Survival Of The Fittest

53

On Saturday, Daniel slept from 4:00 A.M. to 8:00, awoke, put on fresh jeans, loafers, a black T-shirt, and his best sportcoat, a black serge Hugo Boss jacket given to him by his mother-in-law last Chanukah. After buying a morning paper, he drove to Marina del Rey, where he walked through the Marina Shores Hotel and out to the harbor.

Shielding his face behind the paper, he looked for Baker's boat. Easy enough. Alex's description had been precise.

Satori was long, sleek, white. On a police sergeant's salary? Or had Dr. Lehmann played share-the-wealth in all kinds of ways?

He could smell the ocean, hear the gulls. Impossible to tell from here if Baker was on the boat. One way or another, he'd find out.

He strolled up and down the breezeway, pretending to sightsee. Twenty minutes later, Wesley Baker came out on deck with a cup of coffee, stretching and looking up at the sky.

Solid-looking in a white T-shirt and white shorts. Tan, muscular, gold-rimmed glasses. A real California guy, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Hannah Arendt would have been pleased…

He gave another stretch, unfolded a deck chair, and brought it close to the boat's pointed bow. There he sat, mug in hand, feet on a lower ledge.

Face full of sun.

Just another golden day for the elite.

Daniel forced himself to watch.

He got back to the house on Livonia before noon and had something of a Sabbath, studying the weekly Torah portion, reciting kiddush, eating a light meal. Grape juice today, no wine.

Not allowing the murders to reenter his mind for an hour, but after that, they were all he thought of.

Milo arrived at 2:00 P.M. and the two of them discussed equipment. The German plastic gun interested the American the most- lightweight, convertible to automatic with the press of a button, two dozen rounds in a cartridge, easy to speed-load.

Daniel had three, offered him one. The big man thought about it, finally accepted, muttering about “the next time I want to sneak something onto a plane.” They talked about long guns and agreed Daniel would take a rifle with a night-scope because he'd be on the hillside.

Milo had spent the morning reviewing Baker's police personnel files as unobtrusively as possible. Nothing in the records indicated Baker's transfer had been disciplinary. No record of any punishment or demotion due to Zev Carmeli's complaint. No documentation, at all, of the incident with Liora Carmeli.

“Figures,” said Milo. “The brass investigates complaints enthusiastically. Like Michelangelo would investigate sculpting David out of dog shit.”

The man had a way with words.

“Pencil pushers are the same everywhere,” said Daniel.

Milo made that grumbling noise, then he left at 3:30.

The plan was for Alex to call Zena Lambert at 5:00 to confirm tonight's date. Anything unusual would mean calling the whole thing off- Milo was protective of his friend. That caused Daniel to think about things better left ignored and he stopped himself and concentrated on getting onto that hillside.

At 5:15, his phone rang and Milo said, “It's on.”

Daniel set out at 8:30. Dark enough for concealment but enough time to be stationed behind the house well before Alex arrived at 10:00.

He wore ultralightweight black pants with paratrooper pockets, black shirt, black stocking cap. Concealing the rifle meant the long black coat with the Velcro-fastened pouch sewn in the lining. Other pockets for the plastic gun and ammunition. His backpack held the parabolic mike, a couple of tiny concussion grenades, mini tear-gas canisters, a combat knife that dated back to his Army days- he'd yet to find something better than the old blade.

He felt adrenalized and just a bit ludicrous. Big tough commando. Like one of those ninja movies his sons loved to watch. He'd assured Milo he could handle it. Because they weren't talking about freeing multiple hostages, here. Just getting onto that hillside, listening, recording, returning home.

As he headed for the door, the phone rang.

Milo, again? Change in plans?

“Yes?”

“Shavuah tov.” Zev Carmeli offered the traditional post-Sabbath greeting- have a good week.

“Same to you, Zev.”

“I need to see you, Daniel.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“I'm afraid that's-”

“Now,” Carmeli repeated.

“I'm in the middle of-”

“I know what you're in the middle of. Where you're going is here-the consulate. I've sent a driver for you, he's parked right behind the Toyota. Which has two flat tires.”

“Zev-”

“And don't think about sneaking out the back door, Sharavi. Someone's watching.”

“You're making a huge-”

The connection broke. As he put down the phone, two men came in, both young, one blond, one dark-haired. Dark suits, open-necked white shirts. He knew them by face and name. Guards from the consulate, Dov and Yizhar. He hadn't heard them enter. Carmeli had known the phone call would distract him.

Mr. Ninja, indeed.

“Erev tov,” said Dov.

And a good evening to you, too, schmuck. “Do you have any idea what you're doing?”

The man shrugged.

Yizhar smiled and said, “Following orders. Who says the only good Germans are Germans.”