Tel Aviv District police HQ

At 3:00 p.m. local time, three of us navigated works of sculpture, walked up stone steps and entered the Tel Aviv Police Headquarters in Salame Street. We had suggested that Joseph go to Simeon's and update Esther.

Despite occupying only half of the floors in the building, the Tel Aviv Police HQ presence was substantial. A desk sergeant gave me a multi-lingual leaflet in which I read that there were 3,100 members of the Tel Aviv District Police Force. They had responsibility for policing 1.2 million people. In addition to local criminals, including its share of young thugs, the area, being an urban centre and major port, also attracted villains from around the world.

Before we were permitted to take the escalator, we were escorted by the desk sergeant to two full body scanners. A screeching noise greeted Sean when he walked through it. Within seconds, several male and female uniformed officers appeared out of nowhere, like worker bees from a hive, their feet clattering to reception. A scuffle ensued and Sean was wrestled to the tiled floor by four officers. Handcuffs and batons swung in the air. Then Sean was manhandled, spread-eagled against a wall.

"STOP!" Josh yelled, flashing his Mossad badge, and then commanding Sean, "Show them your licence!"

The uniformed officers warily released Sean. Tucking in his shirt and reaching into his pants pocket, he held up a paper. "This, I believe, is my 'get out of jail free card'."

The police formed a huddle, led by a burly sergeant, and examined the authorisation to carry arms. Josh translated the sergeant's apology while we followed him to the escalator. We stood single file on the escalator, like shoppers in a shopping centre.

With Josh translating for us, the sergeant explained, "We'll proceed to the second floor where an inspector will be waiting for us."

"I had 'em beat, Sergeant," Sean joked to Josh. "Tell him that."

An open plan area of grey metal desks met us. All eyes turned towards us before everyone resumed their work. Josh, Sean and I walked slowly past men and women, both uniformed and in civilian dress, sitting at desks, staring at computer screens. Maps, charts and photos of horrific scenes of crime covered the wall facing us. My stomach churned.

The sergeant and Josh were chatting as we turned left into a corridor.

"Good luck," he said in English, knocking and pushing open a door.

A dark-haired man of about five feet sat ensconced behind an immaculate polished desk. A metal nameplate, the only item on his desk apart from a phone, was inscribed with "Inspector Abraham Maier". He steepled his fingers, reminding me of a bank manager.

He said nothing but waved his hand, signalling that we could sit down in the three plastic stacking chairs pressed against a wall, but Josh preferred to stand. The small man had greasy hair with a middle parting. His ears protruded like two jug handles. He stroked his ruddy and pockmarked complexion, twirling a waxed moustache and speaking to Josh in his native tongue. He paused after each sentence so that Josh could translate for us.

"Inspector Maier, Chief of Detectives in Tel Aviv District," Josh said, "does not like it. He is not going to be ordered about in his city by spooks, government spies or foreigners."

With raised voices, the discussion between Josh and Maier grew more heated. The faces of officers from the open area were peering through the partitioned office window of their chief. We had not prepared for this hostility. The little man reminded me of a strutting cock in a farmyard. I sensed it was not going well for us.

Exasperated, Joshua, our hero, played his trump card. "I'll not be deviated from my mission. If necessary I'll appeal to the highest authority and get him on the phone," he said.

"Go ahead, Sergeant," Inspector Maier said, "but this is my city, my jurisdiction, and my office." Josh continued to interpret for us.

How Josh kept his cool I don't know. He opened his phone and dialled a number.

"Yes. I'm sorry. Please disturb him. It is very important." There was a pause and then Josh said, "Yes Sir, I'm so sorry. Yes, it is important. Yes, I know it's busy for you too. Yes, he is being obtrusive." Then Josh handed the open phone to Inspector Maier with the words, "The prime minister for you, Inspector."

Sean and I gaped. The inspector loosened his tie and smoothed his hair.

We didn't know what the PM was saying, nor did we hear clearly the inspector's responses, but he grew redder and redder. Nodding and puffing, he looked like a chastened schoolboy. We all understood he was probably saying, "Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir of course. Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir I realise that. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

I watched and could sense his pain. I could not count the times he had winced during that phone call.

It appeared that we had friends in high places.

Inspector Abraham Maier sat like a man chastened, the wind knocked out of him. His manner towards us and Josh especially underwent a transformation. Not a broken man, by any means, but a humbler man. He knew he was no longer commanding the investigation.

Rising from his office chair, he seemed to have shrunk in the past 20 minutes -- if that was possible for such a little man. Poking his head through the doorway, he called to his sergeant in a loud enough voice for all to hear, which Josh interpreted for us.

"These men are to be escorted to the detainee. The officer from Intelligence and his friends are to be shown every courtesy. We are no longer in charge of the investigations. It is now a matter of national security."

He slunk back into his office. The faces in the open plan area seemed smug. Their eyes had a new sparkle; their body language was more positive. 'Nobody likes a bully,' I thought.
As we took the escalator to the ground floor, I asked Josh if it had really been Israel's prime minister on the phone.

"No, I'm afraid not," Josh said, "one of my team does a really great impression of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. I made a serious mistake, though, when I commented on his busy afternoon. He's in Osaka at an international meeting about Syria and its nuclear intent. He would more than likely be in bed because it's 22:30 in Japan. I hope it doesn't come back and 'bite us in the arse', as you say."

Sean and I roared with laughter, hoping too that Detective Inspector Maier didn't watch the news on TV that night and smell a rat.

Arriving on the ground floor, we were pleasantly treated by the front desk officers. Those who had frisked Sean earlier lowered their eyes in embarrassment. One of the female detective sergeants appeared at the top of the stairs to the lower ground floor and beckoned us to follow.

Our footsteps echoed as if we were in a chamber as we followed the blue-uniformed police officer down neon-lit concrete stairs. A musty smell circulated throughout the area. She unlocked the security gate with her identification card and ushered us through. The heavy wrought-iron gate shut with a loud "clang".

Entering a bleak corridor with whitewashed walls, we turned right, facing a door and a plate-glass screen. "Mirror," the police officer said, "please...my English." We understood.

Josh said, "Take a seat and I'll interpret. The interview's about to start, but don't worry, they can't hear or see us. Please don't knock on the glass."

Voices came through two Bosch speakers, attached to the wall by metal brackets.

"Yes, my name is Eitan Dreyfuss," the teenager in blue nylon overalls said. At his side sat a slightly older female who bore his resemblance. "Yes, I worked as a cleaner at Cairo University. Yes, I took some stuff from the old guy's study." Looking at the young woman next to him, he whispered to her and said, "Yes, we staked out the hotel and followed the European. Yes, I met the Weitz guy. Look, he sprang for my airfare, so I thought 'why not'. No, I know nothing about drugs. No, I didn't know he would snatch the old man." He slouched in the chair.

Josh took notes.

The male officer stopped the tape and video recorder and opened the door, inviting Josh to talk with the detainee. Josh entered the interview room and said for the benefit of his audience, "I shall be translating the conversation into English. The perpetrator has just said 'and who the hell are you?'"

Josh recapped on Eitan's statement. The young woman, whom we now understood was Eitan's sister, wiped her eyes.

"You'll face charges of criminal damage, breaking and entering into the professor's study," Josh said. "You'll also be charged with theft of personal property, which is a felony. This could mean a five-year prison term, however, there are implications in a kidnap, as well as possible accessory to murder. We're leaving you for a break. Think about it."

Eitan's sister was shaking and sobbing. Eitan said something and she slapped him across the head, saying, "Schmutz!"

The interviewing police officers invited us to join them in the staff canteen.

"We'll break for 20 minutes, until 16:15," Josh said, "give them time to chew it over."

The staff canteen reminded me of many that I had seen in factories, shops and on building sites around the globe. The paint on the walls was flaked and peeling. The hot drinks machine clanked, whirred and gurgled, overflowing with hot water. It was caked with dark powder, like many I had seen around the world.

Sean summed it up with, "Christ! This is piss awful!"

Josh conversed with the two officers in his native Hebrew and we left the stifling staff canteen. It was a relief. The air conditioning was either broken or switched off and the smell of stale sweat assaulted my nostrils.

Joshua and the female sergeant gained admittance again to interview room two in Tel Aviv Police Headquarters. The prisoner looked smug. Eitan's sister was pale, with dark circles around her eyes.

Josh came on strong. "I am Mossad!" Joshua banged the table. "Do you know what that means?" He stared into the young man's eyes. "It means you are in holy shit!" Josh shouted. "I can make you disappear...you and your sister. You're going to stay here until you tell us everything you know."

Eitan appeared nonchalant and he yawned, cradling his head in his hands. He appeared to have found new strength and courage. It looked as if he believed that he could walk free, that he was winning.

Sean asked the female police officer something, gesturing with his hands until she understood. She left and returned five minutes later with a brown manila folder. Taking the mike connected directly to the interview room, he asked Josh to step out. I knew that whatever training Joshua had encountered with Mossad, he would not win an argument against Sean Casey. But what did Sean have in mind?