Selected Detective
GOA OLD SALT MINE IV
Khalifa glanced at Layla with a curious look, which raised her eyebrows as if saying “I don't understand either.” Ben-Roi catches the exchange of gazes, dropping his head, frustrated.
“For God's sake, you should see!” his screams. “It was just fiction. He made it up. Oil for shaving, meetings, the whole Kparat article. He created. To deceive people. To protect the real Al-Mulatham. To protect its master.”
His voice is getting higher. Ben-Roi tries to control himself, raising his hand and holding the Menorah pendant hanging around his neck.
“I have investigated it. Since the article came out. Year-round. Every bomber, Khalifa. Each of the perpetrators of the Al-Mulatham Kparat bombing he interviewed entirely. Every one. That's how the man recruited his men. Through this woman. He interviewed them, made sure that they fit, then gave them these names. That's how it all works. That's system. He was involved deep in it!”
“He's crazy!”
“Explain then!” yelled Ben-Roi, staring at Layla, her eyes widened and wildly so that it looked like it was going to pop out of her head. “Explain how the story goes that every Al-Mulatham bomber is the one you have interviewed!”
“I can't explain it!” layla screamed, shaking her head, helpless, her own voice now began to rise.
“Just a coincidence, I'm trapped.... I don't know! I went through this all with the Shin Bet after I wrote the article.”
“She uses eavesdroppers, tracking tools!” Ben-Roi reached into his pocket, pulling out a small metal object the size of a cigarette pack, brandishing it triumphantly in the air. “I found this in her bag, Khalifa! He's following us. Al - Mulatham's. He's following us!”
“They ransacked my bag at the airport,” the tears. “There's no way I have such a thing.”
“Lantas how? how?”
“I don't know!” he said, raising his hand to his forehead, suddenly confused, losing orientation.
“Someone must have infiltrated it. I don't know!”
“You rotten liar!” the Israelite said, no longer trying to speak calmly or rationally. “Don't believe what he said, Khalifa. He's just in action. He works for Al-Mulatham. He always worked for Al-Mulatham. He's killer! He killed Galiaku!”
“We are all killers according to her size!” Layla yells.
“Every Palestinian, every Arab. Al-Mulatham killed his fiancee and we are all blamed by her. That's why he works for Har - Zion.”
“Omong empty, female Fucking Woman!”
“They are following us!”
“Don't believe him, Khalifa! He is...”
A third shot erupted, leaving them speechless. The bullets disappeared behind a pile of tarps, the cave echoing the sharp sound of gun eruptions. Layla retreats to the crate, Ben-Roi stands with a weapon by her side, both staring up at the stone platform, motionless, like a defendant was awaiting a verdict in the courtroom. Khalifa bit her lips, rubbing a drop of sweat that fell on the end of her eyes, trying to make her mind clear. That Layla is telling the truth about Ben-Roi, she doesn't doubt anymore. But there was something in the eyes of this Israelite, the way in which he defended his own case...
Muhammad Jamal, he was the one who flashed in his memory at the time, during the interrogation of the Schlegel case years ago the same anger, the same panic, the protest of innocence. Jamal finally spoke the truth. But Ben-Roi.... His father's words reverberated in his head: Be careful of them, Joseph. Always be careful of the Jews.
Khalifa blinked, shoved the sweaty grain in her eyes, looked at Layla then at Ben-Roi and returned to Layla, then cocked back her gun.
“Drop your weapon, Ben-Roi.”
“No!”
“Drop and kneel!”
“These David Fighters,” says Khalifa. “How long before they...” He stopped, silent because suddenly the tip of the cold weapon stuck to his nape.
“I think this answers your question. Now, put your gun on the floor and raise your hand.” For a split second Khalifa thought of giving Layla a warning shot. It was an idea that could kill itself, and he forgot about it before it materialized, while putting his mauser on the ground and locking his fingers behind his head. The weapon was pulled and the rough hand pulled his arm behind his back, lifting him to his feet and turning him.
There were six of them, including one who was holding his arms firm, hard, expressionless, all wearing jackets and, rather inappropriate black headgear. Five armed men of Uzi. The sixth, the oldest and, apparently, the man who had spoken to him was the shortest and fattiest man with gloves and a pale face and a thick beard clutching the Pistols of Heckler and Koch. With a clear and pure mind, Khalifa quickly recognized her from the picture on the front cover of Time magazine that she found in the living room of Piet Jansen's residence: Baruch Har - Zion.
“You're rotten, Ben-Roi,” thought. “You Jewish rotten liar.” The words then flowed in a language he did not understand, Hebrew perhaps. And as soon as the group moved to the front of the court, the man holding Khalifa's arm took her so that she returned to face the pile of boxes. At this point Layla realizes that something is going on up there and she retreats back to one of the chests, her face pale, her Schmeisser still pointing at Ben-Roi, and her, who's laying on the floor. For a moment Khalifa was worried that the Israelis would shoot soon, but they stood watching Layla, with a face like a rock, and Uzi's guns at their side, while one of them was a tall, lacquered-haired male, it seemed like the second person Har-Zion stepped face to the edge of the stone balcony and watched the elevator below.
Then there was talk in their language, and then, lifting his Uzinya to his shoulder, the man with flap hair knelt down and dragged his feet back, and he took his legs back, make it easier for himself to be on the lips of the court and start down using one of the vertical elevator lines as a ladder. Thirty seconds passed, and then there was the roar of the engine as soon as the elevator began to rise. The man slowly appeared in front of them as if a magical floating object. When he was level with the court, he cut off the engine power and, with a nod of Har-Zion, they all stepped onto the platform. Khalifa's arms were still tied behind her back, the Uzi's weapon still pressing on her ears. Nodding another and they began to descend, the platform moved down with a rumbling sound before stopping with a jerk downstairs.
On the floor, Ben-Roi is trying to turn his head to see what is going on; Layla has moved to the middle of the alley and half raised her Schmeisser as if to block their path. As soon as they arrive near Layla, Khalifa tries to catch her attention, saying that Layla should stay calm, not do anything stupid, the focus is on Har-Zion. For a moment the two just stood looking at each other, their eyes blending together, Khalifa's eyes were gray and hard like granite, Layla's eyes were like a green and warm jamrud, her lips moved a little defiantly. Then, with a nod, he handed his gun to one of his men Har-Zion, wiped his bloody nose, and stepped to the edge.
“You are calm.” It was completely unexpected, just a moment before Khalifa actually realized what Layla had said. As soon as he noticed it, his mouth opened in surprise. On the floor, with his head turned in an unusual direction as he tried to see the incident from behind his shoulder, Ben-Roi did not seem to immediately realize what was going on, its features are seen through thorough expression before it eventually switches itself into a terrible grin of disbelief.
“Oh, Lord,” whispered, stressing his forehead on the cold stone floor. “Oh Lord, no.” For a long moment everyone in the area remained motionless, everything stiffened; then, slowly, Ben-Roi lifted his body, knelt down, then stood up straight, then stood up straight, somewhat dazed like a boxer who rose staggered on canvas. Layla retreated so that now she stood with the Israelite, her eyes glancing momentarily at Khalifa. There was a red tinge staining his cheek whether out of shame or entirely different emotions, the Egyptian could not say. Ben-Roi is no longer paying attention to Layla, his views are now focused solely on Har-Zion.
“The Palestinian is not merely so good,” he murmured, a heavy voice with an angry repressed.
“How the brotherhood operates is way too sophisticated for an Apostate Palestinian, a defector. The driving force must be outside.” Khalifa was still trying to organize her thoughts, trying to understand what was going on.
“I don't understand,” Khalifa muttered, looking at Ben-Roi then Layla then to Har-Zion and back to Ben-Roi again. The face of this last person was completely colorless, his skin was dull white, like a stained marble.
“As I've said, Khalifa. Layla works for Al-Mulatham. recruits the bombers, writes nonsense about him, as I've said. only one I forgot.” Ben-Roi's wrist tightened, his eyes never separated from Har-Zion. “At last Al - Mulatham killed his own people.”
Again it makes this Egyptian need a moment to digest it, so that his mind path is well assembled.
“You mean ...?” Ben-Roi's whole body was shaking.
“She is Al - Mulatham,” Ben-Roi growling. “He's the one who controls all this. The Arab bombers, the Israeli Master. scuttle his own people.His own people!” Khalifa was aghast, the entire cave seemed to be shrinking around them. Then silent for some time, then, with a startling howl of animal rage, Ben-Roi took a step forward. He was a strong man, but he was also overweight, tired and less professional. Before he got closer to his target, two Har-Zion men stepped up and, with calm and orderly precision, halted his steps.
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