Jordan stared at the Russian standing beside Peter Graff. Had he recognized her? She had changed a lot in nineteen years, but he had hardly changed at all. The decades had turned his blond hair white and softened his carriage, but his blue eyes still shone like freshly glazed ice, and his mouth curved in a smile that never moved past his lips.
The last time she had seen him, she had been six years old, standing over her father’s casket, watching this man comfort her mother. Jordan remembered that when he knelt down to hug her, she had pulled back, and her mother had scolded her. Jordan had never expected to see him again and had never wanted to see him. But she had not forgotten him—would never forget him—and the shock of encountering him left her stunned.
The man shook hands with Graff and headed toward the door. Jordan tracked his movements until he disappeared from sight. Then she edged away from Weizman to stand near the large windows. The Russian walked down the steps toward a dark sedan at the curb. Her heart slammed against her sore ribs, adding to the pain of memories.
“I can’t believe he beat us here,” Weizman said.
“Who?”
“Ilya Brodsky. The man with Graff. He’s Batya Ganani’s boss.”
Weizman frowned. “Jordan, are you okay?”
She shook her head to clear it. “I know that man. Twenty years ago he lived in Russia. I think he worked for the government.”
“What are you talking about?” Weizman demanded.
Jordan gripped his arm. “Keep your voice down!”
The lobby was empty except for the four of them. Graff and the receptionist were engaged in conversation and fortunately didn’t show any interest in Weizman and Jordan’s discussion.
Jordan leaned in toward Weizman. “I’m telling you, that man is from St. Petersburg. He was a friend of my father’s.”
“You must be mistaken. Brodsky is from Ukraine. He’s an Orthodox Jew. There is no way he ever worked for the Russians.”
Jordan couldn’t shake her memories. “I’m not wrong, Noah. He used to come to our house. My father introduced him to me as Dyadya Ilya—Uncle Ilya.”
“Go on.”
“He frightened me. My father explained that he was a very powerful man, named after a bogatyr, Ilya Muromets.”
“What is a bogatyr?”
“It’s a mythical Russian figure similar to the Western knight-errant. Muromets was considered the greatest bogatyr. He was known for his spiritual power, integrity, and dedication to his homeland. There are many Russian stories about his exploits.”
“Muromets sounds like a positive role model.”
“I think that’s how Dyadya Ilya fancied himself.” By Jordan’s recollection, he laughed too loud and drank too much vodka. Her mother always seemed nervous when he was around.
He had come to their house two days before her father’s death. Jordan had been reading in the living room when she heard her father arguing with him in the den. Creeping to the door, she peered inside to see her father seated on the sofa with Ilya, standing before him, yelling. He had told her father that he would never be allowed to leave Russia. Two days later, her father was dead.
The last time she saw Ilya had been at the cemetery. Her mother had wept in his arms. Moments later, he bent to Jordan’s level, flashed a thin smile, and told her how sorry he was. She would never forget his cold, blue eyes—or her feeling that he had lied.
“Detective Weizman.” This time it was Graff’s voice that penetrated her thoughts. The sedan was no longer at the curb. Ilya Brodsky had disappeared into the bustle of Haifa.
The COO of GG&B crossed the lobby toward them, and Jordan did her best to concentrate.
Weizman plunged right in. “We have some questions regarding the death of Najm Tibi.”
“Yes, yes,” said Graff, “Terrible thing. Your office called.” The COO shrugged. “I’m afraid Shin Bet beat you to it. I’ve just spent the last hour going over the files and computer records with Colonel Brodsky. We found nothing out of the ordinary.”
Jordan tried making eye contact with Graff, but he kept his focus slightly off target.
“No suspicious activities?” Weizman asked.
“Not a thing.” Graff sounded too casual. He was covering up something. “Tibi was exactly who he seemed to be. A maintenance man. There was nothing sinister going on.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind if we looked for ourselves,” said Weizman.
This time, Graff made eye contact. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Detective.” His gaze flitted to Jordan. “This has moved beyond all our pay grades.”
Weizman’s expression hardened, but he remained silent.
Graff was an American, so Jordan tried the patriotic card. “This is an official investigation about a possible act of treason. Your government would appreciate your cooperation.”
Graff sized her up. “I appreciate your concerns, but Colonel Brodsky assures me that he’s handling this matter himself. If you have any questions, I suggest you speak with him. Now, if there’s nothing more . . . ?”
Jordan was stymied by his lack of cooperation. When neither she nor Weizman spoke, the COO nodded and turned away. The tassels on his loafers bounced as he walked. Once the elevator doors had closed, Jordan spun on Weizman.
“Why would the colonel involve himself in this investigation? There must be something really important at stake.”
“Yes. Israel’s national security,” Weizman said, heading for the exit. “Just like you are concerned about America’s. If he’s keeping something quiet, it’s for a good reason.”
Jordan trailed Weizman through the outside doors and down the steps. “So that’s it? We just go back? Five people are dead.”
Weizman hesitated slightly. “It is what it is.”
“Can’t you call someone and get a warrant? Somehow force Graff to let us in?”
Weizman reached the curb and turned. “That’s not how it works in Israel.”
“This is our investigation. Surely you can arrange a subpoena.”
“Not now.”
“You know as well as I do that Graff knows something. How can you let that go?”
Weizman moved around the cars. “Once Shabak takes over, it is out of my hands. I’ll make an official request for answers, but for now, my hands are tied.”
With their investigation into GG&B Engineering derailed, Jordan walked toward the car. Without Weizman, there would be no access to GG&B. Daugherty had ordered her to stay clear. If he found out she had disobeyed his orders, he might yank her off the case.
“What about going through back channels?” Jordan asked. She had no illusions about Brodsky sharing, but Weizman had to have contacts.
He depressed the car door opener, and the car beeped as the doors unlocked. “Shabak is not large on reciprocity. Their policy is ‘need to know,’ and only when it serves them.”
That made sense. From her memories and the little she knew about Brodsky, he was a man who thrived on control. If only they could gain access to the information he wanted to hide.
“How much do you know about the colonel?” she asked.
“Brodsky?” Weizman buckled his seatbelt. “He is the son of Holocaust survivors, immigrated to Israel in the early nineties.” Weizman inserted the key in the ignition. “He’s an honorable man, a great asset, and loves this country. He has a big heart.”
That didn’t sound like the man she knew as a child. Even at six years old, Jordan had picked up on his lack of emotion. He didn’t seem to care much for anything or anyone. He viewed her father as a catalyst, a means to an end, though he did have a soft spot for her mother.
“Do you know what the Russians thought of Israel?” she asked.
Weizman cranked the engine and shoved the car into gear. “Why do you keep insisting he was affiliated with their government?”
“Because I think I can prove it.” Jordan pulled out her cell. There might be a picture.
A green light on her phone indicated she had a message. Swiping the screen, she discovered two missed calls from embassy phones and a voicemail message waiting. Something had happened.