Murder in Jerusalem by Batya Gur Page B

were hollering, “We’ll burn down the factory,” and in the ensuing tumult Hannah Cohen could be seen being shoved backward with the rest of the protesters, trying to maintain her balance as two policemen pressed toward her; in the next frame she was shown falling from the roof.
    â€œSir, would you like to comment on what we have just seen here?” Nehemia asked the Finance Ministry’s director general, whose eyes were downcast.
    There was silence in the newsroom for a moment until Elmaliah the cameraman, who was standing next to the water dispenser pouring sugar into a Styrofoam cup of coffee, said, “What are they showing this stuff now for? Always trying to stir up a scandal!”
    â€œWhat do you want?” Niva said. “I think it’s actually good that they’re showing it!” She glanced at the large clock on the wall, stuck her hand into her black leather bag, and thrashed around inside it, without looking, until she succeeded in fishing out her mobile phone. “Mother,” she chided after a quick automatic dial, “why didn’t you call me? When did you get home?”
    â€œAs if it’s going to have some effect on someone,” Tzippi said from her post in the doorway. “No one gives a damn.”
    â€œSo don’t go out anymore,” Niva chastised her mother loudly, “do you hear me? Mother, I am asking you: do not leave the house.” She returned her phone to her bag, sighed, looked around to see whether there had been witnesses to this conversation, shook her head, and raised her eyes to the monitor.
    â€œHey, hey, look what’s happening there!” Erez shouted, pointing at the Channel Two monitor. A policeman standing at the entrance to the tunnel was shouting into a megaphone. “Shimshi, I’m coming in alone, just me. Look at me.” In the background stood an older, bearded man peering from behind the trucks parked near the tunnel entrance. The Channel Two correspondent was broadcasting in a whisper, as if he were filling a few dead moments in a soccer game, since the strikers had just explained that they had nothing more to lose and if the police entered they would blow themselves up along with the labor minister, her driver, and her car. “To quote him precisely,” the correspondent reported, “strike leader Moshe Shimshi told police that if they enter the tunnel, ‘the only thing they’ll find is dead bodies,’ and, uh, just a minute,” he said, his voice rising. “It appears there are new developments.” Suddenly the studio interview on Channel One was interrupted, and Zohar appeared on the screen, shivering in a military parka, a scarf wrapped around his neck. He was standing at the entrance to the tunnel, pillars of black smoke in the background, and speaking into the microphone. “As you can see, the strikers are burning tires at the opening of the tunnel. They are demanding to meet with Danny Benizri, the Channel One correspondent, whom they wish to make their representative during negotiations. They are burning tires and threatening to blow themselves up. The life of the minister for labor and social affairs is still endangered.”
    â€œWhat was that? What was that? What did he say?” Hefetz shouted, astonished. “What is it they want?”
    â€œExactly what you heard: they want Danny Benizri to represent them in negotiations with the government,” Erez said.
    â€œI’m going down to the recording studio,” Hefetz said as he dashed out of the newsroom. Zadik opened his mouth to say something, but in the end merely followed suit after Hefetz.
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    Hefetz stood behind the control panel, looking into the studio through the large glass partition, Zadik at his side. Both saw the look of astonishment on Nehemia’s face as the three men watched and listened to Zohar. “Did you hear what he said?” Nehemia called out to the partition.