Jordan checked with the tech squad on the status of the drive. They were working on it but hadn’t been able to crack it yet. Returning to her office, she reported as much to Daugherty and then told him the senator had granted Judge Taylor and Lucy a reprieve.
He wasn’t happy. She didn’t care.
She didn’t tell him about going to Bnei Brak. He was likely to hear about it at some point, but not from her. She let him think her soreness was due to the fight with Ganani. She was on the way home to take a long bath when Noah Weizman called.
“How would you like to ride up to Haifa with me in the morning?”
The invitation caught her off guard. She expected him to have questions about the Taylors or to have heard about the incident at Tamar Cline’s home, not be asking her to go somewhere.
“What for?” she asked. The last thing she wanted to do was complicate matters.
“I’m meeting with Tibi’s supervisor at GG&B. I thought you might be interested. Besides, the drive along the coast is beautiful. I can pick you up in front of your office.”
At the mention of GG&B, Jordan’s pulse quickened. Daugherty had made it abundantly clear that GG&B was off-limits. But the detective’s requesting her presence changed everything.
“That works.”
She gave him the address and then told him about Senator Taylor’s about-face and her encounter with Batya Ganani.
There was dead silence before his voice came back, hard and cold. “That USB drive is evidence. You should have turned it over to me.”
Jordan wasn’t surprised by his anger. By diplomatic protocol, he led all matters of security outside the walls of the embassy. Technically, she should have asked his permission to dig through the dumpster.
“I’m informing you about it now,” she said. “If the drive came from Cline, the contents could compromise U.S. national security.”
“Or Israel’s.”
She didn’t respond.
“Tell me about the man Ganani says got away,” he said.
“She claims she couldn’t ID him.”
“I don’t believe it. She has access to all the Shabak files. Trust me, by now she knows his name.”
“Then ask her.”
There was another silence. Then he said, “I’ll pick you at eight a.m. sharp.”
*
She was standing on the curb the next morning when Weizman pulled up. He reached across the passenger seat and flung open the door.
“Where’s your partner?” she asked, climbing into the front seat.
“Doing reports.”
Jordan tried to suppress her relief at the news Lotner wouldn’t be coming.
“Is it that obvious?” Jordan buckled her seatbelt, wondering when she’d become so transparent.
At first, it seemed as though Weizman was still angry with her over the USB drive, but his mood seemed to lighten as he turned the car out of the city and merged onto Highway 2, the four-lane road stretching along the coast to Haifa. On the left, sunlight sparkled off the flat waters of the Mediterranean Sea. On the right, olive trees and desert dirt splotched a flat landscape. The sun beat down from above, forcing the air conditioner to work overtime.
Grateful that the tension between them seemed to be gone, Jordan leaned back and enjoyed the cool air, soaking in the sights while Weizman played tour guide. He rattled off details as they traveled through one small town after another. After passing through the larger town of Netanya, they drove back into more scenic territory and he gestured expansively. “This is Caesarea.”
Jordan had read about the area in the guide books, but she let him tell her what she already knew. He seemed to like showing off his country, and she was glad to establish some better rapport.
“It is now a national park.” He pointed toward the sea. “But you can make out the ruins at the water’s edge. The man-made harbor was built by Herod the Great.”
She studied the square of the harbor and a stone structure that rose to its north. “It’s beautiful.”
Weizman nodded. “Impressive is the word that comes to my mind. This area has been controlled by many peoples over the years. At one time, it was held by the Romans, then the Byzantines, the Arabs, and the Crusaders. Even Pontius Pilate spent time here. Caesarea has a very turbulent history, much like Israel’s.”
“Except here you’re talking thousands of years,” she said.
“What do you mean?” His tone had shifted. It now bore an edge.
Too late to take back her observations, she plowed ahead. “Caesarea’s unrest covers thousands of years. The State of Israel has only existed since 1947.”
“Unless you are speaking of Eretz Yisrael,” Weizman said. “Zion, the biblical land of Israel.” She acquiesced with a nod, but he called her out. “You don’t believe in the land of the Jews?”
Metaphorically, her shoes were already dirty. As a defined region, Eretz Yisrael included the current boundaries; the occupied territories; and parts of Jordan, Lebanon, and Syria. Over the past two-thousand-plus years, every country in the world had experienced shifting boundaries. Why should Israel be exempt?
“I know it’s the preferred history,” she answered. “The thing is, things change.”
“Are you suggesting we accept what we have instead of going after what is rightfully ours?”
“I’m suggesting you’ve been given a second chance at a homeland. Maybe it’s time to stop fighting and find a way to live with your neighbors.”
Weizman’s face hardened. “Most of us would prefer to live in peace, but Israel must also protect her rights and her people. We have no choice if we want to survive.”
“There are always choices.”
When he didn’t respond, Jordan considered what to say next. If he believed what he was saying, then he believed Israel had biblical rights to Palestine. But she believed the Palestinians also had rights. Studying the dark tone of his skin, the scruff of beard under the sharp set of his jaw, she decided there was no point in fighting a losing battle.
“I’m sure there’s a lot I don’t understand,” she said, hoping she had extended enough of an olive branch.
He glanced over at her. “Where do you stand on the peace talks?”
The question felt like a trap. She opted for diplomatic. “I like the idea of finding a common ground.”
“But you don’t believe it’s possible.”
“I think the odds are against it.”
“Why?”
She twisted in her seat to face him. “Primarily because those brokering the peace are attempting to impose a Western-based compromise on Middle Eastern cultures. The inherent problems in that are obvious.”
He downshifted and accelerated around a corner. “Go on.”
“As Westerners, I think we tend to believe all societies have evolved to the point where adversaries can put aside cultural and religious differences and compromise enough to negotiate win-win solutions.”
“Are you suggesting the Middle East hasn’t evolved?” His anger was back. “Look at your own Congress.”
“Touché. But that’s not what I meant. It just seems like the peace brokers aren’t in tune with how deep the differences run over here. In spite of how our politicians behave, Westerners are conditioned from birth to the idea of compromise. We practice it at home, at school, at work. I just don’t think either the Israelites or the Palestinians can compromise on the land ownership and be happy with the end decision.”
“Then hopefully Israel wins.”
Jordan stared out the window at the sea. “In truth, I’m in the camp that believes the United Nations needs to take control of the holy sites and historical sites around the world. Make them world monuments and make everybody share.”
“It would never work.”
She turned back around. “Why not?”
“First, there’s money. There is not an equal distribution of wealth in the world. Those nations who pay more for upkeep of the monuments would want more say over them.”
“Good point.”
“Second, there’s purpose.” He cornered the car again. “Many sites carry different meanings based on whatever your religion may be. What are important traditions and homage to some are sacrilegious to another.” He presented a thin smile. “Need I go on?”
They had come full circle. “No, we’re back to the concept of compromise.”
They lapsed back into silence, though this time more amiable. Jordan settled back in her seat. Eventually the tranquility of the desert gave way to a bustling that signaled their arrival in Haifa.
Weizman navigated the busy city streets with ease, and before long, he pulled up in front of 53 HaMeginim Boulevard. The GG&B building was constructed of concrete and glass. Rising eight stories, it cast an imposing shadow over the street. Though she had never been in Haifa before, Jordan seemed to recognize the building. “Weizman—”
“We’re late,” he said, cutting her off and slamming the car into park. “The appointment was for nine-thirty.”
He climbed out of the car, and she joined him on the sidewalk. “Detective Weizman, I—”
“Call me Noah. And remember, you are here as my guest. I do the talking.”
She started to speak again, and he held up his hand. “I mean it.” He started up the concrete steps. “Not a word. We have to be delicate in our approach. GG&B is an important company in Israel.”
Now he sounded like Daugherty.
Jordan followed him into the lobby and then waited as he strode across the tiled foyer to the receptionist’s desk.
“We are here to see Ester Cohen,” he announced.
The young receptionist picked up the phone, spoke softly, and then nodded toward a row of chairs near the window. “Wait there.”
Once they were seated in plastic chairs along the wall and waiting, Jordan tried again. “Noah.”
“What?”
If her persistence annoyed him, well, too bad. “This building seems very familiar.”
Weizman shrugged. “It’s possible you’ve been in one like it. This is a government building, given to GG&B as part of their financial agreement. Israel takes plans they have already paid for, makes minor modifications, and then builds the same structure again and again. Recycling at its finest.”
That might explain it. Jordan switched her focus to the task at hand. “Who is Ester Cohen?”
“She is the head of the maintenance department.”
While Weizman scribbled into his pocket notebook, Jordan mapped the large, unadorned entry in her head. Filled with tile, plastic, metal, and glass, the waiting area reflected the stark reality of Israel. In the States, everything was plush and oversized. Here, the amenities were present; it was the element of comfort that was lacking. Everything seemed edgier in Israel—even the people.
She turned her head at the sound of the elevator and watched a dark-haired woman step out. She looked prim in her black skirt, white top, and sensible shoes. Her hair was coifed just so around her ears. She approached with her hand outstretched. “Shalom. I am Ester Cohen.”
Weizman introduced Jordan first and then himself and explained in Hebrew why they were there.
Cohen seemed shocked to find out Najm Tibi was dead.
It seemed odd to Jordan that she hadn’t been notified. She was, after all, the supervisor.
“He was murdered,” said Weizman. “We notified the company president. He didn’t inform you?”
“No.” She shook her head and mustered her wits about her. “Najm was such a nice young man.”
She also didn’t seem to know the real Tibi.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Weizman asked.
“I don’t usually interact with Najm. He works nights. He comes in Sunday through Thursday at nineteen hundred. But he had taken this week off to attend to some family business.”
Weizman cleared his throat. “We suspect his murder is connected to the shooting of the U.S. embassy employee in Dizengoff Square.”
“Najm involved in a murder? That’s impossible.” The woman’s voice rose and her eyes grew dark. It was as if Weizman had called her firstborn child a bully. “Are you saying he killed someone?”
“No,” Weizman said. “We will need to see his work space in order to get a sense of his daily routine.”
“He doesn’t—didn’t have a space,” replied Cohen. “He worked maintenance. He had a cart, but he shares—shared it with others.” When Weizman remained silent, she grew restless and backpedaled. “Maintenance does have a communal station in the basement. I suppose I can show you that.”
“Please,” Weizman said.
Jordan smiled encouragingly. If Ester Cohen believed Tibi was a saint, who were they to burst her bubble? Not while they were seeking information, at least.
“This way, then.” Cohen stopped to pick up visitor badges for both of them and led the way to the elevator. Swiping her employee ID through a card reader, she punched the button for the basement floor. “I really don’t see the use in your coming.”
“It may turn out to be a waste of our time,” Weizman said. “I hope not.”
Cohen stood with her back to the corner of the elevator, as if gaining strength from the walls at her back. “Just what is it you think he has done?”
“We’re not sure he did anything. What we do know is that Najm is dead, and someone connected with a murder in Dizengoff killed him. We’re looking for clues.”
“Why would someone kill him? He is just a maintenance worker.”
“Was he assigned to a specific floor?” Jordan asked. Weizman shot her a warning glance. So much for be seen and not heard.
“Yes. The executive offices.” Cohen sucked in a sharp breath and covered her mouth with her hand.
“What is it?” Weizman asked.
Cohen shook her head.
Jordan glanced at Weizman. “Anything you think of might help.”
“It’s just . . . you don’t think he was involved in some sort of corporate espionage, do you?”
Jordan tried the idea on for size and wondered how that dovetailed with Cline’s involvement.
Weizman ignored her question. “Did he have computer access?”
The woman’s face pinched, as though the thought was distasteful. “No. Only higher-up employees, like myself, have access to the network. Najm’s key card allowed him entrance to the building. That’s all.”
Maybe Cline had been trading for access to GG&B.
Tailing Cohen and Weizman down the hall, Jordan surveyed the surroundings. Cameras were mounted in the corners near the doorways. Solid steel doors lined the corridor. Magnetic key cards were required to open them. Cohen swiped her card at the last door on the left.
“This is where the maintenance carts are stocked. In addition to supplies, there is a time clock in here and a small TV for when the workers take their breaks.”
Jordan remembered the laptop in Tibi’s apartment and wondered if he’d ever used it here. “Are employees allowed to bring in their own computers?”
The supervisor looked uncomfortable and shook her head. Jordan avoided eye contact with Weizman.
“No,” Cohen said. “Najm and the others had no need for network access and had no time to sit around playing computer games. They were not even allowed to bring in iPods. No distractions. Just work.”
Weizman picked up on Jordan’s line of questioning. “Say he did want to gain access. How does GG&B control entry to the system?”
“I’m not at liberty to share that information,” Cohen said. The woman was on full alert.
“We’re only asking questions,” Weizman said.
“I told you. There is no way for him to have gained access.” Cohen’s hands trembled. The idea frightened her. Was she worried she might be blamed if there was a breach?
“Let me rephrase. Who controls access?”
Cohen set her jaw. “It’s controlled at the highest level.”
“Which is . . . ?”
Cohen straightened her shoulders. “It is a C-level decision. It’s up to the CEO and the COO. They decide who and the depth of access someone is given. For example, I am only allowed to view the maintenance records.” The scrunch of her face showed that it pained her to admit the imposed limit. It took only seconds for the smug look to reemerge. “Najm had access to nothing.”
“Didn’t you tell us that Tibi had access to the executive level?” Jordan said.
Weizman shot her another look, but Jordan felt the point was worth making. Someone with computer savvy could hack into almost any system, provided he had access to a computer and enough time.
Cohen shifted her weight foot to foot. Now she turned toward the hallway. “There is nothing for you to learn here.” Ushering them back into the hall, she checked to make sure the door was locked. “It is very sad about Najm. He was a good worker and a kind young man.”
Jordan thought of the butchered Dizengoff Apartments manager and the attempt to kidnap Lucy. Najm was a real prince, all right.
Weizman blocked Cohen’s retreat down the hall and jerked his head toward a door marked maintenance carts. To her obvious consternation, he ordered her to open the door and insisted on going over every inch of Tibi’s maintenance cart. Standing to the side, arms crossed over her chest, Cohen watched while Jordan helped Weizman sift through bottles of floor cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner, soap, and hand towel refills. A feather duster, mop, and broom sprouted from the holder on the end. They found nothing unusual.
Finally, he called off the search. “Ms. Cohen, you’ve been a great help.”
Cohen relaxed her shoulders and forced a smile.
“Now I’d like to see the executive floor,” Weizman said.
“I can’t allow that.” For the second time, Cohen seemed scared.
Weizman rubbed his chin. Finally, he asked, “Then who can?”
Cohen bounced her gaze from ceiling to floor and wall to wall. There was no escape. She glared at Weizman. “Peter Graff, our COO. I’ll see if he’s available.”
Weizman smiled. “Thank you.”
Back in the lobby, Jordan pulled Weizman aside while Cohen placed the call upstairs. “That woman is terrified.”
“She should be,” Weizman said. “She stands to lose her job.”
“Why? It isn’t her fault her employee was a terrorist.” Security appeared tight, and Jordan imagined there was an arduous employment screening process. “How can they fire her over something Tibi did?”
“She is head of the maintenance department.”
Cohen was in a no-win position. She oversaw a staff of Israeli Arabs that probably didn’t like her and that the other employees eyed with suspicion. No wonder she was reticent to call Graff.
Cohen spoke into the phone, handed the receiver to the receptionist, and walked toward them. “Mr. Graff is in a meeting. It may be a few minutes. Perhaps you’d rather come back?”
“Thank you,” Weizman said. “We’ll wait.”
Twenty minutes later, the carpet was wearing from Weizman’s pacing back and forth in the lobby, and Jordan’s nerves were frayed.
“That is not helping, Noah. Will you please sit down?” The words had barely escaped her mouth when the elevator doors opened. Jordan stood up.
Two men stepped off the elevator. One she recognized as Peter Graff, COO of GG&B Engineering. His picture in the company brochure did him justice. Tall and lean, his black Armani suit draped his thin frame and spoke of money. His dark hair was gelled into place, his tan was perfect, and his shoes were polished: the quintessential executive of a billion-dollar company.
Then Jordan looked at the other man and her world tilted. She recognized him from her past.