Sanctuary (24 page)

Milligan took a notebook out of her purse and briskly flipped through the pages. Decker said, “Ask him if he sees her at the Bursa a lot.”

Rina did, then translated Yalom’s answer. “He said it’s unusual. But everyone knows who she is because she’s a
macher
—a big shot—with VerHauten. You know about VerHauten?”

“Yes, I know about VerHauten. Ask him, why does he think she’d be here talking to Yosef Menkovitz.”

Rina asked the question, then translated Yalom’s answer as best she could. “She wants to see how many stones come from VerHauten…I don’t know exactly what he means.”

“I think I do,” Decker said. “Ask him if stones from sources other than VerHauten’s pipes have been showing up in the Bursa?”

Rina stared at him. “Repeat that again, slowly.”

Decker did and Rina translated. It took a few moments, Decker’s eyes fixed upon Milligan. She was still thumbing through her notebook. Then she checked her watch.

Yalom’s answer deepened Rina’s frown. “I don’t know if I’m getting this right. He said something like…the stones come from all over. Most come from VerHauten. But some dealers go to Russia and buy stones there.”

The old man continued to talk. Rina knitted her brow as she listened.

She said, “There are also some stones that…go around. I think he means float around. People don’t ask questions about them.”

Yalom continued talking.

Rina said, “People are afraid of Milligan. The dealers must buy a certain amount of stones from VerHauten. If it gets back that they are buying diamonds from other places, she can make trouble.”

Decker said, “Ask him if it’s rare to see her on the floor.”

Rina asked the question, then listened to Yalom’s answer. “Yes, it’s rare to see her on the floor. She mostly goes to offices or to the lounge upstairs where it’s quieter and more private. VerHauten likes privacy.”

“So why is she on the floor?”

The old man shrugged a response.

Milligan moved back into the sea of white shirts.

Yalom talked. Rina said, “Milligan has dealt with Menkovitz in the past. He’s big and VerHauten knows all the big dealers.”

“Does he know Milligan no longer works for VerHauten?”

Rina translated. The old man’s eyes grew wide. Decker said, “Guess he didn’t.”

Again, Milligan withdrew from the crowd. She snapped her book shut and walked crisply down the Bursa, all eyes watching the click of her heels.

Decker lurched forward, then pulled back.

Rina said, “You want to follow her, Peter?”

“I can’t. She’s met me before and I’m too conspicuous in this country to tail her without her noticing me.”

“Then I’ll do—”

“Forget it.”

Rina fished the car keys out of her purse. “I’ve got three kids at home, including a baby. I promise I won’t do anything dumb. I’ll call you later at Mr. Yalom’s house.”

With that, she jogged to catch up to Milligan. Decker started forward, then bit his lip and let her go.

There was no point in trying to change Rina’s mind. She wouldn’t listen and it would just create an argument. She’d seen him on stakeouts. Hopefully, she’d picked up a couple of salient tips. And she looked innocuous enough, clad in a simple blue dress and flats, her hair braided and tucked under a blue tam. She looked about as threatening as a bunny rabbit.

Stomach in a knot, Decker took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Why was he so interested in Kate Milligan? What evidence did he have that she was a player in this case? Then again, what was she
doing
here when she was supposed to be working on a case in Los Angeles? She had told him
specifically
that she’d be in town. Obviously, she had had a change of plans. It could happen.

Decker rubbed his eyes.

The boys were missing and so was Gold; then Milligan popped up from nowhere. And now Rina was on the loose. He would have never involved her if it weren’t for the Yalom kids. Goddamn boys. They’d sucked him into it. He cared about the kids just like Rina cared about Honey’s kids.

Why was he so concerned?

He knew Rina was at home in the country. In fact, she knew Israel better than either Milligan or he did. She knew what was dangerous and how to avoid it. And Decker did want to know what the woman was up to. Besides, how much possible harm could come from one woman following another?

Don’t answer that question, Deck
.

Decker continued to rationalize. Rina had told him she wouldn’t do anything dumb. She had three kids at home. He knew what Hannah and the boys meant to his wife. He tossed negative thoughts out of his head and decided to believe her promise.

The woman had clout. Rina saw her being led by security to the front of the line. And while procedure wasn’t suspended, it did seem abbreviated. Milligan left the building in record time while Rina cooled her heels in a line of testy working stiffs. At that point, she had two choices—give up the chase or try her luck at the front with a sob story.

Lucky for her, the Israelis had hearts of gold. Who would dare restrain a mother rushing off to pick up
her sick baby from the sitter? Whisked ahead to the front window, Rina turned in the necessary tags and papers, secured her passport, and bolted out the door. She reached the parking lot just in time to see Milligan unlocking the door to a Volvo Sedan parked three rows away from Rina’s rental.

Rina smiled. A Volvo 740 was a high ticket out here. The car would be a snap to follow, easily standing out in a country of subcompacts. Quickly, Rina slid into the driver’s seat of her diminutive Subaru. She turned on the ignition. The Volvo took off and so did Rina, following Milligan to the on ramp on the
ayalon
. They headed southeast toward Jerusalem.

Safe on the freeway, cruising at a comfortable speed, Rina felt a bit smug as she tailed Milligan. Jerusalem put her on solid ground, since she’d lived in that area for a number of years. True, the City of Gold had changed, grown, and modernized, but it was still tiny compared to LA.

Rina turned on the radio, tuning in to Hebrew chatter. A talk show—just as stupid here as it was in the States. She switched to one of the many Arabic stations, hearing the modal octaves of native music. Traditional Arabic songs were a form of storytelling: They could go on for hours. About two minutes was enough for her. She changed the dial. This time she found contemporary rock music. Pearl Jam had made it to Jordan.

After riding for twenty minutes through long stretches of cultivated fields, the mountains hovering in the distance, Rina felt a cooler nip in the air. Ten minutes later, the hills began to close in, the roadway becoming a narrow strand cut through stone. Oncoming traffic was obscured by the numerous bends in the ascending roadway. But that didn’t stop the Israelis from leaning on the horn, freely passing vehicles going too slowly for their liking. What’s a head-on between friends?

The Israeli drivers were frustrating Rina. One minute she would have the Volvo in plain view; the next moment
some obnoxious would-be racer would honk, then pass her at record speed. Fortunately, Milligan didn’t appear to be in a hurry.

As the road climbed higher, the mountainside became thick with green and the smell of pine. The last curves upward finally brought a bright wall of golden stone into view. Rocks arranged in Hebrew letters placed in the mountainside.
B’ruchim Habayim leYerushalim
—Welcome to Jerusalem!

Rina felt her heart race, her body tingle, imbued with spirituality. And as magically as the aura enveloped her every time she entered the holy city—her own personal
aliya
—so did it drain whenever she left—her personal
yerida
.

Yerida
—going down. Israelis who emigrated from the Holy Land were called
Yordim
, because they had declined a level spiritually.

At this moment, Rina couldn’t fathom ever leaving. With the shining sun, rays gilding the city, she felt giddy. Everywhere her eye fell on native Jerusalem bedrock. Everything had been fashioned from the amber and rose limestone—the buildings, the sidewalks, even some of the streets. Dispersed among the palette of bronzes, pinks, and reds were the parks, allowing a tinge of greenery to seep through. Beautiful to Rina’s eye, even though she knew that she had entered the city through the older, industrial area. So caught up in
being there
, Rina had forgotten
why
she had come. When she brought herself back to earth, the Volvo had disappeared.

Angrily, Rina checked around for the 740. Milligan must have moved quickly even though Weizmann Boulevard was heavily congested. Rina tried to speed up but the artery was just too clogged. Attempting to pass a bus to gain a little visibility, she jerked her head over her shoulder to check for lane clearance. She suddenly spotted the Volvo. It had fallen
behind
her.

She slowed, ignoring the blares of the horns, allowing the 740 to chug ahead. Rina allowed herself a moment to
stare at the panoply of people on the sidewalks. Lots and lots of Black Hats. The city kept getting more and more religious because the Religious were the ones reproducing at record-breaking rates. The men in their long, black coats, the women in long skirts and
shaytels
piloting their broods down the walkway. There were modern Israelis in tight jeans and denim jackets, Arabs in kafias and chadors, Coptic priests in flowing gowns and pointed hats, nuns in full habit. The pushcarts, the open-air stands flanking an ultra-modern high-rise
kanyoneet
—the mall.

Rina returned her eyes to the Volvo and not a moment too soon. The 740 hooked a right down HaNasi Ben Zvi—a multilaned boulevard that provided a good view of the Knesset. As the seat of the Israeli government, the Knesset was architecturally modeled after the Acropolis, the ancient seat of Greek government. Why Jews would deliberately copy Greek architecture was beyond Rina’s comprehension. For the past eighteen hundred years, the religion had assiduously celebrated Channukah—a festival commemorating the Jewish overthrow of enforced Hellenic rule.

HaNasi Ben Zvi was a psychological dividing line. East of the boulevard was the heavily populated area of Jerusalem—a nest of apartment buildings and businesses. West of the highway evoked memories of a different time, a quieter time—a few major government structures bleeding into broad stretches of rolling hillsides.

Rina felt her thoughts elsewhere when, abruptly, Milligan turned right onto a side street. The maneuver had been so fast and sharp that Rina missed the turnoff. Retracing her steps, Rina took the car onto a dirt lane. Up ahead, she spied the Volvo bouncing precariously along the road. The potholes were much harder on the 740 than on the Subaru.

The Volvo slowed, pulled over, and parked.

Rina braked and made a U-turn in the middle of the lane, not wanting to pass the Volvo. She took her rental off the road, away from Milligan’s line of vision. The
Subaru handled remarkably well on the grass. She parked next to a tree, straining to keep an eye on the Volvo from her distant vantage point.

The Volvo sat. Rina sat.

Twenty minutes passed before an old blue Fiat subcompact came by, crawling along the pitted lane until it came to the Volvo. Then it pulled over and parked.

Two men got out—thin young men with lots of curly dark hair. One had a mustache. He knocked on the driver’s window of the Volvo and the door opened. Milligan got out of the car, a Chanel purse slung over her shoulder.

The men started talking to her. She appeared uninterested, but she did give a perfunctory nod as she rummaged through her purse. She took out a tube of lipstick, applying a sultry red heavily to thick, cupid-shaped lips.

The men spoke with a great deal of animation. Rina wanted to know what they were talking about. As if it had a life of its own, Rina’s hand slowly reached for the car door handle. Next thing she knew, she was outside, creeping and sneaking her way into a private conversation.

Heart racing in her chest, grateful for her flat shoes, she tiptoed from tree to tree until she nested behind a thick tree trunk within hearing distance. Milligan had finished with her lipstick. She dropped it into her purse, zipped the handbag shut, and curtailed Mr. Mustache’s speech.

“Ibri, I don’t
care
about your problems. I care about my investment. If your idea of heroism is gunning down a bus full of schoolchildren, you’re with the wrong people. Either you’re working for me or you’re not. Which is it?”

Ibri
, Rina heard. The men were Arabs, ergo, natives, and that made her nervous. It ruined her advantage over Milligan.

Ibri folded his arms across his chest and took up a
defensive posture. “I work for Mr. Donald.”

“Well, Mr. Donald works for me,” Milligan snapped back. “He is my underling, do you understand that?”

Ibri rocked on his feet and said nothing. The other thin man piped in. “We take you to Mr. Donald. He tell you problems.”

Milligan took a peek at her Movado. “I have a very important business meeting at the American Colonial Inn in Jerusalem. Can you get me to Donald and back in an hour?”

Ibri said, “I take you to Donald.”

“Yes, I understand, Ibri,” Milligan said through clenched teeth. “But you must get me back to Jerusalem in an hour.”

“No problem,” Ibri said. “We take my car. Gamal take the Volvo. We go now.”

Milligan turned her back to the men and went over to the blue Fiat. Ibri opened the passenger door for her, then went around to the driver’s seat. Gamal slipped inside the Volvo.

First the Volvo took off, followed by the Fiat, passing Rina’s Subaru hidden behind the tree. Rina sprinted to her car and gunned the motor. She caught a glimpse of the distant Fiat, turning onto Keren Kayemet. Rina hit the accelerator, catching up with the Fiat as it merged onto Melech George.

City center.

The Fiat, as well as the Volvo, was headed in the direction of the Old City of Jerusalem—a walled fortress built at the time of the Crusades. The Old City had been the site of conquest after conquest. In the bright sunlight, it was a golden castle complete with crenelations and slits for bows and arrows. Rina hoped the Fiat wasn’t actually going into the Old City through one of its seven gates. Inside was a labyrinth, with roadways so narrow there was barely enough room for one car to squeeze by. And it was dangerous for her in certain sectors—the Moslem Quarters through the Damascus Gate.

The Volvo turned toward the Damascus Gate, but the Fiat bypassed the Old City and continued southeast, passing block-long Liberty Bell Park, heading toward the train station.

Then Rina knew where it was going and she bit her lip in fear. She had been so intent upon keeping her eyes on the Fiat’s rear window that she had forgotten a very basic rule. Get the car’s license number. And when she looked at the plates, her heart sank. It was rimmed in blue and white checks and held a small, blue Hebrew letter—
chet
.

Chet
standing for the ancient city of Hebron.

Hebron.

A city rich in history, a city flowing in blood.

Once Hebron had had a famous yeshiva. But the Arabic city had resented the Jewish scholars. In 1929, when it had become clear that the Jews intended to stay, the Arabs had hit upon a way to rid themselves of the interlopers. They had brutally slaughtered them en masse.

Sixty-five years later, a deranged Jewish settler who had made Hebron
his
home had felt betrayed and neglected by his own Jewish government. Adding another deluge of blood to the village, he mowed down twenty-nine Arab men bowed in prayer.

Though Rina knew that Hebron was still a
Jewish Holy City
, would always be a
Jewish Holy City
, it was time to be realistic. Hebron was no longer
Jewish
and hadn’t been for fifty years. It was a typical overcrowded Arab village that bred rage and hatred against Jews. It had become such a hotbed of politics, Rina wasn’t sure who was securing its borders—the IDF, the Israeli Police, the Palestinian Police or UN troops.

And here was Rina, driving the Subaru down Derech Hebron—the road to Hebron. She knew she should turn back. A lone woman going to Hebron was sheer suicide. But then again, the area had been quiet for a while since the beefed-up security. And maybe the car wouldn’t go all the way to Hebron.

A few more miles.

She rolled up the windows and locked the doors, on her way to enemy territory.

The moment Rina left, Decker knew he was in trouble. He couldn’t speak Hebrew and Yalom could barely speak English. When the old man motioned him toward Dalia’s father, Decker cursed his stupidity.

A stranger in a strange land—a
ger
.

Yalom bent down to whisper something in Menkovitz’s ear. Menkovitz was much older than Yalom, in his late eighties. His arms were thin and bony, sticking out of short white sleeves. But when Menkovitz stood, Decker noticed not only was he taller than the average man, but he sported a sizable gut. Like many old men, Menkovitz was high-waisted, his black pants stretched over his belly and supported by suspenders. He had thin, white hair and a long face specked with liver spots.

After Yalom was done with the whispering act, Menkovitz looked Decker over, dark eyes not missing a trick. Then with much deliberation, he picked up a shoebox-sized leather case and chained it around his waist. Slowly, he put on his black jacket and walked away.

Yalom followed and so did Decker.

“Where are we going?” Decker asked Yalom.

“
Savlanoot
,” Yalom said. “Pacien.”

Decker assumed he meant patience and kept silent. Menkovitz kept his eyes straight on, not even bothering to grace Decker with the merest of courtesy nods. But Decker knew it wasn’t out of rudeness, it was out of numbness. Menkovitz had the look—old man going through the motions. They took the elevator back to the fifteenth floor, back to Menkovitz’s office. The old man walked into the sally port, the secretary buzzing them through without Menkovitz’s uttering a word.

The old man’s office was spacious, holding a pano
ramic view of what Decker assumed was industrial Tel Aviv. He saw factories, smokestacks, warehouses, train tracks, and lots of commercial buildings. The day was clear, the sun was bright, but the mood inside was dim. Menkovitz spoke to Decker in Hebrew. Feeling like a dunce, Decker asked him if he spoke English.

Angrily Menkovitz turned to Yalom and fired off some rapid gutteral speech. Yalom fired back a response. Menkovitz waved his hand in the air.

Decker said, “Excuse me, Mr. Menkovitz. If there is a problem, I can come back later with my wife. She speaks Hebrew.”