treatments, you name it. And for what? To lose the baby? That was the only reason Rachel Shimshi agreed to leave the truck. She took off the chains herself, put a stop to the whole operation. The other women didn’t even know a thing about it. We called an ambulance, there was so much blood. Don’t even ask what went on there. She’ll be fine, but not the baby. What a huge mess from all this.”
The telephone rang, and Benizri sighed. “Yes?” he answered, impatient. “Sorry, I thought it was my wife… . Okay, I’ll be there right away.”
“You’re going somewhere?” Michael asked. “Because I was planning to ask you—”
“That was Hefetz,” Benizri explained. “He told me to get down there right away, I’ve got to—he says it’s urgent.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” Michael said, “and we can leave together.
When exactly were you in the foreign correspondents’ room?”
Benizri, who was occupied with removing the cassette from the editing machine and turning it off, stopped what he was doing and gave Michael a confused look. “The foreign correspondents’ room?”
he asked with feigned innocence. “I wasn’t there, no way. When? Who said that?” A moment later he remembered: “Oh yeah, I was there with the graphic artist, just for a little while around noon. I remember that now, because from there I dashed out for a bite to eat, I was famished. Why do you ask?”
“How long were you there?” Michael asked.
“Maybe twenty minutes. I was talking with the graphic artist and …
not very long.” Benizri placed the cassette into his travel bag and moved toward the door.
On their way to the elevator, Michael asked, “While you were there did a lot of other people enter the room?”
“As usual,” Benizri said. The elevator door opened. “The foreign correspondents’ room is not exactly a private place. Sure, people came and went. I think maybe even the correspondent for foreign affairs stepped in”—he smiled awkwardly at his own joke—“and so did the foreign news editor, and … I don’t remember who else. We were standing over in the corner.”
“Next to the computer?” Michael asked as they stepped into the elevator.
“Yeah, how did you know?” Benizri asked, surprised. “Why is that important?”
“And you didn’t see anything special or unusual? Nothing strange?”
Benizri shrugged. “I didn’t see a thing, strange or otherwise. Do you have any idea how many things I’ve been dealing with today?” The elevator stopped, and Michael followed him to the canteen. From the end of the corridor he could see Hefetz standing in the doorway. In one hand the acting director of Israel Television was holding a cup of coffee and in the other a yellow envelope. Hefetz cast a stern look at Danny Benizri and said, “Listen, Danny, I’ve just received—” He cut himself off when he noticed Michael.
“What? What did you just receive?” Benizri asked, glancing at the envelope.
“I …” Hefetz started, embarrassed. He loosened the knot in his tie, unbuttoned the top buttons on his shirt, and passed his hand over the gray chest hairs sticking up from his collar (he was not wearing an
undershirt, and Michael made a mental note to verify his dress habits with someone in Wardrobe). “Not here, not like this, I didn’t intend …
but because of the police there’s nowhere for a little privacy in this place.”
Michael ignored the reproach in his voice. “It’s not that there’s no physical location for privacy, Hefetz, you’ve got to be more precise: it’s that there’s no more privacy at all, and that’s that. Very simply, the director of Israel Television was murdered here this morning. I need to know what’s in the envelope too, because it may be connected to this case.”
Hefetz looked at him, disquieted. “I can promise you there is no connection,” he said faintly.
“Okay already,” Benizri said impatiently. “Tell us what this is all about, and let’s get it over with. I mean, what could be so bad?”
“Fine,” Hefetz said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He handed the envelope to Benizri.
Danny Benizri opened the envelope and removed a stack of photographs. Unsuspecting, he looked at the first of them; a moment passed before he realized what he was looking at. He shoved the whole stack back into the envelope, looked around, and said, “God …”
“Exactly,” Hefetz said. It seemed to Michael that he could detect a faint echo of pleasure in his voice, maybe a dash of schadenfreude.
“That’s just what I said. This is the last thing we needed right now.”
“May I?” Michael asked as he reached for the envelope.
Danny Benizri moved his hand behind his back. “It’s irrelevant, believe me,” he demurred.
“There’s no such thing as irrelevant,” Michael said. “I am truly very sorry, but I must see what’s in those photos.”
“It’s nothing … pictures of … how could intimate photos of me with a woman have anything to do with Zadik? Something to do with blackmail, I guess.”
Michael extended his hand again, and this time Benizri placed the envelope in it.
Slowly, Michael removed the photos and looked at them. Danny Benizri scanned the corridor, terrorized, but for the moment no one was passing by.
“These certainly are intimate photos of you with a woman,”
Michael said. “But this isn’t just any woman, and it’s pretty clear who she is, don’t you think?”
“Believe me,” Danny Benizri said, pleading, “this has nothing to do with any of this, and it will only ruin everything. She … the minister …
Mrs. Ben-Zvi … she had no intention … oh, my God, how could I not even have suspected …” He fell silent, watching Michael with a plaintive look on his face.
“If photos like these arrive here on the very day the director of Israel Television is murdered,” Michael said, “and if they are used to blackmail a senior correspondent at Israel Television and the minister of labor and social affairs, then there is no way not to make a connection between these matters.”
“There was only the photographs in the envelope,” Hefetz said.
“No note, no mention of blackmail.”
“Who brought them?” Benizri asked.
“A guy with a motorcycle helmet or something,” Hefetz explained.
“Young guy. He gave the envelope directly to me, thank God.”
“What do you mean, ‘thank God’?” Benizri interjected, his hands shaking and his face pale. He retrieved the photos from Michael and looked quickly through them. “Don’t you get it? If there are photos like these of us—of her and me—next to her house, in the lobby of the hotel, in—look at this! It’s like they shot us with a telescope, right there in the room! How could they have done this so quickly? It’s just …
this’ll be the end of me, and not just of me—”
Michael stuck his hand out again, and Danny Benizri handed over the photographs. “Black and white,” Benizri said bitterly. “In black and white, a few in color. You know, for variety. What are you going to do?” he asked Hefetz. “Broadcast this on the evening news?”
“Are you asking that seriously?” Hefetz said, shocked.
“Of course,” Benizri answered. “I don’t know anymore.”
“Are you nuts?” Hefetz protested. “What do you think I am? Do you think I’m running some lowlife rag of a newspaper, some—of course I’m not going to broadcast this! But I don’t know what the big papers will do with this. With your luck, this could make the front page of Yediot Ahronot or something.”
“I’ve got to make a phone call,” Danny Benizri said in a whisper, beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip. “Excuse me, please,” he said, turning away as he removed his cell phone from a pocket and dialed.
“It’s me,” he said quietly before walking away.
Hefetz peered into the canteen. “Look at that,” he muttered. “Quiet as a cemetery. You can’t even open your mouth around here anymore, everything you say … I’ve never, ever seen the place looking like this, not even during the Yom Kippur War. And believe me, I’ve been around. This canteen’s been here for as long as Israel Television. The wall over there was built while we sat here eating. In 1969, right after Israel Television got its start, there were two groups that kept apart from one another. There were class distinctions here, not like now: there were the Poles, who had only just come to the country after they’d been tossed out of Poland, disgruntled Communists with
