Read Online THRILLER: The Galilee Plot: (International Biological Terror, The Mossad, and... A Self-contended Couple) by Shlomo Kalo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shlomo Kalo
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once and for a long time to come, and seeming to set the hotel reeling, quiet
as it was at this hour of the day. Quickly I moved probing hands over my body.
I wasn’t injured. I turned to look at Mr Rahman and was struck dumb with
amazement. Mr Rahman had fallen from his armchair, hitting his head hard
against the parquet floor of the lobby. A spreading bloodstain, surrounding his
scalp like a halo, testified that he had been shot in the head.
Without a moment’s delay,
the fragile clerk alerted the police, who rapidly appeared on the scene with
all the noisy paraphernalia that is inevitable in cases such as these:
Hollywood-style sirens of police vehicles and speeding ambulance. The police
had to cope with the hotel guests, who had come downstairs on hearing the
gunshot which had brought their quiet routine to such an abrupt end. Among them
was my wife, who managed to utter an authentically Israeli crisis-call, its
content indefinable. She was soon to be relieved and satisfied, seeing me
healthy and whole.
The cops were gathering
statements and they asked me to come in for questioning, immediately if
possible. I reassured my wife and rode with her in the spacious and comfortable
police car, no siren blaring this time. The ambulance crew loaded Abd Rahman,
or rather his corpse, in their vehicle and whisked him away to the pathology
lab.
I sat down facing a young
and energetic investigating officer who asked questions that were pertinent,
although awfully standard. Country of origin? Was this the first time I had
been a guest in the hotel?
“The eleventh time”
“How often?”
“Every year.”
“Enemies – at home or
here?”
“None that I know of.”
“Did you see who shot Mr
Abd Rahman?”
“No,” I replied with a
deep and emphatic sigh of relief and admitted I was curious myself to know
this; after all, as the clerk had reported, it was me that Mr Rahman wanted to
see.
“That’s what complicates
everything,” the young officer declared with obvious unease.
Here I saw fit to diffuse
the tense atmosphere by translating the assassin’s name for the officer’s
benefit:
“The name Abd Rahman,” I
explained, “means servant of God who is full of mercy.” The cop digested this,
impressed:
“What weird names these
people have,” he commented – to demonstrate his lack of concern, also his
appreciation of someone who understands such a complicated language as Arabic
and last but not least, to prove himself a man with a sense of humour,
something not typical of cops in general and of Swiss ones in particular.
“If,” the officer added,
“we knew that someone was tailing Mr Rahman, and got his shot in first, we’d be
wiser. We found a heavy revolver in Mr Rahman’s pocket, loaded, of Swiss
manufacture,” he saw fit to inform me.
“In other words – he
bought the gun in Switzerland?” I asked innocently.
The officer nodded.
“Do we know where from?” –
more affected innocence.
“From a shop,” the young
man replied with engaging simplicity.
“So anyone who wants, can
buy a heavy Swiss revolver – just from a shop?”
“If he pays the price for
it,” the cop nodded, “and gives proof of identity and has a good reason for
wanting it.”
I didn’t ask any more
questions.
“Anyway, the mystery man
who tailed Mr Rahman saved your life. Take care, Sir,” he saw fit to warn me,
with an earnest expression on his young face – “you won’t always have such an
efficient guardian angel on hand!”
“Many thanks,” – I thanked
him and thanked him again, “If you catch the shooter, please pass on my deep
and sincere appreciation and the gratitude of my family.”
“I promise we’ll do that,”
the young cop smiled, standing and holding out a fleshy, heavy and cold hand.
He shook my hand and my wife’s, warmly and sincerely, and added: “You have good
reason to celebrate. Champagne would seem to fit the occasion – unless you have
some objection to
once and for a long time to come, and seeming to set the hotel reeling, quiet
as it was at this hour of the day. Quickly I moved probing hands over my body.
I wasn’t injured. I turned to look at Mr Rahman and was struck dumb with
amazement. Mr Rahman had fallen from his armchair, hitting his head hard
against the parquet floor of the lobby. A spreading bloodstain, surrounding his
scalp like a halo, testified that he had been shot in the head.
Without a moment’s delay,
the fragile clerk alerted the police, who rapidly appeared on the scene with
all the noisy paraphernalia that is inevitable in cases such as these:
Hollywood-style sirens of police vehicles and speeding ambulance. The police
had to cope with the hotel guests, who had come downstairs on hearing the
gunshot which had brought their quiet routine to such an abrupt end. Among them
was my wife, who managed to utter an authentically Israeli crisis-call, its
content indefinable. She was soon to be relieved and satisfied, seeing me
healthy and whole.
The cops were gathering
statements and they asked me to come in for questioning, immediately if
possible. I reassured my wife and rode with her in the spacious and comfortable
police car, no siren blaring this time. The ambulance crew loaded Abd Rahman,
or rather his corpse, in their vehicle and whisked him away to the pathology
lab.
I sat down facing a young
and energetic investigating officer who asked questions that were pertinent,
although awfully standard. Country of origin? Was this the first time I had
been a guest in the hotel?
“The eleventh time”
“How often?”
“Every year.”
“Enemies – at home or
here?”
“None that I know of.”
“Did you see who shot Mr
Abd Rahman?”
“No,” I replied with a
deep and emphatic sigh of relief and admitted I was curious myself to know
this; after all, as the clerk had reported, it was me that Mr Rahman wanted to
see.
“That’s what complicates
everything,” the young officer declared with obvious unease.
Here I saw fit to diffuse
the tense atmosphere by translating the assassin’s name for the officer’s
benefit:
“The name Abd Rahman,” I
explained, “means servant of God who is full of mercy.” The cop digested this,
impressed:
“What weird names these
people have,” he commented – to demonstrate his lack of concern, also his
appreciation of someone who understands such a complicated language as Arabic
and last but not least, to prove himself a man with a sense of humour,
something not typical of cops in general and of Swiss ones in particular.
“If,” the officer added,
“we knew that someone was tailing Mr Rahman, and got his shot in first, we’d be
wiser. We found a heavy revolver in Mr Rahman’s pocket, loaded, of Swiss
manufacture,” he saw fit to inform me.
“In other words – he
bought the gun in Switzerland?” I asked innocently.
The officer nodded.
“Do we know where from?” –
more affected innocence.
“From a shop,” the young
man replied with engaging simplicity.
“So anyone who wants, can
buy a heavy Swiss revolver – just from a shop?”
“If he pays the price for
it,” the cop nodded, “and gives proof of identity and has a good reason for
wanting it.”
I didn’t ask any more
questions.
“Anyway, the mystery man
who tailed Mr Rahman saved your life. Take care, Sir,” he saw fit to warn me,
with an earnest expression on his young face – “you won’t always have such an
efficient guardian angel on hand!”
“Many thanks,” – I thanked
him and thanked him again, “If you catch the shooter, please pass on my deep
and sincere appreciation and the gratitude of my family.”
“I promise we’ll do that,”
the young cop smiled, standing and holding out a fleshy, heavy and cold hand.
He shook my hand and my wife’s, warmly and sincerely, and added: “You have good
reason to celebrate. Champagne would seem to fit the occasion – unless you have
some objection to
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