathered on the west, women to the east.

Tamar stood with the women. She was dressed in black from head to foot, her hair covered with a dark wig. Her daughter stood close. Tamar’s young son stood with the men, close to the rabbi.

Jordan picked her way between the graves. Like other Jewish cemeteries, the plots of Bnei Brak consisted of a grave topped by a rectangular platform of poured concrete faced with stone tiles. The grave coverings rose two feet or more aboveground, with the name, date, and praises of the deceased inscribed on the top. In the case of some Holocaust survivors, the inscriptions were on the side. Jordan wondered why.

Aware of the stares of the gathering men and women, Jordan stopped beside a woman standing apart from the crowd. The woman fidgeted and tugged at her clothing, moving foot to foot as if she felt out of place. Dressed in Western-style clothing, Jordan marked her as Steven Cline’s mother.

“
Sholem-aleykhem
,” said Jordan.

“
Aleykhem-sholem
.” The woman spoke in halting Yiddish. Her red-rimmed eyes and blotchy skin revealed her grief.

Jordan switched to English. “Are you Steven’s mother?”

The woman looked surprised. “You’re an American.”

“I work for the DSS.” Jordan didn’t know what else to say. This woman’s pain was going to intensify when she found out her son had died a traitor. Jordan wished she could find comforting words. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The woman brightened. “You worked with Steven.”

“Actually, I’m his replacement. I didn’t personally know him, though I imagine others will be coming who did.”

Mrs. Cline shared a sad smile. “I doubt it. Steven changed quite a bit after he married Tamar. He used to have lots of friends. Now there is no one but the Neturei Karta.”

“I don’t understand,” Jordan said. She hoped her statement sounded benign. If his mother wanted to share information, Jordan intended to listen.

“Things were wonderful at first. She seemed happy to be out from under her strict rabbi, but Tamar comes from an ultra-Orthodox sect.” Mrs. Cline grew quiet.

Jordan looked over at Tamar. She appeared to be insulated by Haredim. A glimpse of her face, among the others, showed a woman content in her element.

“It would seem she’s reverted to her old ways.”

“It happened when they moved to Tel Aviv.”

Jordan remained quiet, hoping Cline’s mother would volunteer more.

“It was Tamar who wanted to move to Bnei Brak. She was the one who sought out the Neturei Karta rabbi.”

“Did Steven embrace the culture?” Jordan said. “I mean, he didn’t dress like a Haredim. He didn’t wear a beard or
peyos
, sidecurls, or dark clothes.”

“Only because of his job.” Mrs. Cline leaned sideways toward Jordan. “He told me when he quit his job that he planned to commit himself to study of the Torah and could no longer in good conscience carry a gun.”

“Because of the Neturei Karta?”

Mrs. Cline nodded, gesturing toward the rabbi and the men. “They are not just ultra-Orthodox. They are fanatics.”

“In what way?”

“They believe in the biblical land of Jews and condemn the State of Israel and think it is their duty to defend a misguided position of authentic, unadulterated Judaism.” Mrs. Cline’s hatred came out through the tone of her voice and the stiffness of her body.

Jordan watched the men. Most talked quietly among themselves or prayed, though several men openly stared in their
direction. The displeasure in their eyes caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise. She reached for her scarf, ensuring it was properly arranged.

“When did you last speak with Steven, Mrs. Cline?”

“Less than a week ago.”

The rabbi’s voice breached any further questions. He began chanting the
Kaddish Yatom
, the mourner’s prayer. The men joined in, then the women. The prayer was recited three times. Then the rabbi offered a short eulogy, followed by a friend of Steven’s from the synagogue. At the end, each man rent his coat on the right side and then—using the back of a small, triangular-shaped spade—shoveled three spades of dirt into the grave. Steven’s son tore his coat on the left side and then picked up a shovel.

Once the last man had thrown dirt and placed the spade back in the ground, the women moved forward.

Steven’s mother leaned toward Jordan. “In Neturei Karta burials, the women wait for the men to finish before paying their respects at the grave. Non–
erlekhe Yidn
, nonvirtuous Jews, pay their respects last.” She touched her chest. “Along with the
goyim
.” She touched Jordan’s sleeve.

Mrs. Cline started to move toward the grave and then turned back around. “I hope you are planning to come by the house.”

Jordan nodded, thankful for the invitation.

She hung back while Tamar offered words of mourning and shoveled more dirt into the grave. Mrs. Cline went last. After all the women had dispersed, Jordan stepped up to the edge of the box. She looked down at the grave, at the plain wooden casket partially covered with dirt, and silently asked Steven Cline what the hell he’d been doing in Dizengoff Square.

Back at the car, Jordan debated what to do next. Part of her wanted to turn the car around and head back toward the Dizengoff Apartments. After witnessing Mrs. Cline’s grief and the
stoic acceptance of death from Tamar and the children, Jordan felt guilty about having come. She knew by the stares of the Haredim in attendance that her presence at graveside was seen as an intrusion. Then again, Mrs. Cline had invited her, and she still had questions for Tamar.

Jordan parked down the block from the Clines’ house. Small, with a tiny yard, it sat midblock in a crowded subdivision. She pulled on the handbrake and watched as a steady stream of men and women entered and exited the house. The men strolled with importance, and every woman carried a covered dish.

Once the crowd appeared to have thinned, Jordan climbed out of her car. Retucking her shirttails and straightening her scarf, she locked the car and headed for the house. Out of respect, she kept her eyes averted as she passed a group of men standing in the front yard.

Inside the front door, a hallway led to a kitchen. Through an archway on the right, a group of men had gathered in the clean and sparsely furnished living room. Steven’s mother hailed her from a smaller sitting room on the left, where she sat separated from the other women.

“You came,” she said, her face lighting.

“Yes.”

As Jordan spoke, Tamar Cline looked up from her chair near the front window. Turning, she whispered to the woman beside her. The woman intercepted Jordan halfway through the room.

“Tamar would like you to leave.”

Jordan glanced behind her and then touched her fingers to her chest. “Me? I’m here at Mrs. Cline’s invitation.”

More Haredi women rose to their feet.

Tamar’s spokeswoman said, “You are not welcome.”

Mrs. Cline stepped forward. “Please, she is a colleague of Steven’s. I invited her.”

Tamar stood. “This is my home. You are a guest, but she is not wanted.”

Mrs. Cline started to protest, but Jordan shook her head.

“
Hamakom y’nachem etkhem b’tokh sha’ar avelei tziyon viyrushalayim
,” Jordan said. The Omnipresent will comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem. She had been to several Jewish funerals at home and knew it was the traditional thing to say to a mourner when taking your leave.

Mrs. Cline stepped forward. “I’ll walk you out.”

“There’s no need.” Jordan nodded her thanks and then turned and headed down the hallway for the door. Once in the hallway, she sensed the men from the living room closing ranks behind her.

“Tamei,”
one said. Unclean one.

“Tamei,”
said another, spitting at her as she reached the front steps of the house.

“Hey!” She considered confronting her harassers, but she didn’t want to create more of a scene and kept walking. At the sound of her voice, the crowd of men in the yard turned. They took up the others’ cry.

“
Lechi habaita
!” Go home, they yelled. One man picked up a large rock and pitched it in her direction. It clattered on the sidewalk near her feet.

Jordan’s heart rate accelerated. Her breathing quickened. She stepped over the stone. “I’m leaving.”

The second man to speak graveside broke free of the crowd. His dark eyes glowered at her from below the rim of his black hat. In his hands, he held a rock. “You are a disgrace. You dare to wear pants like a man. You come here and contaminate the house of Tamar Cline. You contaminate the streets of Bnei Brak. You deserve to be taught a lesson.”

He heaved the stone. It struck Jordan in the back.

She winced and her hand instinctively went to where her holster should be. Then she remembered she had left her gun in the car.

Jordan picked up her pace. Clearing the yard, she figured the men would stop at the edge of the grass, but they followed her into the street.

The sedan was parked halfway down the block. She jogged toward the car, and the men followed, moving so swiftly the tails of their long black coats flared out behind them. Another stone was hurled, then another. Both missed. A fourth rock slammed into her ribs.

“
Tamei, lechi habaita
,” rose the chant.

Jordan broke into a run, clicking the unlock button on her key fob. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she slammed and locked the door. A rock struck her window, fracturing the glass.

Starting the car, Jordan jammed it into gear and revved the engine.

The men swarmed the car, like flies on raw meat. Fists pounded on the windows. Another rock bounced off the glass, chipping the windshield.

“Tamei!”

Jordan bullied the car through the crowd. Once free, she looked in the rearview mirror. Men threw stones and cheered.

So much for the chance to talk to Tamar.