Yigal Zur
DEATH IN SHANGRI-LA
A DOTAN NAOR THRILLER
Translated from Hebrew by Sara Kitai
Acknowledgments
To Murray Weiss, my agent, for your wise counsel and commitment. To Gregory Bekerman, for your help in Russian-Israeli slang. To Felix Khachaturian for your vision. To Sara & Ammnon Grushka for putting up with me and my stories for so many years. To all the team at Oceanview: Pat & Bob Gussin, Lee Randall, Autumn Beckett, and Emily Baar—thank you for welcoming me with open arms. To my beloved sons, Kay & Nitai, for the light. And to my wonderful wife, Karin, for unlimited love.
PROLOGUE
A YEAR EARLIER
“YOU’RE DELUSIONAL,” WILLY said. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Spiritual my ass.”
I didn’t respond. I was calculating how many emotions a person can cram into one sentence.
“My world is ugly, but at least it’s real,” he went on, hard-nosed as ever. “The spiritual world is a load of crap.”
We were sitting in his office in one of the many towers that had sprung up around the Diamond Exchange in Ramat Gan. They’re all built in the sterile style that passes for luxury in the New Age Israeli economy and hide more than they reveal. The office blocks are home to import-export companies, insurance agencies, law firms, and of course, the headquarters of arms dealers like Willy. They’re all secretly linked together in an infinite web of vested interests, affiliations, commitments, and animosity. A lot of animosity.
The twenty-fifth floor looked out on hundreds of identical glass windows that reflected the red-gold glow of sunset. In just a few minutes it would be replaced by the harsh glare of neon lights illuminating the work of the countless minions who toiled to fatten the bank accounts of the privileged few.
“You’re so predictable,” I said.
“Really? Don’t count on it.”
Willy seemed preoccupied. His feet were up on the large, beautifully carved Indonesian desk he had hauled back from one of his many trips overseas. He was the picture of a businessman after hours, not giving a shit because he didn’t have to, not answering the phone after his secretary left for the day—“They can go to hell for all I care.”
On the desk between us was a bottle of aged Talisker from the Isle of Skye, with its hard-rough taste evocative of the ocean. Two heavy glasses held generous shots. It was just the type of whiskey I’d expect Willy to drink. On the wall behind him were framed mementoes: Willy and the gang; Willy in a jeep in the Himalayas; Willy on a yacht holding an enormous swordfish and smiling at the camera; Willy on safari with an African guide standing next to an elephant; Willy in an Australian pith helmet with a huge cigar in his mouth, a camera around his neck, and a grin on his face, jauntily striking a pose à la Hemingway or Clint Eastwood. He knew he was living the good life and the adrenaline was flowing.
Over to the side were several smaller pictures of Israeli guns and weapons systems. Each had a signature in the corner, but they were too far away for me to read. A single, even smaller, photograph stood on the desk: Willy with a Yankees cap on his head, crouching down to hug two little kids, a girl and a boy, in front of Cinderella’s castle at Disneyland. It was the near-perfect picture of the ideal family. Only his ex-wife was missing. I assumed the picture had been taken on a bonding trip after the breakup.
Willy caught me looking at the picture. “That was the happiest day of my life,” he said. “You know how much I love my son, don’t you?”
I gave him an answer I knew would provoke him. “I know you think you love him. But you’re a lousy dad.”
My words drew the anticipated response. He threw me a scathing look, but quickly damped the fire in his eyes.
“Explain.”
Willy is a cut-the-bullshit kind of guy. Every now and then someone tries to blindside him, especially one of the wannabes who pop up from time to time, mostly retired generals who now have to put an “ex” before their rank and imagine doors all over the world will automatically open for them because of who they used to be. They think they can use their connections to get the drop on him. And then all of a sudden, they take a sucker punch and they haven’t the faintest idea where it came from. It’s only after they’ve already suffered the blow, particularly to their super-inflated ego, that they discover it came from Willy. He showed them who’s in charge.
I remember him telling me once, “If there’s one thing I learned growing up on the streets of downtown Haifa, it’s that life is a constant fight for survival.”
There’s only one way to talk to Willy. You have to give it to him straight, like pouring lye down a clogged toilet even when you know all the shit is going to rise to the surface. “You’d do anything for your son, except the one thing he really needs right now,” I said, aiming for the heart. “Accept him for what he is, without judging him.”
He gave me that sidelong look of his. “I think your mind’s gone to mush,” he said. “You’ve been sitting in the lotus position too long.”
I laughed at his dig, but Willy didn’t let up. “I gotta say I liked the previous version of Dotan Naor better, the hard-assed Security Agency guy.”
What could I say? Give him a full rundown of what I’ve been doing since I was kicked out of the Agency a few years ago? Ever since I opened the detective agency with Shai, I’ve spent my time looking for one lost Israeli or another, learning martial arts, and sitting at the feet of spiritual guides in the East. He wouldn’t understand.
I realized we hadn’t spoken since I’d struck out in this new direction, but, of course, he knew what I’d been up to. So, I threw him a line I was sorry about later, because some things are better left unsaid. “I still have to rough someone up now and then; it comes with the job, but as a way of life it seems meaningless to me these days.”
He gave me a steely look. “So now you’re judging me?”
“No. You asked if I believe you love your son, and I gave you my answer. You don’t like it, no worries. I’ll shut up.”
“Go ahead, kick me in the balls. I can take it.”
I could hear the bile rising in his throat, like the burning sensation you get from eating toasted white bread.
“You want me to go on?”
“You wanna squeeze them, too? Be my guest.”
“It wasn’t so long ago that you were the smug dad of a bright kid with an active mind, a prodigy on the way to making a name for himself.”
“Exactly right. And what’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong? He changed, and you refuse to accept it. You think it’s just a phase. Even worse, you think he’s turning his back on his true destiny. He was supposed to become one of the leading attorneys in the country. You already imagined how proud you’ll be when he’s the youngest person ever to make partner in a prestigious law firm. To make a long story short, you thought your son would stroke your paternal ego. You never stopped to ask yourself if he was happy.”
“Happy? Happy is a hefty bank account. When you can afford everything you’ve ever wanted in this shitty life. And you can’t deny it, life is full of shit.”
I was about to give him a serious answer, but I decided to keep my mouth shut. I knew if I didn’t choose my words carefully I’d lose him, and I could see how upset he was about his son. That was the essence of the message he was sending.
Willy refilled his glass, raised it to his nose, and sniffed the whiskey with obvious pleasure. “You’re very good at fucking with a guy’s head,” he said, taking a sip and licking his lips indulgently, a sure sign he’d cooled off. “Want a cigar? I just got back from the Dominican Republic. I brought home some of the finest.”