A Study in Sherlock

THE SHADOW NOT CAST Lionel Chetwynd

The Rabbi sat in the main sanctuary of his synagogue and marveled at the understated beauty, a reminder of its nineteenth-century origin as Washington’s first place of Jewish worship. It was now, late at night, he loved it most: soft indirect light rimming the high ceiling, the shimmering backlit curtain of the Ark and its sacred Torahs, the eternal flame flickering. He fixed his eyes on the deep blue stained-glass window whose Star of David had been with the synagogue from its very beginning more than a century and a half ago. Tears welled in his eyes. He buried his head in his hands.

Perhaps he heard the stranger enter at the rear of the sanctuary, but if so, he gave no indication, only his hunched shoulders betraying his weeping. The man proceeded down the center aisle, coming to a definite halt at the Rabbi’s front pew. The Rabbi spoke without turning.

“You’re not unexpected,” he said, only then allowing his eyes to flicker to the stranger. At the sight of the visitor his eyes widened, his expression one of great shock. “You!” he half-whispered. “You came yourself!” The visitor said nothing. And so the Rabbi stood and walked to the aisle. “I considered your offer. But my mind is set. I must do as my conscience dictates. You might not understand.”

The visitor showed no emotion. Abruptly, he reached out, grabbed the Rabbi, and spun him around—snapping his neck in a single motion, the crack of the spine echoing through the empty sanctuary. Letting the Rabbi crumple to the floor, he strode to the Ark, opened it to reveal the Torahs dressed in fine silver breastplates and scroll handle sleeves. Taking a Hefty bag from his coat pocket he opened it roughly, and went swiftly and efficiently about collecting the silver.

Sergeant-Major Robert Jackson, his back to his students, stared out the seminar room window at the perfectly kept green expanse of the U.S. Army’s Carlisle Barracks. He approved of the order, the regularity. Even so, he could not deny the familiar feeling welling up inside him: boredom. Not that he didn’t like teaching at the Army War College; on the contrary, it was an honor to be here, where the Army boasted “tomorrow’s senior leaders are trained.” It was simply that he could only deal with so much theory. He was a soldier, and a good one, and so always listened for the sound of the guns. Fighting back the ennui, he turned to his class and looked out at the dozen or so captains, sprinkled with two or three lieutenants and one major. Ramrod straight, hair short, khaki uniform unwrinkled, razor-sharp creases, shoes spit-polished, it was impossible to know quite how old he was; perhaps fifty, but too fit to pigeonhole. He wore no ribbons on this day, only jump-master’s wings above his left pocket, Canadian paratrooper wings above the right. On his left shoulder was the screaming eagle patch of the 101st Airborne and on his right the Army College insignia. Now, even as he crossed the short distance to the head of the table, he was every inch the soldier’s soldier. A man who might be soft-spoken, but whose every word was authoritative.

“An officer in the field observing an enemy position applies five criteria: size, shape, shadow, color, and movement. These same elements should be used by a senior officer in any command situation where he is confronted by gaps in his knowledge.” He picked up the remote control for the oversized television monitor on the wall. “You are now, let us say, majors of infantry. Use those five elements to call down artillery on an advancing enemy you know is there, but cannot see.”

With a click of the remote, the monitor sprang to life. It showed a large wooded hillside, that seemed uniform, keeping whoever or whatever it concealed safe from sight. A lieutenant barked out, “Shape!” Jackson froze the frame and the lieutenant continued, “Upper left quadrant, eleven o’clock.” The rest of the class studied the picture; sure enough, trees in that area seemed very boxy. Jackson restarted the image and almost immediately a tank emerged. He clicked again and the hillside imagery reset.

This time, a major called, “Color, lower left, seven o’clock!” Indeed, those trees were just a bit too green, and once the film restarted an artillery piece fired, revealing its camouflage. Jackson again reset and now the answers came quickly.

“Size! Top left, ten o’clock!” offered a triumphant lieutenant who had spotted a pine tree simply too perfect, exposed by a zoom as a radio tower.

The next reset, a captain offered, “Movement, midfield.” A beat for them to realize the bushes there did move differently; quickly, insurgents emerged.

Jackson reset the image but no one had anything to offer. He let it run until, with a sigh, he stopped it. “Problem?” he asked. They seemed cowed, embarrassed—except for the class’s only woman, an attractive captain of perhaps thirty, wearing the insignia of the Judge Advocate General’s Corps. She made firm eye contact with Jackson.

“The fifth element is shadow, but this field is overcast, no shadows possible.”

Jackson returned the steady eye contact. “Are you sure, Captain Snow?”

“As sure as I dare be, Sarn’t-Major.”

Jackson stood, returned to the window. It irritated him that she was in his class. He did not deceive himself by thinking it was an accident; she must have known she’d see him every day. Without turning, he answered with an authority intended to remind her who was in charge. “Shadow: verb, transitive. Middle English. From Old English sceaduwe, oblique case of sceadu. But it can be intransitive. Not the shadow you cast, Captain Snow, but the shadow you don’t. Upper left, please, ten o’clock. That copse reflects nothing at all.”

Still without turning, he clicked the remote and the frame zoomed into a comparatively dull patch of foliage, almost a matte finish. He let the zoom continue, finally revealing camouflage net disguising a command post. Another click and the image died. He turned and stared at her.

“Once again, Captain Snow, I remind you the good officer should always dare to be sure but not too sure. So, let us repeat the elements of observation.”

His students almost shouted in perfect unison, “Size! Shape! Shadow! Color! Movement!” He was satisfied. Until the silence was broken. By Captain Maggie Snow.

“Sound!”

The sudden hushed silence left no doubt she had crossed a boundary, her classmates avoiding even looking at her. Flustered, it was clear she wished she could call it back. She looked down at the table, avoiding the ever-placid Jackson who simply smiled slightly.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

Her words came with difficulty. “I, er, just thought … in the modern world … where electronic communications are part of the battlefield … we might add sound. You know … heavy electronics tend to drive birds away, send animal life to ground. A silent forest is probably a dangerous one.” She waited for an awkward silence before adding uncomfortably, “Just a thought, Sarn’t-Major.”

“I shall ask the Army to consider your thought for a revised field manual, Captain. But not until you’ve all had your breakfast.” He came stiffly to attention. “Gentlemen. Ma’am.”

Relieved, they stood. He saluted smartly, waiting for their return salute before exiting and leaving Maggie to her classmates’ unenvious eyes.

Zakaria was tired, and even though he knew he was fortunate to be employed as the synagogue’s janitor, he had to work constantly at blocking out thoughts of where life had led him, and what might have been. America was fine but it wasn’t home and he missed the smells and excitement of the Soukh. At least the job was easy, nobody bothered him, and it was not unusual for him to begin work this late in the midmorning. And there were those special benefits; they were what kept him on the job. Pushing them from his mind, he trudged to the sanctuary, mop and broom in hand, opened the door wearily, and entered.

Something was wrong; the Ark was open. A deep dread clutched his stomach. As he slowly walked toward it, he caught a whiff of the familiar and unwelcome smell of danger, menace—just as he saw the rabbi. Dropping his mop and broom, he ran to the crumpled body and knelt, checking for a neck pulse with the efficiency of a man who has done this many times before. He knew there would be no pulse to be found. Shaking his head from side to side in grief, he reached for his cell phone, but then stopped. A frown crossed his face. Nodding to himself, he pocketed his cell phone, stood, scooped up his cleaning utensils, and exited, closing the sanctuary doors behind him.

Sergeant-Major Jackson was irritated. He had been pleasantly at ease in his favorite armchair, the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius open to a favorite passage, the single ice cube in the glass of Talisker Isle of Skye whisky almost dissolved to where he felt confident the proper aromas and textures were now released in this favored malt, his music system ready for The Pipes and Drums of the Black Watch (Royal Highland Regiment) of Canada to play “The Road to the Isles”—when his doorbell had roused him from his solitude. The invader was none other than Captain Maggie Snow, she of the certain answer to all questions. She had allegedly come to apologize for conduct unbecoming in the afternoon seminar and he had not the temerity to refuse an officer—any officer—entry. But she was a woman, and he therefore insisted the front door of his modest on-base cottage remain open throughout her stay, and they keep in its line of vision.

As she entered his spare, minimalist home, he became uncharacteristically self-conscious; the one personal item on display was a photograph. No ordinary thing, it was he and his late wife, Bonny, on holiday. With Maggie’s parents. The two couples had been the best of friends, always together until the evil hand struck that dreadful afternoon. As quickly as that flooded his mind, he dismissed it, resolving to confront her with his suspicion she had joined his class only because of the personal connection. She began by explaining that her purpose for coming was to apologize. He shook his head.

“No. You came for absolution.”

“If you prefer,” she conceded.

“I cannot give you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you outrank me. You are an officer. Ma’am.”

That stung her. “You once called me Maggie.”

“And shall again. On family or personal occasions. I daresay this is neither.”

When she asked why he so resented her, he replied he frankly doubted her motives for taking his class. JAG officers were lawyers, and while he might be a famed criminal investigator, this course was Field Command Training. As a lawyer, she would never hold a Line Command. So why take a course meant for true soldiers? She had countered that in the modern world officers did not command tactical engagement. Lawyers did.

He bitterly admitted to himself that, in this politically correct era he so despised, she was right. Division Commanders—generals, for goodness’ sake—had to be sure operations complied with law as it might be applied in civilian courts! Idiocy! There was a Uniform Code of Military Justice, an excellent document that had kept the Army an honest force, not some third world street gang in uniforms, thank you very much!

But that, of course, reinforced her point. He felt obliged to listen a while longer.

Captain Eric Turner of the District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department Homicide Division stood at the rear of the sanctuary soaking in the rich tapestry of color and symbolism, only to be accosted by his too-eager, relentlessly bright and cheerful assistant, Baxter.

“Didn’t expect you, Cap’n. Seems a routine murder-robbery.”

Turner wanted to scream When did murder become routine? but instead answered in his favored monotone. “It’s not the crime, it’s the venue. I’m fond of this building. Where’s the deceased?”

Baxter led him to the body, cheerfully reporting the medical examiner was delayed in traffic but would arrive any moment. Turner had no sooner set eyes upon the twisted, slumped corpse than a familiar voice grated on his nerves.

“So, it’s true. You do have a dead rabbi.”

Turner sighed, turned to face his opposite number at the FBI regional. “Yeah, it sure looks like a corpse, Hamstein. But the rabbi part would be speculation. In either event, what’s it matter to you?”

FBI Special Agent Hamstein’s grin dripped cool superiority. “Well, the dear departed was a cleric of interest to us.”

“Then I give you jurisdiction. With quiet joy.”

“Don’t know if I want it. Depends on whether it really is connected to the other murder.”

“Other murder?” Turner hated to be outfoxed by the FBI. The District was his turf, he should know first.

“Mmmm.” Hamstein grinned. “Across town. A real stumper. They’re connected. I know how, but have no idea why.”

Turner understood. “So if I take this and fail, you become the white knight riding in to save the day. Might as well hand it over to you immediately.”

Hamstein’s grin evaporated. “It’s only going to come back to you. Because I’m stumped. Fact is, I can only think of one man who might—might—understand it.”

“And you can’t call him unless you federalize it. Take jurisdiction.”

Hamstein nodded.

Still in view of the open door, the Sergeant-Major was attempting—without much luck—to explain to Maggie why she would never make a good officer without hands-on, in-the-field experience. JAGs were desk jockeys. Necessary, of course, but dwellers in a land of theory. She, of course, maintained she was more than capable of understanding the field without that experience. And then the phone rang.

Jackson listened for a moment as he stared at Maggie. “Be delighted to be of service, Captain. I can be there in an hour. But … would you object if I brought an apprentice associate with me? Good. See you soon.”

He clicked off his cell phone, smiled tightly at Maggie. He would finally make his point. “If you’re free, we can put the value of field experience to the test.”

“As an ‘apprentice associate,’ ” she asked, her horror at the title plain.

“Yes. A generous bit of nomenclature, I’ll agree. Let’s see if you can merit it.”

She paused only a moment before following him out the door.

The officious uniformed policeman held his hand up as Jackson and Snow approached, assuming that would stop them. It did not. Jackson simply shook the man’s hand and entered the crime scene, a spare, sparse apartment in the quickly gentrifying area of Columbia Heights.

“Hey! You can’t go in there!”

“We were invited,” Jackson threw over his shoulder.

“Who by?”

Jackson stopped, turned, and faced the fresh-faced patrolman. “I believe that’s ‘By whom?’ ”

Before it escalated further, both Hamstein and Turner appeared.

“By me,” they said in unison. Maggie sensed that Jackson enjoyed the attention and the attempt by both to curry favor.

“Meet my apprentice assistant: Snow, Margaret, Cap’n, JAG.”

He strolled in, looked carefully around, addressed Maggie. “Notice the decor. High-tech, one might say. Hence charmless. One bookcase, only technical manuals and financial renderings. A bed. A finely equipped computer corner, replete with all the bells and whistles. And a corpse, male, white, thirties, who might seem to have fallen asleep at his monster computer save for the neat bullet hole in the middle of his forehead oozing a small amount of blood.”

“The mortal remains of Gerry Rivers.” Before Hamstein could continue, Jackson quickly inserted, “A financial reporter, no doubt.”

Turner rolled his eyes. “And we know this because?”

“The bookcase. The only nontechnical editions are financial. Macroeconomics to judge by the titles. If they were micro, he might be a trader. But as it is, he must earn his living—modest, this home suggests—as a correspondent on such things. But why would that interest you, Special Agent?”

“Because last night a Rabbi Burman was also murdered. One we’ve had our eyes on regarding the movement of funds from here to organizations in the Middle East.”

“Some of whom begin and end their meetings with ‘Death to America’?”

“Now how in hell do you know that from what’s here?” Hamstein sputtered.

“At times, Special Agent, a cigar is simply a cigar.” Hamstein didn’t get it. Jackson continued patiently, “Well, if he was supporting the Israeli Boy Scouts you’d hardly be concerned, now would you?” Then, to save Hamstein further embarrassment, he quickly added, “And I suppose the rabbi was dispatched by a sharp neck snap.”

“How on earth—?” Turner sputtered.

“Because that would be the cause of death of our computer fiend, here. Yes, yes, I know it appears to be an execution, one shot to the forehead, but that would have produced much more blood. And it wouldn’t have left his neck in that curious position.”

“Yes,” one of them mumbled. “We’d figured that out. Waiting for the ME to confirm.”

“What else can you tell me of this man?”

“Found this just inches from his hand.” Turner offered him a cell phone turned to the call log.

Jackson studied it. “Only five calls in four days. One number repeats.”

“Ran a check,” said Hamstein. “None other than Gorgi Pelachi.”

The Sergeant-Major ran that over in his mind. Pelachi was a very powerful man, far up the food chain and something of a man of mystery. Emerging from the collapse of the Soviet Union as one of the most powerful oligarchs, he had a fortune that beggared the imagination. The source of the wealth was shrouded; some said he was a KGB general who amassed it in bribes, others that he’d profited under the Communist regime by fencing property confiscated from “enemies of the state” before they were shipped east of the Urals—Siberia. Others claimed both. But he had burst onto the scene with a spectacular hedge in Spanish currency that brought down their central bank—a trick he’d repeat on the emerging new states of Central Europe. Perhaps because of the rumors and innuendo, he shied away from the limelight. And that would include minor financial writers.

“Can you get me in to see him?” Jackson requested.

Hamstein cringed. “I’d rather not. Tick him off and he can go way over my boss’s boss’s head.”

“I’ll be polite. On my honor.”

Hamstein nodded in resignation. “I’ll see what I can do. Unless you can solve this on the spot.”

Jackson admonished, “That, as well you know, would require at least a shred to go on.”

Turner handed him a small Ziploc bag. In it was a business card: RABBI ELIEZAR BURMAN—EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, THE RECONCILIATION PROJECT. Jackson turned it over. On the other side there was a neat column of citations:

As Jackson returned it to Turner, the detective assured him, “We’ve got our best men working on it now. Top scholars.”

Jackson shook his head. “They’ll find nothing. These citations are random.” He approached the computer. “May we?”

Turner offered him a pair of latex gloves. “Knock yourself out.” Jackson indicated the gloves should be given to Maggie.

Surprised, she took them. “What am I looking for?” she asked.

“Size, shape, shadow, color, movement,” he replied.

She puzzled, finally shaking her head, stumped. “Not size … nor shadow …” She turned to him. “Could it be shape?”

“Last chance,” he admonished her. “The shadow not cast. Look at the quotes. Study the room.”

She knew this was the moment she would rise to his trust or be banished. She took her time, studied the room carefully. The shadow not cast. Intransitive. And then she spied a slight opening, a glimmer of light. She dashed to the computer, brought up “History,” entered “Leviticus.”

“Why that one?” he asked.

“Because Leviticus can have only one meaning. Unlike Exodus, Jonah, or even the proper name, Zephaniah. It would be used only in a Bible search.” She hit “Return.” A nanosecond and the screen reported NO RECENT SEARCHES FOR LEVITICUS.

“Okay,” groused Hamstein. “What did we lesser mortals miss?”

“Predictably, the obvious. Maggie?”

The officer in her emerged. “Look around, gentlemen. No books, let alone a Bible. And no Web searches for one. So the biblical connection is lateral, not direct.”

“Besides,” added Jackson drily, “if you knew your scripture, you’d know these were random.”

He sat at the desk, took a fresh piece of paper, and, never taking his eyes off the list, quickly filled the new sheet with a column, never looking, almost an autowriter. First, was Zephaniah: chaps. 3–4. Jackson counted three letters in, entered p and then the fourth letter, h. He moved quickly to Exodus: 1:4, producing e and d, then i and s from Leviticus: 4:9, and finally o and n from Jonah: 2:3. Jackson stared at the result: P-H-E-D-I-S-O-N.

The others gathered around him, leaned over his shoulder.

“Almost something,” murmured Hamstein. “A name?”

“Unlikely,” replied Jackson. “The consonant blend of ph, derived from the Vedic, carried into English by Hellenistic—” He stopped, smiled. “Of course! Zephaniah—a minor prophet, but a very interesting one, by the way—is presented with a dash rather than a colon as are the others.” He struck out the ph with a single line, replaced it with f. F-E-D-I-S-O-N.

Turner was exultant. “Brilliant!” He snapped at Baxter, “Get on this. Check for an F. Edison. Every database.”

“I’m also on it!” said Hamstein, already heading for the door.

The Sergeant-Major called after them: “I may wish to investigate further.”

Turner’s words faded as he hurried away. “Baxter! Give him—them—whatever they want!” And Jackson and Maggie were alone save for the police security.

“That was brilliant,” conceded Maggie. “Once they find this Mr. Edison—” She stopped, added carefully, “If, in fact, that is the name of someone involved.”

“I see you’re beginning to learn already.” He smiled as he strolled out in leisurely fashion. Maggie followed.

“Ah, yes. Detective Baxter told us to expect you.”

Sergeant-Major Jackson turned his steady gaze from the still-open Ark to a pleasantly plump woman trying to smile despite a redness in her eyes that betrayed recent lengthy weeping.

“I’m Freyda Simon. Rabbi Burman’s assistant.” She also stared at the Ark. “This is a terrible thing.”

“It certainly is. You have our heartfelt condolences.” He indicated the Ark. “May I?”

“Of course. Whatever you need. But … if you don’t mind, I’ll wait for you in the office. At the end of the hall.”

“By all means.” As she turned to go, he added, “And the custodian? A Mr. Zakaria?”

“I’ll have him join us.”

Jackson and Maggie approached the Ark. The six Torah scrolls were undisturbed, though all but two had been stripped of their silver; the two remaining breastplates, both of striking modern design, glittered in the overhead light. The Sergeant-Major stood very still, only his eyes moving, wandering over everything. Then he noticed a tiny gleam on the carpet. He knelt, examined it: a small shred of heavy-duty brown plastic. He pocketed it, stood, smiled at Maggie.

“Our miscreant made serious errors. At least two. Can you spot any?” She stared, thought hard. But then, resigned, she shook her head. He nodded. “Don’t be hard on yourself. They’re small errors—important, but small. Only years in the field would sensitize you to their obviousness. Come. We are close to important facts.”

She had to half-run to keep up with his fast stride to the office. It was small, neat despite piles of papers and books, and already crowded with both Freyda and Zakaria waiting.

Freyda handed him photographs of the stolen silver. “Perhaps this can help?”

“No doubt,” he replied.

“Zakaria, can we provide the gentleman with an envelope?”

The janitor nodded, found one on a shelf, and in this small office needed only to stretch his arm out to offer it to Jackson. As he did so, something caught the Sergeant-Major’s eye: the sleeve of the man’s coveralls had naturally run up his extended arm, exposing his wrist. Seeing Jackson’s quick reaction, Zakaria quickly moved to pull the sleeve down.

Jackson smiled. “You would be the custodian, I expect.”

“Yes, yes. Zakaria is how I am called.”

“Ah. Captain Turner informs me you’re of Lebanese extraction.”

“Oh, yes. But Christian, Maronite Christian.”

Jackson thrust his hand out. “Sergeant-Major Robert Jackson.”

Zakaria squirmed uncomfortably. But realizing the others in the room were watching him, he reached out to shake Jackson’s hand, trying to keep his arm bent at the elbow. Jackson grasped the calloused workingman’s hand, shook it vigorously while pulling it toward him—and bending it ever so slightly. Jackson glanced down; only he could see it: a small tattoo of a blue Maltese cross. As if it had gone unnoticed, he turned back to Freyda.

“Ma’am. If I may. Precisely what is the Reconciliation Project?”

“Ah. The RP was Rabbi Burman’s passion, his life’s work. We fund schools in the Middle East, nonsectarian schools, schools where Moslem, Arab, and Jewish Israeli children can learn together, side by side, come to know one another. We already have six throughout the Holy Land. We had hoped to double that this year. But now …” She trailed off in despair.

Jackson smiled encouragingly. “Surely, the work need not end. If not six new schools, then perhaps two. Or even one.”

“Unlikely. Funding has come slowly. Rabbi Burman was working on a major gift, very large, enough to get it done. But it hadn’t closed.”

“And now you suspect the donor will demur?”

“Couldn’t say. He or she was to remain anonymous until the papers were signed. I have no idea who he or she might be. Nobody does.”

“A pity. But perhaps in time he—or she—will step forward. But your other donors? All on the public record?”

“As the law requires. Though let me save you endless bureaucratic research. I have prepared this for you.” She handed him a computer printout headed Schedule of Donors. “If I can be of any help, all my numbers are there. So many numbers nowadays.”

“Thank you,” said Jackson, gently adding, “Shabbat shalom.”

She smiled gratefully. “And the peace of the Sabbath be with you.”

He turned to Zakaria, still smiling warmly. “Ma’rah’bone.”

The janitor immediately replied reflexively, “Ma’rah’-obtain—” then tried to swallow the words.

But too late. Jackson was gone, Maggie hurrying to catch up.

Freyda was feeling better. “Such a nice man,” she said. “And speaking both Hebrew and Arabic.”

“Yes. A nice man indeed,” said Zakaria before quickly leaving.

Once on the street, Maggie was again racing to keep up, her curiosity piqued.

“What was all that about?” she asked. “Something happened in there, didn’t it?”

“I should say so. It bodes well that you noticed.”

“Yes, but noticed what, Sarn’t-Major?”

“Probably the first break in this case.” She waited for more but her cell phone vibration demanded she glance at the text. She looked up, surprised. “Special Agent Hamstein. Contacting me?”

“Yes.” Jackson nodded. “I gave him your number. Those things irritate me. What’s he have to say?”

“That we have a meeting.”

The offices of Pelachi Enterprises Worldwide (Pty) were remarkably modest given that they housed one of the world’s three richest men, a mysterious figure best known for funding all manner of social and political organizations; indeed, there were those who warned darkly of an attempt to subvert American democracy and install a one-world government. But the smiling, avuncular man with the twinkling eyes and the boyish mop of largely gray hair now seated across from the Sergeant-Major seemed anything but menacing. His office was sparse, no “wall of fame” boasting photographs of Pelachi with the famous and powerful he counted as friends; in fact, the room was bereft of virtually all personal markers. The refreshment offered was tap water—“Sustainable water use is everyone’s obligation,” he had explained—aerated by his own little machine.

Jackson had watched carefully when he asked the man, first, whether he knew Gerry Rivers—which, after a moment’s memory retrieval, Pelachi said he did, but only slightly—and second, was he aware the man was dead? He apparently was not and seemed untroubled by the news. How about Rabbi Burman? Again, he had paused to search his memory, only to draw a blank.

“I can’t place him. But his death is nonetheless lamentable.”

“Indeed,” agreed Jackson. “But tell me, if you would be so kind, whatever you can about the journalist Gerry Rivers.”

“Not much to tell, really. A financial writer for one of the news services—Bloomberg, MarketWatch, Reuters, one of those. He’d call me regularly as the interest rate announcement from the Fed would approach. Wanted my prediction. Tomorrow is the quarterly announcement. It made sense he would telephone me.”

“So you weren’t friends or anything of that nature?”

“Goodness, no! Frankly, I didn’t like the man. Bit of a blowhard, not very bright, and hiding behind that ridiculous mustache. But, as I say, tomorrow’s announcement loomed.”

Jackson could see Maggie was eager to ask a question. His nod to her was barely perceptible. She jumped in.

“If you so disliked him, why did you grant him interviews?”

Pelachi took a moment to admire Maggie, then offered his most charming smile. “Because he always announced my soothsaying—on the Web—moments before the announcement. And I was always correct. Helped feed the myth.”

Jackson smiled. “Your candor is disarming, Mr. Pelachi.”

“Candor is who I am, Sergeant-Major.” He smiled as he stood, a signal the interview was over. Jackson complied, and in moments, he and Maggie were back on the sidewalk at Fourteenth and L.

She looked to him. “Nothing much new there. Or was there?”

“There may have been a great deal. But time is short. So we shall be forced to split up. Not only because the operation is now time-critical, but also I believe you’ve shown sufficient progress to warrant command of your own reconnaissance patrol.”

He handed her the donor list. “Somewhere in there is a donor. Someone unlike the others. He—or she—will have given twice, three times at most, always at the same time of the month. The sums will have increased slightly. But it will have an oddity. I need the dates of the transactions.”

Dismayed, she held the thick file up, leafed the pages. “There’s hundreds of names here. Maybe thousands. How do I—?”

But he was already striding across the street, slowing just long enough to toss over his shoulder, “If you’re a good field officer, you’ll find the right shortcut. Just remember: size, shape, shadow, color, movement.” Then he turned back. “It might be a familiar name.”

“Should I check on how they’re doing finding Mr. Edison?”

“Don’t bother! They’re wasting their time!”

And on that enigmatic certainty, he disappeared, melding into the midday crowds.

Sergeant-Major Jackson knew when he was being deceived, and there was no doubt about this one. He had spent over an hour with Gerry Rivers’s immediate superior at the wire service, the rather bookish Will Diamond—thick glasses, male pattern baldness and an annoying habit of incessantly clicking his retractable ballpoint pen. Click-click.

“So is it fair to say Mr. Rivers was a beat reporter, your man at the Fed?”

Click-click. “Fair? Who knows what’s fair nowadays, eh, Warrant Officer?”

“Perhaps you might try?”

Click-click. “Rivers didn’t really have a beat. He kinda floated. But he did do the Fed announcements. Exclusively, you might say.”

“Because he excelled at that analysis?”

Click-click. “Not really. He was pretty average. To be honest about it, he was a pushy pain in the ass. I tried to can him once.”

Jackson waited for more, but all he got was Click-click. The man was obtuse. “Tried?”

Click-click. “Yeah. But upstairs said no. Keep him where he is for now, they said. Temporary, they said. Three, almost four years ago.”

“Did they explain why?” Jackson asked, steeling his nerves for the noise of the ballpoint. But none came—and Jackson wondered if the noise, or the silence, was deliberately intended to throw him off. He stared at Diamond.

“Nah. I figured he had photographs of the publisher.”

“I see. One last thing, if you would indulge me: Rabbi Eliezar Burman? Were you acquainted with the gentleman?”

Click-click. “Nah. But he’s a big deal in the Jewish community so I guess our paths must’ve crossed. But I wouldn’t claim to know him.”

“To your knowledge, would the late Mr. Rivers have done so?”

Jackson took it as unease that the answer came quickly, even before the clicking started, the two mingling. “Can’t [click] imagine that.” Click.

Trying to forget the sound of the clicking pen had slowed Jackson’s afternoon work, and by the time he was done touring various government offices collecting the information he needed, it was twilight in the white canyons of the District’s federal buildings. But he had learned a little about Rivers and his employers, enough to perhaps make a difference if his suspicions began to show validity.

But now darkness was closing as he strode down near-empty G Street in Washington’s Southeast quadrant, his sharp, military-time footfalls echoing off the buildings, some empty and derelict, others timidly showing small yellow lamps. As he moved, he kept his senses sharp, not missing the shadows that seemed alive, or the infrequent darting silhouette ahead. As he turned into Ninth Street, he knew he was entering a world that, particularly at night, was inhospitable to strangers, particularly one such as himself. About midway down the block he could sense the two men following him. Ignoring the urge—if there was any—to walk faster, he held his pace until, after a few moments, he could hear the faint sound of music from an otherwise apparently deserted town house on his left.

He turned in quickly, rapped sharply on the door. After a moment a small sliding door opened to reveal the face of a burly African American who exuded not a trace of warmth.

“It’s the Sarn’t-Major,” Jackson said softly, noting the footsteps following him had stopped. The opaque face was quickly obscured by the man’s huge hand directing a flashlight beam into Jackson’s face. The soldier did not blink. The African American beamed.

“It sure as hell is you!” The door swung open and Jackson stepped inside. Once the door was properly closed and locked, the huge bouncer embraced the Sergeant-Major warmly. “Been too damned long, Sarn’t-Major.”

Jackson smiled true appreciation at the warmth. “It has that, Sergeant.”

“Your man’s in the back. He’ll be happy for the sight of you.”

Jackson strode through the large anteroom, a bar-cum-club, its walls completely covered with photographs of soldiers, many taken in Vietnam but even more from Iraq and Afghanistan. The ceiling was a tapestry of military shoulder patches, captured enemy flags—and pinups of beautiful women in various stages of undress. As he strode to the back, he received respectful nods and smiles from nearly all of the select group of African American men, some seated at tables, talking, laughing, sipping beer; others gathered around a huge flat-screen television with the Wizards-Lakers game; others just fixed on the Al Green ballad from the antique jukebox. He returned every one with direct eye contact, a nod, and a smile. He reached a curtain at the rear, pulled it aside, and knocked a rhythmic code on the door it concealed. Almost instantly, it swung open to admit Jackson, quickly closing behind him.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer lighting; it was a semi-office with two muscular men occupying chairs in opposite corners, as if for protection. The slim, attractive black man behind the desk was already on his feet and coming around the desk, a huge smile on his face. Jackson couldn’t help but beam as broadly as he ever had.

“P.K.! Good to see you, brother. How are you?”

“All the better for laying eyes on you, blood.” The use of the most intimate term of familiarity in a Vietnam-era black soldier’s vocabulary was not lost on the Sergeant-Major. He embraced P.K. and then they sat in armchairs away from the desk.

P.K. turned to one of his guards. “Whisky for an honored guest. The good stuff.” The man crossed to the desk and P.K. settled his eyes on Jackson. “How’s the struggle, Bob?”

“Better than it was, not as good as it could be.”

“Telling me my own story.”

The guard put down two glasses and a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Oban from the famed Western Highlands. “And the ice.” The man scurried off. “So what misfortune brought me the good luck of entertaining you?”

Jackson grinned. “Do I only show up when I need help?”

P.K. laughed. “I reckon! This is no resort area. I wouldn’t pay a visit myself except as I needed. Besides, we’re proud to be your irregular troops, Bob. You’ve never been on the wrong side. So what’s up?”

Jackson reached inside his shirt, withdrew the envelope with the photographs of the stolen silver Torah dressings.

P.K. studied them. “Heard they robbed the synagogue over at Sixth and I. This the loot?”

Jackson nodded. “One police theory is it’s a random robbery, common in the neighborhood. In which case, the silver should already be in the hands of a fence. And no doubt you’d know about it.”

“I would. But I don’t. Besides, the bad guys who work that turf wouldn’t touch this. They’re pros and they’d know better.”

“You think so?”

“I’d bet on it. They don’t hit churches or synagogues. And this building is both.”

“It is.” Jackson nodded. “Originally a synagogue, then when the Jews moved to the suburbs, an AME church.”

P.K. grinned. “And the benefits of upward mobility march on: now the AMEs are gone to the suburbs and the Jews are back. All life’s a circle.”

The guard returned with a glass of ice. P.K. poured two glasses of whisky, dropped a single ice cube in each. He looked up at Jackson. “One minute to release the aroma and texture?”

The Sergeant-Major nodded. “You always were a good soldier.”

They raised their glasses. “Here’s tae uys,” said P.K.

“T’ose lak uys,” Jackson replied. Then both murmured “… to absent friends …” and drank.

“Will you keep your ears open?”

P.K. nodded reassuringly. “I’ll put the word out.”

They sipped some more. Jackson frowned as if the next question had just occurred to him. “The men who work that area? Any of them skilled in a one-move neck-snap?”

P.K. pondered that for a moment then shook his head.

“No. That’s black ops. Brit SAS, KGB, SEALs. Those guys would never sink as low as knocking off a synagogue.” Jackson nodded; as usual, P.K. made perfect sense.

The Sergeant-Major was reluctant to acknowledge the feeling he experienced as Maggie reported on her recce patrol. But it was inescapable: he was pleased. She had exceeded his expectation. She was recounting her efforts, and whether or not she’d had useful results, her methodology met his rigorous standards. His mind was wandering. He interrupted her. “I lost the chain. Go back three sentences.”

She coughed, tried to remember what she’d said, went back. “So I just kept looking at it, hoping something would jump out—like the hillside in the training film. But the longer I stared, the less anything stood out. I kept thinking about the five markers, but they didn’t seem to apply. Names don’t move, they don’t have color. But then it struck me: philanthropy has a shadow. It involves money. Money always leaves a trail, shadows, if you will. It has observable consequences, if only to accountants and auditors. So I started running numbers, and something leapt out: two donations, the first a modest ten thousand, the second a more extravagant quarter of a million. The Reconciliation Project showed them both as anonymous. But when I compared the private listing to their government report, they were shown as received from a 501c(3)—a charitable institution passing money along to another cause. So I researched the donor and identified it. As you predicted, a familiar name—”

He interrupted quickly. “The Zakaria Fund?”

Maggie tried to hide her surprise. “The Zakaria Foundation, actually. But you have the concept.”

“And no doubt the address was the janitor’s home.” She nodded. “And were the dates the fifteenth of the month or the thirtieth?”

“One of each,” she answered, a little disappointed he was so far ahead of her.

“The question is, then: who financed our janitor? Terrorists? Criminals?”

“And is he the murderer?”

Jackson looked at her; here was a test. “All indications point in his direction, do they not?”

“Every single one. Which begs the question: can there be too many shadows?”

What he now felt was pride. His mentee was learning very quickly. “We shall have to find out. Come.”

Keeping in plain view of the open front door, he led her to his computer. “I’m not as proficient as you, I daresay, with this machinery. So I would ask you to find the website listing donations, compare them until you find one of those 501 things you mentioned making identical donations on the same days. Are your two samples enough to produce results?”

“To get started, yes. But not on this. There’s a program on the base IT that could do it in less than an hour. But it’s for official use only.”

“Then we shall vouchsafe our officialness.” He picked up his almost quaint land-line telephone, tapped in a number.

Turner was irritated at having to drive over an hour to simply gain access to an army computer. But he had to be present while this woman—not a bad looker when he paid attention—ran endless regressional analyses on numbers and charities. It reminded him how nowadays the government knew everything, which meant any nerd with a keyboard could accomplish in minutes what old-time cops like himself had once done by hand, their knowledge and experience prerequisites to success. But now …

He checked his watch; still time to catch the playoff game if this Maggie person could find what Jackson wanted. The man could be a strain on your nerves, but he was never wrong and Turner needed this case off his desk. He’d hoped he’d find the Edison guy, but when he left, Baxter was down to just three Franks, two Freds, and a Francis and Turner’s gut told him none of them would pan out.

Maggie’s exultant shout of “Jackpot!” sharply interrupted his reverie. Instantly, he and Jackson were looking over her shoulder. “Here’s the link to the so-called anonymous donor!”

She hit a key and a Web homepage floated onto her screen: THE JUPITER PROJECT. A FUND TO HELP THOSE SEEKING A HARMONIOUS SOCIETY. There were literally hundreds of recipients listed. The Reconciliation Project was among them. She turned to look up at Turner. “Isn’t Pelachi connected to that?”

“Probably.” He shrugged. “But his money is everywhere in that world. Probably a coincidence.” He turned to Jackson. “Wouldn’t you say, Sarn’t-Major?”

“Not knowing that world, I must demur. However, I believe I can provide that answer tomorrow morning. If—and only if—you meet me exactly where I say at precisely oh-eight-twenty-five hours. With the following people in tow.” He scribbled some names on a Post-it, handed it to Turner, hurried to leave.

“Where the hell are you running this time of night?”

“If we are to put this matter to rest tomorrow as I’ve described, there is pressing business to which I must attend.”

And before more could be demanded, he was gone from sight.

Maggie, Turner, and those he had rounded up—Hamstein, Freyda, Zakaria, and Will Diamond, the last clearly irritable at having been pulled away—waited patiently in the coffee shop on L Street. The wall clock read 8:24. Diamond fulminated.

“You said he’d meet us at eight twenty-five, and I have no time to waste—” but he stopped short as, simultaneously, the wall clock slid to 8:25 and Sergeant-Major Jackson opened the front door, striding directly toward them, surveying the group.

“Well done, Captain Turner. I see we’re all here.” Then, indicating Diamond, “Captain, Special Agent, I see you’ve met the late Gerry Rivers’s employer.”

“Employer? Hardly,” Diamond snapped. “I’m just his boss. His employer is a man much wealthier than I could ever dream of being.”

“Point taken. Then let’s get on the march. Our destination is one and one-half blocks away.”

Maggie got it immediately. “Pelachi’s office?”

He smiled. She definitely had promise.

At first, they had been denied access to Pelachi’s inner sanctum. But under unrelenting pressure from Jackson, Hamstein had waved his badge about, backed by Turner’s, and eventually they’d been led upstairs, Hamstein muttering to Jackson as they went, “This better pan out or my job is on the line, Bob.” He hardly ever used the familiar with the Sergeant-Major, but he needed to emphasize how serious it was to pressure Pelachi. It was not lost on Jackson.

Once in the office, Pelachi wasted no time berating each and every one. “This is a great inconvenience! It had damned well be important!” he thundered, the grandfatherly Pelachi apparently swallowed whole by a harsh and hard-bitten businessman.

“As you wish, sir.” By now, they were all seated, save for the two policemen at the door and Jackson at the window. Jackson was ready.

“Our nation’s capital has been witness to two ghastly murders in the span of a few hours.” He eyed them carefully, one at a time; then, “And the murderer—for one person was responsible for both killings—is in this room. With us. Now.”

Pelachi bristled. “I appreciate your refined sense of theatrics. But could you please just divulge who it is and let the rest of us get on with our lives?”

Jackson ignored the remark, continued, “The critical question: was any one person connected to both deceased?”

Turner couldn’t contain his curiosity. “No one here. Not as I can see?”

“Really?” He walked slowly to Diamond, who twitched nervously. He stared at the editor. “You knew them both, didn’t you?”

“No! That’s ridicul—” He stopped, nodded his head woodenly. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

Jackson hovered over him more closely. “Precisely. Rivers worked for you. And, although it was well hidden, that boss’s boss to whom you referred earlier was none other than Mr.

Pelachi.”

Diamond nodded. Jackson pressed harder. “And that was why you always issued Mr. Pelachi’s predictions. Rivers was merely a message boy.”

“Yes! I never denied knowing Rivers!” Diamond snapped defensively. “But the rabbi?”

Jackson betrayed a little irritation. “Have you forgotten your donation to the Reconciliation Project? Because the government hasn’t. Your name appears on the donor list on file.”

“You’re that Mr. Diamond?” exclaimed Freyda.

“All right! I knew them both! But I didn’t kill anyone!”

Jackson stared at him for so long, it became unbearable. “Perhaps. We shall see, shall we not?” Jackson turned to Freyda. “And you?”

“Me? Kill someone? I’m a vegetarian. A total vegan!”

“But you knew something was wrong. And you knew it involved …” he turned quickly to Zakaria “… our loyal custodian. A Lebanese?”

“Yes, yes, sir. But—”

“No. Not Lebanese. Egyptian. Coptic, I believe.”

Zakaria hung his head, held up his arm to reveal the small Maltese cross tattoo. “This gave me away, yes?”

“That and your accent. When we exchanged farewells, your Arabic was Egyptian. Significantly different from the Levantine dialect of Lebanon.”

Zakaria was crestfallen. “You are a very clever man. Clever enough to know it was not me who took lives, who has blood on his hands.”

“I don’t know if I am. But let us review what we know: a rabbi is murdered, his synagogue looted—but not by a regular felon. How do we know this? First, because the stolen silver has not appeared on the underworld market after nearly seventy-two hours.”

“Hmmph,” snorted Diamond. “Makes sense. The thieves could simply be waiting for it to blow over.”

“Thank you for revealing your ignorance of the ordinary criminal. Run-of-the-mill thieves are in chronic need of folding money. And they know the longer they cling to their booty, the likelier the authorities will find them. So, the rule is, get rid of it. Quickly. To a fence who can buy it for a steal—pun intended—and afford to hold on to it until the coast, as they say, is clear. And we,” he added, indicating Turner and Hamstein, “are assured the purloined items have not surfaced. Anywhere.”

He looked at them, each in turn, seeking a telltale quiver or blink the criminal might now show; but nothing. So he continued, “But this was a person with knowledge of his swag. He left the more modern, easily available Torah dressings but scooped up all the antiques, the survivors of the Holocaust, the ancient gems from tsarist Russia. Is he a collector? A dealer in stolen antiquities? Perhaps. But not a common, ignorant street thief who steals for quick money.” He paused. “From this, we can be sure he is a man who can, for now at least, live within his means.”

“That applies to everyone here, surely.” Pelachi was fidgety.

“But why kill the rabbi? An accident? Perhaps. But a man of means could wait until he was certain the synagogue was deserted.” Jackson stood still, his voice taking on gravitas. “A more likely explanation: the purpose of the criminal’s visit was the murder. The silver theft was simply a distraction.”

“But who would kill such a good man?” lamented Freyda.

“What if it was precisely because he was a good man? One whose passion was to create peace.” Then, more darkly, Jackson continued, “And perhaps that passion made him vulnerable.”

Turner could no longer contain himself. “To who?”

“Whom,” corrected the Sergeant-Major. “To someone who needed a command and control infrastructure. A very particular network. One that could move money in ways the authorities could never find. If you will, a transaction that casts no shadow.” His eyes fell on Pelachi. “Such a man would either be wealthy—” and then, turning to both Diamond and Zakaria equally “—or represent interests that were.” He paused. “But why would such a person murder the rabbi? I actually puzzled over that for some time. But the good Mr. Diamond pointed me in the right direction.”

“Me?” exclaimed the editor, nervously biting his lip. “What did I say? I’m nothing to do with this!”

“Then why so anxious, so—if I may—guilty?” The man had no answer. Jackson twitched a smile. “No worries. Yours was a passing remark. You speculated Rivers’s security came from having photographs of the grand and powerful. Which led me to wonder: what if, playing on the rabbi’s passion, our conspirator induced him to accept large donations, as anonymously as possible, to fund his vital and important work, on the understanding a significant portion would be returned secretly?”

“Money laundering!” Hamstein was beginning to enjoy it. Another quick cracking of a high-profile case. Good on the record.

“Precisely. The rabbi had a perfect end use—an organization in a very tricky part of the world, where records are sparse, and there’s a history of soaking up huge sums of money never to be seen again.”

Maggie was puzzled. “That would make it easy to arrange receiving the funds. But it wouldn’t conceal a kickback. That would require a local receiver …” She trailed off as she involuntarily turned to Zakaria.

Jackson crossed slowly to Zakaria. “And that man, or woman, would need a motive—other than money, because he had to be incredibly low profile.” He was now standing over the poor janitor, who trembled like a Colorado aspen. Jackson grabbed his arm, raised it so all could see the tattoo. “A very special mark. The mark Coptic Christians accept to profess their loyalty to their Church.” Before the janitor could object, Jackson continued sternly, “A Church suffering a genocide at the hands of Muslim extremists the length and breadth of Egypt. There is a desperate need for money to save those who wish to leave: bribes, visas, travel allowances.” He turned to the others. “Who, under those circumstances, would not be prone to helping what was presented as an innocent desire to spread peace?”

“I had no choice! I felt God had sent me the opportunity! Now …” Zakaria broke down in tears.

Jackson put a comforting hand on the weeping man’s shoulder. He turned to Pelachi and stared.

The Russian slammed his fist on the desk. “This is an outrage! I will have your job and your pension. Now get out! OUT!”

Jackson looked at Hamstein. It was up to him now. He squirmed for a moment but then shook his head at Pelachi.

“Not for the moment, sir. I’d appreciate it if you could sit for a few more moments. Though I also think, this time, our colleague has jumped the shark.”

Pelachi, unsure of the meaning of that, slowly subsided into his seat. Quickly calm, he smiled graciously. “By all means continue. The story is fascinating—especially since I, of all people, have no need of another’s infrastructure. I could virtually rule the world if I wished.”

“Certainly that part of it which is for sale,” agreed Jackson. “But what of that which is not? Money derived from great secrets, vast sums, all feloniously obtained, all a threat even to our national security? Those proceeds would have to be hidden. Hence a foreign structure with which one arm of your empire had a slim, tangential connection? Your philanthropic arm, perhaps. Hence, the rabbi.”

If Pelachi was nervous, he now had it well concealed. “How fascinating. I’ll need to hear all your story before speaking with your superiors. So, please, do go on.”

“Thank you. Now, the problem was, once the rabbi was involved, he had, in Mr. Diamond’s imagery, photographs. Should his better angels reassert their grip on his spirit, or should he simply become frightened, the engineer of the plot would be threatened. Existentially. It would be his life—or Eliezar Burman’s.”

“I see,” cooed the Russian. “But you miss one thing: from where would such vast sums of money be derived?”

“Ah. At last we come to the elusive Mr. F. Edison. Except the code was not a name. It was a message: FED IS ON. Rivers was signaling his partner in crime that conditions were ripe to anticipate the Federal Reserve’s interest rate and skim millions—even billions—of dollars from the market in the hours before the actual announcement. I have no doubt when Mr. Hamstein’s FBI lab finishes with Gerry Rivers’s computer, they will discover he had developed a program to crack the Federal Reserve computers and read the announcement as soon as it was ready on the website—sometimes hours before it was released to the general public. ”

Hamstein whistled under his breath. “Insider trading. Bigger even than anything Giuliani busted.”

Turner nodded. “And don’t forget the biggest money-laundering rap ever!”

Pelachi was finally betraying serious nervousness: nostrils flaring, ears back, jaw clenching.

The Sergeant-Major pressed the offensive home. “It had worked twice before. Dry runs. This was to be the killing. It would corner the market. All that was needed was for Rivers to find the posting code. Late in the evening, he found it. He was poised to read the announcement in time for sheer havoc. He sent the word to his master: Fed is on. That meant he would find the memo. But that master, Mr. Pelachi, would not know the contents until he read Rivers’s article online—the one in which he would give your always correct prediction. Except, my guess is, this time he’d make you incorrect so while others followed your advice, you could crash everything else. It’s also my guess it was why he was kept in his job despite obvious reasons for his dismissal. Easy to arrange when the company that owned the wire service that employed him was part of your impossibly complex empire.” Before Pelachi could object, Jackson explained, “A fact I discovered after a long afternoon scouring government records. My, but yours is an opaque empire. It almost eluded me.”

“Then why am I not on the phone this very minute placing orders?”

“Because neither you nor Rivers expected any man to put his conscience ahead of vast sums of money. When the good rabbi realized he could no longer aid and abet your crime, this particular caper had to be delayed until another infrastructure could be identified. In the meantime, the rabbi had to go. And you could trust no one else with the job. By the same token, you realized Rivers himself was a threat. And that all you needed was his program. No doubt you downloaded his files after snapping his neck. It was simply eliminating the middleman. Good business to your way of thinking.”

Pelachi was near the breaking point. “You go too far! You’re crossing the line of your own destruction!”

“Not once the FBI scours your computers.”

For the first time, Pelachi showed fear. Panic. He urgently appealed to the policemen. “Honestly! Do you really believe I would be prowling the streets late at night? That I would kill a man with my bare hands? I’m an old man!”

“Come, come. You know as well as I the means of murder used requires not strength but skill. Anyone trained—as you, I am quite sure, were—in the craft of the KGB could easily dispatch a man several times his strength.”

It was too much for Freyda. She loosed an involuntary yelp and broke down in wrenching sobs. Maggie immediately dashed to her, embracing her, offering comfort. Suddenly the mood changed from one of interest to something highly charged with great anxiety.

Pelachi leapt on it, challenged Hamstein.

“Look at this! This is an atrocity. Charge me or leave.” He turned to Jackson contemptuously. “You can prove none of this, sir!”

The Sergeant-Major waited for Freyda to calm, then replied crisply, “Yes. I suppose one might dismiss it all as pure speculative fantasy. But there is the matter of the eyewitness.”

Both policemen were startled. This was the first they had heard of it. Pelachi gulped. Hard. But he stayed on the offensive. “Ridiculous! You can produce no such eyewitness.”

“In fact, sir, I daresay he’s outside your door at this very instant.” Jackson nodded at Turner who, though puzzled, opened the door. And a familiar figure entered. The two officers were startled.

“P.K.! What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were legit nowadays!”

The confident P.K. of the prior evening was now carefully disguised with the scattered manner of a street person. “Oh, I am, Cap’n, Special Agent. Honest as the day is long. But there’s this girl, see, oh, such a delight, but you know how—”

“Get on with it, man!” Pelachi was red in the face.

“Well …” P.K. drawled on, feigning a slowness of wit that in no way deceived those who knew him but certainly had Pelachi’s attention. “… my girl lives down near that synagogue. I was going home about two in the morning. When I saw a man run from the synagogue. He was carrying a stuffed Hefty bag.” He looked directly at Pelachi. “Yeah, that’s the guy.”

“Insane! You’re all finished! Careers over! Now get out!”

But Jackson held his ground. “Are you sure, Mr. P.K.?”

“Certain. He’d stopped under a street lamp. I saw him plain, I did.”

“Why would he stop?”

“Well, sir, the Hefty bag had split. And a big slab of silver was falling out.”

“You see! A lie! The bag never bro—” Even as the words tumbled from his mouth, Pelachi knew he had been tricked. P.K.’s ruse had exposed him. It was over. He turned to the window, perhaps to jump. But Jackson blocked his path. Pelachi turned to the door. Hamstein and Turner were waiting for him.

He backed off, began to circle, Jackson following at a discreet distance. Pelachi reached inside his jacket—and out came a 9 mm Beretta.

“Keep away,” he warned. “And no one will be hurt,” he promised. He edged toward the door, Jackson keeping pace. Across the room, P.K. also shifted his position, unnoticed by the Russian pointing his Beretta at the policemen, who quickly deserted the door to keep out of his path. He glanced down, seeking the doorknob. It was the only instant he lowered his guard. But it was all that was needed.

With a fearsome war cry, Jackson dove toward Pelachi, who, terrified by the sound and furious movement, dodged to the side—and directly into the arms of P.K., who had been moving in concert with Jackson and was now perfectly positioned to chop at the fugitive’s gun hand.

The pistol flew high in the air. Pelachi dived to catch it.

And would have, had not Maggie dived lightning-fast for it, scooping it out of the air a hairbreadth from Pelachi’s grasp.

In a moment, it was over. This man, so powerful only moments ago, was suddenly just another pathetic criminal about to take his perp walk.

As they turned to lead him away, Turner looked at Hamstein. “Your bust or mine?”

“Joint operation?” Hamstein suggested.

“Works for me.”

Pelachi was in shock. He hissed at Jackson, “You’ll regret this! I will make you pay!”

Jackson smiled. “In our next life, perhaps. You’ll be spending the rest of this one in Leavenworth.”

Pelachi’s scream of anger receded as Turner and Hamstein led him off.

Sergeant-Major Jackson rarely entertained, but now, in his modest home, surrounded by his colleagues, he felt, well, almost happy, a sensation he had almost forgotten. They had just arrived and were going about the unexpectedly difficult task of getting settled. Jackson had few chairs, but while the conversation flowed he found one or two from the little dining area and a camp stool and deck chair from the neat front closet.

Well,” Hamstein confessed, “I said there was only one man who could figure this out and I was right.”

“We were right,” grumbled Turner. “But bringing in P.K. that way was a huge risk. Could’ve tainted the case if we’d known about it.”

“Which,” said P.K., “is why it remained between Sergeant-Major Jackson and myself.”

“But what if he hadn’t fallen for it?” Maggie knew Jackson had the answer and wanted him to have his moment. He saw that and offered what was almost a smile of gratitude. But he dismissed her thought.

“Once he said Hefty bag—correct to the very brand—Pelachi would know the jig was up.”

“Yeah,” remembered Hamstein. “I wondered about that. How’d you know he had a Hefty bag?”

Jackson’s hand reached into the pocket where he had placed the shining bit of plastic found near the Ark, withdrew the shred, held it up. “A very particular polymer base, patented by a particular company. It had to be their product.”

“What will happen to Zakaria?” Maggie worried.

Hamstein shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. He’ll get immunity for his testimony.”

Finally everyone was comfortably seated. Jackson rubbed his hands.

“Well. Can I offer you some cheer? Perhaps a little uisge beatha?”

They clearly had no idea what he meant. Except for Maggie. “Scottish Gaelic—Erse, if you prefer—for ‘water of life.’ Corrupted into English as ‘whisky.’ ”

The men gazed at her in mixed admiration and intimidation.

Hamstein glanced at Turner, murmured, “They belong together.”

They all burst into laughter, punctuated by P.K.’s cry of “Bring it on!”

Maggie agreed. “Bring it on, indeed. My father always said you had the world’s greatest collection of whisky!”

“You knew her father?” the others all asked more or less at once.

For a moment it seemed Sergeant-Major Jackson might answer. But then he thought better. He turned sternly to Maggie.

“I’m quite certain you’re mistaken, ma’am. I expect he said I had a collection …” He turned to a cupboard in the built-in TV shelving, threw its door open, adding, “of the world’s greatest whiskies!”

There were but four bottles on display: two single malts, a Talisker from the Isle of Skye, and an Oban from the eponymous Western Highland glen that gave it life. Only one blend, Justerini & Brooks. And a bottle of Bell’s, the daily “wee dram afore ye go” of the Glasgow working people. With a flourish, Sergeant-Major Jackson swept his hand to the display.

“There, good friends, is all you ever need to know about the water of life! Maggie, choose for us all!”

“Oban,” she said softly.

He gazed at her warmly. “An excellent choice. Like father, like daughter.”

And the celebration began.

After leaving school—not of his own volition—at fifteen, Lionel Chetwynd formed the ambition to become as comprehensively clever as Sherlock Holmes; that way, he reasoned, he could quit the factory and sleep in late like his hero. He has not, as yet, succeeded. In the interim he has occupied himself with more than forty feature motion picture and long-form television credits and has written, produced, and directed more than twenty-one documentaries. He has received both Oscar and Emmy nominations; six Writers Guild of America nominations, including an award; the New York Film Festival Gold Medal; two Christophers; two George Washington Freedom Medals; and six Telly Awards. In 2001, he was appointed to the President’s Committee on the Arts and the Humanities. He is a recipient of the John Singleton Copley Medal from the National Portrait Gallery, the Smithsonian Institution. Lionel is married to actress Gloria Carlin and lives in Southern California, where they exult in their four grandchildren.