Pressure Chamber, page 19
She smiles at him. He still tests her from time to time, and she has no problem cooperating with his blatant didactics. “The Customs Authority computer,” she replies. “If there’s a record of it somewhere, it has to be there. Someone paid customs duty on that printer when they imported it into Israel; and if there’s anything that’s meticulous when it comes to recording serial numbers, it’s the entity that makes money from doing so.”
She wheels herself in her chair to a different computer station and enters the printer’s serial number. Again, the response is almost immediate, causing Daphne to stare at the screen and scratch her head absentmindedly.
“What’s up?”
“Imported for the military. Part of a shipment of five hundred of the same printers for the IDF in 2004. No further details.”
“We’ll have to check with the army.”
“I can stop by the Defense Ministry compound tomorrow morning. Can you ask Investigations to coordinate that for me with the Military Police?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“And what about the paper?”
Nathan returns to his computer.
“Old too. Fits the profile of an Israeli manufacturer. Hadera Paper, most probably. Almost all the components are identical. A4. Not recycled. Five-thousandth of an inch thick. Bleached with sodium hydrosulphite and a glucose-based starch. Pretty standard. Nothing to indicate where the paper was delivered.”
“Should we move on to the next letter?”
“Yes. Give it to me and have a look at the envelope. I’ll read it to you.”
55.
Dear Gabbay Family!
Think for a moment. What would you be prepared to do to get your son back?
Huh?
Alex! If you kill yourself today, I’ll return your son to Natalie. If I read in the paper tomorrow morning that you jumped off the roof of the building in which you live, I’ll leave your son on your doorstep tomorrow night and disappear.
But I need proof. I need Natalie to film you diving off the roof headfirst and to post it on her Facebook page. That way I’ll be sure you aren’t working with the police and trying to pull one over on me.
I’m not stupid!
So what do you say?
Your life for your son’s life? You’ve lived for more than thirty years already. Won’t you give a chance to someone who has only just begun his life? Will you not give Natalie the chance to hold your son in her arms? Your son who she gave birth to?
Nahhhhhhhh!
Just messing with you.
You can jump off the roof for all I care, but it won’t bring Jennifer back to you. Yes. I’ve named your son Jennifer and I dress him in little pink dresses.
It tickles me.
When he learns to walk, I’ll buy him ballet shoes and he’ll be our little ballerina. Each of the Four has a role to play when they grow up, and your Jennifer will be a dancer.
I’ll take pictures of her with and without the dress and I’ll sell them to interesting websites that are particularly fond of that kind of thing. Little Jenny will also have to do her bit for the sake of the livelihood of all of us. You can’t just take and take and take. What have you done for us lately?
Huh?
I’ll keep you posted.
The day after tomorrow perhaps.
Or maybe two years from now.
56.
During her first few months there, when she woke, before opening her eyes onto the row of showers and cribs, she still imagined sometimes that it was all a bad dream. That she’d press up against Shai, who was lying next to her, and cuddle him before they both got up and readied themselves for the day ahead. Work for him and medical school followed by a shift at the hospital for her. It would last for just a few seconds, until she remembered where she was.
Now, one year since her abduction, it no longer happens. When she wakes up, she knows exactly where she is, and the routine of another day begins.
She gets up to shower. She knows he has cameras and that he watches her, but he’s never tried to touch her during the year that she’s been there. She’s caught him eyeing her now and then but never in a sexual manner, more like he was looking at a rare collectible or at the doctor who is caring for his children. The children he kidnapped.
She gets dressed and goes over to the refrigerator, which was added to the room a few months ago. “In the first year, they triple their birth weight. Give them a sliced hard-boiled egg, peeled and diced cucumbers, small pieces of cooked chicken, cheese and hummus.” He didn’t bring in a stovetop or oven. The cooked food for the babies was delivered ready on his stainless-steel trolley, packed in plastic containers and arranged neatly in the refrigerator while she was handcuffed to the bed. He still made sure to shackle her to the bed whenever he entered the room.
Months had passed since then, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why did he allow her to wait behind the door for him if he had cameras? She couldn’t understand it. And how did he get out of the room? How did he unshackle himself? How did he open the door?
In the small hours of the morning, when she couldn’t hear a sound from the other side of the door, she would turn out all the lights in her room, so she couldn’t be seen on camera, and fumble around in search of hidden switches. In the cupboards, under the cribs, on the floor, in the showers, in the toilet. She’d searched through those same places hundreds of times, without finding anything, but continued to do so whenever she got the chance. But he’d managed to free himself, that’s a fact, and eventually she’ll figure out how he did it.
The babies will be up soon. She takes several plastic containers from the fridge and dishes out portions of cold cooked food into small plastic bowls. She has no way of heating the food, but they’re used to it cold. They’ve never eaten anything different. She carries the small bowls over to the four highchairs that he’s brought in and lined up in a row along the wall, alongside the cribs. She is placing the bowls on the trays when the door opens. He walks in pushing the stainless-steel trolley and begins stocking the cupboards with more cans of food.
Did he forget to throw the handcuffs to her? She’s been working out every day. She’s a lot stronger than he is now. She could jump at him again. Tie him up in a way that makes escape impossible.
And then what?
She’s seen the locked EXIT door.
She knows what will happen. He won’t talk even if it means dying of thirst.
She has to wait and see what comes next.
He stands there and looks at her, like he’s reading her thoughts. “I’m not going to cuff you to the bed any longer. We’ll all die here if you try to escape. You know that.”
“What?”
“If you try to starve me to death, and succeed, you’ll die of hunger in the end too. This place is fitted with door upon door, lock upon lock. Hallways and more floors all the way to the top. You may find a key or two, and you may get one of the key codes to a door right after thousands of tries, but you, too, will run out of food within a few months. You’ll have to decide whether to allow the Four to die first, or all of you together, or you first and them after you. In any event, you won’t get out of here without me.”
“Where are we?”
“Somewhere no one will come looking for us.”
With a black marker in hand, he goes over to the sleeping babies and writes on their foreheads.
A1
A2
A3
A4
He places the marker in one of the cribs, takes a cell phone out of his pocket and photographs the four faces. “Don’t erase those. If they fade, go over them with the marker again. If you refuse, I’ll give them permanent tattoos.”
57.
Tonight, I’ll remember my dream
Tonight, I’ll lucid dream
Tonight, I’ll have soothing and pleasant dreams
Tonight, I’ll remember my dream
Tonight, I’ll lucid dream
Tonight, I’ll have soothing and pleasant dreams
Tonight, I’ll remember my dream
Tonight, I’ll lucid dream
Tonight, I’ll have soothing and pleasant dreams
04:40
We’re sitting on a park bench. Other kids are playing around us. An ice-cream truck playing music pulls up nearby and a line of children forms in front of its window.
“Want to see something funny?” my friend asks.
“Yes.”
“Look.” She points up at the sky and then claps her hands. And all at once, the clouds begin spinning quickly around themselves. Another clap of her hands and they stop.
“How did you do that?”
“It’s easy. Try for yourself. You simply have to will it to happen the moment you clap your hands.”
I clap, and the clouds start to spin. The children and parents in the park look up, point to the sky and cry out in amazement. I clap again and the clouds stop spinning. I clap my hands and the grass turns purple. Another clap, and a huge playground slide appears. The children scream in delight and some run to climb up the ladder. Others stay behind to play on the purple grass.
“Cool.”
“Want to go on a journey?”
“Yes.”
The park disappears. I’m standing alone in front of a closed compound surrounded by a fence. I’m cold even though the sun is shining. I walk along the mile-long fence of thick iron bars that are covered with a thick layer of shiny, viscous black paint. Behind it, a tall green hedge makes it impossible to see inside. I walk until I reach a gate. Sitting next to it in a white plastic chair is a white-haired old man. He smiles at me. “An adult ticket costs ten euros. There’s a fifty percent discount for students.” I hand him ten euros.
I pass through the gate and then through an opening in the hedge and come to a large square courtyard paved with basalt flagstones. In the center are four huge rectangular basalt slabs, rising high into the air, green vines climbing around them.
In the silence, I walk around the slabs, reading words that repeat themselves in small writing across them at eye level. The babies, says one. On another, the word Lee appears over and over and over again. The third says Anat. As I walk among them, they block out the sun, and I feel the cold rising from the paving stones.
“Welcome to the memorial site.”
The sound of a female voice with a slight Russian accent startles me. It’s coming from corroded speakers installed around the edges of the courtyard. “Thirty years ago, in August 2016, Anat Aharon was deliberately run down in the road. The driver fled the scene. No positive ID.”
I step out of the shade of the giant slabs and the sun warms me for a moment. It’s very cold between the rock faces.
“Lee Ben-Ami was struck in a similar fashion and abducted. The offender left the scene with her. No positive ID.”
I lightly run my hand over the inscription in small letters on the fourth slab and my fingertips feel the word that repeats itself over and over again: Daphne Daphne Daphne Daphne.
“One morning, in November 2016, four newborn babies were kidnapped from four different hospitals in the center of the country. The kidnapper disappeared. No positive ID.”
I move away from the slabs of basalt rock and walk towards a clear lake. Sitting down on a wooden bench, I look out across the water, ignoring the recording that continues to play in the background. I get up, dip my hands into the lake and drink from it. The water is cold and tastes good. I kneel down and drink some more, listening again.
“About a year after the abductions, and following extensive detective work, the location at which the kidnapper was holding Lee Ben-Ami and the four babies was found. The kidnapper was armed, and the ensuing gun battle, in November 2017, left four police officers dead, three males and one female.”
I sit down on the bench again.
“A beautiful place.”
This time, it’s the voice of the old man from the gate that makes me jump. I look to my left and see him sitting next to me.
“Yes, it really is pretty here.”
“He has good phonology. The one you’re looking for.”
“Yes.”
“But it’s different in the letters. Did you notice?”
“Yes. It’s like he’s trying to lower his IQ. To underplay himself. To make the police and families think they’re dealing with someone else, with a different persona to the one he truly is.”
“You’re a clever little girl.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you feel yourself on your fingertips? That stone bears your name. You rest here forever.”
We look at the ripples that the cold wind creates on the surface of the lake.
“This is one of the forks in the road,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
“This is one of the possible outcomes. You can choose to remain in it, or you can go back to 2017 and continue from there at random.”
“Are there many more like this?”
“An infinite number. Some even worse.”
“I’ll go back,” I say and get up from the bench.
We walk slowly, side by side, watching the setting sun.
“Good choice,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Your chocolate milk.”
“What?”
He’s holding a full half-gallon bottle of chocolate milk. I can’t recall it being mine but have no desire to argue with the old man, or offend him, so I take the heavy bottle and continue with it towards the exit from the memorial site.
“See you, little girl,” he says when we get to the gate.
He laughs out loud and then coughs dryly.
The alarm she set for eight wakes her up. She’s headed to the Defense Ministry compound in Tel Aviv this morning, so she allows herself to sleep a little longer. No need to battle the traffic in Jerusalem today.
On the way to the compound she plays a lucid dreaming podcast she found on iTunes, but she isn’t really listening to it. Her thoughts wander. She can recall her dreams much better now. The backdrops, the sensations, who was there and what they said. She’s already able to remain lucid in her dreams, or a significant number of them at least. The narrator of the podcast talks about three levels of lucidity. At the basic level, you’re aware that you’re dreaming but have no control over what’s happening. By the time you get to the second level, you are in control of yourself in your dream; and when you reach the third level, you have control over both yourself and the dream environment. At this level, the dream will become so palpable that it will be very difficult for you to distinguish between dream and reality, and you need to perform frequent reality checks and look for dream signs so as not to get locked inside the dream for an extended period of time. She didn’t really understand what they meant by being “locked in the dream”. She’s already well into the second level. It is no longer like watching a movie that involves all the senses with no control over what’s going on. She can now make decisions in her dream, change the course of it.
Nathan arranged a permit for her to park inside the compound, and the sentry at the gate examines her police ID before pointing her in the right direction.
“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Noya.” A Military Police corporal meets her at the entrance to the building and escorts her to a room with walls covered with old metal shelving laden with brown folders tied with black string. The desk in the middle of the room is empty aside from a large computer screen, a keyboard and a mouse.
“I was told you needed to look for something in the Logistics archive for an investigation you’re working on, and to be nice to you.” Noya smiles and her ponytail flaps slightly as she moves her head.
“Thanks. Yes. Printers that were purchased in 2004. Where they ended up. At which base.” She hands Noya a piece of paper with the serial and model numbers.
“What’s so important about this printer?”
“It’s part of an investigation and will help us a lot.”
“Cool. Don’t let all the folders freak you out. The one for 2004 has already been scanned into the computer.” Noya begins typing quickly, and Daphne sits down in the chair beside her.
Noya searches a large Excel sheet, then copies and pastes a long reference number into a SAP screen, and after a few more mouse clicks she leans back in her chair in satisfaction. “Yes, got it. It was part of a shipment of five hundred printers purchased in August 2004 for the various Field Corps.”
“Which of the Field Corps?”
“Just a sec. In 2007, the same serial number appears in the Home Front Command. They must have passed the printer on to the Home Front Command three years later. They may never have used it at all and it may have sat in the Field Corps storerooms for three years before they passed it on. Every piece of equipment with any sort of value gets recorded in the transfers so that the various corps can offset their budgets.”
“And where did it end up?”
“It doesn’t say here. That means it remained in the Home Front Command until it was written off.”
“Written off?”
“After seven years, printers are given a zero-value in the books so they can be thrown away without offsetting the budget.”
“IDF bookkeeping at its best,” Daphne mumbles to herself, leaning in closer to the screen.
“Absolutely,” Noya smiles again. “From where I’m sitting, it looks like we have more lawyers and accountants than combat soldiers.”
“So the printer was thrown away?”
“It doesn’t say. Let me check with my liaison at the Home Front Command.” Noya opens a Lync window, then closes it again after a brief correspondence.
“Her records don’t show that the printer was thrown away, but that doesn’t help us much. We don’t have documentation from before 2010 pertaining to the location of every serial number. That printer did indeed go to the Home Front Command in 2007; but because it’s perishable equipment, there’s no record of where in the Command it was sent to. Worth less than a thousand shekels. She says that such an old printer was probably thrown away at some point, or donated to charity, or taken home by a reserve soldier who didn’t want to see it end up in the trash.”
