Murder in Jerusalem (37 page)

“Let's take the stairs, that thing's only got room for two people anyway,” he said to Michael as they ran down the stairs. Out of breath, he added, “That wasn't what you think, if you thought Hefetz was fooling around. He's going on air, he was getting dressed, she was putting his makeup on, that's the way it happens sometimes in an emergency, you get dressed on the way.” When they reached the ground floor Rubin turned toward the canteen, stopped at the doorway, and watched the monitor hanging there. The canteen was nearly empty except for two tables in opposite corners: at one sat a group of workers in blue overalls eating quietly, and at the other, Natasha and Schreiber watching a soundless monitor broadcasting the five o'clock Channel Two news. As the broadcaster mouthed his lines, a picture of Benny Meyuhas appeared with the caption: BENNY MEYUHAS, DIRECTOR. THE POLICE REQUEST PUBLIC ASSISTANCE IN LOCATING HIM. When she spied Rubin, Natasha let her small hand drop from her chin and rose from her chair, but he signaled her to wait. “Later,” he called to her quietly. She returned to her chair and sat down and only then nodded hello to Michael.

“If the canteen is that empty, and there are still doughnuts to be had, then the situation really is awful,” Rubin said as he walked slowly toward the stairs. “This is where you really get the feel for what's going on—the canteen is the heart, the very center, of this place. Everything happens here. Everything. Since Israel Television began. See that wall over there? It was built while we sat here eating. I remember it like it was yesterday, Zadik—” Suddenly he coughed as though choking, and his eyes filled with tears. He slowed his steps, and Michael followed him to the studio.

Rubin instructed Michael to take up a position in the lighting technicians' room, where he stood sandwiched between the computer and the desk and watched through the glass partition. The communications minister sat in the studio, having her face made up; Hefetz sat to her right, nervously tightening his dark blue necktie. Karen, the anchorwoman, sat to the left of the minister, who was now answering a question: “Israel Radio and Israel Television do not stop broadcasting except on Yom Kippur,” she responded fervently. “Shutting down Israel's official television station in the event of a disaster—and murder is certainly a form of disaster—would only be giving in to…”

Michael had left the lighting technicians' room and gone to stand in a corner of the control room just as the director was saying, first to himself and then into a microphone, “Come on, get her out of there already, we're done with her, Karen, tell her, ‘Thank you very much, now shut your face.'” That was why Michael failed to hear the end of the communications minister's sentence. “Ready with camera two,” Tzippi the assistant producer said, her hand on her huge belly, rubbing. “Someone turn on the upper monitor! Ready with camera one, Danny,” the director shouted. Erez, the editor, stood silently in the back. He shot an openly critical look at Danny Benizri, who had come racing into the control room, torn off his sweater, shoved his arms into a black shirt he removed from a hanger, and turned his face to the makeup artist, who was on her way out of the room. She frowned—“You've already been made up,” she said—but powdered his forehead nonetheless. “He thinks he's some American movie star,” Erez muttered to himself. “Runs around all day, shows up at the very last minute, does his little striptease, undress and dress, undress and dress.” “Are we finished with the videocassette?” asked a young man sitting at the video machine as he switched cassettes. No one answered him.

“Ready camera two, Hefetz,” the director said. Hefetz felt for the transmitter behind his ear through which he could hear the instructions and took a sip from his cup. The atmosphere in the studio reminded Michael of an operating room or a command room in wartime. It's easy to forget that no lives depend on what happens here, he thought to himself as his eyes carefully scanned the people in the room, all of whom were tense and nervous and wasted no words. “Thirty seconds…final words ‘can continue…cannot continue,' ten seconds on the word,” said the producer to Karen. “Can I have a profile over the window?” the director shouted. “I told you, get her out of there already,” he repeated, angry that the interview with the communications minister had not yet ended.

Three television cameras were pointed at Hefetz, and in spite of the fact that the makeup artist had applied more powder to his forehead and chin just before the lights went on, his face was shiny with perspiration. On one side of the monitor Michael watched still photos of Zadik flash one after the other from a prepared videocassette, pictures from his childhood and his youth, pictures of him in the white dress uniform of the Israel Navy, a picture of him in the news studio. In the background Hefetz's shaky voice could be heard: “Today we have suffered a great loss. A terrible loss. For me, this is a personal loss. I have been together with Shimshon Zadik from the beginning of his career as a junior reporter through his job as editor of the News Department”—on the screen appeared a photograph of Zadik leafing through papers and talking on the telephone at the head of the conference table in the newsroom—“all the way up to the position he held for the past three years as director of Israel Television. Shimshon Zadik was a man of vision who enjoyed everyone's trust and confidence.” Behind Hefetz there appeared a photograph of Zadik shaking hands with two men in jeans and polo shirts, underneath which ran the caption, SHIMSHON ZADIK, DIRECTOR OF ISRAEL TELEVISION. One of the men had a false smile, as though he was making an effort not to let the cigarette between his lips fall to the ground; the other had removed a video camera from his shoulder and the caption changed: SIGNING OF AGREEMENT WITH TECHNICIANS' UNION. At that moment Michael's attention was caught by the entrance of Elmaliah the cameraman into the studio. He noticed with astonishment the huge tray of doughnuts Elmaliah carried in one hand, and the single doughnut he was shoving into his mouth with the other, oblivious to the anxiety and shock of everyone else in the room. “I have taken it upon myself to replace Zadik temporarily, until an official appointment can be made,” Hefetz was saying, Zadik's face framed in black behind him. “I pledge to continue his path and his creed…” Elmaliah nodded and, with a full mouth, said, “Got his wish, didn't he, this is what the guy's always wanted.”

“Shut up, fool,” Niva whispered from the doorway of the control room, wiping her eyes. “Don't you have any respect for—”

“What's the problem?” Elmaliah protested. “Like I said something so terrible?” He looked around, wiped his lips on the back of his hand, and set the tray on the counter behind which Erez the editor was sitting. “Okay, I didn't notice,” he said after stealing a glance at Michael. “But it doesn't mean anything, does it?”

Erez seemed about to say something, but just then Eli Bachar entered the control room and scanned it until his eyes met those of Michael, who made his way over to him. “We found Benny Meyuhas,” Eli Bachar said quietly. “They're waiting for you upstairs.” All eyes followed them out of the room as they left, and no one said a word.

O
n the stairs, on their way to the entrance of the building, Eli Bachar managed to recount to Michael how he had been standing there by chance (“I let Sasson go home, his wife was home alone with the flu and he's been here since this morning, he promised her he'd be home by eight to light the Hanukkah candles with the kids, and it was already a quarter to eight. So I let him go and I was standing there explaining to Bublil who was allowed to enter the building and who was allowed to leave, you wouldn't believe what a pressure cooker it was around there—we're holding all these people here, the staff of Israel Television, from eleven o'clock this morning, just like you said, nobody coming or going, and even though we've brought them sandwiches and stuff, well, they've got plans, they want to get out of here”); and how the taxi had stopped in front of the door and a short man in a heavy khaki army jacket and beret had stepped out of it. “I was just, like, glancing outside, not really thinking about anything, not really paying attention, just watching how he paid the driver and looked toward the front door of the building. Then he caught sight of the death notice about Zadik and turned completely white, really frightened, you would think he hadn't known a thing about it,” Eli Bachar whispered to Michael as they stood near the security officers' station in the foyer. “You should've seen his face when he saw the picture of the religious guy,” Eli Bachar said, referring to the drawing that police artist Ilan Katz had composed according to Aviva's muddled description, which they had hastened to post everywhere, including next to the death notice at the entrance to Israel Television. “He walked up close and touched it; he looked like someone had whacked him on the head with a club. And I'm looking at him through the glass window, and it's not registering who I'm looking at until suddenly it dawns on me. I figured out who he was even before the security officer, who had his back to the entrance and hadn't even noticed him. So this Benny Meyuhas just strolls in like, like he hasn't done a thing wrong, like he hasn't been missing or anything and nobody's been searching for him. What can I tell you, I think the guy's a bit of a wacko, totally out of it.”

While Eli Bachar continued talking quietly, Michael contemplated the expression on Benny Meyuhas's face from a distance. Meyuhas was standing just inside the building, near the entrance, handcuffed and surrounded by policemen and security guards; he was staring straight ahead as though looking at nothing. Just then Arye Rubin dashed in from the control room, nearly knocking them over as he pushed into the throng toward Benny. “Are you crazy? Take these things off him!” he shouted, grabbing the handcuffs. “What's going on here? He's no criminal!” Rubin placed his hands on Benny's shoulders. “Benny,” he said, “what's happened to you? Why didn't you…Where have you been?” He peered into Benny's face as if able to gauge what he had been through. Benny Meyuhas was leaning against the wall next to the security guards' station, his face averted; he did not answer, and avoided looking at his good friend. In fact, he looked at no one, his eyes half closed and the expression on his face one of extreme fatigue. If he had not been leaning against the wall, or if the guards had not been holding him up, it seemed he would simply collapse.

“Are these handcuffs absolutely necessary?” Arye Rubin protested. No one paid him any attention, partly because at that very moment Hagar came racing down the stairs. It seemed that the rumor that Benny Meyuhas had been found had spread through the building, and she had rushed to see him. She spread her arms to embrace him, but the look on his face caused her to hang back. She did not touch him but said, “Benny, Benny, where have you been? Where did you disappear to? Are you okay? Why didn't you—”

Michael followed Benny Meyuhas's gaze as it rose to the monitor. Hefetz's face was being broadcast in close-up, a photo of Zadik bordered in black in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. Hefetz was saying, “…the decision not to suspend Israel Television broadcasts is due in part to the devotion and courage of employees at all levels, who have decided to honor and acknowledge Shimshon Zadik—may his memory be a blessing—by following his example, by continuing along the course he charted, by upholding his motto: You cannot stop the news.”

Benny Meyuhas's eyes blinked rapidly. He lowered them from the screen, then shut them. He grimaced, a look of disgust on his face. The picture on the screen had changed, and under the caption WANTED was a police composite sketch of a man in ultra-Orthodox garb, while a broadcaster droned in the background: “The Israel Police request assistance in locating the whereabouts of the man shown in this picture. He is approximately feet five nine inches tall, medium build, with brown eyes. His hands and arms show burn marks…” Someone lowered the volume.

Eli Bachar was standing quite close to Benny Meyuhas, and he gently led Arye Rubin and Hagar away from him, ignoring their pleas to remove the handcuffs. Rubin appealed directly to Michael. “What is he, some criminal you have to detain?”

Distracted, Michael ignored him by turning his head as if he had not been spoken to.

Rubin's face was confused, as though he had lost his confidence in the secret covenant he had imagined existed between Benny Meyuhas and himself. He fell silent and stopped protesting against the policemen who were pushing him away from his friend.

“Where are you taking him?” Hagar cried out as she ran after Eli Bachar and Sergeant Bublil on the stairs. They were quickly ushering Benny Meyuhas to the second floor; Hagar ran past them, bursting into the newsroom and shouting, “Benny's here, he's fine, they're taking him to Hefetz's office for questioning.” At once people sprang to their feet and raced to the doorway: Zohar, the military correspondent; David Shalit, the correspondent for police affairs; Niva the newsroom secretary; and Erez, the editor.

“Benny!” David Shalit managed to shout before they led Benny Meyuhas into the office of the newsroom department head, which had been temporarily commandeered for interrogations. The newsroom staff that had gathered stared at the policemen in silence. Hagar and Arye Rubin stood by the office door. “Should we wait here?” Rubin asked.

Michael shrugged his shoulders. “No need,” he said. “This could take quite a while.”

“If that's the case, I'm going up to the editing rooms,” Rubin stated. “If you need me, I'm in the vicinity.” He hesitated for a moment, then added obstinately: “In any event, you can give me a call.”

Michael nodded vaguely and entered Hefetz's office. Sergeant Bublil looked at him and asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee, sir? Three teaspoons of sugar, right?”

“No, no, not for me, thanks,” Michael said; coffee suddenly had no taste without a cigarette. Then after glancing at Benny Meyuhas's face, he said, “On second thought, bring in a nice big cup of coffee with milk,” to which Bublil nodded as he left the room, returning from the newsroom a minute later with a large, steaming mug. Bublil set it on the desk, removed three packets of sugar from his pants pocket, and placed them alongside the mug. From his jacket pocket he extracted a spoon and laid that, too, on the desk before going out to the hallway to deter curious onlookers from besieging the office.

Eli Bachar seated Benny Meyuhas in the chair facing the desk and without saying a word pointed to the mug of coffee and removed the handcuffs. He went to stand in the corner of the room, near the door. Michael sat across from Benny Meyuhas, who tore open each packet of sugar, one by one, spilling the contents of each into the mug, stirring slowly, without raising his eyes.

“Where have you been?” Michael asked. Benny did not so much as glance at him.

After a long silence, Michael asked, in the grave, quiet voice one would use for a terminally ill patient who had disobeyed his doctors' instructions, “Don't you have anything to tell us?” Benny Meyuhas stared at his coffee mug and said nothing.

“You know, in the end you'll talk,” Michael said, struggling to maintain his composure in spite of the anger that Benny Meyuhas's passivity provoked in him. “Don't you think this is a waste of time?”

It appeared as if Benny Meyuhas had not even heard the question. His hands were wrapped around the mug of coffee, and he leaned over it, inhaling the vapor without raising it to his lips.

“For thirty-six hours you've had the whole world concerned,” Michael said, as Benny moved the mug to his mouth slowly and sipped. “Quite a few people were worrying about you. At the very least, we want to know where you were.”

Benny fixed his gaze on the darkened window behind Michael's back and remained silent.

“You don't want to tell us where you've been?” Michael asked, adding, “We want to know, for example, whether you were in the building this morning, or next door at the String Building, or anywhere in the vicinity, for that matter.”

Benny Meyuhas did not remove his gaze from the blackened window. Aside from rapid blinking, there was no sign that he had heard what had been said.

“Are you aware that Zadik was murdered?”

Silence.

“Didn't you hear about that?” Michael asked.

Benny Meyuhas said nothing, but the twitch in his eye and the sudden shiver that passed through him made it clear that he knew. It was impossible to know whether he had only learned about it upon seeing the death notices.

“Do you know where and how he was murdered?”

Benny Meyuhas covered his face with his hands, rubbed his pale cheeks, closed his eyes, then opened them and stared once again at the window. Lightning illuminated the darkened skies, followed by a single burst of thunder, and for a moment the bluish light given off by the round neon lamp was blurred, imparting a jaundiced hue to his pale face.

To Michael it was clear that Meyuhas was aware of his surroundings, perhaps even more intensively so than everyone else. He understood from the strange dichotomy between the frequent changes in Meyuhas's expression and his slow hand movements that this highly sensitive man was gripped by great turmoil or extreme anxiety. “All right,” Michael said with a sigh, “for the time being I am going to have to put you under arrest. We're going to bring you in for questioning under oath. You have the right to request legal representation.” He paused for a moment, waiting to see Meyuhas's reaction. Benny Meyuhas seemed completely at ease, and Michael added, gently, “I'm sorry. If you were willing to talk, to cooperate, we could…” Again he looked into the face of this man who looked as though his soul had taken up residence elsewhere, far away.

Eli Bachar waited for Benny Meyuhas to return his mug to the table, then handcuffed his wrists and led him downstairs to the police van. Michael accompanied them to the ground floor, where Hagar placed herself in front of Eli Bachar and said in a shaky voice that rose suddenly to a hysterical shriek, “If you take him, I'm coming with you, I don't care what you—”

“You are welcome to come along,” Michael said, cutting her off. “Your turn would come up sooner or later anyway. But just take into consideration the fact that you'll be interrogated now, too.”

“You people don't scare me,” Hagar grumbled, frustrated at being denied a good excuse for an outburst. She rushed over to Benny, nearly grabbing his arm, but one look at the somber expression on his face caused her to lower her hand. The van was already waiting outside; Bublil escorted Benny Meyuhas into it. Hagar bent over as if to enter the van as well, but Bublil stopped her, casting a questioning look in Eli Bachar's direction. Eli waved his arm to say it was all right, and Bublil, with a shrug, climbed into the van and sat in the driver's seat.

In the hallway, on his way to the canteen, Michael saw Hefetz and Natasha, deep in conversation. Hefetz extended his hand to touch Natasha's cheek, as if trying to remove a mark or a crumb in a familiar, friendly manner. Natasha brushed his hand away. As he drew near, Michael could see the anger in the burnished blue of her eyes, could hear the venom in her words: “Ah, I get it. You're taking
care
of me, is that it? Looking out for me? Who else would take care of me, if not for—” At that moment she caught sight of Michael and fell silent.

Hefetz, whose back was turned to the hallway, turned his face to Michael, casting him a look of utter helplessness. “I don't know what to do with her,” he complained, as if speaking about a child who was their mutual responsibility.

Natasha grabbed a lock of her hair and gave it her full attention. “You get it?” she said to Michael. “He's taking care of me, looking after my well-being, making sure nothing bad happens to me. You get that?” Then she added, without looking at Hefetz, “Well, if that's the way it is, why doesn't he just bring me home with him? How would that be? At least there, nobody would lay a hand on me, and he'd be looking after me, right?”

“That's not funny,” Hefetz said in protest. “I really
am
concerned with your welfare. Why don't you believe that? Why do you treat me like I'm some kind of…of criminal?” He appealed to Michael: “She doesn't believe me, she thinks I just want to clear my conscience or that I only act in my own self-interest. But really, like I told you before, I just want to know what I can do…. I hear about this slaughtered sheep hanging in front of her door, at night, twenty-four hours later, and even then only by chance, thanks to a couple of policemen I overheard talking. Nobody thinks to tell me these things, and she? She treats me like a stranger. When all is said and done, what do I want? I know her so well, like…we're so close…we're…”

“Hefetz,” Natasha said quietly, emphasizing each syllable. “I've told you a thousand times, Hefetz, there's no more ‘we.' There's me and there's you, each of us completely separate. You know that expression, Two of us together, each of us apart? Well, that's us to a tee. Believe me, not just us. And if you, if you think that—” She turned to Michael. “He says he loves me,” she said with wonder mixed with open desperation. “So what does that mean? What does it mean to love somebody?”