Kingston Noir, page 22
“Excellent coffee, ma’am,” said Tim. He finished his cup. “Truly excellent coffee.” It wasn’t Blue Mountain, and he assumed these people would not buy such an expensive coffee.
All the while, Marcelline’s father had not said a word. At most he nodded when his wife delivered an irrefutable truth.
Outside, near the sun-baked car, Vassell said, “My people have already visited that particular club, Tim. They didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. They spoke to all who were present, the people who on occasion work there and such …”
“Let’s go and look around anyway.”
There we go, she thought. She had brought him along; she had no choice but to let him have his way. Maybe he would come up with some new ideas. He looked at things and people differently. And his mind was wired in a freakish way, which occasionally led to unusual conclusions.
The club was a concrete building with steel bars over the windows, a leveled gravel area around it for sports, an outside bar that only served coffee and soft drinks. It had its own generator. The roof had leaked—no exception in Kingston—and had been temporarily repaired with corrugated iron. At the side and back was a well-maintained lawn bordered by shrubs and some trees, providing shade.
“It’s nice to have a bit of a garden,” Tim commented.
Three young men in worn jeans and over-washed T-shirts hung around the outside bar, each drinking from a bottle of Ting with a straw. Vassell estimated two of them as eighteen, nineteen. The other was a bit older.
The eldest said, after she had identified herself, “What can I do for you, ma’am? The police have already been here. We don’t have much to say, I’m afraid. Terrible what happened to Marcelline. We hope you lock that bastard up as soon as possible.”
She hoped so too. “Are you the local community workers?”
“I am. These two occasionally work behind the bar.”
“And in the garden, I assume,” said Tim.
The man looked at him, surprised. “The garden is maintained by other people,” he said. “It is specialist work.”
“It shows,” said Tim pleasantly. “Pretty well maintained, especially that lawn. Someone who comes around on a regular basis?”
Both boys chuckled, as if that were a joke, something between them. “Someone from some company. Does a good job.”
Vassell said, “Have there been any problems with the young people? Between themselves? Or with others? From the neighborhood, for example?”
“Once again, something your colleague already wanted to know. Can’t say there’s never any problems. Boys getting jealous when someone eyes their girl or when someone shows up with a new bike. Better results at school, expensive clothing—all the small things without any significance really. Just what kids do.”
“You see people around who clearly don’t belong here?”
The young man made an all-encompassing gesture, including the building and the area around it. Down one side stood a row of buildings that were supposed to be used as workspaces, or so Vassell assumed, but now housed families. “This is a working-class neighborhood, and many people live here alongside each other. Who comes and goes? Nobody keeps track. I know quite a few people, but there are others I have no idea who they are. A stranger does not necessarily stand out here, no. But would Marcelline go somewhere with a stranger?”
“And that specific evening? Anything happened, out of the ordinary?”
“She was here that night. She had a drink, chatted with girls, maybe danced to some music.”
“And then?”
“And then what?”
“What time did she leave?”
“Around ten, half past ten? We don’t know for sure. Went home, we assume. Why would we know?”
“With a murderer who has already claimed several victims, no one pays attention to girls that age?”
“Should we stop breathing? Should we stop dancing? Should we stop eating?”
“No,” said Vassell. “No, you should not.”
“That answers your question plenty,” said the man. “Life goes on. Nothing to do about it. May I offer you something to drink?”
“No,” said Vassell, “thank you. We’ll have to go.”
“The man who takes care of your garden,” said Tim, “is he an old man? Someone who still works after retirement?”
“A pensioner? No. I don’t think he’s that old.”
“Can you give us a name and address?”
“I only know his name is Charlie. His boss does not send his bills to us but to the municipality. They owns this business. We are not concerned with anything like that.”
“Charlie.”
“Yes. He comes here most often. Drinks a lemonade, chats. We know him as Charlie.”
“Thank you,” said Tim.
They walked back to the Landcruiser. “Why did you want to know about the gardener?”
“Because of the logo on that van. It might have something to do with plants. Plants grow in gardens. Gardeners work in gardens.”
Which seemed logical enough. “Okay. So what? There are plenty of gardeners in this city.”
“Gardeners don’t stand out. They are there, and then they are not there. Nobody pays attention to them. They are like postmen. They see everything, they observe everything, and everyone takes their presence for granted.”
“So we are looking for a gardener named Charlie who drives a van.”
“That would be a good start,” said Tim. “You would like to eliminate him from your investigation, if possible.”
She called Porters. “Sergeant, find out which company the city billing department pays for the gardening around the Pembroke Club.”
“I will, Gov’,” Porters said.
Division head Yalom had a lot of things on his mind concerning the state of affairs in Kingston. What it came down to was that he seriously doubted the professional seriousness of the three kidon.
After the most recent events, would he ever send them after an Iraqi spy or an Israeli who wanted to betray state secrets? Would he ever trust them with an execution?
No, he wouldn’t. If they weren’t even able to recover an item that was in the hands of an undoubtedly scared woman living without resources somewhere in Kingston. White, at that. Standing out like a rabbit in a barren field.
“We strongly assume we have her former husband under observation,” Kerem said over the secure connection. “We traced her movements from Brussels to here; she disappeared, but we’re almost certain we’ve found the right man. We don’t know yet where the woman herself is, but this man Mason and the woman have a child together, so they’ll probably meet up at some point.”
“What is this? A romance novel? A weekend movie on television? This is fucking serious, Kerem. I just spoke to two ministers and three senior IDF officers, all in the Prime Minister’s lounge. Yes, the Prime Minister himself. And they want that data card back, and they want it now. The information it contains … Well, you don’t have to worry about the information. Get the bloody card.”
“It won’t be long, Sir,” Kerem said.
“Even that’s too long, Kerem. What are you actually waiting for? I want action right now. His daughter is involved? Have you seen her yet?”
“Not yet.”
“When you see her, remember this: parents will do anything for the safety of their children.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You have no children of your own, Kerem. So you don’t understand those emotions. But I will tell you this: parents will do anything to keep their children safe.”
“I understand.”
“Good. I don’t need to say more. Israel needs you. Under no circumstances may the information on the data card fall into the wrong hands. That is the bottom line of this affair.”
“I’ll keep that in mind all the time, Sir.”
That was it. The phone went silent.
I hope, thought Kerem, that no one intercepts this message. Not the Americans, not some Arab group, not the Russians, not even the British or the French.
He walked to the back of the house from where Erez and Chayat were observing the street.
They had been here for some time now. They took turns. The one who was on a break went back to the hotel, the other two observed.
“Yalom is very impatient now,” he said.
The other two did not look at him.
“Is he sending replacements?” Erez asked.
“He didn’t talk about replacements.”
“So we’re still on the job.”
“So it seems. Actually, he didn’t say anything new. Only that ministers and generals are pushing him to the limit.”
“A sight I wouldn’t want to miss,” said Erez. Who wasn’t good friends with the division head.
“Oho!” Chayat said. Something seemed to be happening outside.
“What?”
“If that’s Terrence Mason …”
The other two carefully looked through the holes and slits in the fence in front of the windows.
“Then that is…?”
“That girl in uniform? His daughter?” Chayat concluded.
“Right on time,” said Kerem.
“It’s his daughter for sure.”
“And what do we do now?”
“Now we follow them. And they will lead us straight to Anna Weiss.”
6
“A real sight,” Erez said as they left their shelter and followed Terrence and the girl.
Neither male kidon responded. They had other things on their minds than the sight of Terrence Mason and the girl who was most likely his daughter.
Kerem in particular was writing a number of possible strategies in his head. Kidnapping and an exchange for the card, or entering the flat where the mother lived. Everything was still possible for the time being. But not everything was equally safe or easy to implement.
The hardest part was going unnoticed on the street.
A little later they walked, separately and some distance apart, behind Terrence and the girl.
They inevitably got curious looks from local residents, even if they weren’t the only whites or people of indeterminate race in the area.
But social control was probably strong here.
Luckily, they didn’t have far to go.
Erez walked purposefully past the house where Terrence Mason and the girl entered. At the next street corner, she bought a newspaper and started reading, keeping an eye out on the house. Her position was not optimal, but under the circumstances she could not do better. On this street, it was even impossible to observe from inside a vehicle.
Kerem sat on a terrace and ordered a coffee, which turned out to be extra strong.
Chayat, who had the least experience in this sort of operation, leaned against a facade a bit more down the street and watched boys playing football, as if he were scouting for the next Barcelona star player.
All three were aware that their situation was far from optimal.
The house Terrence Mason and the girl had entered had three floors and apparently the same number of apartments. Not big, not exactly in good condition, not exactly a desirable piece of real estate.
But if Anna Weiss lived here, the kidon wouldn’t care in what dump she had found shelter. They had located her. And probably the card too.
If she had lived in a rich neighborhood, on the other hand, observing the flat would be difficult. Because rich neighborhoods in countries like these—and in Israel as well—would be guarded by security officers with guns and dogs.
Kerem looked up from his coffee. A woman stood at the window on the first floor. He had the picture of Anna in mind.
Yes, this was Anna Weiss.
The woman they were looking for.
The woman who would presently hand them the data card.
If she still had it in her possession.
Suppose, he thought, she had thrown the damn thing away. Or sold it. Or …
No, she would not have sold it. Unless she had somehow magically come into contact with the Syrians. Or some other interested party.
His cell phone buzzed.
“Did you see her at the window?” Chayat inquired.
Kerem looked at the young officer from a distance. He played his part well, ostensibly having a chat with a girlfriend over the phone, smiling at something she said.
“It’s her,” said Kerem.
“And now? What’s next?”
“We wait. At some point she will leave the flat.”
“What do we do then?”
“I do not know yet.”
Chayat rang off.
He was probably frustrated.
He wanted to take action.
Kerem fully understood. He wanted action too. They had been waiting for too long.
From the other corner, further away, Erez glanced in his direction. She didn’t call. She knew nothing was going to happen right now.
She was a predator. She was a patient but dangerous predator. Kerem had heard about the operations she had participated in. He had heard the rumors. She had used a gun when needed but handled a knife with equal ease.
And he appreciated that about her. She wasn’t picky, and she wasn’t averse to killing and lacked remorse. He could rely on her, but the boy was a different story. He was the unknown factor.
He called Chayat.
“We’re going back to our shelter,” he said.
Then he looked in Erez’s direction and beckoned her with a short movement of his head.
A little later, they found themselves back in the building opposite Terrence Mason’s house and workshop.
“Let’s review our options,” he said.
“Oh,” said Erez. “As if there’s a lot to choose from.”
“The main problem is that we are on potentially hostile ground.”
“Oh, we clearly are,” Erez said, stretching. “Did you see those washerwomen? Their asses are three times as big as mine. What you call dangerous ground.”
“But you would run faster than them,” said Chayat.
“Children,” said Kerem. “Please pay attention. Next step? Do we search the apartment?”
“Suppose,” said Erez, “that Weiss woman isn’t even aware she has that data card in her possession.”
“She fled Brussels with her daughter, and not because she herself was in danger. Or so I assume. The briefcase in which the data card was transported was left behind, empty. The terrorists don’t have the card; otherwise, they would not go after her. Therefore, it must be in her possession. Maybe the Russian told her what the thing is worth.”
“And she hides it somewhere in her flat,” Chayat deduced.
“Seems logical. Unless she deposited it in a bank safe, but seen her social position, it seems unlikely she could get a safe.”
“So the apartment it is.”
“It’s our main option. But we can’t just walk in there, burglarize the place, whatever, since we would probably be spotted by the neighborhood. First, we must find out Weiss’s habits. Does she have a job, and where? Or is she always in or around the flat?”
“All that will again take time …”
“It will,” Kerem said. “We don’t have much time, we can’t afford to hang around here too long. Maybe we need to move faster.”
“Let’s kidnap her,” Chayat proposed. “We force her to reveal the location of the card, possibly using the child as leverage, and then we proceed to escape.” And he added, “And not a minute too soon.”
“Mmm, that might be a suitable option,” Kerem said.
“But that man Mason seems to hang around here a bit too much,” Ere said. “He’s a liability.”
“Not really,” Kerem said. “He’s mostly in his workshop or he’s away all day. Nevertheless, a kidnapping comes with considerable risks. She probably will resist, put up a fight, and we might lose control over the situation. I want to be sure we’re in no way at a disadvantage.”
“She has a daughter,” Chayat said.
“And?”
“We kidnap her.”
“The daughter?”
“Yes.”
“And we exchange her for the data card?” Kerem asked.
“Of course.”
“Dangerous, again,” said Erez. “With all these girls disappearing and being murdered … Weiss might call in the police before we can convince her otherwise. And if we get caught, we might risk not only the police but the crowds as well. You heard about suspects getting lynched?”
“Weiss won’t call the police if we get in touch with her before she even knows her daughter is kidnapped,” Chayat said. “We keep full control over the operation. We can do it on the way to school, in the morning. How old is she? Twelve? Thirteen? We can more easily deal with a child than with an adult.”
“What you think, Kerem?” Erez inquired.
“I am against,” Kerem said. “We are Israeli, we are kidon. We fight terrorists and foreign agents, but we don’t kidnap children. That’s a bridge too far.”
“But we …” Chayat objected.
“We continue our observation for the time being,” Kerem said. “We wait for the right opportunity to act. Kidnapping children is out of the question.”
“I want you,” Vassell ordered her staff, “to go through all the conversations with family members, friends, school staff, people working in those clubs—and look for anybody mentioning a van, a gardener, a company that worked on the gardens of any place connected to all the missing girls, things like that.”
“You have no idea …” Ross began.
“Yes, I actually do. I have a very good idea of what that means in terms of work.”
