"All three of us picked up rumors that she's back in Jordan," said the Chinaman, "living in one of the towns outside Amman. Elias and I heard she's in Suweilih. Cohen was told Hisban. When we tried to trace the origin of the rumors, all we got is something that somebody told somebody after he heard it from somebody."


"Weaker than weak," said Shmeltzer. "Speaking of ru-mors, Shin Bet's confirmed Darousha's definitely homosexual. Had an affair last year with a Jewish doctor. Hajab the watchman spends his off-hours at Darousha's place in Ramallah, doing odd jobs. Maybe they're into funny business. Want Shin Bet to stay on it?"


"It's low priority," said Daniel, remembering what Ben David had said about latent homosexuals. "More important, have them contact the Mossad operative in Amman and run a trace on Amira."


"They weren't overjoyed about the Beirut brothel, won't like this any better, Dani. The whore's no security risk. The case isn't political. Having an operative leave Amman to comb the smaller towns is damned conspicuous."


"This whole mess has turned political," said Daniel. "Laufer made a point of informing me that the Syrians are preparing a U.N. resolution 'condemning the Zionists occupation for the wanton slaughter of innocent Arab women.' After the automatic majority pushes it through, the heat's going to be turned way up, so you may get more cooperation than you expected. Besides, we don't need anything flashy from the operative, just a location."


"If they locate her, then what? Abduction?"


"First let's see if they can trace her. We'll take it from there."


"Okay," said Shmeltzer, thinking of another breakfast with his Sheraton friend. It would be all business from now on-no more fantasies of pillow play. Since he'd met Eva, other women seemed fashioned of cardboard.


"Any other questions?" said Daniel.


The Chinaman raised a finger. "What happens if we do get something interesting from Interpol or the Americans?"


"Then we check out airline arrivals from the country where the matching crime occurred. Pare down our lists and start interviewing foreigners."


The big man groaned.


'Yes, I know," said Daniel. "Fun for all of us."


The phone rang. Daniel picked it up, heard Avi Cohen say 'Dani?" in an infuriatingly cheerful tone of voice.


"Yes, Cohen. You'd better have a good reason for missing the meeting."


"Real good, Dani." The kid was gushing. "The best."


It was kind of funny the way it happened, thought Avi. Ironic, even. But he'd pulled it off.


He left the Russian Compound and walked to the cobbled parking lot, exhilarated, holding on to his good mood even after four hours of paperwork. He'd sweated through every word of it. had called no one for assistance. Wanting to prove to Sharavi that he could handle anything when he put his mind to it.


The BMW was parked between two unmarkeds. He unlocked it, got in, popped the clutch, and spun out of the compound on squealing tires, past the disapproving eyes of two uniforms. Turning onto Rehov Yafo, he sped west for twenty meters before screeching to a halt behind a cement truck with an engine as loud as a fighter jet.


A traffic jam. The glut of cars on Yafo was thick as pitch, motorists leaning on their horns, pedestrians taking advantage of the situation and jaywalking between the inert automobiles. He watched as a uniform on horseback blew his whistle and tried, without success, to get things moving.


Classy, he thought, watching the mounted officer prance in and out of the jam. The horse was a fine-looking Arabian, its rider an older guy, looked Moroccan. Still a samal, Avi noticed. No career advancement, but the guy sat tall in the saddle. Keeping his dignity amidst all the fumes and clamor.


The first time he'd seen a mounted policeman had been right after the '67 liberation, on a trip to Jerusalem with his father, some sort of official business. They'd been stuck in a traffic jam just like this one, Avi a timid kid of five, eating sunflower seeds and spitting them out the car window, his father punching the horn and cursing, griping that an administrative assistant to an MK deserved better.


That's what I want to be, Abba.


What, an administrative assistant?


A horse policeman.


Don't be silly, boy. They're showpieces, useless. A bit of candy for the Eastern types.


They eat candy, Abba!


His father rolled his eyes, lit one of those smelly Pana-manian cigars, gave Avi an absent pat on the knee, and said:


Back in Iraq and Morocco the Jews weren't allowed to ride horses-the Arabs wouldn't let them. So when they came to Israel, the first thing they wanted to do was jump on a horse. We bought a few for them, told them they could ride if they became policemen. It made them happy, Avi.


That one doesn't look happy, Abba. He looks tough


He's happy, believe me. We made all of them happy, that's what politics is all about.


Avi looked in the rearview mirror, saw a light turn green, and watched a herd of westbound cars rushing to join the tail end of the jam. He put on the emergency brake, got out of the BMW, and walked to the center of the road in order to see what the problem was.


"Get back in, you idiot!" someone shouted. "Don't be standing there when it's time to move!" Avi ignored the chorus of horns that rose behind him. Little chance of anything moving, he thought. Traffic was at a stand still clear up to the King George intersection. "Idiot! Subversive!"


He could see what was causing it now: An eastbound cab had stalled. For some reason the driver had attempted to push his vehicle across the road into westbound traffic and had ended up straddling both sides, trapped by gridlock.


Now all lanes in both directions were blocked and tempers were heating.


Avi looked for escape-he'd jump the sidewalk if he had to. But both sides of Yafo were bordered by shops, not even a break for a wrong-way alley.


Wonderful-he'd be late for his appointment with Sharavi. The Yemenite had sounded none too pleased about his miss-ing the staff meeting.


No problem there. He'd be pleased when he found out how well things had gone. All the paperwork wrapped up.


He heard a whistle, looked up, and saw the mounted policeman shouting at him and waving him back inside. He pulled out his police ID but the uniform had already turned his back and didn't see it.


'Showpiece," said Avi, and got back in the car. Rolling up the windows and turning on the air conditioner, he lit up a cigarette, turned off the engine, put the key in and slipped a Culture Club cassette into the tape "Karma Chameleon" came on. That crazy George Guy was as queer as a five-legged sheep but he could really sing.


Avi turned up the volume, hummed along to lyrics he didn't fully understand, and blessed his good fortune.


To hell with horses and meetings and superior officers. Nothing was going to spoil his good mood.


He reclined the seat, sat low, and reminisced about last night.


Ironic, really funny, how he'd almost missed it. Because the balcony had become almost a hobby, he'd been spending so much time out there the South African girl was starting to nag. ("Are you some kind of voyeur, Avraham? Shall I buy you a telescope?")


Generally he could keep her annoyance at bay with affection and time-outs for first-rate sex-the little extra moves that let a girl know you had her pleasure in mind. He made sure always to give her a good workout, varying the positions, stretching it out until she was right on the brink, then backing off, then moving in again, so when she came she was really tired and fell right asleep. Unaware, moments later, when he left the bed.


Then back to the balcony.


Last night, though, he'd been exhausted himself. The girl had prepared two giant steaks for dinner-her monthly allowance was unbelievable; the only time he'd seen file mignon like that was when his family traveled to Europe.


Steak and fried potatoes and chopped salad. Along with a bottle of Bordeaux and half a chocolate cake. After all that. Avi had felt fuzzy around the edges but still able to oblige. thank you, madame.


She'd taken hold of him, pulled him to the bed, giggling. Then forty-four minutes (he'd timed it) of straightaway pump-ing with the girl holding on to him as if he were a preserver, Avi feeling himself sweat, the wine popping out of him in fermented droplets.


After that one, he'd been tired too. Listening to the rhythm of the girl's breathing, then sinking into deep, dreamless sleep.


No balcony, for the first time since he'd been on the Wolfson surveillance.


Then screams-he didn't know how many of them he'd missed. But loud enough to yank him awake, shuddering. The girl awoke, too, sat up holding the sheet to her body, just like in the movies-what the hell was she hiding?


Another scream. Avi swung his legs out of bed, shook his head to make sure it was really happening.


"Avraham," the girl croaked. "What's going on?" Avi was up now. The girl reached out for him.


'Avraham!"


The grogginess had made her look ugly, thought Avi. Damaged. And he knew that it was the way she'd look in five years. All the time. While running to the balcony he decided he'd break it off with her, soon. 'What is it, Avraham?" 'Shh."


Malkovsky was in the courtyard, barefoot and wearing a white robe that made him look like a polar bear. Lumbering in circles, chasing a child-a girl of about twelve.


One of the daughters, second to the oldest. Avi remem-bered her because she always looked so serious, walked separately from the others. Sheindel-that was her name.


Sheindel was in pajamas. Her blond hair, usually braided, fanned around her shoulders as she ran from the polar bear. Screaming: "No, no, no! No more!"


"Come here, Sheindeleh! Come here. I'm sorry!"


'No! Get away! I hate you!"


"Shah shtill! Quiet!" Malkovsky reached out to grab her, moving sluggishly because of his weight. Avi ran back into the bedroom. Throwing on trousers and a shirt that he didn't bother to button, he kept his ears attuned to the cries from below.


'No! Get away from me! I hate you! Aahh!"


"Stop running, I order you!"


"I hate you! I hate you! Aaahhh!"


Avi put the light on. The South African honey yelped and threw herself under the covers. He fumbled as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Where were his handcuffs, dammit! Always prepared and now look at him… the wine


. Ah, there on the nightstand. He pocketed them. Now the gun.


"Help!" Sheindel was screaming. "Shut your mouth, stupid girl!' 'No. no, get away! Help!"


Avi's eyes were clear now. He found the 9 mm hanging in its holster over the chair, pulled the gun out, stuck it under his waistband, and ran for the door.


"Is it terrorists?" asked the girl, still under the covers.


"No. Back to sleep." Avi flung open the door, thinking: There are different types of terrorism.


He sprinted for the stairwell, leaped down the stairs four at a time, pumped up and strangely elated. When he got to the courtyard, lights were switching on throughout the nearby apartments, checkering the complex.


Malkovsky's back was to him. Sheindel was nowhere in sight. Then Avi heard sucking sobs and hyperventilation and realized that she was hidden behind her father, concealed by his mass. She'd backed herself into a corner. Malkovsky was advancing toward her, huffing, arms spread wide.


"Sheindel," he cajoled. "I'm your tateh."


"No!" Sob, breath. "You'rea"-sob, breath-" rashaf" Evil man.


"Don't touch her," said Avi.


Malkovsky jerked around, saw the Beretta pointed at him. His eyes were agitated, his face moonlight-pale and greasy with perspiration.


"What?" he said.


"I'm a police detective. Get away from her, Malkovsky. Lie on the ground."


Malkovsky hesitated. Avi walked up to him, keeping the gun aimed. Malkovsky stepped backward. Avi grabbed the lapel of the white robe with one hand, put one foot around Malkovsky's ankle, and tripped him with a judo move he'd learned in basic training.


The bigger they were, the easier they fell, he thought, watching Malkovsky collapse facedown. Something to do with leverage, according to the self-defence instructor, but until now Avi had never really believed it.


Working swiftly, enjoying his competence, he yanked Malkovsky's arms behind his back. The man's corpulence made it hard to stretch the limbs far enough to cuff them, but he tugged hard and finally clamped the cuffs over soft. hairy wrists.


"Oy, you're hurting me," said Malkovsky. His breathing was labored and rapid. He turned his head to the side and Avi saw blood seeping into his mustache and beard; the fall had bruised him.


"Tsk, tsk," said Avi, making sure the cuffs were secure. Malkovsky moaned.


Wouldn't it be funny if the fat bastard gave out right here-heart attack or something? True justice, but the paper-work would be a nightmare.


'Oy."


"Shut up."


Malkovsky safely trussed, Avi turned to the child. She was sitting on the ground, knees drawn up, head buried in her arms.


"It's okay," he said. "You're all right." Her small body convulsed. Avi wanted to comfort her, didn't know if touching her was the right thing to do. Footsteps sounded in the courtyard. An older couple:- neighbors coming to gawk. Avi showed them his police identification and told them to go back inside. They stared at Malkovsky's prostrate bulk. Avi repeated his order and they complied. More tenants came filing into the courtyard, Avi shooed them away, forcefully, until finally he was alone again with Malkovsky and the girl. But the others were still there, watching. He could hear windows sliding open, whis-pers and mutters. Saw their silhouettes, outlined muddily in the half-light.


Real voyeurs. A damned exhibition. Wbere the hell was the mother?


Malkovsky started praying, something familiar-Avi had heard it before but couldn't place it.


The girl sobbed. He put his hand on her shoulder and she jerked away.


He told Malkovsky to stay put, kept his eye on Sheindel, and went to the door of the Malkovsky apartment. The wife opened the door before he'd finished the first knock; she'd been waiting behind it all the time.


She just stood there, staring at him. Her hair was long and blond-first time he'd ever seen it uncovered. 'Come outside," Avi told her.


She walked out slowly, as if sleepwalking. Looked at her husband and began cursing him in Yiddish.


Well, listen to that, thought Avi-piece of shit, whore-master-he wouldn't have thought a religious one knew words like that.


"Bayla, please," said Malkovsky. "Help me."


His wife walked over to him, smiled at Avi, then began kicking the fat man violently in the ribs.


Malkovsky bellowed with pain, squirmed helplessly, like a steer trussed for slaughter.


Sheindel was biting her knuckles to keep from hyperventilating.


Avi pulled the wife away, told her: "Cut it out, take care of your daughter."


Mrs. Malkovsky curled her hands into claws, looked down at her husband, and spat on him.


"Momzer! Meeskeit! Shoyn opgetrent?"


Sheindel let go of her knuckles and started to wail.


"Oy," moaned Malkovsky, praying as his wife cursed him. Avi recognized the prayer, now. The El Molei Rakhamim, the prayer for the dead.


"Shtikdreck! Yentzer!" screamed Batla Malkovsky. "Shoyn opgetrent? Shoyn opgetrent-gai in drerd arein.r She lunged at Malkovsky. Avi restrained her and she twisted in his grasp, spitting and cursing, then began clawing at him, going for his eyes.


Avi slapped her across the face. She stared at him, stupidly. A pretty woman, actually, when you looked past the grimness and the hysteria and the baggy dress. She started crying, clenched her jaws shut to stem the tears. Meanwhile the kid was sobbing her heart out.


"Cut it out," he told the mother. "Do your job, for God's sake."


Mrs.Malkovsky went limp and started to weep, joining her daughter in a sobbing duet.


Great. Yom Kippur.


"Oy," she said, tearing at her hair. "Riboynoy sheloylam!"


"Oy, nothing," said Avi. "God helps those who help themselves. If you'd done your job in the first place, this wouldn't have happened."


The woman stopped mid-sob, frozen with shame. She yanked out a healthy clump of hair and nodded her head violently. Up and down, up and down, bobbing like some kind of robot whose controls had short-circuited.


"Take care of your daughter," said Avi, losing patience. 'Go inside."


Still bobbing, the woman capitulated, walking over to Sheindel and touching her lightly on the shoulder. The girl looked up, wet-faced. Her mother stretched out arms that had been forced into steadiness, uttered vague maternal comfort.


Avi watched the kid's reaction, the gun still trained on Malkovsky's broad back.


"Sheindeleh," said Mrs. Malkovsky. "Bubbeleh." She knelt. put her arm around the girl. Sheindel allowed herself to be embraced but made no move to reciprocate.


Well, thought Avi, at least she hadn't pushed her away, so maybe there was something still there. Still, to let it go this far


Mrs. Malkovsky stood and raised Sheindel to her feet.


"Get inside," said Avi, surprised by how gruff he sounded.


The two of them walked into the apartment.


"Now, as for you," Avi told Malkovsky. The fat man groaned.


"What's the matter?" said a new voice. "What's going on?'


A little bald man with a gray bandage of a mustache had come out into the courtyard. He was wearing a sport coat over pajamas, looked ridiculous. Greenberg, the building manager. Avi had seen him nosing around. "You," said Greenberg, staring at the Beretta. "The one who uses the tennis court and swimming pool all the time."


"I'm Detective Cohen, on special assignment from police headquarters and I need you to make a call for me."


"What has he done?"


"Broken the laws of God and man. Go back to your flat, phone 100, and tell the operator that Detective Avraham


Cohen needs a police wagon dispatched to this address." Malkovsky started praying again. A symphony of window-squeaks and whispers played in counterpoint to his entreaties. "This is a nice place, very tidy," said Greenberg, still trying to absorb the reality of the moment.


"Then let's keep it that way. Make that call before everyone finds out you rent to dangerous criminals."


"Criminals? Never-"


"Call 100," said Avi. "Run. Or I'll shoot him right here, leave the mess for you to clean up."


Malkovsky moaned.


Greenberg ran.


Laufer's secretary liked Pakad Sharavi, had always thought of him as kind of cute, one of the nicer ones. So when he entered the waiting room she smiled at him, ready for small talk. But the smile he offered in return was brittle, a poor excuse for cordiality, and when he brushed past her instead of sitting down, she was caught off guard.


"Pakad-you can't do that! He's in a conference!"


He ignored her, opened the door.


The deputy commander was conferring with his soda water bottle, polishing the metal, peering up the spout. When he saw Daniel he put it down quickly and said, "What is this, Sharavi!"


"I need to know where he is."


"I have no time for your nonsense, Sharavi. Leave at once."


"Not until you tell me where he is, Tat Nitzav."


The deputy commander bounded out of his chair, came speeding around the desk, and marched up to Daniel, stopping just short of collision.


"Get the hell out."


"I want to know where Malkovsky is."


"He's not your concern."


"He's my suspect. I want to question him."


"Out."


Daniel ignored the digression. "Malkovsky's a suspect in my murder case. I needed to talk to him."


"That'scrap," said Laufer. "He's not the Butcher-I ascer-tained that myself."


"'What evidence did he present to convince you of his innocence?"


"Don't try to interrogate me, Sharavi. Suffice it to say he's out of your bailiwick."


Daniel struggled with his anger. "The man's dangerous. If Cohen hadn't caught him, he'd still be raping children under official protection."


Ah, Cohen," said the deputy commander. "Another bit of insubordination that you-and he-will be answering to. |Of course, the charges against him will be mitigated by inex-perience. Improper influence by a commanding officer."


"Cohen was-"


"Yes. I know, Sharavi. The girlfriend at Wolfson, one of |life's little coincidences." Laufer extended a finger, poked at the air. "Don't insult me with your little games, you bastard. You want to play games? Fine. Here's a new one called suspension: You're off the Butcher case-off any case, without pay. pending a disciplinary hearing. When I'm finished with you, you'll be directing traffic in Katamon Tet and feeling grateful about it."


"No." said Daniel. "The case is mine. I'm staying with it." Laufer stared at him. "Have you lost your mind?" When Daniel didn't answer, the deputy commander went behind his desk, sat, took out a leather-bound calendar, and began making notes.


"Traffic detail, Sharavi. Try calling the pretty boy in Australia if you think it'll hefp you. Your protekzia's long gone-dead and buried." The deputy commander laughed out loud. "Funny thing is, it's your own doing-you fucked yourself, just like now. Nosing into things that don't concern you." Laufer lifted a pack of English Ovals off the desk, found it empty and tossed it aside. "Like a little brown rat, rooting in garbage."


"If I hadn't rooted," said Daniel, "you'd still be pushing paper in Beersheva."


Laufer made a strangling noise and slammed his hand on the desk. His eyes bulged and his complexion turned the color of ripe plums. Daniel watched him inhale deeply, then expel breath through stiffened lips, saw the rise and fall of his barrel chest, the stubby fingers splayed on the desk top, twitching and drumming as if yearning to do violence.


Then suddenly he was smiling-a cold, collaborative smirk.


"Aha. Now I understand. This, beating Rashmawi, it's all something psychiatric, eh, Sharavi? You're trying for a stress pension."


"I'm fine," said Daniel. "I want to work on my case. To catch criminals rather than protect them."


"You have no case. You're on suspension as of this moment." Laufer held out a fleshy palm. "Hand over your badge."


"You don't really want it."


'What!'


"If I walk out of here under suspension, the first place I'm going is the press."


"All contact between you and the press is forbidden. Violate that order and you're finished for good."


"That's okay," said Daniel. "I'm allergic to traffic."


Laufer leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling for several moments, then lowered his gaze and directed it back at Daniel.


"Sharavi, Sharavi, do you actually think you're intimidating me with your threats? What if you do talk? What will it amount to? A nosy little detective, unable to solve the case he's charged with, tries to distract attention away from his incompetence by whining about administrative manners. Small stuff, even by local standards."


The deputy commander folded his hands over his paunch. His face was calm, almost beatific, but the fingers kept drumming.


A poor bluffer, thought Daniel. Shoshi would wipe him out in poker.


"I'm not talking local," said Daniel. "I'm talking international. The foreign press is sure to love this one-child rapist shielded by the police as he stalks the streets of Jerusalem, secret deals cut with Hassidic rebbe. 'The suspect was apprehended assaulting his own daughter while under privileged protection of Deputy Commander Avigdor Laufer. The officer who apprehended him has been disciplined-'"


"It goes higher than Avigdor Laufer, you fool! You don't know what you're dealing with!"


"The higher the better. They'll eat IT with a spoon."


Laufer was on his feet again. Glowering, pointing. "Do it and you'll be finished, permanently-a blighted record, loss of security rating, no pension, no future. Any decent job will be closed to you. You'll be lucky to find work shoveling shit with the Arabs."


"Tat Nitzav," said Daniel, "we don't know each other well. Let me acquaint you with my situation. Since the first day of my marriage, my in-laws have been trying to get me to move to America. They're Jews, believe deeply in the state of Israel, but they want their only daughter near them. I've a standing offer of a new house, new car, tuition for my kids, and a job with my father-in-law's corporation. A very decent job-executive responsibility, regular hours, and more money than I'll ever earn here, more than you ever will. The only hold the job has over me is the job itself-doing it properly."


The deputy commander was silent. Daniel took his badge out of his wallet.


"Still want it?"


"Damn you," said Laufer. "Damn you to hell."


Lucky, thought Daniel, that he was a pencil-pusher, no detective. Al Birnbaum had never owned a corporation, had spent his working years selling paper goods to printing companies. And even that was old news-he'd been retired for a decade.


He left Laufer's office and went to his own, having gotten what he'd wanted but feeling no flush of victory.


He'd missed the chance to interview Malkovsky because Cohen had run the whole arrest as a one-man show, booking the suspect without calling in. And if the child raper was a killer they'd never know-another unsolved, like Gray Man.


He thought of calling Cohen in, dressing him down, and kicking him off the team. But the kid had saved Malkovsky's daughter, his performance on the stakeout had been impeccable, and his intentions on the bust had been good. There'd been no way for him to suspect what was going on while he sweated over the paperwork.


Some paperwork too. All the details of the arrest precisely documented on the correct forms, perfect penmanship, not a single spelling error. It must have taken him most of the night. In the meantime, bye-bye, Malkovsky, trundled out the back door under police escort, handcuffed to a Shin Bet operative dressed as a Hassid. A quick ride to Ben Gurion, bypass of Passport Control and Security, and first-class seating for both of them on the next El Al jet to Kennedy.


Good scandal potential, but short-lived-people forgot quickly; bigger and better things were sure to come along-so he'd decided to use it while it was still worth something. To keep Cohen-and himself-safe, keep Anwar Rashmawi's lawyer at bay, put an end to any nonsense about disciplinary hearings. And to get Laufer to describe his interrogation of Malkovsky, if you could call it that-three or four hasty questions in a baclc room at the airport, then good-bye, good riddance. Under duress, the deputy commander also agreed to have Mossad make contact with the New York investigators and attempt to question Malkovsky about the murders of Fatma and Juliet.


A symbolic triumph, really, because Daniel no longer considered Malkovsky a serious suspect-not in light of the bloody rock discovery. The man was grossly overweight and out of shape; at the jail he'd complained of shortness of breath. An examining doctor had said his blood pressure was dangerously high. It was unlikely he'd have hiked through the desert carrying a body, though Daniel supposed he could have been part of one of Shmeltzer's murder cults.


Killer Hassidim-too crazy to consider.


But that wasn't the point. The brass hadn't known about the rock when they'd shipped him back to New York. They'd intruded on his case, sullied it with politics.


He'd lived through that before, refused to endure it again.


Rooting in the garbage.


Try calling Australia.


He wondered about Gavrieli, wondered if he liked Melbourne, how he was taking to the duties of an embassy attache. Gorgeous Gideon wore a tuxedo well, knew how to make conversation at parties, the right wine to drink; still, Daniel was certain he was far from fulfilled.


Rooting and nosing. Biting the hand that had fed him- and fed him well, not scraps.


Laufer was a fool, but his words had opened up old wounds. The guilt.


Not that there had been any choice.


He still wondered why Lippmann had been assigned to him. Gavrieli had never answered that one, had avoided Daniel since the day the report was filed.


Surely he must have known it would all come out.


Or had he expected a cover-up-or failure, a premature wrap-up? All the talk about Daniel's talents just more toothy subterfuge used to capture another pawn, place him into position?


Gavrieli had always had a way with words.


They'd met in '67, in early May, just after Passover, in the army training camp near Ashdod. A beautiful spring, balmy and dry, but rumors had settled over the base like storm clouds: Nasser was planning to move troops into the Sinai. No one was sure what would happen.


Daniel had been a nineteen-year-old inductee, a year out of the yeshiva, an honors graduate of paratroop training still basking in the memory of his jumps-the deathly thrill of human flight. Newly assigned to the 66th Battalion, he'd reported to base in sergeant's chevrons, a red beret, and trooper's boots, all of it so new it felt like a Purim costume.


At the 66th, he was put through a battery of physical and psychological tests, then assigned to a night-attack unit. Gideon Gavrieli was the commander. From his reputation, Daniel had expected a leather-face, but encountered instead a young man, tall, black-haired and blue-eyed, endowed with movie-actor looks and a double portion of arrogance.


Gorgeous Gideon. Only six years older than Daniel, but decades more seasoned. Both parents lawyers and big in the ruling party, the father a retired general on top of that. A nice childhood in a Zahala villa, riding lessons at the Caesarea Country Club, season tickets to the Philharmonic and Habimah, summers abroad. Then three top-rated years in the army, decorations in marksmanship and hand-to-hand, a captain at twenty, onward to Hebrew U. and election as student body president. One month short of his own law degree when the southern border had started to simmer and he'd been summoned back to command. Soon, they said, he'd be a major, one of the youngest, with no intention of stopping there.


He'd singled Daniel out right away, called him to the command post and offered him water wafers and instant coffee.


You're Yemenite.


Yes.


Then say Yemenites are intelligent. Does that apply to you?


I don't think that's for me to say.


This is no time for modesty. No matter what you've heard, the Egyptians are going to attack us. Soon you'll be shooting at more than paper targets. Are you intelligent or not!


I am.


Good. I'm glad you realize it. Now I'll tell you, your tests confirm it. I want you to take some additional exams next week. They'll help you qualify for lieutenant and I expect you to receive an excellent score, is that clear!


Yes.


Tell me, what does your father do for a living!


He's a jeweler.


In the event you survive, what do you plan to do with your life!


I don't know.


Do you make jewelry too!


Some.


But you're not as good as your father.


No.


And never will be.


Never.


A common problem. What are your other career options!


I've thought of law.


Forget it. Yemenites are too straightforward to be good lawyers. What else!


I don't know.


Why not!


I haven't thought about it in detail.


A mistake. Start thinking about it now, Sharavi. There's no use merely floating when you can learn how to swim.


Four weeks later they were belly-down on a muddy slope northwest of Scopus, crawling in the darkness through the cross-hatch of fortified trenches that surrounded Ammunition Hill. Two survivors of a five-man machine-gun detail sent to flush out Arab Legion snipers.


No-man's-land. For nineteen years the Jordanians had fortified their side of the hill, laying in their positions in anticipation of Jihad: trenches-forty concrete-lined wounds slashed into the hillside, some so well camouflaged they were invisible even in daylight.


No daylight now. Three A.M., an hour since the assault had begun. First, the ground had been softened by artillery bombardment; then tanks had been used to set off enemy mines. In their wake, sappers had arrived with their noisy toys, blowing up the fences-Israeli and Jordanian-that had bifurcated the hillside since the cease-fire of '49.


In the other theaters, the Israeli Air Force had been employed to fine effect-Nasser's jets destroyed before they got off the ground, the Syrians swallowing a bitter pill in the Golan. But Jerusalem was too precious, too many sacred places to risk large-scale air attack.


Which meant hand-to-hand, soldier against soldier.


Now the only ones left were desperate men on both sides. Hussein's Arab Legion troops ensconced in two long bunkers atop the hill and hunkered down in the network of trenches below. The men of the 66th, squirming upward through the dirt like human worms. Measuring their progress in meters while racing the rising sun-the cruel light of morning that would highlight them like bugs on a bed sheet.


The last thirty minutes had been a nightmare of artillery barrage and screams, the splintering of olive trees that whispered eerily as they fell, calls for stretchers and medics, the moans of the dead and dying echoing longer than could be explained by any law of physics. Three hundred meters to the southwest, the Old British Police School was ablaze, the UNRWA stores used as sniping posts by the Jordanians crackling like a campfire. Curved trajectory shells arced from Legion positions, followed by grenades and automatic-weapons fire that tilled the soil in murderous puffs, sowing hot metal seeds that would never bear fruit.


The first two men in the company had fallen simultaneously, just seconds after setting out for a shallow trench that fronted the U.N. water tank, a sniper hideout that the infrared scopes had been unable to pinpoint. The third to die was an apple-cheeked kibbutznik named Kobi Altman. The fall of his comrades had inspired him to improvise-leaping up and exposing himself on all sides as he stormed the trench, spraying it with his Uzi. Killing ten Jordanians before being cut down by the eleventh. As he buckled, Gavrieli and Daniel rushed forward, firing blindly into the trench, finishing off the last Legionnaire.


Gavrieli knelt by the rim of the trench, inspecting it, his Uzi poised for fire. Daniel slung Kobi's body over his shoulder and waited.


No sounds, no movement. Gavrieli nodded. The two of them hunched low and crept forward slowly, Gavrieli taking hold of Kobi's feet in order to share the burden. They searched for a safe spot to leave the body, a vantage point from which a grenade could be lobbed at the spindly legs of the water tower. Their plan was clear: Shielded by the aftermath of explosion, they'd run toward the big bunker on the northwest of the hill where scores of Legionnaires had settled in, firing without challenge. Lobbing in more grenades, hoping the concrete would yield to their charges. If they lived, they'd come back for Kobi.


Gavrieli scanned the slope for shelter, pointed finally to a stunted olive sapling. They slithered two meters before the thunder of recoilless guns slapped them back toward the trench.


The big guns fired again. The earth shuddered under Daniel; he felt himself lifted like a feather and slammed back down. Clawing at the soil, he dug his nails in so as not to fall backward into the mass of corpses that filled the trench. Waiting.


The recoilless attack ended.


Gavrieli pointed again. A tracer bullet shot out from the big bunker and died in a mid-air starburst, casting scarlet stripes over the commander's face. No arrogance now-he looked old, dirt-streaked and damaged, acid-etched by grief and fatigue.


The two of them began crawling toward the sapling, toward where they'd left Kobi's body, turned at the same time at the sound from the trench.


A man had crawled out, one of the corpses come to life-a ghost that stood, swaying in the darkness, clutching a rifle and searching for a target.


Gavrieli charged the apparition and took a bullet in the chest.


He crumpled. Daniel feinted to the right and retreated into the darkness, dropping silently to the ground, his Uzi pinned beneath him. He needed to get at the weapon but feared that any movement would betray his location.


The Jordanian advanced, stalking, firing where Daniel had been, missing but getting warmer.


Daniel tried to roll over. The underbrush crackled faintly. His heart was pounding-he was certain the Legionnaire could hear it.


The Jordanian stopped. Daniel held his breath.


The Jordanian fired; Daniel rolled away.


Moments of silence, stretched cruelly long; his lungs threatened to burst.


Gavrieli groaned. The Jordanian turned, aimed, prepared to finish him off.


Daniel rose to his knees, grabbing the Uzi at the same lime. The Legionnaire heard it, realized what was happening, made c split-second decision-the right one-firing at the unwounded enemy.


Daniel had no chance to return fire. He dropped, felt the bullet shave his temple.


The Jordanian kept firing. Daniel molded himself into the earth, wanting to merge with it, to seek the safety of burial.


The fall had knocked the Uzi loose. It clatterd against a rock. The Jordanian swiveled and shot at it.


Daniel propelled himself forward, grabbed for the Legionnaire's ankles. The two of them went down, tumbling backward into the ditch.


They snarled and sobbed, tore and bit, rolling through muck and gore. Siamese twins, the rifle sandwiched between them like some deadly umbilical cord. Pressing against each other in a deadly death-hug. Beneath them was a cushion of dead flesh, still warm and yielding, stinking of blood and cordite, the rancid issue of loosened bowels.


Daniel's face was pushed into the cushion; he felt a lifeless hand graze his mouth, the fingers still warm. A syrupy stickiness ran over his face. He twisted around and got his hands around the rifle. The Jordanian managed to regain superiority, freed the weapon.


The Legionnaire was hatless. Daniel took hold of his hair and yanked the man toward him, could see he was young-smooth-faced and thin-lipped with a feathery mustache.


He tried to bite the Jordanian's chin.


The Jordanian writhed out of his grasp. They tugged and flailed, fighting for the rifle, avoiding the bayonet that capped the barrel.


All at once the Jordanian let go of the rifle. Daniel felt sweaty hands clamp around his neck. An internal darkness began to meld with the one that time had wrought. He pried the fingers loose, kicked violently at the Jordanian's groin.


The Jordanian cried out in pain. They rolled and thrashed through a sea of dead flesh. Daniel felt the bayonet nick his cheek. He clawed purposefully, went for the Jordanian's eyes, got a thumb over the lower ridge of the socket, kept clawing upward and popped the eyeball loose.


The Legionnaire stopped for a split second; then agony and shock seemed to double his strength. He struck out wildly, sunk his teeth in Daniel's shoulder and held on until Daniel broke three of his fingers, hearing them crack like twigs.


Incredibly, the Jordanian kept going. Gnashing and grunting, more machine than man, he pulled away from the murderous embrace, lifted the rifle, and brought the butt down on Daniel's solar plexus. The flesh-cushion lightened the impact of the blow but Daniel felt the air go out of him. He was swimmingin pain and momentarily helpless as the Jordanian raised the rifle again-not attempting to fire, trying to take the Jew's life in a more intimate manner: stabbing down with the bayonet, his eyeless socket a deep black hole, his mouth contorted in a silent howl.


I'm going to be killed by a ghost, thought Daniel, still sucking for air as the bayonet came down. He forced himself to roll; the blade made a dull sound as it sank into a corpse. As the Legionnaire yanked it loose, Daniel reached out to grab the weapon.


Not quick enough-the Jordanian had it again. But he was screaming now, begging Allah for mercy, clawing at his face. His eyeball was hanging from its cord, bobbing against his cheek, artificial-looking like some macabre theater prop. The reality of his injury had hit him.


Daniel tried to push himself upward, found himself swallowed by torsos and flaccid limbs


The Jordanian was trying to push the eye back in with his broken fingers. Fumbling pitifully as his other hand stabbed wildly with the bayonet.


Daniel grabbed for the moving weapon, touched metal, not wood. Felt the tip of the bayonet enter his left hand through the palm, a biting, searing pain that coursed down his arm and into the base of his spine. His eyes closed reflexively, his ears rang, he tried to break free, but his hand remained impaled bv the bayonet as the Jordanian pushed him down, twisting, destroying him.


It was that image of destruction, the thought of himself as just more human garbage added to the heap in the trench, that fueled him.


He raised both feet and kicked, arched his body upward like a rocket. The wounded hand remained pinioned, sinking into the corpse-cushion.


He was throwing the rest of himself at the Jordanian now, not caring about the fiery mass that had once been his left hand, just wanting something to remain intact.


Wrenching upward with abandon, he felt the blade churning, turning, severing nerves, ligaments, and tendons. Gritting his teeth, he traveled somewhere beyond pain as his boot made contact with the Jordanian's jaw and he was finally free.


The rifle fell to one side, tearing more of the hand. He pulled loose, liberated the ravaged tissue.


The Jordanian had recovered from the kick, was trying to bite him again. Daniel slammed the heel of his good hand under the bridge of the man's nose, went after him as he fell, ripping at his face like a jackal gone mad-tearing an ear off, gouging out the other eye, turning the enemy to garbage that whimpered helplessly as Daniel formed a talon with his undamaged hand and used it to crush the Jordanian's larynx.


He kept useless, leaking pad, but what else was there to do with it? Squeezing and clawing and forcing out the life spirit.


When the young Jordanian had stopped twitching, Daniel turned his head and vomited.


He collapsed, lay there for a second, atop the pile of bodies. Then gunfire and Gavrieli's whimpers brought him to his elbows. He foraged in the trench, managed to pull a bloody shirt off a corpse and used a clean corner of the garment to bind his hand, which now felt as if it had been fried in hot grease.


Then he crawled out of the trench and went to Gavrieli.


The commander was alive, his eyes open, but his breathing sounded bad-feeble and echoed by a dry rattle. Gavrieli struggled, tossing and shaking as Daniel labored to unbutton his shirt. Finally he got it open, inspected the wound, and found it a neat, smallish hole. He knew the exit side could be worse, but couldn't move Gavrieli to check. The bullet had entered the right side of the chest, missing the heart but probably puncturing a lung. Daniel put his face to the ground, touched blood, but not enough to make him give up hope.


"You're all right," he said.


Gavrieli lifted one eyebrow and coughed. His eyes fluttered with pain and he started to shiver.


Daniel held him for a while, then climbed back into the trench. Fighting back his own pain, he yanked combat jackets off of two dead Jordanians. Clambering back up, he used one for a blanket, rolled the other into a pillow and placed it under Gavrieli's feet.


He found Gavrieli's radio and whispered a medic call, identifying his location and the status of the rest of the company, informing the communications officer that the trench had been neutralized, then wriggled over to Kobi's body. The kibbutznik's mouth was open; other than that, he looked strangely dignified. Daniel closed the mouth and went searching for both the Uzis.


After several moments of groping in the dark, he found Kobi's, then his, handle dented but still functional. He brought the weapons back to where Gavrieli lay and huddled beside the wounded man. Then he waited.


The battle continued to rage, but it seemed distant, someone else's problem. He heard machine-gun fire from the north, a recoilless response that shook the hills.


Once, Gavrieli gasped and Daniel thought he'd stopped breathing. But after a moment his respiration returned, weak but steady. Daniel stayed close by, checking him, keeping him warm. Cradling the Uzis, his arm enveloped by pain that seemed oddly reassuring.


Suffering meant life.


It took an hour for the rescuers to arrive. When they put him on the stretcher, he started to cry.


Three months later Gavrieli came to visit him at the rehab center. It was a hot day, choked by humidity, and Daniel was sitting on a covered patio, hating life.


Gavrieli had a beach tan. He wore a white knit shirt and white shorts-apres tennis, very dashing. The lung was healed, he announced, as if the state of his health had been Daniel's primary worry. The cracked ribs had mended. There was some residual pain and he'd lost weight, but overall he felt terrific.


Daniel, on the other hand, had started seeing himself as a cripple and a savage. His depression was deep and dark, surrendering only to bouts of itchy irritability. Days went by in a numbing, gray haze. Nights were worse-he fell into smothering, terrifying dreams and awoke to hopeless mornings.


"You look good too," Gavrieli lied. He poured a glass of fruit punch and, when Daniel refused it, drank it himself. The discrepancy between their conditions embarrassed Gavrieli; he coughed, winced, as if to show Daniel that he, too, was damaged. Daniel wanted to tell him to leave, remained silent, bound by manners and rank.


They made small talk for a turgid half hour, reminisced mechanically about the liberation of the Old City: Daniel had fought with the medics to be released for the march through the Dung Gate, ready to die under sniper fire. Listening to Rabbi Goren blow the shofar had made him sob with joy and relief, his pain spirited away for a golden moment in which everything seemed worthwhile. Now, even that memory was tarnished.


Gavrieli went on about the new, enlarged state of Israel, described his visit to Hebron, the Tomb of the Ancestors. Daniel nodded and blocked out his words, desiring only solitude, the selfish pleasures of victimization. Finally, Gavrieli sensed what was happening and got to his feet, looking peeved.


"By the way," he said, "you're a captain now. The papers should be coming any day now. Congratulations. See you soon."


"And you? What's your rank?"


But Gavrieli had started to walk away and didn't hear the question. Or pretended not to.


He had, in fact, been promoted to lieutenant colonel. Daniel saw him a year later at Hebrew U. wearing a lieutenant colonel's summer uniform bedecked with ribbons, strolling through campus among a small throng of admiring undergraduates.


Daniel had attended his last class of the day, was on the way home, as usual. He'd completed a year of law studies with good grades but no sense of accomplishment. The lectures seemed remote and pedantic, the textbooks a jumble of small-print irrelevancies designed to distract from the truth. He processed all of it without tasting, spat it out dutifully on exams, thinking of his courses as tubes of processed food ration, the kind he'd carried in his survival kit-barely enough to sustain him, a long way from satisfaction.


Gavrieli saw him, called out. Daniel kept walking-his turn to feign deafness.


He was in no mood to talk to Gorgeous Gideon. No mood to talk to anyone. Since leaving the rehab center he'd avoided old friends, made no new ones. His routine was the same each day: morning prayers, a bus ride to the university, then a return, immediately after classes, to the apartment over the jewelry store, where he cleaned up and prepared dinner for his father and himself. The remainder of the evening was spent studying. His father worried but said nothing. Not even when he collected the jewelry he'd made as a teenager-mediocre stuff, but he'd saved it for years-and melted it down to a lump of silver that he left on a workbench in the shop's back room.


"Dani, hey. Dani Sharavi!"


Gavrieli was shouting. Daniel had no choice but to stop and acknowledge him. He turned, saw a dozen faces-the undergraduates following their hero's glance, staring at the short, brown student with the kipah pinned to his African hair, the scarred hand like something the butcher had thrown away.


"Hello, Gideon."


Gavrieli said a few words to his fans; they dispersed grudgingly, and he walked over to Daniel. He peered at the titles of the books in Daniel's arms, seemed amused.


"Law."


"Yes."


"Hate it don't you? Don't tell me stories-I can see by the look on your face. Told you it wouldn't suit you."


"It suits me just fine."


"Sure, sure. Listen, I just finished a guest lecture-war stories and similar nonsense-and I have a few minutes. How about a cup of coffee?"


"I don't-"


"Come on. I've been planning to call you anyway. There's something I want to talk to you about."


They went to the student cafeteria. Everyone seemed to know Gavrieli; the woman serving the pastries took extra time to pick out an especially large chocolate roll for him. Daniel, basking in the light reflected by the halo, got the second-biggest one.


"So, how've you been?"


"Fine."


"Last time I saw you, you were pretty damned low. Depressed. The doctors said you'd been that way for a while."


Damn liar Lipschitz. "The doctors should have kept their mouths shut."


Gavrieli smiled. "No choice. Commanding officer has a right to know. Listen, I understand your hating law-I hate it, too, never practiced a day, never intend to. I'm leaving the army, too-they want to turn me into a paper shuffler."


The last statement was uttered with dramatic flourish. Daniel knew he was supposed to react with surprise. He drank his coffee, took a bite of chocolate roll. Gavrieli looked at him and went on, undaunted.


"A new age, my friend. For both of us. Time to explore new territories- literally and metaphorically, time to loosen up. Listen, I understand your depression. I was there myself. You know the first few weeks after I got out of the hospital, all I wanted to do was play games-kid's games, the stuff I never had time for because I was too busy studying and serving. Checkers, chess, sheshbesh, one from America called Monopoly-you become a capitalist, amass land, and wipe the other guy out. I played with my sister's kids, game after game. Everyone thought I was crazy, but I was just starved for novelty, even stupid novelty. After that I ate nothing but hamburgers and champagne for three weeks. You understand."


"Sure," said Daniel, but he didn't. New experiences were the last thing he wanted. The things he'd seen and done made him want to pass through life with a minimum of disruption.


"When I finished with the games," Gavrieli was saying, "I knew I had to do something, but not law, not the army. A new challenge. So I'm joining the police."


Unable to conceal his surprise, Daniel said, "I wouldn't have thought it."


"Yes, I know. But I'm talking about a new police force, highly professional-the best technology, a boost in pay, parity with the army. Out with morons, in with intelligent, educated officers: university types, high school diplomas at minimum. I'm being put in as a pakad, which is still a significant drop from my army rank, but with major supervisory duties and plenty of action. They want me to reorganize the Criminal Investigation Division, draw up a security plan for the new territories, report directly to the district commander, no underlinings, no red tape. In six months he's promised me rav pakad. After that it's straight up, in time for his retirement." Gavrieli paused. "Want to join me?"


Daniel laughed. "I don't think so."


"What's to laugh at? Are you happy doing what you're doing?"


"I'm fine."


"Sure you are. I know your personality-law won't work for you. You'll sit on your ass wondering why the world's so corrupt, why the good guys don't win. On top of that the payoff is always muddled, nothing's ever solved. And there's already a glut-the big firms aren't hiring. Without family connections it'll be years before you make a living. You'll have to handle tenant-landlord disputes and other nonsense just to scratch by. Sign up with me, Dani, and I'll see to it that you zip through the rookie course, skip through all the dirty work."


Gavrieli made a square frame with his fingers, put Daniel's face at the center. "I picture you as a detective. The hand won't make a difference because you'll be using your brains, not your fists. But it's still action, street work, not talk. You'll get priority for every advanced course, be assigned to CID and leap-frogged to rav samal. Which means the best cases-you'll build up a record quickly, be a mefakeah in no time. As I move higher, I'll take you with me."


"I don't think so," Daniel repeated.


"That's because you haven't thought at all. You're still floating. Next time you're studying, take a good look at those law books, all that English common-law crap, another gift from the Brits-their judges wear wigs and fart into their robes. Stop and consider if that's really what you want to do with the rest of your life."


Daniel wiped his lips and stood. "I've got to be going."


"Need a ride somewhere?"


"No, thanks."


"All right, then. Here's my card, call me when you change your mind."


Two weeks into the new academic year, he called. Ninety days later he was in uniform, patrolling the Katamonim. Gavrieli had offered to skip him through it, but he declined the favor, wanting to walk the streets, get a feel for the job that Gideon would never have-for all his intelligence and savvy, there was a certain naivete about him, a delusion of invincibility that surviving Ammunition Hill had only served to strengthen.


A psychic partition, thought Daniel, that separated him from the darker side of life.


It had caused him be in the wrong place at the wrong time, swept along, inevitably, with the sewage from Lippmann.


Gideon had played from his own script. There was no reason to feel guilty about what had happened. No reason for Daniel to apologize for doing his job.


He looked at his watch. What time was it in Melbourne? Eight hours later, well into the evening.


An embassy party, perhaps? Gorgeous Gideon sticking close to the ambassador, manicured fingers curled around a cocktail glass as he charmed the ladies with flattery and clever anecdotes. His evening jacket tailored to conceal the 9 mm.


Executive attache. When all was said and done, he was just a bodyguard, a suit and a gun. He had to be miserable.


As opposed to me, thought Daniel. I have plenty to be happy about. A killer on the loose, bloody rocks, and heroin. Mad Hassidim and korbanot and strange monks and missing whores frightened by flat-eyed strangers.


Sitting in this white cell, trying to put it all together. Half a kilometer southeast of Ammunition Hill.


A sticky summer. He was seventeen, three months away from eighteen, when he walked into the library and asked Doctor for a car. Had to ask twice before the fucker looked up from his surgical journal and paid attention.


"What's that?"


"A car."


"Why do you want one?"


"All the kids have their own."


"But what do you need one for?"


"Go places, get to school."


"School's that important to you, huh?" Smile.


Shrug.


"I mean, you're flunking most of your subjects. I didn't think school meant that much to you."


Shrug.


"No, I don't see why I should get you a car just like that."


Smiling in that fucking superior way. The asshole had two cars of his own, a big soft one and a low-slung sports job that looked like a hard-on, neither of which he let anyone else drive. Her car was a big soft one, too, big bucks, but it hadn't been out of the garage for a long time; Doctor had had the crankcase drained, put it up on blocks.


The fucker was loaded, all that money, all those cars, and he'd had to learn how to drive on a jalopy that belonged to one of the maids, a rusty clunker with no power steering, a real bitch to park-he'd failed the test twice because of it.


"Loan me the money. I'll pay you back."


"Oh, really?" Amused.


"Yeah."


"And how do you propose to do that?"


"I'll get a job."


"And what kind of work do you deem yourself qualified to perform?"


"I could work at the hospital."


"At the hospital."


"Yes."


"Doing what?"


"Anything."


"Anything!"


"Anything."


Doctor talked to the head janitor-a nigger retard-and got him a job in maintenance. The nigger hadn't liked the idea; he and Doctor had discussed it while he waited a few feet away. The two of them talking about him as if he were invisible.


"I dunno, Doc, it's a dirty job."


"That's fine, Jewel. Just fine."


The nigger put him to work, mopping up vomit and piss off sickroom floors, emptying catheter bags and taking out garbage-not much to find there.


After two weeks of it he smelled bad, carried the smell with him all the time. When he went near Doctor, the fucker winced.


Then the director of personnel found out about it and transferred him out of there, not wanting the son of the head honcho heart surgeon doing shitwork like that.


He got sent to the mail room, which was excellent. He didn't even have to stand around and sort-just serve as a courier, taking stuff from place to place.


He did it all summer, got a real good feel for the hospital-every office, every lab.


It was amazing how careless people were, leaving stuff unlocked-petty cash drawers, their purses out on the desk when they went to the John.


He pilfered small amounts of cash that added up to big bucks.


He stole prescription blanks and drugs, always in small amounts. Demerol and Percodan and Ritalin and Seconal and stuff like that, sold it to the junkies who roamed Nasty Boulevard, just a few blocks away.


Sometimes he opened envelopes that had checks in them and sold them at five percent of face value to the junkies. Once in a while someone was stupid enough to send a cash donation to the hospital charity fund. That belonged to him immediately.


He opened book cartons and took the interesting ones home-fancy medical texts about sex and cutting. Once he found a stack of porno books in one of the lockers in the interns' lounge-white men fucking nigger women and vice versa-took it home and cut up the women until he could work up some good scream-pictures, stared at it until it turned him on and he could really get off.


Slowly but surely, he turned the minimum-wage situation into something excellent.


The key was to be careful. To make a plan and stick with it and clean up well afterward.


He smiled at everyone, was prompt, courteous, always willing to do favors for people. Very popular. A couple of the nurses seemed to be ogling his dick; also one of the orderlies, who he was sure was a fag. But none of them interested him, unless they could scream it was borrrring.


A great summer, very educational. He delivered mail to the pathology department-those were cool fuckers, eating their lunch with stiffs all around. The head honcho pathologist was this tall guy with a British accent and a clipped white beard. He chain-smoked menthol cigarettes and coughed a lot.


One time he delivered a package of gloves to Pathology. No one was in the office. He started opening the drawers of the secretary's desk, looking for stuff, when suddenly he heard this buzzing from down the hall-one of the labs that adjoined the offices.


He went over and took a look. The door was open; the room was cold. Whitebeard was standing over this stiff. The stiff lay on a stainless-steel table-a man; it had a dick. Its skin was a dull green-gray.


Whitebeard was using an electric saw with a little round wheel-it looked like a pizza cutter-to lop off the top of the stiffs skull. There was this weird burning smell. He stood there smelling it. It sickened him but really turned him on.


"Yes?" said Whitebeard. "What have you there?"


"Box of gloves."


"Put it over there."


Whitebeard started sawing again, looked up, saw him staring. All the knives and tools. The Y-shaped cut in the stiffs chest, pinned back, the body cavity hollow, all the good stuff scooped out-you could see the spine. An older guy, the dick all shriveled; he needed a shave. On the steel tables were organ samples in trays-he recognized them all, felt good about that. A bucket of blood, vials of fluid, not that different from his experiments, but a nice big room, all out in the open.


Real science.


Whitebeard smiled. "Interested?"


Nod.


Whitebeard continued to saw, pulled off the top of the scalp like a kike's beanie cap. Funny if the stiff had been a kike-the dick was too shriveled to tell.


"The cerebral cortex," said Whitebeard, pointing. "The cosmic jelly that creates delusions of immortality."


What shit.


He wanted to say: I know what it is, asshole. I've seen plenty of them scooped them out just as cool as you're doing.


Instead he just nodded. Play dumb. Play it safe.


Whitebeard lifted the brain, weighed it in a scale that looked like the one they used for vegetables in the supermarket.


"Heavy," he said. A smile. "Must have been an intellectual."


He didn't know what to say, just nodded and stared, until Whitebeard got this uptight look on his face and said, "Don't you have something to do?"


His drug sales alone were quadruple his shitty salary. It turned out to be a very profitable summer. In more ways than one.


For the first time in his life he got to watch Doctor in his natural habitat. The fucker was an even bigger asshole than he'd imagined-ordering people around, never passing a mirror without looking at himself, though why the hell would he want to look at that hook nose and that potbelly, the skin getting all red and blotchy? Red skin meant he was sick-fucker was probably going to drop dead of a heart attack one day, not be able to cut himself open and cure himself, that was for sure.


Drop dead and probably leave all the money to Sarah. Dr. Sarah, soon. But she wanted to be a psychiatrist, no cutting. Unfuckingbelievable.


He checked Doctor out real good, got to know him for the first time. Fucker never knew he was being studied. They could have been standing next to each other and he wouldn't have noticed.


To Doctor he was a freak. Weird. Some piece of shit that didn't exist.


It made him invisible, which was excellent.


Doctor liked the young ones. He found out there was truth to all her screaming about him fucking candy-stripers.


Fucker flirted with all of them, got serious with one in particular. Audrey, this little brunette, seventeen years old, fucking high school student just like Mr. Invisible. But she knew her way around.


Short but curvy-big ass, big tits, wore her hair in this ponytail and wiggled a lot when she walked.


Doctor could have been her father.


Yet they were doing it, he was sure of it. He watched her go j't.to Doctor's office after the secretary had gone home. At first she knocked and Doctor answered; later she started to use her own key. After a half hour, she'd peek her head out to see if the coast was clear, giggle, then wiggle out the door. Wiggle down the hall, swinging her purse, with this bouncy little high school walk that said I'm a winner.


Thinking no one saw.


Someone saw.


The invisible man, carrying a big carton that blocked his face. Even if he'd been visible he was safe. Pow.


He would have loved to cut her up, clean her up.


Mind picture.


Scream-picture.


Once Doctor and Audrey had a close call: One of the janitors got to work early, opened Doctor's office, and was immediately escorted out by Doctor, looking pissed. No white coat for the fucker now. Just pants and a shirt, the tie loose, the buttons not done right.


After that they started leaving the hospital. Going out, once or twice a week, to a motel just off Nasty Boulevard. Dirty-looking place, three dozen rooms around a sunken motor court, hand-painted signs on the roof advertising water beds and electric massage.


Really filthy. It offended him that people could stoop so low.


He followed them, walking because he still had no car, but it was close to the hospital, five blocks. He had long legs-no problem.


He set up his position behind a tall bush, squatted, and watched.


Doctor always drove. But he parked his car half a block away, on a dark side street, and the two of them walked to the motel, Doctor's big arm over her shoulder, Audrey wiggling and giggling. They were predictable: always went into the same room, number twenty-eight, way at the end. Borrring.


The clerk was this skinny slant, all yellow and sunken-cheeked, like he spent his off hours in an opium den. He had a small bladder, went to the bathroom every half hour or so. Or maybe he was shooting up-the guy wore long sleeves.


The room keys hung in duplicate from hooks on a particle-board rack just behind the reception desk.


He laid out his plan, ran it through his head for three weeks in a row. Just watching, trying to ignore the roaring in his head that got louder when he thought of what they were doing in there.


The key was to plan.


Week number four was action time. He'd brought his equipment, dressed in black like some ninja, feeling all tight and good and knowing he was fighting for a good cause.


The first day it didn't work. When the clerk went to pee/shoot up, there was another slant in the office, also looked like a junkie. Slant Two just stood around. When the clerk came out they talked to each other for a while.


The second day, it happened. Slant One split. The minute the office was empty, he ran in, vaulted the counter, grabbed the duplicate to twenty-eight, and vaulted back. By the time One was back, he was outside the door to twenty-eight, all ready with his equipment.


It was dark. There were a few cars; some of the other rooms were occupied, but all the drapes were drawn. No one was around-it was the kind of place you didn't want to be seen in.


He waited, with a giant hard-on, so hard he felt he could break down the door with it.


Put his ear to the door and heard mumbling, what sounded like sex-noise.


Waited some more until they had to be doing it, then slipped the key in, pushed, and ran in, turning on the lights and dancing around the room laughing and snapping pictures.


He caught them in a good pose. Audrey was sitting on Doctor, playing the egg game, just like she used to. Her eggs were smaller and firmer and kind of tan, but it was the same game, in and out.


Snap.


Screams.


What the hell-You't


Snap.


Audrey got hysterical, started crying, struggled to get off. Doctor holding on to her out of fear, shouting at him, but it ended up in her ear.


Comedy.


It looked like they hated each other, but they were still connected, couldn't get free of each other!


Excellent. Snap, snap! The mind pictures would be even better than the real ones, watching them struggle and scream, he was close to coming in his pants.


Snap.


They tried to disconnect. Fear made them clumsy, and they fell sideways.


Snap, another pose.


Snap snap.


Finally Audrey was loose, running naked and sobbing to the bathroom. He kept snapping Doctor, heard her throwing up-probably a habit with women.


Doctor's face was deep purple, his hard-on fading. He grabbed at sheets, tried to cover himself.


Snap.


"You little-" Doctor sprang up and came at him.


The guy was flabby, unhealthy. He pushed him on the chest and Doctor tumbled backward on the bed, ass to the camera.


Snap.


Doctor stood up again.


He put the camera away, smiled, and sauntered to the door.


"See you later, Dad."


The next day there was a note on his bed.


What kind of car do you want?


He got two. A Jaguar XKE Roadstar for fun, a Plymouth sedan for when he didn't want to be noticed.


He drove them for a couple of weeks, let Doctor think that was it. Then walked, one afternoon, past the secretary, without even asking permission, opened the door marked private, went in and shut it behind him.


The fucker was at his desk, writing in a medical chart. He looked up, tried to look stern, put on the head-honcho look, but couldn't pull it off. Obviously scared shitless.


"What is it?"


"We have to talk. Dad."


"Sure. Sit down."


There was a cedar humidor full of cigars on Doctor's desk. Stupid for a heart surgeon, but the guy had never practiced what he preached anyway.


He stared at Doctor, took a cigar out, licked it, and lit it.


Doctor started to say something. Something parental. Then stopped himself.


"What do you want?"


Straight out with it, no "son," no pretending it was anything other than business.


He didn't answer, let an ash grow on the cigar, flicked it on the carpet.


Doctor clenched his jaw to keep from talking.


He blew smoke rings.


"Well, Dad," he said finally, "the pictures are in a safe place with instructions to open them if anything happens to me, so if you've been thinking that fucking me over will help you, forget it."


"Don't be ridiculous. Harming you is the furthest thing from my-"


"Right."


"Believe me, all I've ever wanted for you-"


"Cut the shit." He leaned forward, dropped a gray worm of ash on the desk. On Doctor's charts. Picked up a chart.


"You can't look-"


"Why that?"


"It's confidential patient information."


"Tough shit."


Doctor sighed, put on a nicey-nicey tone: "Listen, I know our relationship hasn't been-"


"Cut the shit, I said!" He said it loud. Doctor looked nervously at the door.


He leafed through the chart. No good pictures. Borrring. Put it down.


"The photos are in packets. Dad. One addressed to Mom, one to Or. Schoenfeld, one to Audrey's parents. I can do anything I want to."


Doctor stared at him. His eyes got narrow.


Neither of them said anything for a while.


"What do you want?" Doctor finally said.


"Favors."


"What kinds of favors?"


"Whatever I want."


Doctor kept staring at him.


The cigar was starting to taste like shit. Fie ground it out on the shiny wooden surface of Doctor's desk, left the butt lying there like an old turd.


"Not a lot of favors. Dad. Just a few important ones."


"Such as?" Trying to tough it out, but totally scared shitless.


Now it was his turn to smile. "I'll let you know."


He got up, walked around to where Doctor was sitting. Slapped him on the shoulder and smiled again. "We'll be in touch, stud."


At one-fifteen Daniel received news from Tel Aviv that Aljuni, the Gaza wife-stabber, had passed his polygraph. At one-thirty p.m. he made radio contact with the Chinaman. Nothing new from the Old City.


"What's with Cohen?" he asked.


"Still feels like a dumb shit about Malkovsky, but he seems to be doing his job."


"How's Daoud doing with Roselli?"


The big man laughed.


"Share the joke," said Daniel.


"Daoud spend the morning dressed as a beggar with palsy, whining for alms near the Fourth Station of the Cross. Did such a good job that an Arab policeman smacked the soles of his feet with his baton, screamed at him to stop defiling the holy places."


"How is he?"


"Proud as hell, and sore. You should see him, Dani-all shaking and filthy. If anyone can pick up idle chatter, he can."


"Drop a shekel in his can for me," said Daniel.


"I already did. Talk to you later."


At two o'clock, Shmeltzer called in.


"The Hebrew U. archaeology department and the nature people promise to get me their hike lists as soon as possible. I had breakfast with the lady. Our request to look for the Nasser whore is being taken under consideration."


"That the best they could do?"


"There was cooperation floating between the lines-I got a breakfast date immediately, so they're taking it seriously. My feeling is they'll look for her if they can do it safely. Problem is the Amman operatives took a long time to plant-they're not going to shut down the entire operation because of something like this."


"Stay in touch with it," said Daniel. "If we need to push a little, let me know."


"I don't think pushing will help," said Shmeltzer. "Something else came up. I'm in Tel Aviv, at Beilison Hospital-the reason I didn't call sooner. I got a call from one of the doctors I talked to a couple of weeks ago-eye surgeon named Krieger, had something to say about one of his colleagues, anesthesiologist named Drori. Remember the flap last year about the doc who refused to give gas to an Arab kid? A cross-eyed baby-they were wheeling him into the operating room and the mother started praising Allah for straightening her little lion's eyes so he'd be able to throw stones at the Zionists. The doctor got pissed off, told her to screw herself, he hoped the kid went blind, then walked off the case. That was Drori."


"I remember. One of the leftist MKs wanted him brought upon charges."


"Right-Sardoffsky and his usual Marxist crap. Anyway, it blew over in two days-that was that. But according to this Krieger, Drori has a real thing for Arabs. Since the incident with the baby, he's gotten even more militant, interrogates Arab patients before he agrees to work on them, has them recite this pledge that they support the state and think Yasser Arafat's a perfidious dog. If anyone on the staff tries to talk to him about separating politics and medicine, he gets irrational-that's Krieger's term. It's come close to blows. On top of that, he's a loner, unmarried, antisocial. Krieger says several times when he's been on night shift, he's seen Drori leave the hospital, get into his car, and come back early in the morning wearing the same clothes, unshaven. Says it's obvious the guy hasn't slept, has been doing something else all night."


"Something like stalking and killing."


"That's what Krieger thinks. At first he didn't want to believe it, but the more he thought about it, the better Drori looked as our guy. He wasn't too happy about telling me all this, of course. Felt like an informer. But civic duty and all that."


"Think this could be some issue between them?"


"It's possible, but Drori sounds strange enough to look into."


"What else do you know about him?"


"His employment records show he immigrated two years ago from England-Scotland, actually. Original name was Denzer-Selwyn Denzer. Divorced his wife and left her and some kids there. Personnel notes say he's got a very good reputation medically, but hard to live with."


"Has the lack of sleep affected his performance?"


"Not yet, but they're watching him for slip-ups. They'd love an excuse to get rid of him."


"Where does he live?"


"In Petah Tikva."


"Not exactly local."


"No, but with the new highway he could be driving back and forth in ample time. Who knows, maybe our second kill spot's out of town. A guy this fanatical could be into rituals, making some sort of symbolic statement."


"Any connection between him and Kagan?" ~ "According to Krieger, Drori thinks Gvura's too moderate."


"Okay," said Daniel. "Find out what he was doing the nights of both murders."


"Will do."


After Shmeltzer hung up, Daniel phoned Bonn for the tenth time and asked for the Interpol man. A secretary assured him that Mr. Friedman had indeed received the Pakad's messages, would be returning them shortly. All attempts to push the issue were met with cool secretarial indifference.


He collected his maps and his files, left the office, and drove to the Laromme Hotel. The lobby was thick with people, tourists queued up at the desk, checking in and settling their accounts, an army of clerks attending to their needs.


The courtesy phones were all in use. Daniel searched for the manager, spotted him standing near one of the mobile luggage racks berating a bellman. When the bellman had departed, Daniel walked over and said, "Please ring


Mr. and Mrs. Brooker, Yigal. I'm not sure of the room number."


The manager's eyebrows rose. "Is there something I should know about them?"


"They're friends of mine."


"Oh. In that case, no need to call. She went out this morning at ten, met a blond woman-good looker-near the taxi stand. He's out by the pool."


"Impressive, Yigal. Want to join my staff?"


The manager shrugged. "They're easy to spot."


Daniel walked to the pool area-lots of bikinis and laughter, the clink of glasses. The water in the pool was turquoise dappled with navy. The only ones swimming were children and one old man doing a slow breast stroke.


Gene was asleep on a chaise longue, next to an um-brellaed table, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting at his side. On the decking near his fingertips were a bottle of Heineken and a half-full glass of beer. He wore green-and-white striped trunks. His legs were speckled with gray fuzz; his belly asserted itself above the waistline in a sleek, ebony billow.


Like a seal, thought Daniel. A bull seal, basking on a rock.


He settled in a deck chair. A waitress approached and took his order for a Coke with lime. When she returned with the drink, he sipped slowly, watching Gene sleep, and was halfway through the ice when the black man began to stir.


The arm lifted, peeling away audibly from the tar-colored face. Gene's eyes closed tighter, then opened and focused on Daniel.


"Hey," he said, sitting up and extending his hand.


Daniel shook it. "You look at peace with the world, Lieutenant Brooker."


Gene smiled, stretched, and pulled a towel down from the table. "Working on my tan." He wiped his brow, ran the towel over his face. "Lu's at the museum, some lecture on biblical archaeology-matter of fact, I think Laura's with her. What's up?"


"I need to talk to the FBI, Gene. I'd like your help."


That brought the black man to his feet.


"My, my," he said. "I thought you'd never ask."


They drove the two blocks to Daniel's apartment. Laura had left a note saying Shoshi was staying late at school to work on a science project; the boys were at friends'; she and Luanne would be back by five, five-thirty the latest.


Gene sat down at the dining room table and stroked Dayan as Daniel brought out files, maps, pencils, and a stack of paper. He uncoiled the phone wire, put the phone down next to Gene, and sat down. Taking a sheet from the stack, he began writing, jotting a column of numbers parallel with the left-hand margin, placing notations next to each number. When he was through, he handed the list to Gene, who put on a pair of half-glasses and read.


"The program's fairly new-called VICAP," Gene said. "Stands for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program-the Feds love acronyms."


"They also love paperwork, which is why I'm bothering you. They usually delay us for weeks."


"If that's an apology, I'm ignoring it." Gene read for a while longer. "Not much to work with, Danny. Your basic generic sex killer mutilation-neck, breasts, privates. I've seen plenty of it over the years."


"There was a difference between the victims," said Daniel. "The genitals were cut up on One, removed from Number Two."


"Yeah, I see-that could work for us or against us, depending on how they've programmed the computer. If all they've got in there is wound pattern, we'll lose, because we're giving them two sets of data, reducing the chances of finding something in common with ours. On the other hand, if they've put in sequences-and I don't know that they have-and come up with another chop-the-first, steal-the-second pattern, we'll get a tighter match, something a little thought-provoking."


Gene read further. "Maybe the washing will pan out, but even that's not that weird-good way to get rid of evidence. Most of these turkeys like to fool with the body, manipulate it, have sex with it. We had a case back in L.A. in '49, the Black Dahlia, pretty famous. She was scrubbed and drained just like your two. They never found the guy who did it. How far back do you want them to go?"


"As far as they can."


"If I remember correctly, the file bottoms out at ten-year-old unsolveds. Most of the stuff is pretty recent. There seems to be more and more of it each year-world's getting sweeter."


He scanned the list again, put it down. "All right, let's get to it. Let's see, the time difference from here to L.A. is ten hours, which would make it seven hours from here to Virginia-just after eight A.M. Okay, McGuire should be there by now. Set me up."


Daniel dialed the international code, got a recorded message that all overseas cables were in use. He phoned the local operator, after several minutes of debate, obtained an international line. Gene took the receiver, dialed Virginia, and waited.


"No ring yet."


"Sometimes it takes a while."


The black man nodded, tapped the phone with his finger. "McGuire's a very nice guy-cooperative for a Fed. He's in Disputed Documents at the FBI Academy in Quantico, used to be in the L.A. office. We worked together on a forgery case that turned into-All right, it's ringing."


A moment later he was talking to his contact, speaking in a low, level voice:


"Hello, Sam? This is Gene Brooker. I'm calling from the Middle East… Yup, you heard right. Doing some international consulting… Yeah, I'll tell you about it when I get back. Anyway, I need access to VICAP-Serial Killer Data Bank in particular. Got some homicides with a possible international connection, want to run the wound patterns and modus, see if anything you guys have matches up… No, nothing iffy politically… not at all-you've got my word on it, Scout's honor. Just trying to catch a bad guy with a possible wide radius of operations… Yes, I know it's still in development. Any profiles worked out?… Okay, I'll take what I can get. So who do I speak to?… You will? Terrific. I owe you. Got a pen? These are the parameters…"


When he was through discussing the list with McGuire, he gave his room number at the Laromme for callback, covered the mouthpiece, and said, "Want to use your office for a backup number?"


"Yes," said Daniel, "and here." He wrote down both numbers and Gene gave them to the FBI man.


Thanking McGuire again, Gene hung up and said, "All set. Couple of days, maybe longer. They're not set up for profiling yet. Just basic statistics and collation."


"Thank you, Gene."


"Don't mention it."


They went over the case again, Gene offering empathy and suggestions, but nothing Daniel hadn't thought of. One part of Daniel regretted the lack of new ideas. The other felt good that an outsider had little to offer.


At three-thirty his stomach rumbled and he realized he'd skipped breakfast and lunch. "Hungry?" he asked Gene.


"I could eat."


He got up to fix cheese sandwiches and brew coffee when the phone rang: an operator from Headquarters informing him that a Mr. Friedman from Bonn was on the phone and threatening to hang up if they didn't find Pakad Sharavi within thirty seconds.


"Put me through," he said.


"You should tell us when you leave the office," said the operator, and connected him to Bonn.


"Sharavi."


"Sharavi, this Friedman. I hear you've got problems." The Interpol man's voice was hoarse. He talked loud and fast, like someone shouting farewells from a moving train.


"We could use some help."


"That's for sure. Had a hell of a time reaching you-no one over there seems to know what they're doing."


Two months in Germany and the man considered himself an ubermensch. Daniel let the slur pass, told him what he wanted, ending with detailed descriptions of the wounds.


"Ugly," said Friedman. "Do you want Greece too?"


"Yes."


"It's going to take some time."


"Do the best you can."


"Bear in mind that there's a time lag with the computer-some of our so-called current data's over a year old. Anything really recent's going to require personal calls."


"I'm aware of that. Four weeks is our cutoff. I'd appreciate the calls."


"What's your lead to Europe?"


"Possible ID of a foreign suspect."


"What do you mean by 'possible'?"


"The source said American but that could mean European."


"The source stupid or just being cagey?"


"Unavailable, whereabouts unknown. The ID's secondhand."


"Sounds weak to me," said Friedman.


"If I had the case solved, I wouldn't be calling you."


"No need to get sensitive. I'll get you what you want. All I'm telling you is that it sounds weak. Anything else I should know about?"


"Nothing."


"Because if there is, I need to have it up front. They're not pleased with us-think all their terrorist problems are our fault. Being able to give them something would help grease the skillet."


"Whenever we get something, you're always the first to know," said Daniel. He gave the Interpol man his home number and hung up. As he put the phone in its cradle, he saw Gene smile knowingly from across the table.


"Friendly chat," said the black man.


"New man," said Daniel. "We don't owe each other anything, yet."


He went into the kitchen, finished setting up the coffeepot, and started laying slices of yellow cheese on rye bread.


Gene followed him in, said, "Changing of the guard's always wonderful. I spent six years building up a relationship with one captain, got a new one and had to start proving myself from scratch."


"I know all about that," said Daniel, opening the refrigerator. "Do you like mustard?"


No one was talking to Wilbur, but he could live with that. No problem.


A Butcher story a week had kept New York happy. The pieces had a terrific pickup rate, both in the States and worldwide. So terrific, he'd managed to cadge a byline on the last three.


The key was to be creative, work with what you had. On something like this, facts were less important than flavor.


And no shortage of flavor on this one: ancient city, Thousand Nights' ambience, ethnic tensions, a fiend with a knife.


Terrific visuals-he'd started thinking about a screenplay.


There was always the political angle too. Arabs getting killed-the implications were obvious.


He approached it from the human-interest perspective first, went to Silwan, and knocked on the door of the first one's family, hoping for a victim piece.


When they wouldn't let him in, he got hold of a sociology professor from Bir Zeit University: Columbia-educated little snot named El Said, in love with himself and a real publicity hound, which made him more than eager to offer quotable quotes about the political roots of violent crime in a racist society.


When that had been milked, it was time to backtrack, round out the historical perspective. He spent hours at the Jerusalem Post archives-unimpressive place on the north side of town, near a sooty industrial stretch. You entered through the back of the building, had to walk between the newspaper delivery trucks, through some kind of loading dock. Nearby was a slaughterhouse or chicken processing plant; as he entered the archive, he heard the birds squawking, smelled the stench of burnt feathers.


Inside wasn't any better: rows of sagging floor-to-ceiling bookcases, scarred tables, cracked linoleum floors, not a computer in sight. And the librarian was a stooped, shuffling old character with wet eyes and an unhealthy complexion.


Central-casting Dickens, decided Wilbur, half-expecting the geezer to creak when he walked.


But the geezer was competent, knew where everything was. He took Wilbur's money and was back with the file before the correspondent finished counting the change.


Deciding to give the political thing a rest, he did a sex-murder search, hoping to shatter some myths. The local press kept repeating what Steve Rappaport had told him that first afternoon at Fink's: Psycho homicides were virtually unknown in Israel. But that could have been just another bit of self-congratulation on the part of the Chosen People. He wasn't ready to accept it at face value.


He scoured clippings and reports, pulled Rappaport's file and those of a couple of other reporters who'd covered the crime beat, went back to '48 and found that it checked out: The violent crime rate was low and had remained relatively constant over the thirty-seven-year life of the state. The homicides they did have were mostly family blowups, manslaughters, and second degrees; serials and bizarre snuffs were virtually unheard-of. And from what he could tell, it didn't seem due to cover-ups or underreporting. Since '48, the press had been free.


So no scoop, but the fact that two serials had arisen in rapid succession gave him a new slant: Thoughtful theoretical pieces about societal changes responsible for the sudden increase in brutality. No need for new sources; El Said and other academic types were more than happy to pontificate upon command.


With that kind of spice, the pickup rate soared, especially in Europe. New York asked for more. The other foreign correspondents caught flak for not being there first-now none of them wanted anything to do with him. Ditto for Rappaport-kid was green-faced with envy, convinced he'd been robbed.


Another source dried up. And the police weren't saying a damn thing.


But no problem. He had other things on his mind: The more he thought about it, the more attractive a screenplay started to look.


He began an outline, realized he needed more to flesh it out.


He researched the first series of killings, attributed to some ghoul they'd tagged the Gray Man, got one long retro piece out of that, and learned that the head detective on the first serial was the same one working the Butcher-Major Crimes detective named Sharavi. There were no quotes from him, no pictures. Probably a strong, silent type, or maybe he just didn't want to field questions about his solve rate.


Wilbur called the guy's office at French Hill, got no answer, which was hardly surprising. He had the geezer dig up whatever he could on the detective, found a series of clippings from the previous autumn that opened his eyes nice and wide:


Elazar Lippmann, former Member of Knesset. Ruling party loyalist with a progressive voting record and a special interest in criminology and prison reform. He'd been appointed warden of Ramie Prison, talked aJot about humane changes, education and rehabilitation. Real golden boy, little Omar Sharif mustache, good teeth-everyone seemed to like him. Good old Stevie Rappaport had even done a Friday Supplement interview with him-amateur stuff that reeked of hero worship.


So it surprised everyone when, six months later, Lippmann was ambushed and assassinated on the way to work- machine-gunned to death along with his driver.


Daniel Sharavi had headed the investigation, appointed directly by the deputy commander, which, considering Gray Man hadn't been solved, meant he was either hot or well-connected.


Efficient fellow, and thorough, Wilbur decided, making his way through the Lippmann clippings and getting a feel for the rapid pace of the inquiry: the prison turned upside down, everyone interviewed, guards as well as inmates; gang leaders and their buddies on the outside hauled in for interrogation, Palestinian activists questioned by the busload, even talks with clients Lippmann had represented as an attorney a decade ago, before going into politics.


Plenty of intrigue, but in the end it had turned out to be just another tacky corruption case. Far from a hero, Lippman had been a first-class sleaze. Four weeks after his death, the press murdered him again.


Sharavi had solved this one-and quickly. Dug up the dirt on Lippmann and found the prick had been venal from day one, hit his stride when he got the warden job: two fat Swiss accounts, one in the Bahamas, a small fortune amassed selling favors-extra visitations, early release dates, exemptions from work details, even illegal weekend passes for dangerous felons. Those who reneged on payment made it up in pain-Jews locked in Arab cell blocks and vice versa, handpicked guards looking the other way when the blood started to flow.


Given that setup, the assassins were easy to find-three brothers of an eighteen-year-old convicted burglar who'd welshed and had his nose flattened and his anus enlarged.


Fun guy, Warden Lippmann-in more ways than one.


One of Sharavi's men caught a deputy warden rifling through the boss's desk, shredded photos in his pocket. The pictures were put together like a jigsaw, found to be snapshots of call girls carousing with politicos-nothing kinky, just wine, hors d'oeuvres, low-cut gowns, jolly party scene. The politicos got canned. One of them turned out to be the deputy commander, another golden boy named Gideon Gavrieli. His picture they ran-Warren Beatty look-alike with a high-school quarterback smile.


Except for attending one party, Gavrie? claimed to be clean. Someone believed him, shipped him out to Australia.


Sharavi was promoted to chief inspector.


Intriguing fellow, thought Wilbur. Two unsolved serials, a fuck-the-boss expose sandwiched in between. Man in that situation couldn't be too popular with the higher-ups. Be interesting to see what happened to him.


Wilbur was sitting at his desk at Beit Agron when the mail came, staring at the fly fan and sipping Wild Turkey from a paper cup.


There was a knock on the door. Wilbur emptied the cup, tossed it in the trash basket. "Enter."


A skinny blond kid ambled in. "The mail, Mr. Worberg."


Mutti, the high school sophomore who functioned as a part-time office boy. Which meant Sonia, the poor excuse for a secretary, had taken lunch again without asking permission.


"Toss it on the desk."


"Yes, Mr. Worberg."


Half a dozen envelopes and the current issues of Time, Newsweek, and the Herald Tribune landed next to his typewriter. In the machine was a piece of Plover bond headed THE BUTCHER: A SCREENPLAY by Mark A. Wilbur. Below the heading, blank space.


Wilbur pulled the sheet out, crumpled it, tossed it on the floor. He picked up the Herald and looked for his most recent Butcher piece. Nothing. That made three days running. He wondered if he was starting to wear out the welcome mat, felt a stab of anxiety, and reached for the drawer with Turkey. As he put his hand on the bottle, he realized Mutti was still standing around smiling and gawking, and withdrew it.


Dumb kid-father was one of the janitors at the press building. Mutti wanted to be the Semitic Jimmy Olson. Grabowsky, being a soft touch, had taken him on as a gofer; Wilbur had inherited him. Obedient sort, but definitely no rocket scientist. Wilbur had long ago given up trying to teach him his name.


"What is it?"


"Do you needing anything else, Mr. Worberg?"


"Yeah, now that you mention it. Go down to Wimpy's and get me a hamburger-onions, mayonnaise, relish. Got that?"


Mutti nodded energetically. "And for drink?"


"A beer."


"Okay, Mr. Worberg." The boy ran off slamming the door behind him.


Alone once again, Wilbur turned to the mail. A confirmation, finally, of his expense vouchers from the Greek vacation. Invitation to a Press Club party in Tel Aviv, regrets only; overseas express letter from a Nashville attorney dunning him for back alimony from Number Two. That one made him smile-it had been routed through Rio and New York, taking six weeks to arrive. Two weeks past the deadline the legal eagle had set before threatening to move on to "vigorous prosecution." Wilbur dropped it in the circular file and examined the rest of the mail. Bills, the Rockefeller Museum newsletter, an invite to a buffet/press conference thrown by the WIZO women to announce the groundbreaking of a new orphanage. Toss. Then something, midway through the stack, that caught his eye.


A plain white envelope, no postage, just his name in block letters written with such force that the W in Wilbur had torn through the paper.


Inside was a sheet of paper-white, cheap, no watermark.


Glued to the paper were two paragraphs in Hebrew, both printed on glossy white paper that appeared to have been cut out of a book.


He stared at it, had no idea what any of it meant, but the presentation-the hand delivery, the force of the writing, the cutouts-smacked of weirdness.


He kept staring. The letters stared back at him, random angles and curves.


Incomprehensible.


But definitely weird. It gave him a little twist in the gut.


He knew what he needed.


When Mutti got back with the food, he greeted him like a long-lost son.


A sweltering Thursday. By the time Daniel arrived at the scene, the air was acrid with scorched rubber and cordite, the pastoral silence broken by gunfire and poisoned by hatred.


Roadblocks had been thrown up across the Hebron Road just south of the entrance to Beit Gvura-steel riot grills, manned by soldiers and flanked by army trucks. Daniel parked the Escort by the side of the road and continued on foot, his pakad's uniform earning free passage.


A cordon of troops, four rows deep, stood ten meters beyond the barriers. Gvura people were massed behind the soldiers, eye to eye with MPs who walked back and forth, suppressing spurts of forward movement, shepherding the settlers back toward the mouth of the settlement. The Gvura people brandished fists and shouted obscenities but made no attempt to storm the MPs. Daniel remembered their faces from the interview, faces now twisted with rage. He searched for Kagan or Bob Arnon, saw neither of them.


On the other side of the cordon was a seething mob of Arab youths who had marched from Hebron bearing placards and PLO flags. Some of the placards lay tattered in the dust. A grainy mist shimmered in the heat and seemed to hover over the Arabs-some of them had rolled old auto tires from town and set them afire. The flames had been extinguished, the tires scattered by the side of the road, steaming like giant overcooked doughnuts.


The command post was an army truck equipped with full radio capability, stationed by the side of the road in a dusty clearing ringed by a dozen ancient fig trees. Surrounding the truck were several canvas-covered MP jeeps, all unmanned.


Just beyond the trees was another clearing, then a small vineyard, emerald leaves shading clusters of fruit that glistened like amethysts in the afternoon sun. Four military ambulances and half a dozen transport vans filled the clearing. Some of the vans were bolted shut and under the guard of soldiers. Next to them was a civilian vehicle-a small mud-colored Fiat with Hebron plates, sagging on flattened tires, its hood pocked with bullet holes, its windshield shattered.


A pair of vans and one of the ambulances pulled out, driving in the dirt by the side of the road until past the barriers, then turning onto the asphalt, sirens blaring, speeding north, back to Jerusalem. Daniel saw activity near another of the ambulances: white blurs, crimson blood bags, the clink and glow of intravenous bottles. He spotted Colonel Marciano's distinctive figure at the front bumper of the truck and walked toward it. Moving quickly but cautiously, keeping one eye on the action.


The cordon of soldiers advanced and the Arabs retreated, but not smoothly. Scuffles broke out as authority confronted resistance-shoving matches punctuated by hate-filled screams, grunts of pain, the dull, insulting abrasion of metal against flesh.


Marciano lifted a megaphone to his lips and barked an order.


The rear row of the cordon fired its rifles in the air and a shudder coursed through the mob.


For a moment it seemed as if the Arabs were ready to disperse. Then some of them began shrieking PLO slogans and sitting down on the asphalt. Those who'd begun to retreat backed into them, stumbling and falling; they were lifted by front-line soldiers and pushed back. The sitters were quickly removed, picked up by the scruff and shoved over to MPs who propelled them toward the vans. More resistance, more arrests, a bedlam of bodies, boiling and spitting.


Within seconds the Arabs had been forced back several meters. All at once, several large rocks arced from the center of the mob and rained down upon the cordon. One landed near Daniel and he ran for cover, crouching behind a nearby jeep.


He saw soldiers raise their arms protectively, a blossom of blood spring from the cheek of one unlucky private.


Marciano bellowed into the megaphone.


The soldiers fired several volleys, this time over the heads of the crowd. The Arabs panicked and ran backward; a few stragglers were trampled in the process.


More slogans, more stones.


A soldier crumpled.


Megaphone orders. Stones. Soldiers with rifles fired rubber bullets directly into the mob. Several Arabs clutched arms and legs in agony and fell, writhing.


The mob was a thing of the past, now, the Arabs fanning out toward Hebron, each man for himself. Tripping over one another in a hasty sprint for safety.


Suddenly a long-haired, bearded man of about twenty materialized out of the human swirl, dashing wild-eyed toward the troops, a long knife in one hand, a jagged hunk of concrete in the other.


He raised the knife, threw himself at the soldiers, who closed ranks and fired. Lead bullets.


The long-haired man's body seemed to take off in flight, floating and gyrating, billowing some puffs, spouting ragged black holes. Then the holes filled with red and overflowed. Blood spurted out of him. Just as abruptly as he'd appeared, he collapsed, expelling his life-juices into the dirt.


Some of the dispersing Arabs had turned to watch him die. They stopped, frozen, mouths shaped into paralyzed ellipses.


The cordon advanced, walking around the dead man, pushing the remaining Arabs back. Moving forward inexorably until every rioter was in custody or fleeing.


The road was devoid of movement now, decorated with blood, prostrate forms, and spent cartridges.


Ambulance attendants rushed forward with stretchers, picking up wounded soldiers and Arabs, leaving for last the dead knife-wielder.


"Let him rot!" shouted a Gvura man. Other settlers took up the cry and turned it into a chant. They began moving forward. Colonel Marciano spoke into the megaphone; the rear row of the cordon reversed itself and faced the Gvura people.


"Go ahead," screamed one woman. "Shoot Jews! Damned Nazis!"


The soldiers remained impassive. Granite eyes in baby faces.


Daniel walked up to Marciano. The colonel was surrounded by subordinates but acknowledged him with a nod as he delivered order after order in a calm, even voice.


Marciano was a huge man-two meters tall-with an egg-shaped body that seemed to balance precariously on long, stilt-like legs. His head was egg-shaped, too-bald, brown, deeply seamed, with a large, fleshy nose and a chin that could have used some reinforcement. Soft-spoken without his megaphone, he was a career man, a hero of the '67 Sinai assault and Yom Kippur, in charge of Judean security for the past two years. An organized thinker and reader of philosophy and history who seemed to take it all in stride.


When the subordinates had left to carry out his orders, he gripped Daniel's hand and said, "It's over."


"The call I received said it had to do with my case."


"Could be. One second."


Two soldiers were carrying the dead Arab to the side of the road, holding him low to the ground so that his buttocks dragged in the dirt. Marciano picked up his megaphone, said, "Lift him," sharply. Startled, the soldiers complied.


Before the loudspeaker had been lowered, an army lieutenant came over and said, "What about them, Barukh?" Pointing to the Gvura people, who were still shouting and cursing.


"Inform Shimshon in Hebron that movement north of the city limits is restricted for twenty-four hours," said Marciano. "Maintain a line of troops one hundred meters to the south, and see to it that no one without legitimate business crosses it for the rest of the day. Once the line's established, leave them alone to blow it off."


The lieutenant wiped his brow and left.


"Come on," said Marciano. He loped to the back of the truck, climbed in, and Daniel followed. The two of them sat on the hot corrugated-steel floor of the truck bed. Marciano lit a cigarette and dragged deeply, then pulled a canteen off his belt, took a swig, and passed it to Daniel. The water inside was cool and sweet.


Marciano stretched out his long legs.


"This is what happened," he said. "About two hours ago, one of the Gvuranik women was standing out in front of the settlement, waiting for a lift to Jerusalem-a pregnant one. She had an appointment at Shaarei Zedek Hospital. One of Kagan's deputies-American named Arnon-was on transport duty, supposed to be coming back with a earful of schoolbooks, then making a return trip to pick up a Torah and take her to her appointment. He was late. She waited by herself for a while, knitting booties.


"Suddenly this car drives up." Marciano pointed to the mud-colored Fiat. "Three Arabs get out, two with butcher knives. The other's packing a pistol-one of those cheap


Czech jobs, as likely to blow up in your hand as fire. They start moving on the pregnant one. She's terrified, can't move. They're saying something about blood sacrifices and sin offerings, revenge for dead virgins. She starts to scream. They clamp a hand over her mouth, start pulling her into the car.


"Meanwhile Arnon pulls up, sees what's happening, and runs over to help. He's got a pistol, runs toward them waving it but is afraid of hitting the woman. The Arab with the gun starts shooting-misses three times even at close range but finally gets Arnon in the belly.


"Arnon's down. The pregnant woman manages to break free, starts running and screaming at the top of her lungs. The Arabs go after her. Mrs. Kagan happens to be taking a walk near the outskirts of the settlement, hears the gunshots and the screams and rushes over. She's packing an Uzi, pulls it into firing position. The Arab with the gun shoots at her, misses, then starts to run away. Mrs. Kagan goes after all three of them, opens up on the car, kills two of them right away, wounds the third. By now, Gvuraniks are streaming out. They pull the wounded Arab out of the car and beat him to death."


Marciano paused for a drag on his cigarette. "Pretty picture, eh, Dani? Wait, there's more. Seems the three Arabs were only part of the gang. There are four others waiting in a flat in Hebron-knives, shroud, looks like they had a revenge party in mind. When the Fiat doesn't show up, these guys drive up the road to investigate, see Gvura people standing over the dead bodies of their comrades, and pull out their Czechis. The Gvuraniks spot them, go after them-lots of shooting, no one hit. The Arabs step on the gas, speed back to Hebron telling everyone that the Jews are on a rampage, murdering Palestinian heroes. To make matters worse, some professor from Bir Zeit-asshole punk named El Said-is visiting an uncle, hears the news, and steps out in the middle of the souq with an impromptu speech that whips up a mob. The rest you saw."


Marciano smoked some more, took another swallow from the canteen. A chorus of ambulance sirens rose shrilly and diminished, backed by racing engines, the still-lusty epithets of the Gvura people.


"In terms of your case," said the colonel, "we found a newspaper article in the Fiat-you know the one I mean."


"I haven't read the paper today," said Daniel.


"In that case I'll get it for you." Marciano got on his knees, stuck his head out of the truck, and called an MP over.


"Get the bag labeled Number Nine out of the evidence case."


The MP trotted off.


"Where's Kagan?" asked Daniel.


"With his wife. Shooting those Arabs seemed to shake her up. She collapsed shortly afterward-they took her to Hadassah for observation."


Daniel remembered the woman's quiet grace, hoped she was all right.


"What's the casualty situation?" he asked.


"The three dead ones from the Fiat. The pregnant one received only a few scratches, but it wouldn't surprise me if she loses her baby. Arnon's belly wound looked serious, lots of blood loss-when they carried him off he was unconscious. You just saw the one with the knife-no doubt he'll be a hero by this evening. Stupid bastard didn't leave us much choice. Six of my boys received flesh creases. Bunch of Arabs with rubber bullet injuries. We took another ten in custody, including El Said and the four gangsters in the second car-we're taking them to Ramie. You can have a go at them by evening, though I doubt you'll learn anything-just another action-reaction."


The MP came back with a paper bag. Marciano took it, pulled out a folded newspaper and gave it to Daniel.


This morning's Al Quds. A front-page headline that read: SEW EVIDENCE IN BUTCHER MURDERS POINTS TO ZIONIST murder PLOT. An Arabic translation of a wire service story by Mark Wilbur, augmented by florid inserts authored by the local editor.


"It ran in our papers too," said Marciano. "Without the extra bullshit."


"I've been out in the field since sunrise," said Daniel, immediately regretting the apologetic sound of it. The field. Walking the desert near the murder cave, his beeper signal weakened by the surrounding hills. Walking in circles, like some Judean hermit. Hoping to find… what? New evidence? Cosmic insight? Cut off from reality, until he returned to his car, got the riot call from Shmeltzer.


He read the article, grew progressively angrier with each sentence.


Mark Wilbur claimed to have received a message from someone-an anonymous someone, who the reporter strongly implied was the Butcher himself. A blank piece of paper upon which had been pasted two paragraphs excised from a Hebrew-language Bible, the precise translation and references supplied by "biblical scholars."


The first, according to Wilbur, was "the traditional Old Testament justification for the Judaizing of Palestine":


AND BECAUSE HE LOVED THY FATHERS, AND CHOSE THEIR SEED AFTER THEM, AND BROUGHT THEE OUT WITH HIS PRESENCE, WITH HIS GREAT POWER, OUT OF EGYPT; TO DRIVE OUT NATIONS FROM BEFORE THEE GREATER AND MIGHTIER THAN THOU, TO BRING THEE IN, TO GIVE THEE THEIR LAND FOR AN INHERITANCE, AS IT IS THIS DAY. (DEUTERONOMY 4:37-38).


The second was termed "a collection of Mosaic sacrificial rituals taken from the Book of Leviticus":


AND IF HE BRING A LAMB AS HIS OFFERING FOR A SIN-OFFERING, HE SHALL BRING IT A FEMALE WITHOUT BLEMISH. (4:32)


BUT THE INWARDS AND THE LEGS SHALL HE WASH WITH WATER. (1:13)


WHATSOEVER SHALL TOUCH THE FLESH THEREOF SHALL BE HOLY; AND WHEN THERE IS SPRINKLED OF THE BLOOD THEREOF UPON ANY GARMENT, THOU SHALT WASH THAT WHEREON IT WAS SPRINKLED IN A HOLY PLACE. (6:20)


Shall he wash with water, thought Daniel. Except for those close to the investigation, no one knew about the washing of the bodies. Barring a leak, that meant the paragraphs might very well be the real thing. Material evidence that Wilbur had failed to turn over.


He tightened his jaw, read on:


"… cannot dismiss the possibility of religious-ethnic motivations behind the Butcher slayings. Both victims were young Arab women, and though police have refused to discuss the details of the case, rumors of sacrificial mutilation have persisted since the discovery, almost a month ago, of the first victim, Fatma Rashmawi, 15."


The article went on that way for several more paragraphs, discussing the conflicts between "right-wing religious settlers on the West Bank and the indigenous Palestinian population," noting that "although prayer has replaced animal sacrifice in Jewish worship, frequent references to sacrificial ritual remain an important part of the liturgy," quoting choice phrases from Moshe Kagan's most inflammatory speeches, sing the Gvura leader's use of the Bible to justify "coer-territorial expansion." Citing the growing anger among many Israelis toward "what are perceived as random terrorist acts on the part of disenfranchised Palestinians."


Reminding everyone of the tradition of revenge in the Middle East.


Coming as close as possible to blaming the Gvuraniks, or someone like them, for the murders, without actually spelling it out.


But doing it subtly-managing to come across as objective and truth-seeking. Wreaking more damage with nuance and implication than by direct accusation.


"Wonderful thing, freedom of the press." Marciano smiled.


Daniel put the newspaper back in the bag, said, "I'll keep this. What else do you have?"


"All the weapons, tagged and ready for fingerprinting. We've tried to keep the car clean, too, but Gvura people were all over it. The Hebron revenge flat's sealed and guarded. When can your people get to it?"


"Right away. Can you patch me to French Hill?"


"Easy enough," said Marciano, crushing out his cigarette.


The two of them climbed out of the truck bed and back up into the cab. The colonel punched a few buttons, handed


Daniel the radio, said good-bye and good luck, and stepped out. Daniel watched him stride onto the asphalt, stooping to examine a bloodstain, conferring with an underling, gazing neutrally at the Gvura people, who were beginning to return to their homes.


The pace of activity had slowed. Only the heat remained constant. A flock of ravens rose from the vineyard, flying overhead in formation, then reversing itself and settling in the fig trees. Big, lazy-looking birds, their well-fed bodies sheathed by blue-black wings as glossy as an oil slick. Perched with uncharacteristic silence on the gray, knobby branches.


Suspicious creature, the raven. Noah had sent one out to seek dry land; it had come back before completing the journey. Convinced, according to the rabbis, that Noah had designs upon its mate.


Daniel stared at the birds for a moment, then got on the radio.


Wilbur never heard them coming. He was celebrating the Butcher-letter story-rounding off the afternoon at Fink's with a belly full of steak and chips washed down with shots of Wild Turkey and Heineken chasers. The place was empty-all the others were scrambling to write up the Gvura riot thing. Far as he was concerned, that was the same old stuff, be stale by sunrise. He was enjoying the solitude, easing down his fifth chaser and fading into a nice summer high, when he felt his elbows in the vise-grip, saw the gray sleeve hook around his neck and flash the badge in his face.


"What the-" He tried to turn around. A big, warm hand clamped around him and held his head still, exerting pressure behind the ears and keeping him staring straight ahead. Another hand took hold of his belt and pushed forward, preventing him from backing off the barstool.


He looked for the bartender, someone to witness what was going on. Gone.


"Police. Come with us," said a dry voice.


"Now wait one sec-" He was lifted off the stool, all booze-limp, marched out the door to a waiting car with its motor idling.


As they dragged him, he tried to clear his head, zero in on details.


The car: white Ford Escort four-door. No chance to look at the plates. The driver was shielding his face with a newspaper.


The rear door opened. He was eased in, next to a young guy. Good-looking. Tan. Bearded. Skintight red polo shirt, tight designer jeans. Angry face.


"Seat belt," said Dry Voice, and he got in, too, sandwiching Wilbur and slamming the door shut. Wilbur examined him: an older one, limp gray suit, glasses, pale face, beak-nosed and thin-lipped. Semitic version of the guy in "American Gothic." Something about him made Wilbur's stomach queasy.


He fought to suppress his fear, telling himself: No problem, this is a democracy. No Tontons Macoute/Savak types here, unless… they weren't policemen. All he'd seen of the badge was a flash of metal-cops in a democracy weren't supposed to behave like this.


Nasty thoughts flashed through his mind. Israeli mafia. Or some crazy Arab group-even though neither of the two in the back looked like Arabs. Maybe Gvura crazies getting back at him for the riot.


A fourth man came around from the rear of the car and got in front, next to the driver. Bushy black hair, big and broad-had to be the one who'd grabbed his neck. Black polo shirt. Huge, hunched shoulders-weight lifter's shoulders. The seat creaked when he moved.


"What the hell is going on?"


"Seat belt," repeated Dry Voice, and when Wilbur hesitated, both he and Handsome reached over and fastened the belt themselves, yanking it tight over his midriff.


The driver put the Escort in gear. Kinky-haired, modified Afro with a yarmulke bobby-pinned to the crown. Crocheted black yarmulke with red roses around the border. Band of dark skin showing above a white shirt collar-a black Jew?


Kinky backed out HaHistadrut Street, onto King George, drove north, shot the amber light at the Yafo intersection and continued on Straus, weaving in and out of traffic like some joyrider.


Straight out of a second-rate foreign film, thought Wilbur. French or Italian. Only this was real and he was scared shitless.


The Escort hurtled along atbreakneck speed until coming to a red light at Malkhei Yisrael, at which point Kinky hooked into an alley so narrow its stone walls threatened to scrape the sides of the car. Kinky maintained his pace, dodging potholes and rubbish.


Wilbur's fingernails dug into his knees. His tailbone was taking a beating, though most of the impact was absorbed by the bodies of Handsome and Dry Voice, compressing him shoulder to shoulder. They stared ahead, paying no attention to him, as if he were too insignificant to deal with. Smelling of cologne and sweat. Dry Voice kept one hand in his jacket.


Very subtle.


The alley hairpinned. Kinky kept speeding.


Wilbur stared at the floor in order to keep from heaving.


They emerged on Yehesqel, turned on Shmuel Hanavi, and Wilbur thought: They are police. Taking me to National Headquarters on French Hill.


Outrageous.


He permitted himself to get angry, began selecting the precise wording of his official protest.


Then the Escort bypassed the police compound and continued north and he felt the fear rise again in his gut, stronger, mingling with booze-tinged nausea.


"I demand to-" Croaking. Sounding like a wimp.


"Quiet," said Dry Voice, meaning it.


Kinky kept up the speed. They zipped through the northern suburbs, passed Ramot Eshkol, and the city stopped looking citylike.


Goddamned desert. Empty stretches that preceded the Ramot. Then the northern heights themselves.


Ramot A.


Ramot B.


Wilbur forced himself to keep concentrating on the details, keeping his mind on the story that would come out of all this. The story he was going to shove down these bastards' throats: Reporter abducted; State Department protests. International scandal. Exclusive story by Mark A. Wilbur. TV interviews, talk shows. Dinner at the White House. No problem selling this screenplay… who'd be right to play him? Redford? Too flat


On the story, off reality.


The four men in the car didn't talk. They really didn't seem concerned with him.


That scared him.


Details:


Apartment tracts knocked up quickly for new immigrants -clusters of no-frills rectangles, cinder block faced with limestone, sitting on dry beds devoid of landscaping. Depressing. Like the housing projects back in New York, but these had a ghost-town quality to them, separated from one another by acres of sand.


Laundry on lines.


A vest-pocket park shaded by pines and olives. Kerchiefed women pushing strollers. Hassid types walking with their hands clasped behind their backs. A small shopping center.


A handful of people. Too far to notice what was happening.


Or care.


The Escort kept barreling along, traveling so fast the chassis was rattling.


Ramot Pollin.


Fewer people, then none. Things were starting to look downright desolate.


Half-finished foundations. Scaffolding. The skeletal underpinnings of buildings. A prefab gas station on a concrete pad, the windows opaque with dust and still X-taped, four oblong trenches where the pumps were going to be.


But no workers, no signs of construction activity. Some goddamned strike, no doubt.


Trenches. Tractor treads. Craters occupied by dormant bulldozers and cranes, the dirt pushed up around the rims in soft brown pyramids.


Unfinished roads bleeding off into dust.


Quiet. Silent. Too damned silent.


A roller-coaster hump in the road, then a sharp dip, another construction site at the bottom, this one stillborn, completely deserted: a single story of cinder block, the rest wood frame. Off in the distance, Wilbur could see tents. Bedouins-where the hell were they taking him?


Kinky answered that question by driving off the road, down a muddy ditch, and onto the side. He circled the cinder-block wall until coming to a six-foot opening at the rear and driving through it.


Another car was parked inside, half-hidden by shadows. Red BMW, grayed by dust.


Kinky turned off the engine.


Wilbur looked around: dark, damp place, probably the future subterranean garage. Roofed with sheets of plywood and black plastic tarp. Garbage all over the dirt floor: nail-studded wood scraps, plasterboard fragments, shreds of insulation, bent metal rods, probably a healthy dose of asbestos particles floating in the air.


During orientation, Grabowsky had amused him with stories of how the Israeli mafia buried their victims in the foundations of buildings under construction. Religious Hassid who were kohens-some special kind of priest-afraid of going into the buildings because Jewish law prohibited them from being near dead bodies.


No longer amusing.


No, couldn't be. Kinky wore a yarmulke. Nice Jewish boy, no mafia.


Then he remembered some of the stuff that guys with yarmulkes had pulled off in the diamond district.


Oh, shit.


"Okay," said Dry Voice. He opened the door. Wilbur saw the gun bulge under his suit jacket. Wool suit-asshole wasn't even sweating.


All of them except Kinky got out of the car. Dry Voice took Wilbur's elbow and led him a few feet past the front bumper.


Handsome and Iron Pumper folded their arms across their chests, stood there staring at him. Iron Pumper turned full face. Wilbur saw he was an Oriental-goddamned Oriental giant with cold slit eyes. This had to be a dream. Too much booze-he'd wake up any moment with a four-plus hangover.


A door slammed. Kinky was out of the car now, holding an attache case in one hand, the paper he'd used to shield his face in the other.


Wilbur looked at the paper. This morning's international Trib, his Butcher-letter story on page two.


Dry Voice held on to his elbow. Handsome and Slant-Eye had backed away into the shadows, but he could still sense their presence.


Kinky came closer. Small guy-not black, more like a mixed-blood, the kind you saw all over Brazil. But with weird golden eyes that shone in the dimness like those of a cat. The hand holding the paper was a mess-stiff-looking, covered with shiny pink scars. Real contrast to the rest of him, which was all brown and smooth and seamless. Baby face. But the eyes were old.


"Hello, Mr. Wilbur." Soft voice, barely an accent.


"Who are you?" Who the fuck are you!


"Daniel Sharavi. I understand you've been asking about me."


Goddamned geezer at the archives. They all stuck together.


"In the course of my work-"


"That's what we want to talk to you about," said Sharavi. "Your work." He waved the Herald Tribune.


Wilbur felt the anger return. More than anger-rage-at what the bastards had put him through.


"This stinks," he said. "Kidnapping me like some-"


"Shut your fucking mouth," said Dry Voice, tightening the hold on his elbow. Heavier accent than Sharavi, but no mistaking the words or the tone.


Sharavi glanced at Dry Voice, smiled apologetically, as if excusing an errant brother. So this was going to be one of those good-cop-bad-cop routines


"Have a seat," said Sharavi, motioning to a plywood board suspended on cinder blocks.


"I'll stand."


Dry Voice led him to the board and sat him down. Hard.


"Stay."


Wilbur stared up at him. Asshole looked like an accountant. IRS auditor delivering bad news.


Wilbur kept eye contact. "These are Gestapo tactics," he said.


Dry Voice knelt in front of him, gave a very ugly smile. "You're an expert on Gestapo?"


When Wilbur didn't answer, the asshole stood, kicked the dirt, and said, "Shmuck."


Sharavi said something to him in Hebrew and the guy moved back, folded his arms over his chest like the others.


Sharavi lifted a cinder block, brought it close to Wilbur, and sat on it, facing him.


"Your article today was very interesting," he said.


"Get to the point."


"You used a biblical scholar to locate the precise references of the passages."


Wilbur said nothing.


"May I ask which scholar?"


"My sources are confidential. Your government assures the right-"


Sharavi smiled.


"Mutti Abramowitz isn't much of a scholar. In fact, his father told me his grades in Bible Studies have always been very poor."


Little guy put his hands on his knees and leaned forward, as if expecting an answer.


"What's your point?" said Wilbur.


Sharavi ignored the question, opened his attache case, and rummaged in it. Head concealed by the lid, he asked, "Where were you three Thursdays ago?"


"Now, how am I supposed to remember that?"


"The day before Juliet Haddad's body was found."


"I don't know where I was, probably following some… Whoa, wait a minute. I don't have to do this." Wilbur stood. "I want a lawyer."


"Why do you think you need one?" Sharavi asked, mildly.


"Because you people are trampling on my rights. My strong advice to you is quit right now and minimize the damage, because I'm going to raise a stink the likes of which-"


"Sit down, Mr. Wilbur," said Sharavi.


Dry Voice took a step forward, hand in his jacket. Sit, shmuck."


Wilbur sat, head swimming with booze and bad vibes.


"What were you doing three Thursdays ago?" Sharavi repeated.


"I have no idea. I'd just gotten back from Greece, but you guys probably know that, don't you?"


"Tell me everything you know about the murders of Fatma Rashmawi and Juliet Haddad."


"My articles speak for themselves."


Dry Voice said, "Your articles are shit."


"Tell me about the wounds on Juliet Haddad's body," said Sharavi, almost whispering.


"How the hell would I know anything about that?"


Sharavi unfolded the Herald Tribune, searched for a place with his finger, found it, and read out loud: '"… rumors of sacrificial mutilation have persisted.' Where did you hear those rumors, Mr. Wilbur?"


Wilbur didn't reply. Sharavi turned to the others and asked, "Have you heard such rumors?"


Three head shakes.


"We haven't heard any such rumors, Mr. Wilbur. Where did you hear them?"


"My sources are confidential."


"Your sources are shit," said Dry Voice. "You're a liar. You make them up."


"Inspector Shmeltzer lacks tact," said Sharavi, smiling, 'but I can't argue strongly with him, Mr. Wilbur." Little bastard held out his hands palms up, all sweetness and light. The palm of the messy hand was puckered with scar tis-sue.


"Mutti Abramowitz as a biblical scholar," he said, shaking his head. "A clown like Samir El Said as a sociological scholar. Rumors of 'sacrificial mutilations.' You have a vivid imagination, Mr. Wilbur."


"Lying shmuck," said Dry Voice.


"Listen," said Wilbur, "this good-cop-bad-cop stuff isn't going to work. I've watched the same movies you have."


"You like movies, don't you?" Sharavi reached in the briefcase, took out some papers, and handed them to Wilbur.


The notes and title page for his screenplay. Not the original, but photocopies.


"You have no right-"


"Very interesting reading," said Sharavi. "You seem to have many ideas about the Butcher."


"That's fiction-"


Sharavi smiled. "Many ideas," he repeated. "It was you who named him the Butcher, wasn't it? So in one sense you invented him."


"What else did you steal from my office?"


"Tell me everything you know about the murders of Fatma Rashmawi and Juliet Haddad."


"I already told you-everything I know is in my stories."


"Your stories are shit," said Dry Voice-Shmeltzer.


"This is outrageous," said Wilbur.


"Murder is always outrageous," said Sharavi.


"Breaking into my office, stealing my personal-"


"Just like Watergate," suggested Sharavi.


"Wilburgate," said Shmeltzer. "Shitheadgate." He said something in Hebrew. Handsome and Slant-Eye laughed.


Sharavi shook his head. The others quieted.


"A good imagination," he said, returning his attention to Wilbur. "You heard rumors that the police haven't heard, receive letters from someone you claim is the Butcher-"


"I claimed nothing of the sort, I simply-"


"You implied it strongly. Just as you implied that the Gvura people were responsible-"


"I analyze facts," said Wilbur. "Do my research and come up with feasible hypotheses-"


"Feasible hypotheses?"


"You got it, chief."


"You seem to know more about the Butcher than anyone. His motives, his 'sacrificial mutilations,' what goes on inside his head. He must appreciate your understanding, think of you as a friend, because he sends you a letter-a letter without postage. A letter without any fingerprints or serum traces except the ones that match those removed from your liquor bottle and typewriter. Your fingerprints. Your serum type."


"That envelope was stuck in my mail."


"Yes, that's what Mutti says. However, the mail lay in the box there for an hour before he collected it and brought it to you."


"Meaning what?"


"Meaning perhaps you placed it there yourself."


"That's absurd."


"No," said Sharavi. "That's a feasible hypothesis. Mutti Abramowitz as a biblical scholar is absurd."


"Why would I do something like that?" asked Wilbur, knowing the question was stupid, the answer obvious. "I report the news," he said. Talking to the walls. "I don't create it."


Sharavi was silent, as if digesting that.


"This morning," he said, finally, "five men died, a woman will probably lose her baby, another man, a good portion of his intestines. Several others were injured. All because of "news' that you invented."


"Blame the messenger," said Wilmur. "I've heard it before."


"I'm sure you have. My research reveals you have a history of inventing the news. Mardi Gras ritual murders that turn out to be suicides, exposes that end up exposing nothing."


Wilbur fought to stay cool. "We have nothing to talk about."


"But that's old mischief," said Sharavi. "My primary concern is how far your current inventing went. Could you have been hungry enough for a juicy crime story to supply crime?"


Wilbur shot out of his chair. "What the hell are you saying!"


Sharavi closed his attache case, placed it on his lap, and smiled. •


"Learning by doing, Mr. Wilbur. It ensures realism."


"This conversation is over." Wilbur's heart was pounding, his hands shaking. He forced a cool tone: "Nothing more without my lawyer."


Sharavi waited a long time before speaking. Let the silence sink in.


"Where were you three Thursdays ago, Mr. Wilbur?"


"I don't know-but I was in Greece when the first one was killed! Across the goddamned Mediterranean!"


"Sit down," said Shmeitzer.


"Bullshit," said Wilbur. "Pure and total bullshit harassment."


Sharavi waved Shmeitzer away and said, "Remain on your feet if you like." The gold eyes remained steady. "Tell me, Mr. Wilbur, what sharp-bladed instruments do you own besides the Sabatier cutlery in your kitchen and the Swiss Army knife in your desk?"


"Absurd," said Wilbur. His damned heart wouldn't quiet.


"Do you rent another flat besides the one on Rehov Alharizi?"


"I want a lawyer."


"You've quoted Samir El Said, extensively. What's the nature of your relationship with him?"


Wilbur didn't answer.


"Talk, shmuck," said Dry Voice.


"I have nothing to say. This whole thing is a crock."


"Are you engaged in a homosexual relationship with Professor El Said?"


That took Wilbur by surprise. He tried to maintain a poker face but, from Sharavi's smile, knew he'd been unsuccessful.


"I thought not," said the little bastard. "You are a little old for him."


"I'm not homosexual," said Wilbur, thinking: Why the hell am I defending myself?


"You like women?"


"Do you?"


"I don't like cutting them up."


"Oh, Christ."


"Shmuck's religious," said Dry Voice.


"I have nothing to say," said Wilbur.


"Look," said Sharavi, "we have plenty of time. When it gets dark, we'll use flashlights to chase away the rats."


"Suit yourself," said Wilbur.


But the stonewall didn't work.


Sharavi proceeded to question him for another hour and a half about the murders. Times, places, where he bought his linens, what kind of soap he used, how many kilometers a day he drove. Were his eyes healthy, what drugs he took, did he shower or take baths. What were his views on personal hygiene. Seeming irrelevancies. Picayune details that he'd never thought about. Asking the same questions over and over, but changing the phrasing ever so slightly. Then coming out of left field with something that sounded totally irrelevant and ended up being somehow tied in with something else.


Trying to confuse him.


Treating him like a goddamned murderer.


He was determined to resist, give the little bastard nothing. But eventually he found himself relenting-worn down by the smiles and the repetition, Sharavi's unflappable manner, the way he ignored Wilbur's outbursts, refused to take "umbrage at Wilbur's insults.


By the time the reporter realized he was losing, he'd already lost, answering questions with numbed docility. His feet tired from standing, but refusing to sit for fear of underscoring his submission.


As the interrogation wore on, he rationalized it away by telling the little bastard was giving in too. Acting nicer.


Treating him like an adviser, not a suspect.


Believing him.


After ninety minutes, Sharavi stopped the questions, chatted with him about trivia. Wilbur felt himself loosen with relief. Sat down, finally, and crossed his legs.


Twenty minutes later, the chatting ceased. The basement cavity had grown darker, colder. Nightfall.


Sharavi said something to Slant-Eye, who came over and offered Wilbur a cigarette. He refused. Finally, Shavari clicked the attache case shut, smiled, and said, "That's it."


"Great," said Wilbur. "Drop me back at Beit Agron?"


"Oh, no," said Sharavi, as if the request had taken him by surprise.


Slant-Eye put a hand on Wilbur's shoulder. Handsome walked over, put handcuffs on him.


"This is Subinspector Lee," said Sharavi, looking at the


Oriental. "And this is Detective Cohen. They'll be taking back to Jerusalem. To the Russian Compound, where you'll be booked for obstructing a criminal investigation and withholding evidence."


A flood of words rose in Wilbur's gullet. He lacked the will to expel them and they stagnated.


Sharavi dusted off his trousers.


"Good afternoon, Mark. If there's anything else you wish to tell me, I'll be happy to listen."


When the BMW had driven off, Daniel asked Shmeltzer, "What do you think?"


"Only thing I got from his eyes is alcoholism-you should have seen the bottles in his flat. As far as the grin goes, we didn't give him much chance to smile, did we, Dani? Nothing we've turned up in the flat or the office implicates him, and the Greek thing checks out as an alibi for Fatma's murder-though if he's got pals, that's meaningless. What did Ben David tell you about the letter?"


"That the Bible quotes could mean a real fanatic or someone wanting to sound like one. One thing's for certain: Whoever wrote it is no true scholar-the passages from Leviticus are out of sequence and out of context. The one about washing the legs refers to a male animal. It smells deceptive-someone trying to distract us."


"Someone trying to pin it on the Jews" said Shmeltzer. "Exactly this Wilbur shmuck's style." He spat into the dirt. "Ben David have anything to say about the printing used for the address?"


"The block letters were written very slowly and deliberately by someone familiar with writing English. Along with the fact that English was used for the address instead of Hebrew, that could support our foreigner angle, except that the Bible quotes were in Hebrew. But Meir Steinfeld came by just before I picked you guys up, told me about the prints and the serum and shed some light on the Hebrew. The text matched that of a gift edition Hebrew-English Bible-common tourist item, printed locally. Mass-market-no use checking bookstores. He showed me a copy, Nahum. The text is printed correspondingly. Anyone could read the English, then cut out the matching Hebrew verse. Addressing the envelope would be a different matter."


"Some fucking anti-Semite," said Shmeltzer. "Fucking blood libel."


"The alternative, of course, is that whoever sent the letter knows Hebrew and English and used both languages to play games with us, show off how clever he is. That kind of posturing is consistent with serial killers."


"If the letter-writer's the killer."


"If," agreed Daniel. "It could be pure mischief. But there's the washing reference."


"Press leak," said Shmeltzer."


"If it was, someone in the press would have used it. Even Wilbur made no mention of it specifically, just talked in general terms about sacrifices. And Ben David thought it looked promising from a handwriting perspective, said the slowness and the pressure of the writing indicated calculation and suppressed anger-lots of anger. The tearing of the paper shows that the anger is threatening to break through the suppression."


"Meaning?"


"If the writer's our killer, we're probably in for another murder. Maybe soon-today is Thursday."


"Not if Wilbur's our guy and we keep him locked up," said Shmeltzer.


"Not necessarily. You're the one who likes the group theory."


"I like this guy, Dani. Wouldn't mind cooling his ass at the compound for a while, see what a little tenderizing does to his memory for detail. At the very least we can tie him up for a while on the obstruction thing, fucking bastard."


"You enjoyed the interrogation, didn't you, Nahum?"


"Labor of love."


The two of them got in the Escort. Daniel revved up the engine, drove out of the basement and across the rocky surface of the site. Gravel spattered the underside of the car. Only a semi-circle of sun was visible over the horizon. The darkness had turned the partially framed building into something ephemeral. Atrophied.


"Speaking of obstruction," said Shmeltzer, "Drori, the anesthesiologist, is eliminated. Night of both murders he was on duty at the hospital, working emergency surgeries. Thing that pisses me off is that the Thursday night that Fatma was killed, Krieger-the one who informed on him-was there loo. They did an operation together. Krieger was trying to harass the guy."


"Personal thing, as we suspected," said Daniel.


Shmeltzer gave a disgusted look. "I tailed Drori to find out where he goes on those middle-of-the-night drives when Krieger's on duty. Straight to Krieger's flat to fuck Krieger's wife. Same old jealousy shit-bastard was trying to use us as his henchmen. If we weren't so busy, I'd pull him in, teach him a lesson."


"Anything on the desert hikes?"


"University and the Nature Conservancy still checking- the usual bureaucratic bullshit."


Daniel steered the Escort onto the road and headed south. They rode for a while without speaking, past the upper Ramot, and down toward A and B. Just ahead of them, an Egged bus had pulled up to the curb. Dozens of dark-garbed yeshiva boys alighted; their mothers, waiting at the bus stop, greeted them with soft bosoms, kisses, and snacks. The bus swung out sharply, moving nonchalantly into the path of the Escort, and Daniel had to weave sharply to avoid hitting it.


"Idiot," muttered Shmeltzer. His glasses had been knocked loose and he straightened them. A hundred meters later he said, "Busting a journalist, Herr Pakad. Going to bring down big buckets of political shit."


"I'll wear a hat," said Daniel. He pressed his foot to the floor and sped back toward the city and its secrets.


Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, thought the Grinning Man, masturbating. Then thinking: I sound like Lawrence fucking


Welk, and starting to giggle.


But it was wonderful. Sand-niggers and kikes chewing each other up. Ripping and squeaking like the little hook-nosed rodents they were.


And he, the trainer.


Project Untermensch.


He flashed a mind picture of opposing rat hordes, charging at each other on little rat feet. Pouring out of sewer pipes, up out of putrid storm drains, bubbling to the surface of sinkholes.


Little brown sand-nigger rats with little rag heads and black whiskers. Little pink-and-gray kike rats with yarmulkes and chin-beards. Yammering and shrieking and snapping, biting off snouts and lips and leaving gaping holes like the pictures in Dieter Schwann's big green book.


Chomp. There goes a tail.


Chomp. There goes an ear.


Chewing each other up until there was nothing left but little bone piles and little moist rat stains that you could clean up really good.


And blessed silence-space for a white man to walk.


No more bad-machine noises.


Plenty of elbow room.


Chomp.


What a terrific feeling, to set something into motion and watch it work out just the way you planned.


Real power.


Real science.


Power. The thought of it made him come sooner than he'd planned. He was lost in the orgasm for a few brain-shattering moments, rocking back and forth on the bed, stroking and squeezing himself with one hand, caressing the half-healed swastika wounds on his thighs with the other.


Mind control.


The kind he'd wielded over Doctor, though the fucker had been only one rat and now he had lots of them scampering on command.


But an important rat, a mind-fucker par excellence.


The Michelangelo of mind pictures.


No. Dali. There was a mind-fucker - limpo clocks, quails cooked in their own shit. And they said he was a kike. Lies!


Power over Doctor. He'd been careful not to overdo the extortion thing - dear old dad was a greedy pig, didn't give a shit about him. Push him too far and no telling what he'd do.


The important thing was to keep a good sense of balance. Hit the fucker for favors that were really important. Squeeze him hard and fast, no mercy, then disappear. The rest of the time, let him go about his life deluding himself that he was a free man.


The squeeze: cash. Lots of it-more than anyone else his age had, but nothing that would break Doctor-fucker kept cracking chests and raking it in, all those apartment buildings he owned, blue-chip stocks and certificates of deposit.


Money junkie, like all of them.


How do you teach a Jewish baby to swiml


Throw a penny in the pool. The rest takes care of itself.


The little bit he squeezed added up surprisingly quickly. Some of it went into a savings account, some in a safe deposit box, along with the bonds.


Tax-free municipals and high-yield corporates-he clipped coupons every month, saved the principal, pocketed the interest. Doctor told his attorney the time had come to pass some of his holdings along to his beloved son in order to get around the inheritance tax.


Estate planning. Gee, what a neat dad.


Cash and bonds and growth stocks that he could sell whenever he wanted. Doctor introduced him to his broker, told the slimy button-down asshole he wanted his beloved son to learn the financial ropes at a young age, be able to make his own decisions.


Superdad.


And the cars-the Jag totally cool but always in the shop. Perfect once in a great while for cruising in high style, feeling like King Shit, the Emperor of Real Science. The Plymouth ugly but dependable, plenty of trunk space for toys and whatever.


Doctor gave him three gas credit cards. The maintenance bills and insurance premiums were always paid right on time.


He had the house to himself-Doctor had moved out, lived in a condo near the hospital. She was grokked-out all the time now, sleeping and pissing in her bed, brain circuits totally fried.


Doctor, terrific husband that he was, hired private-duty nurses to take care of her. Different ones each week, fat nigger broads and swishy faggots-they just sat there doing crossword puzzles and smoking, changed the sheets, stole jewelry and food.


The maids were gone; in their place, a retardo nigger who came in once a week to dust and clear away the dishes.


The house had started to smell old and stale. Like death. Only his room was clean. And the library.


He cleaned those himself.


Cleanliness next to godliness.


Nice quiet house-he was Lord of the Manor.


He made a stab at junior college, taking Mickey Mouse courses and attending just often enough to pass. Kept his job at the hospital for fun, working three afternoons a week delivering mail-richest fucking mailboy in the city.


He read journals and books in the hospital library, learned a lot. Snuck into the pathology lab, opened body drawers and fondled the cadavers, rubbed himself against cold flesh, ogled welcome holes and jars of organs. Coded new mind pictures.


Nighttime was the right time.


Cruising Nasty Boulevard, ogling the geeks, freaks, junkies, slime-os, and whores. Using the Jag for show, the Plymouth for serious business. He craved new identities, sought out the theatrical supply shops on Nasty and bought disguises: hats, glasses and sunglasses, false mustaches, beards and wigs, to make himself look different. Be different. Prac-ticed talking voices, using different mannerisms.


He could be anyone!


In the beginning he just cruised and ogled. Passed the motel where he'd caught Doctor and the candy-striper, saw only soft cars, a different slant at the desk.


He stopped, closed his eyes, and wondered what was going on inside. How many whores were fucking how many geeks, the things they were doing, a treasure trove of mind pictures. Whores, the ultimate females.


He decided to relate to them, cruised by them for weeks, catching smiles, but not ready to make contact, then finally doing it, heart pounding the same way it had when he sat on the stairs.


He picked one at random, from a hot-pants her leaning against a lmppost. Spoke his lines.


didn't even bother to notice what she looked like until she'd gotten in and he'd driven a couple of blocks.


Total downer: fat nigger bitch, Ubangi lips and white eye shadow. Sagging tits, stretch marks-she had to be forty.


They pulled off on a side street in the Plymouth, agreed to a blow-job in the front seat.


He finished fast; the bitch coughed and spat him out into a handkerchief as if he were garbage. Wholly unsatisfactory, but a start.


The next few times were the same, but still he liked it, collecting pictures for the memory file. Lying in bed hours later, imagining himself later opening up the whores, exploring their welcome holes, cleaning them and feeling totally cool and in charge.


Then he met Nightwing.


She worked by herself, on a quiet corner several blocks east of the hot-pants hens. Good bone structure despite the red-black lipstick, chalk-white Vampira makeup, and mile-long false eyelashes. Meaty thighs bulging out of a black silk microskirt. All in black.


A little older than he, early twenties probably. Short and stacked, long dark hair, big dark eyes, a terrific face.


A Sarah face!


That was the main thing! The resemblance totally freaked him out-so much that the first time he saw her he sped up and drove by without doing a thing. Drove for a mile until he'd gotten hold of himself, then circled back on the boulevard, hanging a U and cruising slowly toward her street corner.


In the Jag, top down, tweed jacket, deerstalker cap, bristly mustache. Identity: British sophisticate.


She was talking to this fat spic, haggling. The spic shook his head and walked away. She flipped him the bird.


He slowed down, took a good look at her, at the Sarah face.


She saw the car first, shiny bumpers, sloping headlights, hard-on front end. Smelled money, looked up at him and licked her lips. totaly sharp little white teeth. Cat teeth.


Cutie, wanna party? nurses accent. Wop? Spic?


Still freaked, he passed her by again, looked in the rear-view mirror and saw her flip him off.


Next night he was in the Plymouth, different hat, no fake hair. No recognition.


Hey, cutie.


He leaned over and pushed the door open: Hop right in, babe. Saying it movie-stud cool, but so nervous a tickle would have made him pee his pants.


She came to the curb, leaned in, tits hanging out of a black vinyl halter.


Well, hello there. Looking him over.


Hi, babe.


More once-over, the false lashes opening and closing like moth wings. Then backing off, the you're-not-no-cop-are-you game.


Charming smile: Do I look like a cop, babe?


No one looks like a cop, cutie.


Hold the smile, flash the cash: If I wanted to talk all night, I'd have joined a rap group.


She hesitated, looked around, scratched a fishnet knee.


He edged the Plymouth forward an inch.


Hold on, cutie.


Now she's smiling, all cat teeth, evil-Sarah. Watching her, he got totally turned on. His hard-on like a ton of galvanized pipe.


She got in, closed the door, and stretched. Catlike. Named a price.


Fine, babe. So casual.


She studied him again. Stretched.


Go three blocks and hang a right, cutie.


What's there?


A nice comfy spot for partying.


Two minutes later, the old front-seat head-in-lap cliche, but different: He'd expected to shoot off right away, but the Sarah-resemblance created mind pictures that kept him going for a while. He made her work, pushed down on her head, wrapped her hair around his fingers, then gave it to her.


All right!


And this one didn't spit: Yum. With a smile.


Lying through her teeth, but he loved it nonetheless.


Loved her.


Because it was true love, he paid her more than they'd agreed on, looked for her the next night and the next, not knowing her name, not knowing who to ask for-Sarah who swallows? Went home hungry, cruised, stole a stray dog and feasted on science and the memories until the third night, when he spotted her on a different corner, even farther east.


Still in black, still beautiful.


No recognition, until she got close.


Well, hello, cutie.


Weird accent, but definitely not spic.


After she did him, he asked what her name was.


Nightwing.


What kind of name is that?


My street name, cutie.


What's your real name?


The street is real, cutie. You ask too many questions. Talk's a waste of time. Cat smile. Well, well, would you loo-ook at that… Hey, Youngblood-how about seconds? You're so cute, I'll give you a discount.


I'll pay you regular.


Well, aren't you sweet-ooh, so impatient. Go ahead, push my head, pull my hair-a little harder, even, if it gets my cutie off.


They dated regularly, at least once a week, sometimes twice. Driving farther and farther away from Nasty, up into the hills that overlooked the boulevard. Parking on cul-de-sacs and tree-blackened side streets, always blow-jobs-neither of them wanted anything messy.


Casual dates, no holding-hands-in-the-movie-theater bullshit. He liked the honesty, the fact that neither of them felt a need for conversation and other lies.


But learning a little about her anyway-she liked to talk when she reapplied her lipstick.


She was from out of town, had worked Nasty for six months, first with a pimp but going it alone now. The pimp, some evil nigger named BoJo, had accused her of holding out cash and cut her up. She showed him the scar under one tit, bumpy pink zipper. He licked it.


Being an independent meant she had to cover her ass at all times, stay away from the pimp-slaves, restrict herself to quiet corners. Which was getting tougher to do-the pimps were spreading out, pushing her east, away from the Nasty Strip hot spots. But the hills were okay. Everything was okay:


I got no problems, cutie. I got no problem making ends meet-if you dig what I'm saying, cutie pie.


She'd volunteer a little info, but wouldn't answer questions, not even about the accent, which he still couldn't | place-gypsy?


The secrecy didn't bother him. In fact, he liked it.


None of that peace-love-confiding-and-relating scam.


He paid; she sucked. He started keeping an ice chest in the trunk of the Plymouth, brought beer, Pepsi, and orange soda along. She washed her mouth out afterward, licked his


| nipples through his shirt with a cold tongue. Most of the time it got him going for seconds.


He was becoming an expert, could go longer and longer now, volunteered to pay her for her time instead of by the act. She squealed with delight, told him he was a total sweetie. Went down on him with fake enthusiasm so real it made his head spin, gagging and whispering that she'd do anything for him, just name it.


Just do what you're doing, babe.


He gave himself a street name, too: Dr. Terrific.


Mind picture: DT loves n carved into the cerebral cor-


C'mon, cutie. You're too young to be a doctor. You'd be surprised.


But you got money like a doctor, don't you? Want to earn some more? Right on. Later:


If you're a doctor, you probably got all sorts of far-out drugs, right?


Drugs are bad for you.


You're putting me on now, right?


Mysterious smile.


After their twentieth date, she snorted heroin and offered him some. He said no, watched her get all drowsy and mellow, played with her body while she lay there half-grokked.


True love.


At nineteen, he could tell from the way people ogled him that he was good-looking. Was certain that he looked older-maybe twenty-four or five. At nineteen and a half, life got cleaner: She died, just stopped breathing in bed and lay there in her own filth for two hours before one of the hired nurses came up from the kitchen and noticed.


The house was totally his now. It hadn't taken much to "convince" Doctor to let him keep living in it.


Nineteen and a half, and totally on top of the world: his own pad, endless bucks, and head-in-lap true love.


He cleaned out the Ice Palace, had the carpets ripped up, gave everything away. Told the retardo nigger to spray it with disinfectant, open all the windows. Decided it would stay empty forever.


He woke up one morning feeling terrific and filled with a sense of purpose. He'd been waiting for the right time to start the investigation, knew this was it, and started looking in the Yellow Pages under Private Detectives.


He wanted a one-man agency; the big firms were all fat on big-business bucks, not likely to take him seriously.


He found half a dozen possibles, all in low-rent areas, phoned them, listened to their voices, and made an appointment with the one who sounded the hungriest.


Slimeball named J.Walter Fields, bad address not far from the Nasty Strip.


He made an appointment for late in the afternoon.


The office was on the fourth floor of a decaying walkup, winos dozing near the front entrance, half the suites unoccupied, shit-colored cracked linoleum, bare light bulbs and empty sockets, the hallways stinking of piss.


Fields's place was a glass-doored single room with the men's John on one side, an answering service company on the other.



RELIABLE INVESTIGATORS.



J.W.FIELDS, PRES.



Inside was pure Late Show cliche: old-clothes smell, grimy walls, portable fan on a chair, metal desk and file cabi-nets. A flyspecked window offered a view of inert neon signs and the tar-paper roof of the walkup across the alley.


Fields was a short, fat bag of slime in his late fifties. Wet, hungry eyes, bad suit, and receding gums. He kept his feet up on the desk and popped licorice drops in his mouth while raising one eyebrow and staring at his visitor. Making a big show of being bored.


"Yeah?"


"We have an appointment." Speaking in a deep voice.


Fields glanced down at a big old-fashioned metal desk calendar resting on a rust-specked metal base. "You're Dr. Terrif, huh?" Pronouncing it tariff.


'That's right."


"The fuck you trying to pull, kid? Get outa here. Don't waste my time."


"Pressed for time, are you?"


"Watch your mouth, kid." A grubby thumb pointed to the door. "The fuck out."


Boyish shrug. "Oka-ay." Pulling out a thick roll of bills, putting it back, and turning to go.


Slimeball let him get to the door, then spoke up. Straining to keep the hunger out of his voice.


"Whoa, what's on your mind, kid?"


'Doctor."


"Sure, sure. You're a doctor, I'm Mr. Universe."


Scornful look at the slimeball: "We have nothing to talk about." Saying it with class, swinging the door open and walking out.


He'd gone ten paces down the hall before hearing Fields's cheap-shoe shuffle. "C'mon… Doc. Don't be sensitive."


He ignored the whining, kept on walking.


"Let's talk. Doc." Fields was trotting to catch up. "C'mon, Dr Terrif."


Stopping, swiveling, staring at the pathetic slime.


"Your manners stink, Fields."


"Listen… I didn't-"


"Apologize." Power.


Fields hesitated, looked sick, as if standing on a diving board suspended over a cesspool.


Tick-tock, licking his lips. You could see the dollar signs bounce like slot-machine fruit in the fucker's eyes.


Split-second later, he sucked in his breath and dived in: "You got to understand… Doc. My business, you get all types, all kinds of scams. Just trying to cover my butt…You got a young face, good genes, lucky guy, Doc… Okay, I'm sorry. How say we start over?"


Back in the rathole of an office, Fields picked up a gray mug that had once been white and offered to fix him instant coffee.


I'd rather drink snake-jizz, fucker. "Let's get down to business, Fields."


"Sure, sure, at your service. Doc."


He told the slime what he wanted. Fields listened hard, trying to imitate an intelligent life form. Popping licorice and saying "Uh huh" and "Uh huh, Doc."


"Think you can handle it?"


"Sure, sure, Doc, no problem. This guy Schwann, you into him for bucks or vicey versey?"


"That's none of your concern." Saying it automatically, in a totally cool way. The deep voice making him sound just like a rich guy, totally in charge-which he was, when you got down to it. Built to rule.


"Okay, no problem, Doc. Only sometimes it helps to know about the motivation, if you know what I'm sayin'."


"Just do what I pay you for and don't worry about motivation."


"Sure, sure."


"When can you have the information?"


"Hard to tell. Doc. Depends on lots of things. You ain't givin' me much to work with."


"Here's your advance. Plus." Standing and peeling off bills, a hundred more than the slime had asked for. Doing it offhand, in a totally cool manner.


"I got expenses, Doc."


Another hundred passed into the slime's paw. "Have the information in three weeks and there's an extra two hundred in it for you."


Fields nodding energetically, just about coming in his cheap-suit trousers. "Okay, sure, Doc, three weeks, you're top priority. Where can I reach you?"


"I'll reach you. Sit down. I'll see myself out."


"Yeah, sure, pleasure doing business with you."


After leaving the office, he closed the door, stood to the side for a moment, and heard the slime say "Fucking rich kid."


Nightwing started using heroin in front of him on a regular basis. Snorting the first few times, then skin-popping.


I don't mainline, cutie. That's how you really get fucked up.


But ten dates later, she was shooting it into a vein behind her leg.


I can handle it.


He'd read plenty of medical books on addiction, knew she was full of shit, biochemically hooked, but didn't say anything. When she nodded off, he used the time to explore her body. She knew what he was doing, smiled and made little cat sounds while he poked and probed and nibbled and tasted.


One night, while parked on a side street in the hills, Nightwing sprawled across the front seat of the Plymouth, he heard racing engines, saw red lights-pair of cop cars speeding by, on their way to check out something in one of the hill houses. Break-in? Silent burglar alarm? If so, the cops would be back, cruising the hills, looking for suspects. He thought of the heroin in Nightwing's black vinyl purse and began to freak out.


A bust for dope-the perfect life blown to bits!


He put the Plymouth in neutral, coasted downhill with his lights off. Nightwing stayed fast asleep, rolling with the motion of the car, snoring like a little sow. At that moment he saw her as filth, hated her, wanted to open her up, dive in, clean her. Then love thoughts took over and replaced the scientific ones.


He coasted all the way to Nasty, turned the engine and headlights on, merged with the traffic, and tried to calm down. But he stayed freaked at the thought of being busted for dope, had read about prison in psychiatry books, and knew what happened to fresh young white meat.


Deprivation-induced homosexuality: Locked in a cell with psycho niggers who'd ream his ass. His hold over Doctor loosened, the fucker'd be in charge of the lawyers, be able to keep him there as long as he wanted. Maybe even hire some nigger to slice him with a homemade shiv.


He pulled off the boulevard, drove six blocks, parked, and reached over for Nightwing's purse. The strap was under her ass. He tugged. She stirred but didn't wake.


Quickly, frantically, he rummaged through gum wrappers and tissues, plastic wallet, comb, makeup, breath-mint roll, foil rubber packets, and all the other crap she kept in there, before finding the little glassine envelope. Tossing it out of the car, then driving another half mile before feeling safe.


He pulled over again, under a street light, cut the engine. The purse was in his lap. Nightwing was still sleeping.


As he calmed down, curiosity overpowered his fear. He opened the purse, removed the plastic wallet.


Inside was a driver's license, picture of Nightwing without Vampira makeup, just a pretty, dark girl, Sarah-twin.


Lilah Shehadeh. Five two, hundred and fourteen. Birth date that made her twenty-three. Address in Niggertown, probably from her days with BoJo.


Shehadeh. What the hell kind of name was that?


When she awoke, he told her about ditching her dope. She sat up sharply, started to get all pissed.


Oh, shit! That was China fucking White!


What was it worth?


Hundred bucks.


Bullshit, babe.


Fifty-and that's no bullshit. China White's heavy duty-


Here's sixty. Buy yourself some more. But don't carry it when you're with me.


She snapped up the money. Fun guy, you are.


Flames of rage seared him from throat to asshole. The bad-machine noise grew deafening.


He gave her a long, heavy stare, totally scornful, just like the one he'd used to whip Fields into shape.


This is our last date, babe.


Panic under the mile-long lashes: Aw, c'mon, cutie.


It's not fun for me either, babe.


She reached out, ran her long black fingernails over his forearm. He felt nothing-being cool was easy.


Aw, c'mon, Dr. Cutes. I was just kidding. You're real fun, the best. Grab. The biggest.


He removed her fingers, shook his head sadly.


Time for both of us to move on, babe.


Aw, c'mon, we been having so much fun. Don't let a little-She was whining. The bad-machines echoed in his head, making him feel hollow. Useless.


His hand was around her neck in a flash. Thin neck, soft neck, nice and fragile under his grip. He pushed her back against the door of the car. Saw the terror in her eyes and felt his hard-on grow gargantuan.


A little pressure on the carotid, cut off the blood flow to the brain for a split second, then release, let her breathe. Let her know what he could do if he wanted. That she was a bug over a flame. Dangling in the grip of a pair of tweezers.


Let her know who controlled the tweezers.


Listen carefully, babe. Okay?


She tried to talk. Fear had frozen her vocal cords.


I'm perfectly happy to date you-you're terrific. But we've got to come to an understanding. Okay? Nod if you agree.


Nod.


The beauty of this relationship is that we give each other what we need. Right?


Nod.


Which means both of us have to stay happy.


Nod.


I don't care if you want to kill yourself with heroin. But I don't want you putting me in danger. That's fair, isn't it?


Nod.


So no dope when you're with me, please. A beer's okay, one or two at the most. If you ask my permission and I


give it. No surprises. I respect your rights and you respect mine. Okay?


Nod.


Still friends?


Nod, nod, nod.


He let go of her. Her eyes stayed big with fear-he could see the respect in them.


Here, babe. He gave her an extra fifty. This is for goodwill, let you know I only want the best for you.


She tried to take the money. Her hands were shaking. He tucked it between her tits. Pointed at his crotch and said, I'm ready to go again.


After they finished, he asked her:


What kind of name is Shehadeh?


Arabic.


You're an Arab.


Fuck, no, I'm an American.


But your family's Arab?


I don't want to talk about them. Defiantly. Then looking at him in panic, wondering if she'd pissed him off again.


He smiled inside. Thought: The relationship's climbed to a new level. Still casual dating and true love, but now the roles were set. Both of them knew their parts.


He held her face in his hands, felt her tremble. Kissed her on the lips, no tongue, just friendly. Gently-letting her know everything was okay. He was merciful.


They'd have a long, happy life together.


He met with Fields three weeks after giving the slime the assignment. Grubby little fucker was surprisingly thorough, had a thick file labeled schwann, d. clutched in his grubby little hands.


"How you doin', Doc?"


"Here's your money. What do you have?"


Fields stuffed the money in his shirt pocket. "Good news and bad news time, Doc. The good news is I found out all about him. The bad news is the sonofabitch is dead."


Saying it with a twinkle in his eye that signed his own death certificate.


"Dead?"


"As a doorknob." Slimeball shrugged. "Sometimes in these bad-debt cases you can sue the estate in probate court, try to collect, but this Schwann was a foreigner-goddamned Kraut. His body was shipped back to Krautland. Try to collect from over there, you're gonna need an international lawyer."


Dead. Daddy dead. His roots completely severed. He sat there, numb, flooded with pain.


Fields mistook the numbness for disappointment over the debt, tried to comfort him with "Tough luck, eh, Doc? Anyway, guy like you, being a doctor and all that, should be able to write it off, pay less taxes this year. Could be rse, eh?"


Babbling. Making things worse for himself.


The slime was staring at him. He shook himself out of the numbness.


"Give me the file."


"I got a report for you, Doc. All summed up and everything."


"I want the file."


"Eh, usually I keep the file. You want a copy, I got Xeroxing charges, extra expenses."


"Would twenty dollars take care of it?"


"Uh, yeah-thirty would be more like it. Doc."


Fields took the three tens and held out the folder.


"All yours, Doc."


"Thanks." He stood up, took the folder with one hand, picked up the old-fashioned desk calender with the other, and slammed the fucker across the face with the rusty metal base.


Fields went down without a sound, slumping on the desk. A red stain spread from under his face and saturated the blotter.


He wrapped his hands in tissues, lifted the slime, and inspected him. The front of Fields's face was flattened and bloody, the nose a soft smear. Still a weak wrist pulse.


He put him facedown on the desk, slammed him on the back of the head with the calendar base, kept slamming him, enjoying it. Making him pay for Schwann, for the twinkle in his slimy eyes.


No pulse-how could there be? The medulla oblongata had been turned to shit.


Looked out the window: only neon, and pigeons on the roof. He drew the shade, locked the door, searched for any mention of his or Schwann's names in any other file or in the calendar, then wiped his hands and everything he'd touched clean with a handkerchief-the important thing was to clean up properly.


A little blood had spattered on his shirt. He buttoned his jacket; that took care of that.


Picking up the Schwann file, he left the fucker lying there leaking, stepped out into the hallway, and walked away casually. Feeling like a king, the emperor of everything.


Dr. T.


Those good feelings grew as he drove home on Nasty. Looking at the geeks and pimps and junkies and bikers, all thinking they were bad, so bad. Thinking: How many of you losers have gone all the way? Remembering what Fields's face had looked like after being slammed. The weak pulse. Then nothing.


One giant step for Dr. Terrific.


Back home, he put the Schwann file on his bed, stripped naked, masturbated twice, and took a cold bath that made him angry and hungry for bloody mind pictures. After toweling himself dry, he jerked off some more, came weakly but nicely, and, still naked, went in and got the file.


Noble Schwann, dead.


Cut off at the roots.


The bad-machines started grinding.


He should have taken his time with Fields, really punished him. Brought the slime's body back here, for exploration, real science.


Except the guy's body would have had to be putrid, a real stinker. So no loss.


Anyway, no use crying over split milk… split blood, ha ha.


He grinned, took the file into the stale, empty space that had once been the Ice Palace, sat on the bare wooden floor, and began to read.


Fourteen minutes before Thursday night surrendered to Fri: day morning, Brother Roselli exited the Saint Saviour's monastery and began walking east on St. Francis Street.


Elias Daoud, swaddled in a musty Franciscan habit and concealed in the shadows of the Casa Nova Hospice, was not impressed. The farthest Roselli had ever gone was down the Via Dolorosa, tracing Christ's walk in reverse, to the doors of the Monastery of the Flagellation. Hesitating at the shrine, as if contemplating entry, then turning back. And that was a long-distance hike-usually Roselli walked no farther than the market street that bisected the Old City longitudinally, separating the Jewish Quarter from the Christian Quarter. And the moment he got there, he jerked his head back nervously and turned around.


Hardly worth the effort of following him.


Strange bird, thought Daoud. He'd come to resent the monk, deeply, for the numbing boredom he'd brought into his ife. Sitting, hour after hour,-*ight after night, as inert as the cobblestones beneath his feet, wearing the coarse, unwashed robes or some beggar's rags. So stagnant he feared his brain would soon weaken from disuse.


Feeling the resentment grow as he thought about it, then plagued by guilt at harboring anger toward a man of God.


But a strange man of God. Why did he stop and go like some wind-up toy? Setting out purposefully, only to reverse himself as if manipulated by some unseen puppeteer?


Conflict, he and Sharavi had agreed. The man is in conflict over something. The Yemenite had told him to keep watching.


He'd begun, eventually, to resent Sharavi too. Keeping him away from the action, stuck on this dummy assignment.


But let's be truthful: It wasn't the boredom that bothered him. A week wasn't that long-he was patient by nature, had always enjoyed the solitude of undercover, the shifting of identities.


It was being excluded.


He'd done his job well, identifying the Rashmawi girl. But no matter-now that things had gotten political, he was unwanted baggage. No way would they trust him with anything of substance.


The others-even young Cohen, little more than a rookie, with no judgment and no brains-banded together as a team. Where the action was.


While Elias Daoud sat and watched a strange monk walk two hundred meters and turn back.


He knew what was in store for him when this assignment ended: Off the Butcher case, back to Kishle, maybe even back in uniform, handling tourists' purse-snatches and petty squabbles. Maybe another undercover some day, if it wasn't political.


Working for the Jews, everything was political.


Not a single Arab he knew would regret seeing the Jews disappear. Nationalistic talk had grown fashionable even among the Christians. He himself couldn't muster much passion for politics. He had no use, personally, for the Jews, supposed an all-Arab state would be better. But, then again, without Jews to complain about, Christians and Muslims would surely turn on one another; it was the way things had been for centuries. And given-that state of affairs, everyone knew who'd win-look at Lebanon.


So it was probably best to have Jews around. Not in charge, to be sure. But a few, as a distraction.


He stepped out on St. Francis Street and looked east. Roselli's outline was visible a hundred meters up, just past Es Sayyida Road; the monk's sandal-shuffle could be heard clear up the street. Daoud wore sandals, too, but his were crepe-soled. Police issue. The discrepancy concealed by the floor-length robes.


Roselli kept walking, approaching the market intersection. Daoud stayed out of sight, flush with the buildings, prepared to duck into a doorway when the monk reversed himself.


Roselli passed the Abyssinian monastery, stopped, turned right onto Souq El Attarin, and disappeared.


It took a moment for the fact to register. Caught by surprise, Daoud ran to catch up, his boredom suddenly replaced by anxiety.


Thinking: What if I lose him?


To the east, the souq was ribbed with dozens of narrow roads and arched alleyways leading to the Jewish Quarter. Tiny courtyards and ancient clay-domed homes restored by the Jews, orphanages and one-room schools and synagogues* If someone wanted to lose himself at night, no section of the city was more suitable.


Just his luck, he lamented, sprinting silently in the darkness. All those stagnant nights followed by split-second failure.


A Thursday night, too. If Roselli was the Butcher, he might very well be prepared to strike.


Constricted with tension, Daoud sped toward the souq, thinking: Back in uniform for sure. Please, God, don't let me lose him.


He turned on El Attarin, entered the souq, caught his breath, pressed himself against a cold stone wall, and looked around.


Prayers answered: Roselli's outline, clearly visible in the moonlight streaming between the arches. Walking quickly and deliberately down stone steps, through the deserted market street.


Daoud followed. The souq was deserted and shuttered. Rancid-sweet-produce smells still clung to the night air, seasoned intermittently by other fragrances: freshly tanned leather, spices, peanuts, coffee.


Roselli kept going to the end of the souq, to where Attarin merged with Habad Street.


Pure Jewish territory now. What business could the monk have here? Unless he was planning to head west, into the Armenian Quarter. But a Franciscan would have little more to do with the Pointed Hats than he would with the Jews.


Daoud maintained his distance, ducking and weaving and maintaining a keen eye on Roselli, who kept bearing south. Past the Cardo colonnade, up through the top plaza of the


Jewish Quarter, the fancy shops that Jews had built there. Across the large parking lot, now empty.


Two border guards stood watch on the walls, turned at the sound of Roselli's sandals and stared at him, then at Daoud following moments later. A moment of analysis; then, just as quickly, the guards turned away.


Two brown-robes, nothing unusual.


Roselli passed under the arch that, during the day, served as an outdoor office for the Armenian moneylenders, showing no interest in either the Cathedral of Saint James or the Armenian Orthodox monastery. Daoud followed him toward the Zion Gate, mentally reviewing the Roman Catholic sites that graced that area: the Church of Saint Peter of the Cock-Crowing? Or perhaps the monk was headed outside the Old City walls, to the Crypt of Mary's Sleep-the Franciscans were entrusted with the tomb of Jesus' mother


But neither shrine proved to be Roselli's destination.


Just inside the Zion Gate was a cluster of Jewish schools- yeshivas. Newly built structures constructed on the sites of the old yeshivas Hussein had reduced to rubble in '48, Arab homes built by the Jordanians confiscated in '67 to make way for the rebuilding of the schools.


The typical Jerusalem seesaw.


Noisy places, yeshivas-the Jews liked to chant their studies for the world to hear. Black-coated longbeards and kids with skimpy whiskers hunched behind wooden lecterns, poring over their Old Testaments and their Talmuds. Reciting and debating without letup-even at this hour there was activity: brightly lit windows checkering the darkness; Daoud could hear a low sing-song drone of voices as he walked past.


Heretics, for sure, but one thing you had to give them: They had great powers of concentration.


Roselli walked past the larger yeshivas, approached a small one set back from the road and nearly obscured by its neighbors.


Ohavei Torah Talmudic Academy-domed building with a plain facade. Meager dirt yard in the front; to one side a big pine tree, the boughs casting spidery shadows over four parked cars.


The monk ducked behind the tree. Daoud closed the distance between them, saw that beyond the tree was a high stone wall separating the yeshiva from a three-story building with sheer stone walls. Nowhere to go. What was the monk up to?


A moment later, the monk emerged from the tree, a monk no longer.


The robes gone, just a shirt and pants.


One of those Jewish skullcaps on his head!


Daoud watched in astonishment as this new, Jewish-looking Roselli walked to the front door of Ohavei Torah Taimudic Academy and knocked.


A kid of about sixteen opened the door. He looked at Roselli with clear recognition. The two of them exchanged words, shook hands; the kid nodded and disappeared, leaving Roselli standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets.


Daoud was suddenly afraid: What was this, some Jewish plot, some cult? Had the Bible-quote letter sent to the American journalist been truthful? All the talk of Jewish blood sacrifices more than the idle rumors he'd taken them for?


Just what he needed: Arab detective unearths Jewish murder plot.


They'd be as likely to accept that as elect Arafat Prime Minister.


Behead-the-messenger time-what likelier scapegoat than Elias Daoud. Even success would bring failure.

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