Selected Detective
SCHEMING PLAN

In the heart of the Jewish quarter of the Old City, in the southern part of Cardo, in the exhibition for the public, in a thick, interwoven glass cabinet, stored in the Golden Menorah the Six Branches of arms were curved upwards from its middle trunk, three on one side and three on the other, all protruding, like a tree, from the base of the multilevel hexagon. The inscription explains that this is the exact replica of the original menorah, the actual menorah, the menorah made by the great goldsmith Bezalel, its first replica was made since the collapse of the Temple two thousand years ago.

With the alternation of day and night beginning to descend in the surroundings, Baruch Har-Zion stands in front of this reproduction and, while throwing his head back, laughs a deep, long, joyful happiness and joy, and it trembled, as if he had thought that he would not open the secret again. Just last night he prayed for a sign, a kind of support that what he had done was right, that all the blood and horror was necessary.

And now the time has come. Clear, sharp, unambiguous. The real menorah. After these centuries. And for him it was revealed, for him, for everyone. He couldn't stop laughing. Behind him, Avi his personal bodyguard stepped closer.

“What will we do?” Har-Zion raised his glove-covered hand and touched his finger to the glass screen, his laughter gradually dimming.

“No,” answer. “No. We wait, we see. They don't know what we know. Not.” Avi shook his head. “I hardly believe. I still can't believe.”

“That is what they all say, Avi all who are called by God. Abraham, Moses, Ilyas, Jonah they were all hesitant at first. But this is his voice. God has revealed this great thing. And He would not have revealed this had He not allowed it to happen to us. It's a sign, a signal. It's time. We are blessed, because in our present times we will see the Temple rise again.” He rolled his shoulders, his skin tightened behind his shirt, and got up close to the screen. Who ever thought about this? Who ever imagined it? somehow he always knew. He is the one who has been chosen. His people's savior.

And now all he has to do is wait and see. Let Ben-Roi track him down. And then, when it was found ...

“Thank you, God,” he whispered. “I will not fail. Ani Mavtiach's. I pledge. I won't fail."

*****

DETECTIVE KHALIFA'S ARREST

“You owe me fifteen pounds. You want another one?” In response, Khalifa spent the rest of the tea and stood up, closing the backgammon box, giving a sign that no, he did not want another game.”

“Cover,” says Ginger, while sucking shishanya pipe.

“Always so, and always will be,” replied Khalifa, while opening her wallet and counting her defeat. “While I have not lost to you now, I fear it is too late to return home for Zenab. She was cooking and I promised her I'd be home by eight.”

His friend exhaled tobacco smoke with the scent of apples and, sticking out his thumb and turning it around and turning it around on the table surface, indicated that Khalifa was “under someone”'s control. There was loud laughter from other friends sitting around him.

This detective devotion to his wife is already common knowledge, and ’holiday’ is common.

“Khalifa the coward,” connect the others.

“If the dog day is fierce,” says the third, “if night...”

“Thusk Zenab!” all answered in unison, accompanied by a buzzing of words.

Khalifa laughed, such a thing never bothered her, this natural trick, and in fact she was rather enjoying and enjoying tonight, he said, which is a sign that he has returned to a normal life after all the furore over the past two weeks. He hands Ginger the money for his victory he does not remember the last time he played backgammon with his friend and won and, while telling everyone to drown themselves in the Nile, Khalifa picked up the two plastic bags she had resting at the foot of her chair and left the cafe, a spate of ledges following her twenty meters after on the street before dissolving into the night market frenzy.

His feelings are light and happy. Engrossed. Better than what he had been doing for so many years, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulder. He submitted his final report to Chief Hasani, sending all the goods about the menorah to the Israelite, who could use it for whatever his purposes were, and now he was on his way to Zenab and the children with bags full of brochures of the Red Sea lodging in Hurghada. There was only one note full of contradictions: when he asked Hasani to deliver a copy of the case report to Chief Mahfudz, his superior informed him that the old man had died late last night. The news made Khalifa sad, though not so noticeable. As Mahfudz himself said, at least he will die with the knowledge that he has done the right thing in the end.

Khalifa stopped to greet the Mandur the seller of T-shirts, a mad man with imperfect eyesight who habitually chases customers here and there on the street praises the goodness of his merchandise almost to be a tourist attraction in itself, then goes on his way, while swinging the bag by his side, and thinking about the beach, the waves, and the most fun, Zenab in the swimsuit of God, how exciting. Before he knew it he was standing outside his gray apartment block, where he lived, one of the same rows of blocks along the northern edge of the city like a speckled line of monoliths.

He paused for a moment to finish his cigarette, then climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and, as quietly as he could, put the key to the door of his apartment. He did not open the door immediately.

In fact, he kept the keys hanging, he opened his shoes, crouched down and, reaching into one of the plastic bags, took out a pair of cheap rubber flippers, which he put into his feet, then a diving mask and snorkel, and then a mask, and put it on his face and mouth. Then he walks into his apartment, barely able to control himself from the excitement of making a joke he is playing.

“Tsonly ee,” he said, his words were interrupted by a rubber object tucked in his lips. “I'm sorry!” There's no answer. He stepped into the living room, wondering where the occupants of the house were.

“I'm sorry!” he repeated, louder.

“Deep sea divers have already risen to the surface!” still no answer. He looked into the empty kitchen space then headed to the fountain in the middle of the floor and walked like a duck, towards the living room in the interior of the flat, jolted by the sudden thought that perhaps they were playing tricks on him. How funny! The door to the living room opened slightly and, pausing for a moment to clear his dewy mask, he pushed it and stepped in, making a gesture with his hand that he hoped would look like a deep-sea swimmer.

“Wow, it's amazing down here with all the fish and..”.

Words ceased. Zenab, Ali and Batah were all sitting on the sofa, their faces pale, frightened. Opposite him, two men, one sitting, the other standing, deep after gray. The jacket that stood slightly open showed, unmistakably, the heckler and Koch pistols. Jihad Amn al - Daulah.