Selected Detective
LAYLA'S ARREST

It was over eleven in the morning when Layla finally returned to her flat in East Jerusalem. A hot morning is not usually in a year with a cloudy sky and a heavy atmosphere that makes drowsiness wrap the city like a thin fog attached. He threw his cell phone and backpack onto the sofa, listening to some messages in his usual insulting answering machine, death threats and a demand for the last coffee then took off his shirt and went into the bathroom to clean himself up.

What am I doing now? he thought, while the water splashed his head and face.Where should I go after this? Whatever Hoth had found in Castelombres and in spite of the doubt the old French woman with her mushroom basket was, Layla feels certain that Hoth has found something that seems to have disappeared again during the chaos at the end of World War II. If there were any records he had left regarding his origin, it would have been unpublished. And even if there is, according to Jean-Michel Dupont, there are still thousands of pages of files and documents about the Nazis that have not been carefully studied tens of thousands so it will take months or even years to dig up the information that is being sought. If only that information really existed, which is not necessarily certain.

What's again? There was a Palestinian boy, who had delivered a mysterious letter to him first. May he make more inquiries about his identity, try to trace his whereabouts, re-examine who made the letter. Or, go back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and talk to Mr. Sergius again, who knows something escaped him during the first meeting, he said, a small hint as to what William De Relincourt had dug under the stone floor of the church?

Again, both options seem pointless. Mr. Sergius has insisted that there is no evidence of what De Relincourt has found, while trying to find a Palestinian child would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

In the hay field. This country is full of fucking things. In whatever way he looked at the case, he seemed to be facing a dead end. With ****** sad Layla turned off the hot water tap and turned the cold one to the maximum, letting the icy water wash her head and chest. As he was doing that, something flashed across the edge of his mind, a shortcut, a memory, something that was in some way relevant to the problem he was facing, like a shooting star that disappeared as soon as it appeared, leaving him with a feeling of frustration at having lost something important, a momentary beam of light. He turned off the water faucet and closed his eyes, trying to follow his way of thinking back: Son of Palestine, Father Sergius, Church, stone floor. The floor, yes it is. The stone floor inside the church.Why is it so important? What is he remembering?

“Yalla,” he murmured to himself. “Come. What the hell am I thinking? What the hell? What?”

For a moment his mind remained empty. Then, very slowly, he heard a voice. Crack. Strange-sounding throats, like something knocking on a rock. Clack, clack, clack. What is that sound? A hammer? A chisel? He could not recognize her. He opened his eyes, closed them again, forced himself to remember this, then turned his mind back, as if trying to peek at the voice from behind, catching it before he escaped. Succeeds. Sure oes. It was the sound of the stick, which the old Jewish man had as Mr. Sergius had said. Every day he comes here, routine like working hours.

Believing that De Relincourt had found the Ten Commandments, or the Ark of the Covenant, or the Sword of King David I had forgotten which. Some sort of ancient Jewish thing. At that moment he lightly forgot the man because a group of beguiled freaks seemed to surround the fairy tale of De Relincourt like a laron around a candle flame. Chances are, is that this is what he is. After what he discovered about the Secret of Castelombres, and in particular how he seems to be related to the story of Judaism and Judaism, the, part of him couldn't bear to ask if maybe the man knew something that could help him? It's like trying hard to find something that doesn't exist. With the state that each question seems to be getting weaker and weaker, then willpower is what is left of it. At least it's worth following up, even if it turns out to be nothing, which seems almost certain.

He then stepped out of his bath, grabbed a towel, dried his body and put on the ****** *****, BH and his shirt before him were interrupted by a loud noise that suddenly sounded at the front door.

“Wait,” said. Anyone out there, whether from not hearing or what, must not be ready to wait because the voice was again heard, getting louder and more pushy with a thud, the whole flat was like shaking with that annoying, lashing sound, and suddenly the suspicious sound felt too pushy for Fathi the flat manager, he said, or whoever she knew she was wearing jeans and a pair of rubber shoes, grabbed a hand towel to dry her still wet hair and then rushed towards the door, tiptoe and peek from the hole that is on the wooden surface of the door.

A large, broad-shouldered man was standing outside in the dim corridor in front of the door of his apartment, an Israeli, with a big-nosed face and a terrifying Jericho pistol tucked into his jeans belt. For some reason he immediately had a bad feeling about her, a sign of danger.

“Ya?” The man was silent, one hand raised about to knock on the door, then thrust his body forward so that his eyes covered the peephole.

“Police of Jerusalem,” he said. “Open door.” Ben-Roi immediately spurred his vehicle as soon as he got a call from Khalifa, via the road from the police station to Nablus Street in less than three minutes, he said, for trying to pass two red lights and avoid clashes with old Haredi men who have walked on the path without bothering to pay attention to the traffic that comes.

Hoth, Gratz, Schlegel, the fugitive Nazi society has become an incredible, amazing story. It is also disappointing, in the case, that in the end the Egyptian seemed to have solved this problem himself; that the input from him, in addition to filling in some details, was, in the end it does not prove fundamental to the resolution of the case.

However, it was neither admiration nor disappointment that burned him down now. Not after what Khalifa told him right at the end of the conversation, almost as a farewell: about Layla Al-Madani and the letter Hoth sent to him asking for his help in contacting Al-Mulatham. He is now so excited, pure spirit a boxer who after months of training finally stepped into the arena to face a long-awaited opponent.

He always knew that in the end he would face Layla. Or at least during the last year, since reading the article he wrote. He could not come up with a reason for his obsession with this woman, there was no rational explanation as to why this woman should give him this kind of abdominal pain. Sure, if you look closely, really closely and he has been doing other things for the last twelve months you can catch a hunch, a vague mistake in his life and work, he said, like the interviews he did (almost every bomber, for God's sake, almost every fucking bomber).

However, nothing is clear. Nothing is conclusive. Nothing, of course, guarantees the degree of suspicion and resentment that he incurs in Ben-Roi. The only thing she knows, is that with the article Layla has stuck herself in Ben-Roi's mind as someone real, human related to the man who has killed her lover, Gaul, and thus he never hesitated for a moment that at some point their life paths would surely meet. That later it happened as a result of this case, it was not foreseen before. Or, it might not be like that either.maybe it was the reason he drew to first investigate the consciousness in his subconscious that it would somehow be a trigger, a trigger, the thing that finally got them together.

He can't say it, nor does he care. All that happened was after a year of observing and waiting, researching, following, setting and feeling the pain in his stomach. And now, finally, the time came to come face to face with him, to look into his eyes and see what he could see there.

“Come,” Ben-Roi repeated, knocking on the door even harder with his fist. “Open door.”

“Your date was,” Layla's voice from the inside. Grumbling, Ben-Roi reaches into his pocket and takes out his police identity, attaching it to the peephole.

Long enough silence, longer than it took the woman to read the details on her identity card, as if she had intentionally kept Ben-Roi waiting, is, stressing the fact that he can't be intimidated by Ben-Roi, before finally a click and the door opens.

“Always gladly welcome Israel National Police,” Welcome Layla, while rubbing towel on her hair.

Layla was shorter than she had imagined, slimmer, like a teenager alone with a small, tight chest, narrow hips, and, the details you won't find in the photo were taken sitting overnight across from her apartment looking up at her apartment window. There is a sturdiness in it, strong, hard, especially in the glare of her emerald green eyes; the way Layla looks at Ben-Roi without blinking; unsettled by Ben-Roi's size, by the fact that he can carry it and swing it with just one hand.

“Ya?” Layla asked.

Ben-Roi is so interested in the little things in his performance that questions don't come out immediately and he has to repeat.

“Ya?” Ben-Roi shook his head. “I have some questions,” he replied, step forward, as if to get inside the flat.

Layla raised her hand and crossed it into an open gap so that she blocked the entrance into her apartment.

“Cannot be without guarantee. You got a guarantee?” Ben-Roi doesn't have any.

“Can I work on,” said. “And when I get back I won't be friendly.”

Layla let out a snort of cynicism. “I'm shaking. Now, show assurance, or you ask whatever you want from there. And you have to do it fast. I'm late, there's a promise.” Layla's actions were so calm, reassuring, dismissive, and in a very short time came to Ben-Roi's mind when he first met Gaul, when he detained her at the anti-occupation demonstrations and has been treated with the same condescending attitude. He grinned, as if surprised by the analogy, and advanced half a step so that his body filled the entire frame of the door.

“You were sent a letter recently. Letter requesting your help to contact Al - Mulatham.”

Layla just shut up.

“You sure know what I'm talking about?”

Shut up for a moment, as if he were weighing how to answer; then pulling a towel and placing it on his shoulder, he admitted that he had indeed received the letter.

“Dan?” Shut up again, weigh up the other options.

“Nothing. I read it, I tore it up, threw it in the trash. Like I did on all my junk e-mails.”

“I can't believe,” said, testing. Layla laughs, her eyes never loose from Ben-Roi's eyes.

“I don't give you what you believe. I received the letter, I read it, and I threw it away. And before you ask, no, that letter is no longer in my garbage. Although I'm sure that you're going to the city's landfill, it'll take a few weeks to find it.”

Ben-Roi hardens his fist, trying to resist the urge to attack him.

“What is it, the letter?”

“It looks like you already know,” he replied.

“What is the content for sure?” Layla crossed her arms and sighed, like a teacher who was handling her retarded student.

“I can't tell you for sure, because I don't want to bother remembering it. ‘I tried to contact Al-Mulatham, maybe you can help me, I'll pay you whatever you want like that. I just read it briefly. If you want the full version, you need to get in touch with your friends at the Shin Bet. I guess they were the ones who sent the letter.”

Again, although Ben-Roi's eyes looked at Layla's eyes, her ears stiffened, she failed to catch any hint that she was being lied to, the thinnest glint of concealment on her facial features or voice. Confusingly, every instinct in her body tells her that she is being lied to, Layla is hiding herself, so what is her all wrong instinct, her radar is screwed up, Layla is, or Layla who does have a level of self-control that is almost like a superhuman in her ability to survive. only in her eyes, deep inside, deep inside, there were rumors about something other than what he had publicly expressed, a kind of faint gloom, like a disturbed silt deposit deep beneath the surface of the water. Whether it implies a habit of lying or an entirely different aspect of his psychological side, Ben-Roi has no idea. Maybe it's just a trick of the light.

“What is the mention of weapons, in the letter?” Ben-Roi. “Something that can be used to damage the state of Israel?” Not that far as he remembered, Layla replied. If there is, the times he has looked at it.

“What does the name Dieter Hoth mean to you?” No. gabe.

“Piet Jansen?” The same answer.

“I've heard the name David Beckham, if it helps you.” That's how the conversation went. Ben-Roi showers questions at Layla, and Layla returns them scornfully, demeaningly, until she runs out of questions and both are silent.

“Any enough?” Layla asked, placing her hands on her hips and looking at Ben-Roi. “Because, especially want to please myself, I also have a lot of things to do.” Behind him, the phone rings.

“Enough?” he repeats. Ben-Roi looks at Layla, fists tightening, aware that whatever he expects from this meeting, whatever disclosure he wants from her, will not happen. He's winning. At least this time.

“For now,” replied Ben-Roi

“Yahh, you know where I am. Like I said, it's great to receive guests from the Israeli National Police.” Layla nods her head at Ben-Roi, signaling that she should step back from the door and start closing it. When the door was half closed, Layla tilted her body and saw Ben-Roi from the separation room, while the phone still kept ringing.

“As far as you know, I don't know who Al-Mulatham is, where he is, or how to find him. I'm sure this won't stop you from coming again and chasing me, but I think I've said it, on narrow occasions but it eventually becomes clear.” In his study, the answering machine was working, his small voice recording echoed in the room: I can't pick up the phone at this time.please leave a message and I'll call you back.

“And for a personal note only,” Layla added, “I don't know what perfume you used after shaving, but this is really stinging. You should try another brand.” Ben-Roi's eyes narrowed. Behind him, a long biiiip sound and another voice rang out in the space, heavy and crummy.

“Layla! This Magnus Topping. Just thought about calling you to see if you're back safely... umh .. yahh, it's great to see you. Also, something I forgot to say when you were here, interesting facts for the article you were working on. Actually, the German archaeologist, the man who excavated Castelombres, Dieter Hoth he had a net-like leg.You might like that, just add color. By the way, call me if you want. Greetings.” Next beep, then shut up.

Layla looks up, looks up at Ben-Roi. Ben-Roi looks down, looking at Layla. There was a slight pause, then, the Israelite violently slammed his hand to push for a way into the flat. Layla's moving too fast. The door slammed into his face; there was a click of a key and the sound of a running leg.

“You liar!” he yelled. He took Jericho out of his pocket and, taking a few steps back, he kicked the door. The door remains ajeg. He tried again, get ready. There was a crackling sound, but the door was still strong.

“You Arab liar!” He tried for the third time, snorting like a wounded bull. This time the door opened. He stepped in, looking around wildly. His bag and phone were on the sofa.

There was no sign of Layla. He ran to the back room, the bed was empty. In the bathroom he saw the stairs leading up, the door was opened up. He leaped three steps once, pressing out onto the roof terrace, the sky so vast and white above it, the city so vast. There aren't. He turned around, back down the same road, thinking he might have lost Layla in the flat; then, hearing the car horn from the road below, he ran to the roof, and then, hearing the car horn, reach for the rusty iron rails that are along the wall of the backrest and see the Nablus Road below. He can soon see Layla breaking through traffic, too far for him to get a chance of catching her.

“Fucking basis!” he screamed that he could do nothing.

“Basic fucking liar!” If Layla heard that she would not give any sign, she continued to rush as quickly as possible, crossing Sultan Sulaiman Street and disappearing into the crowds at the door to Damascus Gate. Ben-Roi looks at the direction Layla is going, curses her, then picks up her cell phone, presses the number inside the keypad and brings the plane closer to her ear.

“Table officer? Ben-Roy's. I need immediate surveillance on Layla Al-Madani. Layla Al - Madani. Yes, the journalist. Top priority. He's somewhere in the Old Town. I reset top priority.”

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