Decker stared at Warhaftig, feeling a strange mixture of anger and relief, fed by a renewed respect for the CIA Intel specialist, not so much for his favor as for his sheer audacity. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Decker said. “I didn’t ask you to lie for me.”
Warhaftig smiled. With one quick movement, he kicked the tripod and knocked the Nikon D70 to the floor. The camera shattered like an egg, like a broken skull on the sidewalk. “What lie?”
Chapter 10
Seiden was interrupted by a loud knocking on the two-way mirror that ran the length of the interrogation room. He got up, walked nonchalantly to the door, and stepped outside into the hall.
The Director of the Mossad, Itzak Mandelbaum, and the Deputy Director, Chaiyim Cohen, stood in the observation room next door. They were watching the videotaped recording of the interrogation on a monitor.
“I didn’t know you had a son,” said Cohen. He was a slight man, with a shaved head and piercing ice-blue eyes. A small scar ran along his chin.
Seiden smiled and looked down at the monitor. “I don’t,” he answered simply. “Two girls.”
Director Mandelbaum laughed. Seiden found the sound disturbing. It was perfectly pitched, yet hollow. It was the kind of laugh one makes after a dirty joke. He looked the Director up and down. He was a large man, in his fifties, with a wide and pleasant face topped by a shock of bright white hair. His lips were thin. His eyes were small for his face. Blue. No, hazel. No, gray. Seiden couldn’t quite make out the color. They seemed to change based on the angle of his face. Then the Director smiled.
“Thank you, Acting Chief Seiden. We appreciate your efforts,” he said. “You may go.”
His teeth were small for his face, like those of a woman or child. “Excuse me?” Seiden said.
“We’ll take over from here,” Director Mandelbaum continued.
“But I’m just getting started,” said Seiden. “Sir, I don’t mean to be insubordinate, but—”
“Then don’t be.”
“Sir?” Seiden felt himself grow angry. This was his case. El Aqrab had been caught in Tel Aviv, in his jurisdiction.
“Acting Chief Seiden,” the Director added. “It was unfortunate when Chief Stein retired so unexpectedly.”
“He had a stroke, sir.”
“Of course he had a stroke. Don’t you think I know that?”
Seiden was thrown by the Director’s sudden burst of anger.
“Be that as it may,” the Director said, “we are still searching for a suitable replacement. Do not forget yourself. You are only the acting Chief. A temporary position.” Then he smiled. “Of course, your name is one of many we’re considering. It is not inconceivable that you could find yourself Chief Stein’s permanent replacement. He was a remarkable man. A terrible loss. Terrible.”
“He isn’t dead, sir,” Seiden said. “He’s only paralyzed on the left side.”
Deputy Director Cohen stepped forward. “Ben, what are you doing?” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I believe the Director has made his position clear.”
Seiden sighed. “I’m making progress, sir,” he said. “I’m convinced the Arabic lettering, the words revealed during El Aqrab’s explosions are more than random quotes from the Qur’an. I think they’re messages to other members of the Brotherhood. I’d like to examine them more thoroughly.”
“You have your orders,” Cohen said.
Director Mandelbaum reached out and placed a hand on Seiden’s shoulder. “Don’t be upset, Ben,” he continued. “El Aqrab is not an ordinary man. And, frankly, there have been too many leaks of late. Too many… ” He paused for a second. “… indiscretions. It is a matter of great importance to the State that all evidence, every piece of information surrounding this case, all intelligence be kept in the strictest of confidence. There are things here that you do not see.” He took his hand away.
“I agree, of course” said Cohen. “But before you go, Acting Chief Seiden, I’d be curious to hear what you think about our prisoner. As a trained psychologist.”
Seiden stared at Mandelbaum. Both men were looking at him, waiting for his analysis. “What can I tell you?” he said. “I’ve only been with the suspect a few hours.”
“Your first impressions then,” said Cohen. “What drives him, Ben? Why is he here?”
Seiden sighed. He ran a hand back through his hair, staring through the two-way mirror at the prisoner within. “It’s hard to tell. I believe he’s a true believer, unmotivated by political or personal greed. A man of faith.” He paused.
“Go on,” said Cohen.
“But there is something else. The way he kills, the way he paints with fire and explosives. There is an aesthetic to his work, a kind of art.”
“That much is obvious,” the Director said. “Are you saying he kills to be an artist?”
“Yes… and no. His art is devastation, to be sure. He destroys with an aesthetic sensibility. I believe it’s a kind of gift to Allah. Jung said that all great artists create not only for themselves and for their publics, but as an homage to God. I think this drives the expression of his work. Explosives are simply the aesthetic form he’s chosen, much as an artist might choose the brush or pen or any other instrument. What drives him, and why did he return?” He shrugged. “We have yet to establish a link with Miller, or any of his family. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were just a random act of violence. There is a deep self-loathing at the heart of who he is, at the center of his animus. And it isn’t just revenge, the source of hatred for so many of the Palestinians. At first I thought it was the guilt of the survivor, after the killing of his parents, or some friend. But I think there’s something else.” He shook his head. “He takes a pleasure in his pain. Did you see the way he threw himself against the chains when I told him of my ‘son’? He revels in his own debasement, in his own torture. It’s almost sexual in its expression.”
“A masochist then,” said Mandelbaum. “You think he’s crazy?”
“Unstable, yes. But crazy?” Seiden shook his head. “No, he’s not crazy. I think he’s guilty. Of what, I have no idea. Perhaps he honestly regrets his actions, the deaths and suffering he’s caused. His fanaticism drives him forward but that doesn’t mean he fails to feel some sense of guilt for what he does. He gave himself up, after all. He wanted to be caught. And I think the Qur’anic passages he quotes are probably aimed at us as well as to his people in the field. Why else would he videotape the killings and then send them to us? It’s more than just a taunting. He isn’t simply trying to demonstrate his intellect. The recordings are a means for him to share his art. After all, of what value is an artist’s work if only the artist views it? I don’t know. I need more time. Perhaps if I could continue my interrogation… ”
“We are out of time,” said Mandelbaum. “My thanks to you, Acting Chief Seiden.”
Seiden nodded. “I’m glad I could be of service,” he said. Then he shook the Director’s hand. His fingers felt boneless, soft as steamed asparagus.