Goa, India
On any given Sunday, Inspector Alexander K.M. Gomes usually woke up to church bells ringing and a mild sense of panic that he would be late again for Sunday mass, an event he attended more out of family pressure than any deep religious convictions. He lived in a nice building in Miramar, one he'd picked because of its location near to Panjim, just across from the beach and far from any church. Unfortunately, times had changed and now a chapel with pealing bells had sprung up where once small and inconspicuous shrine to Our Lady of Fatima had stood. The chapel stood right on the other side of the wall of his compound, almost directly in front of his apartment. On festival days, he had a clear view of worshipers climbing the many stairs to pay their respects to Mother Mary, orange marigold and white jasmine garlands in their hands. Luckily, his access and view of the beach remained and so he kept the apartment, just grinding his teeth at the truly bad singing that seemed to be a common characteristic of all the chapel-goers.
But this Sunday, it was the loud and somewhat obnoxious ringing of his cell phone, a
synthesizer-rich disco tune his grand niece had picked the other day, that woke him. He was sweating mildly and his head felt foggy and heavy. As he reached for his phone, more to shut it off than answer the damned thing, he was already making up his mind to skip mass and never drink scotch again. As the day's events would show, only the former would occur.
The call number listed belonged to his friend Rabbi Moshe Gershwitz, who as far as
Inspector Gomes could recall at that moment, should have been happily spending his Sunday afternoon seated in his orange and grapefruit tree filled garden in Tel Aviv, playing with his grandchildren. As Alex started to flip open the phone and take the call, hearing that empty sound that comes with connecting international calls, he felt a sudden overwhelming sense of despondency. Later, he would wonder why he didn't feel foreboding or even danger, and instead just a great engulfing sadness.
"Hello, hello, Alexi, is that you" Rabbi Gershwitz shouted through the distance of phone lines. The harried tone of his normally calm friend immediately pulled Inspector Gomes out of sleep.
"Alexi, Alexi" Rabbi Gershwitz continued, "sorry to disturb you, I know you must be on your way out of the door, but something has come up, something bad".
Inspector Gomes found that opening his mouth was a bit difficult but he managed to utter his first words of the day, insisting he wasn't being disturbed, not on his way to church and how could he help.
"A girl, the daughter of close friends of mine here in Tel Aviv, she's only 24 - just left the army and is in Goa, was in Goa, for the past six months. She hasn't called home or emailed for about a week, and I just heard, through our common sources there that she may have just been found. Dead, washed up on one of your beaches. Alexi, Alexi, please help".
Inspector Gomes, known by many names but hardly ever actually called Alexander, felt that heavy despondency again. In his minds eye he could already see a dark, churning hole, and him slipping gradually into it. But, years ago, when such a hole had opened up once before, it had been Rabbi Gershwitz who stepped up and helped him out of it. From that time a strong friendship had been born and nurtured between these two men of such different backgrounds and ages. And given this friendship, Inspector Gomes, K.M or Gomes-Sir to his colleagues and deputies, felt that whatever it was that was going to be asked of him next, because an ask was just around the corner, he would have to agree to it.
"Moshe, it's all ok- tell me what you know, and how I can help. I'm here my friend, all will be fine" replied Inspector Gomes using the best calming tones he could muster that morning.
Rabbi Gershwitz, taking a deep breath, filled his friend in on what he had heard and what he needed from Alex, ending by saying "please Alexi, go see the local police, see what you can do. Her family trusts me to help and I trust you. Please see what has happened, is there is any foul play and if so what is going on in Goa. Please, we just want some news".
As he hung up the phone after reassuring the good Rabbi, Inspector Gomes smiled slightly, some things never change he thought. Years ago, in the early days of a new and slightly awkward relationship between his country India and Rabbi Gershwitz's Israel, based on work he'd done with mafia dons in Bombay and Hyderabad, Alex had been sent as a liaison to work with Israeli intelligence on tracking movement of assumed terrorists in and out of India. His work had taken him to Tel Aviv, during one of its hottest summers. There, during a burning July month, he'd met a then spryer, Moshe Gershwitzw his "host father". As it turned out Rabbi Gershwitz would prove to be more than just a man with a roof to offer, and this understanding and experienced, laid-to-rest Mossad agent would prove invaluable to Inspector Gomes.
These days Alex looked back at that summer with mild humor at his youth-fuelled ambitions and overall eagerness. He had loved Israel, fallen in love with its rawness, the mix of openness and aggression of its people, and the duality of hope and despair that seemed to stalk the streets of Tel Aviv. Even now he could conjure up the electricity of life that seemed to fly through the warm summer nights, that brought people out of their apartment blocks, into cafes and discos, tempting fate while living life to its fullest. He had also found love that summer, though brief, it had been passionate and ended in tragedy, Israeli style, he thought wryly.
He had learned a lot those few months, about himself and about counter-terrorism. He couldn't say if he loved all his Mossad colleagues but he'd come to respect them. The "common source" Moshe Gershwitz had mentioned on the phone was in reference to these very colleagues, some of whom were now based in cells throughout India and Asia. And now this common source had called Moshe early-Tel Aviv time to tell him, informally of course, that a young girl, possibly an Israeli, had been found washed up on some beach in Goa - naked and very dead.
