Death in Shangri-La

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To Murray Weiss, my agent, for your wise counsel and commitment. To Gregory Bekerman, for your help in Russian-Israeli slang. To Felix Khachaturian for your vision. To Sara & Ammnon Grushka for putting up with me and my stories for so many years. To all the team at Oceanview: Pat & Bob Gussin, Lee Randall, Autumn Beckett, and Emily Baar—thank you for welcoming me with open arms. To my beloved sons, Kay & Nitai, for the light. And to my wonderful wife, Karin, for unlimited love.

A YEAR EARLIER

“YOU’RE DELUSIONAL,” WILLY said. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Spiritual my ass.”

I didn’t respond. I was calculating how many emotions a person can cram into one sentence.

“My world is ugly, but at least it’s real,” he went on, hard-nosed as ever. “The spiritual world is a load of crap.”

We were sitting in his office in one of the many towers that had sprung up around the Diamond Exchange in Ramat Gan. They’re all built in the sterile style that passes for luxury in the New Age Israeli economy and hide more than they reveal. The office blocks are home to import-export companies, insurance agencies, law firms, and of course, the headquarters of arms dealers like Willy. They’re all secretly linked together in an infinite web of vested interests, affiliations, commitments, and animosity. A lot of animosity.

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