Murder in Jerusalem by Batya Gur Page A

he whispered to Danny Benizri. “He knows I’m from Israel Television, but he won’t let me in. They’re waiting for you—and only you—like you’re the messiah.”
    Danny Benizri spread his arms in a gesture of humility as if to say he had not brought about any of this, then eyed Zohar with suspicion, slapping him on the back. “Good job, Zohar, you did really nice work here,” he said. It is easy to stir up envy in someone you work with without ever doing anything to provoke it, without even noticing it at all, and then one day you find yourself with another enemy, just because once someone asked only for you. What could he do about it? After all, he had not intended to take anything away from anyone. It was not his responsibility. On the other hand, to lose an opportunity like this would be simply inhuman. “Listen,” he said, clearing his throat, “I don’t…,” but Zohar had already turned away and was gathering his belongings.
    â€œGo on already, get in there,” Zohar said as he climbed into the van. “I’m leaving this guy here for you,” he added with a grin as he put his hand on the shoulder of Ijo the cameraman. “You owe me one: they caught us with our pants down, no soundman, nothing. Ijo is your whole crew.”
    â€œWill they let him in with me?” Danny Benizri called to a policeman armed with a megaphone who was standing near Moshe Shimshi.
    The policeman shrugged, turned to Shimshi, and pointed to Ijo. “Are you willing to let the cameraman in, too?” he asked.
    â€œJust Benizri,” Shimshi answered, his eyes downcast. “Only him and nobody else.”
    â€œIf you need me, I’ll be waiting right here,” Ijo said, handing Benizri the video camera and the monitor he had taken from the van. Danny Benizri approached Shimshi cautiously, fearful of his reaction to the camera or the monitor. But Shimshi took a long, silent look at him and said, finally, “You see? You didn’t come visit us at home, so we’re meeting here.”
    Benizri forced a smile. He knew there was nothing to fear, he had known Shimshi for years, way back from the time he was a junior television researcher and Shimshi was already active in the Histadrut, the General Federation of Labor. It seemed funny to be wary of Shimshi at all, but still he felt a certain panic awaken in him. Maybe it was Shimshi’s quick, noisy breaths, or Shimshi himself, who looked like he was stuck inside some sort of nightmare. It is a known fact that fear can turn a harmless creature into something quite dangerous when it is pushed into a corner.
    â€œListen,” Shimshi said as he pulled him into the tunnel. “We have a problem here.”
    Benizri’s palms grew moist, the handle of the monitor sticky in his hands. Shimshi ran ahead into the tunnel, and he followed suit, the monitor and the video camera slowing him down. From a distance he could see the two trucks that were blocking everything behind them. A group of men in blue dungarees and wool caps stepped aside to make way for him to pass by. A gray Volvo was parked on the far side of the trucks, and already from a distance he recognized Azriel, chauffeur to Timnah Ben-Zvi, the minister of labor and social affairs, who stood with his elbows on the roof of the car, his head between his hands. Shimshi came to a sudden halt at the car. Azriel straightened up, ignoring Shimshi, fixing his large bright eyes on Danny Benizri and rubbing his heavy chin with a trembling hand.
    â€œWhere’s the minister?” Benizri asked.
    Azriel indicated the back seat of the Volvo with his head. “She’s not in good shape,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”
    Shimshi cleared his throat. “That’s it, what I was telling you,” he explained to Benizri. “We have a problem, she doesn’t…how should I say, she doesn’t feel so