It is my destiny, he thought, to remain humble. Kismet-if a Muslim blasphemy could be permitted, dear Lord.


But what was there to do other than perform his duties? Slipping between two parked cars and crouching, he continued his surveillance of the yeshiva.


Roselli was still standing there, looking like a red-bearded Jew with his skullcap. Daoud itched to approach him, confront him. Wondered what he'd do if the monk entered the building.


And what else was going on inside there, besides chanting? A helpless Arab girl chained in some dungeon? Another innocent victim, prepared for ritual slaughter?


Despite the warmth of the night, he shuddered, felt under his robes for the reassuring weight of his Beretta. And waited.


Another man came to the door. Rabbi-type. Tall, fortyish, long dark beard. In shirtsleeves and trousers, those strange white fringes hanging over his waistband.


He shook Roselli's hand too.


Congratulating him?


For what?


Roselli and the rabbi left the yeshiva and began walking straight toward the parked cars, straight toward Daoud.


He ducked lower. They passed him, turned right, and walked, side by side, southward through the Zion Gate and out to Mount Zion-Al Sion, the portion of Ai Quds traditionally allocated to the Jews. They named their movement after if, glorified it by calling it a mountain, but it was no more, really, than a dusty mound.


He got up and trailed them, watched them pass the Tourist Agency office and David's Tomb, climb down the dirt drive that led to the Hativat Yerushalayim highway.


The road was deserted. Roselli and the rabbi crossed and climbed over the stone ridge that bordered the highway.


And disappeared.


Down into the dark hillside, Daoud knew. The rocky slope that overlooked the Valley of Hinnom. To the left was Silwan; only a few lights were burning in the village.


Daoud crossed the highway.


Where had they gone? What awaited them on the hillside, another murder cave?


He stepped over the ridge, careful to tread silently in the dry brush. And saw them immediately. Sitting just a few meters away, under the feathery umbrella of a windswept acacia.


Sitting and talking. He could hear the hum of their voices but was unable to make out their words.


Carefully, he stepped closer, trod on a dry twig, saw them raise their heads, heard the rabbi say, in English: "Just a mouse."


Holding his breath, he took another step forward, then another. Toward another tree, a stunted pine. Getting just close enough to discern their speech. Slowly, he sat, leaned against the trunk of the pine, pulled the Beretta out from under his habit, and rested it in his lap.


"Well, Joseph," the rabbi was saying, "I've refused you three times, so I suppose I must listen to you now."


"Thank you, Rabbi Buchwald."


"No need to thank me, it's my duty. However, it's also my duty to remind you what an enormous step you're taking. The consequences."


"I'm aware of that, Rabbi."


"Are you?"


"Yes. I can't tell you how many times I've set out to see you, froze in my tracks and turned back. For the last two months I've done nothing but think about this, meditating and praying. I know it's what I want to do-what I have to do."


'The life changes you'll impose upon yourself will be agonizing, Joseph. For all practical purposes your past will be erased. You'll be an orphan."


"I know that."


"Your mother-are you willing to consider her as dead?"


Pause.


"Yes."


"You're sure of that?"


'"Even if I weren't, Rabbi, she's sure to cut me off. The end result will be the same."


"What of Father Bernardo? You've spoken of him fondly. Can you cut him off just like that?"


"I'm not saying it will be easy, but yes."


"You'll most certainly be excommunicated."


Another pause.


"That's not relevant. Anymore."


Daoud heard the rabbi sigh. The two men sat in silence for several moments, Roselli motionless, Buchwald swaying slightly, the tips of his woolly beard highlighted by starglow.


"Joseph," he said finally, "I have little to offer you. My job is bringing lapsed Jews back into the fold-that's what I'm set up for, not conversion. At best there'll be room and board for you-very basic room and board, a cell."


"I'm used to that, Rabbi."


Buchwald chuckled. "Yes, I'm sure you are. But in addition to the isolation, there'll be hostility. And I won't be there to cushion you, even if I wanted to-which I don't. In fact, my explicit order will be that you stay away from the others."


Roselli didn't respond.


The rabbi coughed. "Even if my attitude were different, you'd be an outcast. No one will trust you."


"That's understandable," said Roselli. "Given the realities of history."


"Then there's the matter of your fallen status, Joseph. As a monk, you've acquired prestige, the image of a learned man. Among us, your learning will be worthless-worse than nothing. You'll start out at the lowest level. Kindergarten children will have things to teach you."


"None of that is important, Rabbi. I know what I have to do. I felt it the moment I set foot on holy ground, feel more strongly about it than ever before. The core is Jewish. All the rest is extraneous."


Buchwald snorted. "Pretty talk-the core, faith, all that intellectual stuff. Now throw it all out-forget about it. You want to be a Jew. Concentrate on what you do. Action talks, Joseph. The rest is…" The rabbi threw up his hands.


"Tell me what to do and I'll do it."


"Just like that, eh? Simon says."


Roselli was silent.


"All right, all right," said Rabbi Buchwald. "You want to be a Jew, I'll give you a chance. But your sincerity will be tested at every step." More chuckling. "Compared to what I have in store for you, the monastery will seem like a vacation."


"I'm ready."


"Or think you are." The rabbi stood. Roselli did likewise.


"One more thing," said the monk.


"What is it?"


"I've been questioned about the Butcher murders. The first girl who was killed lived at Saint Saviour's for a while. I'm the one who found her wandering, tired and hungry, near the monastery and persuaded Father Bernardo to take her in. A police inspector interrogated me about it, then came around after the second murder to talk again. I can't be sure, but he may consider me a suspect."


"Why would that be, Joseph?"


"I honestly don't know. I get nervous talking to the police -I guess it comes from the old protest march days. I was arrested a couple of times. The police were nastier than they had to be. I don't like them; it probably shows."


"Confession is for Catholics," said Buchwald. "Why are you telling me about this?"


"I didn't want you, or the yeshiva, to be embarrassed if they come looking for me again."


"Have you done anything that would embarrass us?"


"God forbid," said Roselli, voice cracking. "Taking her in is the extent of my involvement."


'Then don't worry about it," said the rabbi. "Come, it's late. I have things to do yet."


He began walking. Roselli followed. They passed meters from Daoud's tree. He held his breath until they neared the highway, then got up and followed.


"When will you be moving in?" asked Buchwald.


"I thought Monday-that would give me enough time to tie up loose ends."


"Tie all you want. Just let me know in time to prepare my boys for our new student."


"I will, Rabbi."


They climbed to the edge of the highway, stepped over the ridge, and waited as a solitary delivery truck roared by.


Daoud, crouching nearby, could see their lips moving, but the truck blocked out any sound. They crossed the highway and began the gentle climb up Mount Zion.


Daoud followed at a safe pace, straining his ears.


"I've had nightmares about Fatma-the first victim," Roselli was saying. "Wondering if there's something I could have done to save her."


Rabbi Buchwald put his hand on the monk's shoulder and patted it. "You have excellent capacity for suffering, Yosef Roselli. We may make a Jew of you yet."


Daoud trailed them to the door of the yeshiva, where Roselli thanked the rabbi and headed back north, alone. A quick-change under the big tree preceded his reemergence as a monk.


Hypocrite, thought Daoud, fingering his own habit. He was angry at all the foolish talk of cores and faith, the idea of someone tossing away the Christ like yesterday's papers. He vowed to stay on Roselli's rear for as long as it took, hoping to unearth other secrets, additional trapdoors in the monk's screwed-up head.


When Roselli reached the Jewish Quarter parking lot, he stopped, climbed the stairs to the top of the city wall, and strolled along the battlement until coming to a stop under a crenel. The pair of border guards stood nearby. Two Druze, he could see, with big mustaches, binoculars, and rifles.


The guards looked Roselli over and approached him. He nodded at them, smiled; the three of them chatted. Then the Druze walked away and resumed their patrol. When the monk was alone, he hoisted himself up into the crenel, folding himself inside the notch, knees drawn up close to his body, chin resting in his hands.


He stayed that way, cradled in stone, staring out at the darkness, silent and motionless until daybreak. Unmindful of Daoud, hidden behind the Border Patrolmen's van, watching Roselli tirelessly while breathing in the stinking vapors from a leaky petrol tank.


Friday morning, no new body. Daniel had spent much of the night talking to Mark Wilbur and directing surveillance of Scopus and other forested areas. He left the interrogation at four A.M., convinced the reporter was intellectually dishonest but no murderer, went home for three hours of sleep, and was back at Headquarters by eight.


As he walked down the corridor to his office, he observed someone in the vicinity of his door. The man turned and began walking toward him and he saw that it was Laufei.


The deputy commander strode quickly, looked purposeful and grim. Swinging his arms as if marching in a military parade.


Dress-down time; the fallout from Wilbur's arrest.


They'd locked the reporter in a solitary holding cell, using the mischief he'd provoked at Beit Gvura to invoke the security clause and withhold counsel. Slowed the paperwork by having Avi Cohen handle it-for all Daniel knew the poor kid was still breaking his teeth on the forms. But by now, someone was bound to have found out; the wire service attorneys were probably pouring on the threats, the brass catching them and passing them down the line.


Laufer was three meters away. Daniel looked him in the eye, readied himself for the assault.


To his surprise, the D.C. merely said "Good morning, Sharavi," and walked on.


When he got to the office, he saw the reason why.


A man was sitting opposite his desk, slumped low in the chair, chin on knuckles, dozing. A half-consumed cigar lay smoldering in the ashtray, letting off wisps of strong, bitter smoke.


The man's chest heaved; his face rolled. A familiar, ruddy face above a corpulent, short-limbed body that filled the chair, ample thighs stuffed into trousers like sausages in casing, spilling over the seat. The cleft chin capped by a tiny white goatee.


Daniel knew the man was seventy-five but he looked ten years younger-good skin tone and an incongruously boyish thatch of yellow-gray hair. The collar points of an open-necked white shirt spread over the lapels of a rumpled gunmetal-gray sport coat, revealing a semicircle of hairless pink flesh.


The tightly packed trousers were dove-gray and in need of pressing; the shoes below them, inexpensive ripple-soled walkers. A maroon silk handkerchief flourished from the breast pocket of the sport coat-a dandyish touch at odds with the rest of the ensemble. Another incongruity, but the man was known for surprises.


Daniel closed the door. The corpulent man continued to sleep-a familiar pose. Newspaper photographers delighted in catching him napping at official functions-slumping, dead to the world, next to some stiff-backed visiting dignitary.


Narcolepsy, his detractors suggested; the man was braindamaged, not fit for his job. Others suggested it was an affection. Part of the stylized image he'd wrought for himself over twenty years.


Daniel edged past the pudgy gray knees, went behind his desk, and sat down.


As Shmeltzer had promised, a file labeled TOUR data was right there in front of him. He picked it up. The sleeping man opened pale-gray eyes, grunted, and stared at him.


Daniel put the tour file aside. "Good morning, Mr. Mayor."


"Good morning, Pakad Sharavi. We've met-the Concert Hall dedication. You had a mustache then."


"Yes." Three years ago-Daniel barely remembered it. He had served on the security detail, hadn't exchanged a word with the man.


Having done away with pleasantries, the mayor sat up and frowned.


"I've been waiting for you for an hour," he said, totally alert. Before Daniel could reply, he went on: "These murders, all this nonsense about butchers and sacrifices and revenge, it's creating problems for me. Already the tourist figures have dropped. What are you doing about it?"


Daniel began summarizing the investigation.


"I know all that," the mayor interrupted. "I meant what's new."


"Nothing."


The mayor picked up the now-cold cigar, lit it, and inhaled.


"An honest man-Diogenes would be happy. Meanwhile, the city is threatening to boil over. The last thing we need is a tourist slump on top of the recession. That note, with the Bible passages-any validity to it?"


"Possibly."


"No evasions, please. Are we dealing with a Jew2 One of the black-coats?"


"There's no evidence of any particular group at work."


"What about Kagan's bunch?"


"No evidence. Personally, I doubt it."


"Why's that?"


"We've checked them out thoroughly."


"Avigdor Laufer thinks they're a suspicious lot."


'Avigdor Laufer thinks lots of things."


The mayor laughed. "Yes, he is a jackass." The laughter died abruptly, making it seem false.


"The note," said Daniel, "may be someone trying to blame it on religious Jews."


"Is that a professional opinion, or just your kipah speaking?'


"The Bible quotes were out of sequence, out of context. There was a manufactured quality to the note."


"Fine, fine," said the mayor with seeming uninterest.


!nt is, what are we doing about it?"


"Our procedures are sound. The only choice is to continue."


The mayor narrowed his eyes'. "No excuses, eh?"


Daniel shook his head.


"How long before progress?"


"I can't promise you anything. Serial killers are notoriously hard to catch."


"Serial killers," said the mayor, as if hearing the term for the first time. Then he mutterd something that sounded like "killer ants."


"Pardon me?"


"This Wilbur, when are you releasing him?"


"He has yet to be arraigned on the obstruction charge. The paperwork is in progress."


"You're not actually expecting to take him to trial?"


"He's being treated like any other-"


"Come now, Pakad, we're not two Kurdis in some fertilizer factory, so stop shoveling shit."


"He withheld material evidence."


"Is he a murderer?"


"It's possible."


"Probable?"


"No."


"Then let him go. I don't need extra headaches on top of your… serial butcher."


"He may prove useful-"


"In what way?"


"If the killer contacts him again-"


"He won't be contacted in prison, Pakad."


"He can be released pending trial and kept under surveillance."


"And if he chooses to leave the country?"


"That can be prevented."


"You want to hold him hostage to use him? What is this-Beirut?"


"We have sufficient-"


"Let him go," said the mayor. Suddenly his tone was waspish, his face hard as granite. He leaned forward and jabbed his cigar. Like a bayonet. A coin of ash fell on Daniel's desk.


"With all due respect-"


"If you respect me, stop arguing and let the idiot go. I've talked to his boss in New York, chairman of the corporation that owns the wire service. They know his conduct was unprofessional, promise to keep his arrest under wraps, transfer him somewhere he can't do any damage-not immediately, within a month or two. The appearance of capitulation must be avoided. But the deal's only good if we release him immediately."


"In the meantime he writes."


"He writes, but his articles-all articles concerning the Butcher case-will be reviewed by the security censor."


"No one-not the locals or the foreigners-takes the censor seriously," said Daniel. "They know we pride ourselves on being more democratic than the Americans. Everything gets through."


"His won't. One month, then the bastard's gone," said the mayor. "We're tolerated worse." Another layer of ash dropped. "Come on, Pakad, I need your pledge of cooperation, immediately. Wilbur's boss-this chairman-is visiting Jerusalem next month. Prides himself on being some kind of amateur archaeologist. I'm meeting him at the airport with the official bread and salt, have arranged a tour of the Allbright Institute, the Rockefeller, some of the local digs. I'd appreciate it, Pakad, if everything goes smoothly"


"Please pass the ashtray," said Daniel. He took it from the mayor's padded hand, brushed the fallen ash into it, and wiped the desk with a tissue.


"One hand washes the other, Pakad. All the little ants are happy. To you it probably smacks of immorality; to a realist, it's mama's milk."


"I'll need permission from the prosecutor's office to dismiss the charges," said Daniel. "But I suppose that's been taken care of."


"Such a detective." The mayor smiled. He waved the cigar like a baton. "Stop looking so offended. That kind of self-righteousness is reserved for soldiers and pilgrims. And all soldiers and pilgrims ever did for this city was leave it in ruins."


"Sender Malkovsky," said Daniel. "What kind of hand-washing led to that?"


The mayor was unruffled. "One needs to take the long view, Pakad Sharavi. This city is a collection of little anthills, different color ants, little ant armies, each one thinking God or Allah or Jesus ordered it to devour the others. Think of it: all that potential for bloodshed. And for two thousand years that's what we've had. Now we've got another chance, and the only way to keep things from spilling over is to maintain a balance. Pluralism. Every ant an emperor in his little hole. A balance your Butcher is threatening to upset."


"Malkovsky is no ant. He rapes children."


The mayor inhaled his cigar, brushed away the comment and the smoke. "From that perspective, Malkovsky can be viewed as a mistake. But in the larger scheme of things, it was no mistake at all. Let me tell you something, Pakad: The big conflict in Jerusalem isn't going to be between Arab and Jew. We'll he in charge for a long time. They'll continue to kveteh, but it's all for show. Down deep they enjoy everything we give them: the schools, the medical care. The Jordanians never did it for them; they know they never would. Arafat's a paper hero, a member of the Husseini clan-the Arabs remember how the Husseinis confiscated their land and sold it cheap. So they'll adapt, we'll adapt-a status quo that will never be kissy-kissy, but we'll get by.


"The big problem is going to be between Jew and Jew-the black-coats and everyone else. They're fanatics, don't recognize the state, want to tear down everything we've fought for, turn it into another Iran run by Jewish ayatollahs. Think of it: no cinema, no cafes, no museums or concert halls, fanatics telling us to hang mezuzahs on every door and daven three times a day or be flogged in Zion Square. And they're breeding heavily-nine, ten kids a family. Thousands of them emigrating from ghettos in America in order to build ghettos here. They huddle in their yeshivas all day, live off the dole-not one of them does a day of army service. Thousands of enemies of the state and future enemies-and dangerous because they're repressed-sexually, emotionally. You know how violent they can get, the bus burnings we had every Saturday night in Mea She'arim. Even the soccer field we built them didn't drain off all the aggression."


The mayor relit his cigar.


"Violent," he repeated. "Which is why the religious implications of the note didn't sound all that implausible to me-those blackies are capable of doing violence to anyone who offends them. However, you inform me there's no evidence of any particular group at work."


"Malkovsky," Daniel reminded him.


The mayor's expression said the whole issue was trivial.


"Malkovsky's'rebbe-the Prostnitzer-is a potential asset, someone definitely to be reckoned with. He's a cousin of the Satmar rebbe, broke off from the Satmar three years ago because of some dispute about the line of succession. That, of course, is no big deal-they're always fighting with each other. But as part of establishing his own identity, the Prostnitzer adopted a pro-state stance. Think of it: your basic ultrafanatic type-black hat, side curls, fur hats, leggings-and he's coming out saying righteous Jews should support the state."


"Agudah's been doing that for years."


"Agudah's of no importance. All they want to do is build kosher hotels and get rich. This Prostnitzer is a man with stature. Charisma. When he tells his Hassidim the '67 victory is a sign from Messiah, it carries weight."


"I never heard him say that," said Daniel.


"He's said it in private, to me. He's waiting for the right time to go public. The Malkovsky thing has pushed the date up a bit, but he's made a commitment, requested only a few favors in return. Small favors, which I'm more happy to grant him because the stakes are high. Exposing one of his followers as a pervert would only be destructive. Think of it: an inroad to the fanatics, a first wedge driven into their intransigent ranks. They're followers by nature. Conformists. One begins; other follow suit; pretty soon you've introduced ambiguity into their belief system-creative tension. Lack of absolutes weakens fanaticism. The battle lines become obscured, strengthening the vitality of our pluralism."


"Ants crawling from hole to hole?" asked Daniel.


The mayor looked at his watch and stood.


"It's late. I've spent too much time on theoreticals. I expect Mark Wilbur to be released immediately, with no further harassment. You're obviously an intelligent fellow. If you wish to discuss ant holes further, feel free to call me at the office or at home-both numbers are listed. We'll set up an evening, break out the schnapps, open a few philosophy books. But not yet. After you clear up this Butcher nonsense."


Alone, Daniel read the tour file. The university had provided lists of participants in nine field studies in the general vicinity of the murder cave, three expeditions a year for the past three years. Exploration had been going on since '67, but older lists hadn't turned up. ("D: You should see their files, what a mess," Shmeltzer had noted. "Professors.")


The most recent trip had taken place last summer, a surface dig one and a half kilometers north of the cave, sponsored by the Department of Archaeology. The others were a pair of water-retention surveys conducted by Geology. Participants were faculty members, students, and visiting scholars. Only the names of the professors were listed, the same half-dozen over and over. Two were out of the country; Shmeltzer had interviewed the other four, three of them women, coming up with no leads and an incomplete list of student names gleaned from cluttered academic memories. The students were all Israelis, with the exception of one Nigerian who'd returned to Africa six months before the first murder. They had yet to be questioned.


None of the private tour companies visited that part of the desert, which wasn't surprising-nothing flashy down there. When the tourists asked for desert, they were shown the camel market in Beersheva, Massada, Ein Gedi, the Dead Sea mud spas.


The Nature Conservancy had taken a single group of hikers into the area six months ago, a lecture tour on annual desert flora. The guide was a woman named Nurit Blau, now married to a member of Kibbutz Sa'ad. Shmeltzer had called her; she had a new baby, sounded fatigued, remembered nothing about the tour other than that a freak rain shower had ended it prematurely. No, none of the participants was memorable. Some of them might have been foreigners, she really didn't remember-how could one be expected to remember that far back?


A check at the Conservancy office turned up no names; reservation lists weren't kept past the day of the hike. The lists were incomplete, anyway. Most hikers never bothered to reserve, simply showed up at a designated location the morning of the hike, paid cash, and tagged along.


Sum total: skimpy. Besides, lists didn't prove anything; anyone could take a walk in the desert. Still, procedure was procedure. It wasn't as if they were deluged with leads. He'd have Cohen and the Chinaman interview the students, try to obtain the names of the missing ones, check them out too.


At eight twenty-five he went down the hall, made a couple of turns, and ended up at the unlabeled locked door of Amos Harel's office. He knocked, waited several moments for it to open, and found himself staring into the undercover man's gray eyes.


Harel held a smoldering Gauloise in one hand, a felt-tip pen in the other. He wore a T-shirt and jeans. The full white beard he'd worn on his last assignment was gone, revealing a pale, lean face, the jawline marred by shaving nicks.


"Morning, Dani."


"Morning."


Harel didn't invite him in, simply stood there waiting for him to speak. Though ten years Daniel's senior and a rav pakad, he never pulled rank, just concentrated on the job. The toughest of the tough guys, though to look at him you'd never know it-the narrow shoulders, the bent back that housed three splinters of shrapnel, courtesy Anwar Sadat. He had an emotional barometer that never seemed to register and a bloodhound's nose for subtle irregularities and suspicious parcels.


"Morning, Amos. Is your man still watching Wilbur's mailbox?"


"He checked in two hours ago-nothing happening."


"Wilbur's out of jail-string-pulling from way up. You may get a request to end the surveillance. Do me a favor and take your time about pulling out."


"String-pulling." Harel frowned. "How much time do you need?"


"A day or so, maybe a day and a half until I get one of my own men ready for it. Shouldn't be any problem for you to conceal the delay."


"No," said the Latam chief. "No problem at all."


Thanking him would have been superfluous; Daniel turned on his heel and walked away. Back in his own office, he phoned Shmeltzer at the Russian Compound jail, wanting to know the status of Mossad's search for Red Amira Nasser. The older detective wasn't at the lockup, and he considered contacting Mossad himself. But those guys were touchy about improvisation. Better to stick to the official liaison routine.


"Connect me with Subinspector Lee," he told the jail desk officer.


A minute later the Chinaman came on and Daniel told him about his morning visitor.


"Snoozy himself, huh? What's he like?"


"Charming. He sees the world in insect terms. Anyway, Yossi, if you have any more questions for Wilbur, ask them now. He'll be walking soon."


"He already walked. Two tight-assed guys just slow-waltzed him out. Can I help Avi finish the papers? Kid's sweating buckets."


"Sure. Get anything more from Wilbur?"


"Not a thing. We fed him, gave him coffee. The guy broke down-not much substance to him at all. But all he gave us was bullshit. The last hour or so he did nothing but talk about his childhood. Seems he had a mean daddy, big-shot lawyer, wanted him to be a lawyer, too, never thought much of scribblers." The Chinaman yawned into the phone.


"Where's Nahum?"


"After he'd called Wilbur shmuck for the hundredth time, he stomped out-said something about interviewing students."


"Names from the university desert tour list. Try to reach him and help him with those interviews. Tell him, also, that I want an update on the Amira Nasser search. Take Cohen with you to speed things up but let him off by two. He's replacing Latam on the mailbox watch. Tell him to go to Hamashbir, buy some new clothes-nothing fancy, something a kibbutznik would wear. Also, he has to shave off his beard, get a short haircut and nonprescription eyeglasses."


"Mistreatment of the troops," laughed the Chinaman. "I'll catch his tears in a bottle, save it as evidence for the Review Board. Listen, Aviva called-she's got a morning off. Okay with you if I go home and get some breakfast?"


Daniel thought about it. The student hikers could wait. "Get in touch with Nahum, first. Then all of you go have breakfast."


"Last-meal time for Cohen," said the Chinaman, still chuckling.


At eight-forty, Daniel called his own wife.


"I love you," he said. "Sorry I had to rush out. Guess who was waiting for me in my office?"


"The Prime Minister?"


"More powerful."


"You're serious."


"Very."


"Who, Daniel?"


"The mayor."


"In your office?"


"I opened the door, there he was, dozing away."


"I always thought that sleep stuff was for the benefit of the media."


"This morning it was for my benefit."


"What did he want?"


"To have the American reporter released and check me out in the process."


"I'm sure he was favorably impressed."


"He'd be more impressed if I could solve the murders, which he sees as a civic nuisance."


Laura said nothing for a moment, then: "Pressure."


"Nothing unexpected."


"Listen, before I forget, Gene called about fifteen minutes ago, said he tried phoning you at the office but had trouble getting through."


"Is he at the Laromme?"


"I think so. You know they're due to leave this Sunday for Rome."


"Already?"


"It's been four weeks, honey."


Daniel sighed.


"There'll be other opportunities," said Laura. "Luanne's already talking about coming back next year. Anyway, they're coming over for Shabbat dinner, tonight. Will you be able to make it home by three?"


"Sure."


"Good. There's wine and pastries to pick up at Lieber-man's. The other woman in your life's got a new dress she wants you to approve before she wears it."


"Tell her I love her. Tell all of them."


He phoned Gene at the Laromme.


The black man picked up on the first ring, said, "I was hoping that was you. Been having a devil of a time getting through your switchboard. What is it, security?"


"Bad lines, more likely. What's new?"


"McGuire phoned me with the computer data. I think I've got something juicy for you. Got a pen and paper?"


"Now I do. Go ahead."


"They've got five hundred and eighty-seven unsolveds that fit into possible serial patterns. Two hundred and ninety-seven involve some use of knives. Out of those, the machine spat out ninety-one cases with wound patterns similar to yours over the last fifteen years-the data bank goes back longer than I thought, but stuff from the last five years is relatively sketchy."


"Ninety-one," said Daniel, visualizing heaps of mutilated corpses.


"Not that many, considering your wounds were darn-near generic," said Gene. "But most of them differ from yours in terms of mixed modus: knife and gun, knife and strangulation. And victim demographics: males, kids, old ladies, couples. In my opinion, that doesn't eliminate them-some of these monsters get pretty indiscriminate about who they kill and how they do it. But there's no use tackling something that huge. Thing to do is start breaking into subsets."


"Young females," said Daniel.


"Exactly. Fifty-eight in the seventeen- to twenty-seven-year-old range. By playing statistical games with it, the FBI broke that down into seven groupings that appear to be the work of the same killer or killers, though there's overlap. The cutoffs aren't perfectly clean. But when you plug in dark complexion, multiple blades, and drug OD, it narrows way down and starts to get real interesting: seven cases, none of them strangled, which in itself is unusual. One additional case that matches everything, except no mention is made of multiple blades. The first is an L.A. case: girl found cut up fourteen years ago, March 1971, in a cave-how do you like that?"


"There are caves in Los Angeles?" asked Daniel, gripping the edge of his desk.


"Plenty of them in the surrounding mountain areas. This particular one was in Griffith Park-big place just north of Hollywood, thousands of acres. There's a zoo and a planetarium there, but mostly it's wilderness."


"Was she killed in the cave?"


"FBI says yes."


"What was the physical layout of the cave?"


"They don't have that kind of detail programmed yet. Hold on a second-there's something else I want you to hear: Victim's name was Lilah Shehadeh; she's listed as a twenty-three-year-old female Caucasian, black hair, brown eyes. But Shehadeh's an Arab name, isn't?"


"Yes," said Daniel, feeling the excitement grow within him. "Go on."


"Multiple stab wounds from several different weapons, death from exsanguination-poor gal bled to death. Heroin overdose to the point of general anesthesia, severed jugular, decimation of the genitals, no trace evidence other than residue of Ivory soap-sounds like she was washed."


"At the cave?"


"Printout didn't say that either. There are streams in Griffith Park-in March they could still be full from the rains. Let me see what else I've got… Shehadeh was an addict and prostitute. I racked my brains to see if I could remember her case but I couldn't. I was working Southwest Division back then, clear across town. To be honest, a single hooker-cutting wouldn't get much notice. I just got off the phone with a buddy in Hollywood Division, asked him to dig up the file, call me back and dictate the details."


"Thank you, Lieutenant Brooker."


"Onward: Number two occurred over two years later, July of '73, in New Orleans. Another prostitute, named Angelique Breau, drugged out-this time with Demerol-and cut identically to Shehadeh. Traces of soap and shampoo: Dial and Prell-he's not strict about his brands. The body was killed somewhere else, but found in a crypt in the St. Louis cemetery-which is kind of cavelike, wouldn't you say? And she and Shehadeh fit your genital destruction-removal sequence-Shehadeh's vaginal vault was cut up; Breau's ovaries were removed. She's listed as a female Cauc, black and brown, nineteen years old, but New Orleans is famous for race-mixing. If you put Caucasian on your driver's license application, no one's going to argue with you. Name like Breau she could be lily-white Parisian, swamp-rat Cajun, Creole mulatto, or any mixture thereof."


"Dark. Mediterranean-looking," said Daniel.


"Good chance of it."


"She could have been an Arab, too, Gene. Some of them-Moroccans, Algerians-have French names."


"Hmm. Maybe. But the next two are definitely not Arab, so it appears the killer's going after a certain look, not nationality."


Dark women, thought Daniel. The streets of any Levantine, Mediterranean, or Latin American city were teeming with them. Yet the killer-if it was the killer-had come to Jerusalem.


It had to be more than a look that he was after


"The third one took place April of '75, twenty-one months after Breau," said Gene. "Northeast Arizona, desert area outside of Phoenix. Victim's name: Shawnee Scoggins, female Native American-Indian. Eighteen years, black and brown. Ovaries and kidneys removed. Murdered somewhere else, but the body was found off the highway near one of the Indian reservations. Reservation police handled the case. Girl had a history of delinquency, drug problems. Fresh needle marks in her arm, heroin OD, no fiber traces, no mention of soap. But this is the one that doesn't list multiple weapons either, so we could be talking about a failure on the part of the locals to report all the facts, poor investigatory procedure, or a slipshod autopsy. Everything else fits. I'd suggest you include her."


"All right."


"After Scoggins there's a thirty-two-month lapse until December of '77. Back in California again, but up north near San Francisco. This one I remember: nude dancer named Maria Mendoza, twenty-one, black and brown, history of prostitution and narcotics convictions. What was left of her was discovered near a cave up in Mount Tamalpais."


"Not in the cave?"


"I asked McGuire about that. Printout said near-didn't say how near. Hard to understand why they put some data in, leave other stuff out."


"Was she killed up there?"


"No. Somewhere else, site unidentified. This one was very messy, Danny. All the internal organs were removed-she was literally skin and bones. San Francisco police had been dealing with a bunch of unsolved homicides attributed to some crazy who wrote letters to the papers calling himself Zodiac. The last suspected Zodiac killing was in October of '75, farther east, in Sacramento. San Francisco thought he'd come back to haunt them. Reason I remember the case is that one of the primary Zodiac suspects moved down to L. A. shortly after Mendoza's body was found, and we were alerted. We watched him-it came to nothing."


"What was his name?"


"Karl Witik. Weirdo biology student. White guy but rented a house in Watts, had squirrels and mice running wild inside the place. But don't worry-he's not your man. He blew his brains out in early '78. Two more possible Zodiacs went down in '79 and '81, so he probably wasn't San Francisco's man either."


"Eight," said Daniel, looking at his notes. "Four more."


"Four more," said Gene. "And they keep getting nastier. Mendoza's the last intact body on the list. The rest are all dismemberments: August 1978 in Miami, Florida; July 1980, Sun Valley, Idaho; March '82, Crater Lake, Oregon; January '84, Hana, Hawaii. Young, dark women, no fiber or prints, soap traces, heroin residue in the tissue, bone rills indicating multiple knives, body parts tossed in wooded or desert areas. Three of the victims have never been identified, including one whose head was never recovered. The one from Crater Lake was ID'd as Sherry Blumenthal, seventeen-year-old runaway from Seattle. Same old song: drug history, prostitution busts. 'Remains found in state of advanced decomposition on the north bank of the lake.'"


Gene paused. "Sounds like your guy, doesn't it?"


"The modus is identical," said Daniel. His sweaty hands made wet marks on the desk. "A traveling killer."


"Beast of the highway," said Gene. "The more we coordinate our interstate records, the more we keep turning up. Looks like this one traveled far."


Daniel scanned his notes again. "Two murders took place in California. Perhaps that's his home base."


"Same state, but L. A. and San Francisco are four hundred miles apart," said Gene. "Maybe he just likes the weather."


Daniel examined the list of murder sites again. "All these places have good weather, don't they?"


"Hmm, let me see: Oregon, Louisiana-you get your rain and chill there, but yes, generally they're mild."


"Places to visit on holiday?"


"I suppose so. Why?"


"The time lapse between the murders averages almost two years," said Daniel. "Perhaps the killer lives normally for a while, goes out on holiday to murder."


"Let me take a look at the dates," said Gene. He grew silent for several moments, then: "No, I don't think so. January in Hawaii is the off-season, cloudy and rainy. New Orleans and Miami are hot and sticky in July-folks fly down there in the winter. Anyway, there are plenty of guys who don't need a vacation to travel: drifters, truckers-anyone with a job that puts him on the road. And don't depend too much on the time lapse. He may have killed plenty of others in between-FBI estimates six undiscovered victims for every one in the file."


Five hundred eighty-seven by six. "Over three thousand undiscovered murders," said Daniel. "How can that be?"


"Runaways, throwaways, orphans, missing persons who remain missing. Big country, big mess-it's not like over here, Danny."


Daniel put the numbers out of his head, returned to his notes. "The first murder was fourteen years ago, which tells us something about his age. The youngest he could have been at the time would be, what-fourteen?"


"I've heard of sex murders committed by kids," said Gene, "but they're usually a lot more impulsive-looking. Sloppy. From the care taken on these-cleaning up the evidence, using dope to knock them out-my guess is they were committed by an adult. Eighteen, nineteen at the youngest, probably early twenties."


"Okay, let's be cautious and say sixteen," said Daniel. "That would make him at least thirty today, most likely older."


"If Shehadeh was his first."


"If she wasn't, he could be much older. But not much younger."


"I can buy that," said Gene.


"Thirties or older"-Daniel thought out loud-"an American, or one who travels to America frequently." Thinking to himself: if he's not an American, all those trips to the U.S. will show up on his passport.


"Hundred to one, he's American," said Gene. "He knew the terrain, knew where to kill, where to dump. Some of those dump spots are out of the way. Americans are suspicious of foreigners. If one was lurking around, you'd expect it to surface in at least some of the investigations. Unless," he added, "you've got Interpol suggesting otherwise."


"No, I'm still waiting for Interpol. A question, Gene: In America, he's a traveling killer, goes from city to city. Here, he stays in Jerusalem. Why didn't he murder one girl-in Jerusalem, another in Tel Aviv, move on to Haifa?"


"Maybe Jerusalem's got some special meaning for him. Defiling the holiness or something."


"Maybe," said Daniel. But his mind was racing:


Defiling the holiness of three faiths. Defiling women. Dark women. Arabs. A Mexican stripper. An Indian girl. Maybe a Louisiana mixed-blood. Maybe a Jew-the Blumen-thal girl from Oregon could be Jewish.


Every identified victim a member of a racial or ethnic minority.


But here, only Arabs. The main ethnic minority.


A racist killer?


A Jewish killer? Kaganism justified by the Bible and carried to bloody extreme?


Or blood libel, as Shmeltzer insisted. Someone blaming it on the Jews?


Whoever had sent that note to Wilbur had defiled the Bible, too. Cutting the text out and pasting it up like some ransom note. What observant Jew would do that, when the sentences could just as easily be copied?


Unless you didn't know Hebrew.


Addressing the envelope in English block letters.


He didn't know Hebrew. A foreigner.


An outsider.


Fomenting hatred, setting Jew against Arab? Semite against Semite?


A genuine anti-Semite.


A racist American maniac. Amira Nasser's story about the crazy-eyed foreigner was sounding better and better: crazy eyes, strange smile… Dammit, where were the Mossad hotshots when you needed them?


"… still only general, we need specifics," Gene was saying. "Best thing is to take a look at the original police files, or at least get the important details over the phone. I can help you with San Francisco and New Orleans. The rest I've got no personal contacts with but they may cooperate, one American cop to another."


"You've done more than enough, my friend. I'll call them myself. Do you have the addresses and phone numbers?"


Gene dictated them, then said, "It's no problem my calling them, Danny. It'll go faster, believe me."


"You've only got four days left in Jerusalem, Gene. I don't want to take up the remainder of your holiday."


The line went silent.


"Listen," said Gene, "if you need me, I can postpone leaving."


"Gene, Rome is a beautiful-"


"Danny, Rome is more churches. Bigger ones. Shrines and murals. Murals on ceilings always give me a stiff neck."


Daniel laughed.


"However," said the black man, "I think there're still a few holy places around here that Lu hasn't seen. Just this morning she was complaining about a missing a lecture series on ancient pottery whosits or something. So there's a chance I can persuade her to modify our itinerary if you need me. Have to know soon, though, or we run into problems with changing the tickets."


"I need you, Gene."


"Nice to hear. You can tell me again at dinner tonight. Meantime, let me get going on those calls. Bye."


Daniel put the phone down, thought more about the traveling killer.


America to Israel.


Europe in between?


He phoned Friedman in Bonn, knowing it was barely morning in Germany and not caring if the Interpol man got yanked out of sweet dreams.


The same detached secretary's voice came on the line. Reciting a recorded message.


He slammed the phone down, studied his notes, let his mind run with the facts, expand them. Kept returning to one thought:


A racist killer.


Calculating. Careful.


Manipulative.


He remembered the phrase that had come to him while reading the books and monographs on psychopathic killers:


Street-corner Mengeles.


He thought, again, of the disgusting paperbacks in Ben David's office. The Black Book of Fascist Horror.


Read the chapter on "Murder for Profit," the psychologist had said. The surgical experiments.


I found myself thinking about them in Nazi terms


You see, you don't need me. Your unconscious is guiding you in the right direction.


His unconscious. It had been languishing, sick with frustration, withering from disuse. But the data on the FBI list-the link-had breathed new life into it. Now, an image of the killer had been sculpted in his mind-a soft sculpture, to be sure, a wax outline, gross features melting in the glare of uncertainty. But an image nonetheless.


He was certain he was right.


The killer was no Jew, no Arab.


An American with strange eyes, a diseased mind, and a racist scheme. A beast of the highway stalking the herd.


Americans, thousands of them living and visiting here, but the only ones under surveillance were Roselli and Wilbur. Not very promising; The reporter was unethical, but no killer; the monk's big secret was that he wanted to be a Jew.


Which made him intriguing, but no suspect.


Unless he had more than one big secret.


From what Daoud had overheard, the monk knew he was under suspicion. Was the move to the yeshiva a means of covering something up?


Daniel had instructed Daoud to stay on Roselli. The Arab's "Yes, Pakad" had been reflexive but strained. Poor guy was probably cross-eyed with boredom by now. If nothing came up soon, Daniel resolved to put his talents to better use. Any further observation of Roselli could be carried out by one of Harel's Latam boys, wrapped in robes and kafftyah.


He thought about Roselli again. From monk to yeshiva student.


A spiritual quest? Or just another impulsive shift for an unbalanced mind?


Another crazy American. With crazy eyes?


Thousands of Americans walking the streets of Jerusalem-find the one with the crazy eyes. Like sifting granules of gold for a single speck of dross.


Big mess, but small country. An outsider couldn't submerge himself indefinitely.


He took pen in hand, outlined his plan.


Airline cross-checks, page-by-page reviews of tens of thousands of uncomputerized passport records-the tedium the Chinaman had dreaded out loud but which was the surest way to fine-carve the sculpture. Canvasses of hotels, pensiones, hostels, dormitories, housing agents and automobile rental firms, travel and tour companies, kibbutzim and moshavim that took on foreign volunteers.


The evil bastard couldn't hide deep enough. He'd root him out, put an end to the defilement.


For the first time in a long time he felt lightened with hope. The mastery of the hunter.


His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.


"Yes?"


The door opened a crack and a uniform stuck his head in. Young, gawky, with a peach-fuzz face, he had to be barely out of the training course. He blinked rapidly, bobbed his head, looking everywhere but at Daniel.


"Pakad Sharavi?"


"Yes? Come in."


The patrolman's body remained in the corridor; only his head bobbed around inside the office, jumpy and vigilant, like a chicken watching out for the shohel's knife.


"What is it?"


The uniform bit his lip and chewed air. When he finally got the words moving, they tumbled out in a rush:


"Pakad, a dead body, they said to call you, you'd know all about it. In Talpiyot, along the industrial stretch. Not far from the lot where we tow the parking violators."



BOOK THREE



Dr. Levi's promptness was commendable. Within hours of the removal of the body to Abu Kabir, the necropsy findings were phoned to Daniel.


But the pathologist might just as well have taken his time. The wounds on number three were identical to Fatma's and Juliet's, save for one bit of information that Daniel had anticipated: The killer had removed Shahin Barakat's ovaries and her kidneys.


Just as he'd done, ten years ago, to his third American victim. The Indian girl, Shawnee Scoggins.


Shahin's body had been found, dumped like garbage in a stand of eucalyptus, reeking of encroaching decay and menthol. Only meters from the police tow yard.


Thumbing his nose at us.


Shahin. Another pretty face preserved intact above the gaping neck wound. Nineteen years old, black hair lustrous, thick, and wavy. Dainty pierced ears, the earrings missing.


But, unlike the other, married. The husband had been hanging around the Kishle substation for days, dogging the uniforms, begging them to find his wife.


"Ex-wife." Patrolman Mustafa Habiba had been quick to clarify, the moment Daniel entered the substation, telling his side of the story, then rushing off to fetch the Pakad an unrequested cup of Turkish coffee and a piece of baklava wrapped in wax paper. The Arab policeman was a leftover from the days of Jordanian occupation, unschooled, nearing sixty, and waiting for his pension from the Jews. Allowed to remain on the force because of his familiarity with the black alleys and their denizens, the desire by the brass to maintain the illusion of continuity.


"He kicks her out, give her three times talaq, then changes his mind and wants us to be the marriage counselors. How were we to know, Pakad?"


Habiba needed a shave. His grizzled face twitched with fear; his uniform needed ironing. Daniel had brought him back to Headquarters and he looked out of place in the sterile emptiness of the interrogation room. An antiquity.


Forty years of pocketing petty baksheesh and dishing out bureaucratic indifference, thought Daniel, and now he's terrified that indifference is going to be twisted into something cruel.


"There was no way to know," Habiba repeated, whining.


"No, there wasn't," said Daniel. The man's anxiety was starting to wear on him.


"What difference would it have made had we looked for her?" insisted Habiba. "When this Butcher wants someone, he gets her."


There was awe in the old policeman's voice when he spoke of the killer. Awe undercoated with contempt for his own police force.


He thinks of the bastard as superhuman, some kind of demon-a Jewish demon. The helplessness-the homage to evil-angered Daniel and he had to restrain himself from dressing the old policeman down.


"Marriage counselors," muttered Habiba. "We're too busy for that kind of nonsense."


Anger overtook restraint.


"Of course you are," said Daniel. "Feel free to return to Kishle. Don't let a murder investigation keep you from your pressing business."


Habiba flushed. "I didn't mean, Pakad-"


"Forget it, Officer Habiba. Go back to Kishle. Don't worry, your retirement's intact."


Habiba started to say something, thought better of it, and left the room.


Daniel looked at his watch. Six P.M. Goodbye, family; goodbye, Shabbat. The husband was in another room, being comforted by relatives under the watchful eye of the Chinaman and Shmeltzer. Daniel had tried to get something out of him but the poor guy was too distraught, frozen silent, near catatonic, only the hands moving-scratching his face bloody. The imperviousness to pain chilled Daniel's heart.


Maybe Daoud could do better. He was due over from the Old City any minute. No mistaking the joy in his voice at being reeled in-jubilation at being regarded as someone with special talents. And relief at being pulled off the Roselli surveillance. The timing couldn't have been better-last night's watch had now provided the monk with an ironclad alibi.


Daniel tried to imagine Roselli as a yeshiva student, wondered how long the monk would stay faithful to his latest mistress. The spartan lodgings and seventeen-hour days Buchwald demanded from his students might not prove too different from the rigors of monkhood. But Daniel suspected that Roselli was one of those philosophic grasshoppers, leaping from creed to creed. A searcher destined never to find what he was looking for, because you had to fill your own void. No rabbi or priest or mullah could do it for you.


Not that the searchers would ever stop searching. Or flocking to Jerusalem. The city was a psychic magnet, drawing in the Rosellis of the world and those who promised them salvation. At that first meeting at The Star, Shmeltzer had bemoaned the influx of fanatics and nut cases as if it were a new phenomenon, but the attraction was as old as Jerusalem itself. Pilgrims and self-flagellators, crucifiers and false messiahs, visionaries, dervishes, charlatans, and the willfully blind. Determined to squeeze blood out of every rock, hallucinate sacred flames licking from every arid clump of mesquite.


Searchers, some of them undoubtedly mad, others teetering on the brink of madness. Yet, despite them, the city endured wave after wave of destruction and rebirth. Or maybe because of them.


Mad but benign, seeking internal order.


Unlike the slashing, plundering, mocking monster he was after.


Beast of the highway.


Disorder, internal collapse-hell on earth-was what this one craved.


Daniel resolved to burn him.


He sat behind a one-way mirror and watched Daoud conduct the interview. Hardly a sophisticated concealment, but if Abdin Barakat noticed it, he gave no sign.


The Arab detective had all the right moves-authority, compassion, patience, appeals to a husband's desire to find his wife's murderer and avenge her death. But to no avail in the beginning: Barakat blocked him out as completely as he had Daniel.


If grief was proportional to devotion, no man had ever possessed greater love for a woman than Abdin Barakat for Shahin. His grief was silent but all the stronger for it, as eloquent an opera of woe as Daniel had ever heard.


He looks dead himself, Daniel thought. Sunken-cheeked, stiff, lifeless features, lusterless eyes half-hidden in the darkness of cavernous sockets. The coarse complexion bleached pale as gauze bandage. A young man mummified by suffering.


Eight years older than Shahin, but that still made him young. Tall, sparely built, with short, poorly cut hair, the cracked fingernails and grease-stained clothes of a working man.


An ironworker in one of the stalls in the Old City. Repairer of pots and pans, family business-the father was the boss. And the landlord. For four married years, home had been two rooms tacked on illegally to the top story of the Barakat family dwelling in the Muslim Quarter. A cooking space and a tiny bedroom for Abdin and Shahin-their names rhymed; it implied a certain harmony-because without children, what need was there for more?


The childlessness was at the root of the divorce, Daniel was sure. Four barren years would have stretched the tolerance of Abdin's family. The Muslims had no use for a woman who didn't bear, made it exquisitely easy for a man to dispose of her: Talaq, verbal denouncement unencumbered by justification, set the divorce process in motion. Three denouncements, and the break was final.


On the other side of the mirror, Barakat began weeping, despite himself; the breakdown was beginning. Daoud handed him a tissue, He clutched it, wept harder, tried to force back the tears but failed. Burying his face in his hands, he moved it back and forth, as if shaking his head no. Daoud pulled out another tissue and tried again.


Patience paid off. Eventually, after two hours of listening and tissue-offering and gently prodding, Daoud got Barakat talking-softly but rapidly, in near-hysterical spurts.


A fragile victory, and the Arab detective knew it. He put his body language into the interrogation, bringing his face so close to Barakat's that they could have kissed, placing his hands on the husband's shoulders and exerting subtle pressure, his knees touching Barakat's knees. Shutting out the room, the universe, so that only questioner and answerer existed in empty white space.


"When's the last time you saw her, Mr. Barakat?"


Barakat stared at the floor.


"Try to remember. It's important, Mr. Barakat."


"M-Monday."


"This past Monday?"


"Yes."


"You're certain of that?"


"Yes."


"Not Sunday or Tuesday?"


"No, Monday was the day-" Barakat burst into tears, buried his face in his hands again.


Daoud looked past the heaving shoulders, through the mirror at Daniel, raised his eyebrows, and tapped the table silently. Glancing at the tape recorder on the table, he waited until Barakat's sobs diminished to sniffles before continuing.


"Monday was the day what, Mr. Barakat?"


"It was… complete."


"What was complete?"


No answer.


"The third talaq?" prompted Daoud.


Barakat's reply was barely audible: "Yes."


"The divorce was final on Monday?"


Jerky nods, tears, more tissues.


"Was Shahin scheduled to leave your house on Monday?"


"Yes."


"Where was she planning to go?"


Barakat uncovered his face. "I don't know."


"Where does her family live?"


"There is no family, only a mother in Nablus."


"What about the father?"


"Dead."


"When did he die?"


"Many years ago. Before the…" Tears flowed down the sunken cheeks, wetting the lacerations and causing them to glisten.


"Before you were married?"


"Yes."


"What about brothers or sisters?"


"No brothers or sisters."


"An only child? Not a single male in the family?" Daoud's tone was laden with disbelief.


"Yes, a great shame." Barakat sat up straighter. "The mother was a poor bearer, useless organs, always with the female sicknesses. My father said…"


Barakat stopped mid-sentence, turned away from the detective's eyes. One hand picked absently at the scratches on his face.


"What did your father say?"


"That…"Barakat shook his head, looked like a dog that had been kicked too often.


"Tell me, Abdin."


A long moment passed.


"Surely the words of one's father are nothing to be ashamed of," said Daoud.


Barakat trembled. "My father said… he said that Shahin's mother's loins were cursed, she'd been possessed by a spirit-a djinn. He said Shahin carried the curse too. The dowry had been obtained deceitfully."


"A djinn."


"Yes, one of my old aunts is a kodia-she confirmed it."


"Did this aunt ever try to chase out the djinnj Did she beat the tin barrel?"


"No, no, it was too late. She said the possession was too strong, agreed with my father that sending Shahin away was the honorable thing to do-as a daughter, she, too, was afflicted. The fruit of a rotten tree."


"Of course," said Daoud. "That makes sense."


"We were never told of the djinn before the wedding," said Barakat. "We were cheated, my father says. Victimized."


"Your father is a wise businessman," said Daoud. "He knows the proper value of a commodity."


Daniel heard sarcasm in the remark, wondered if Barakat would pick it up too. But the young man only nodded. Pleased that someone understood.


"My father wanted to go to the waqf," he said. "To demand judgment and reclaim the dowry from the mother. But he knew it was useless. The crone no longer owns anything-she's too far gone."


"Far gone?"


"Up here." Barakat tapped his forehead. "The djinn has affected her up here as well as in her loins." He scowled, sat up higher, square-shouldered and confident, the guilt-ridden slump suddenly vanished. Reaching out, he took a drink from the water glass that, till then, had gone untouched.


Watching the change come over him, Daniel thought: Plastering over the rot and mildew of sorrow with a layer of indignation. Temporary patchwork.


"The mother is mad?" asked Daoud.


"Completely. She drools, stumbles, is unable to clean herself. She occupies a cell in some asylum!"


"Where is this asylum?"


"I don't know. Some foul place on the outskirts of Nablus."


"Shahin never visited her?"


"No, I forbade it. The contagion-one defect was bad enough. The entire line is cursed. The dowry was obtained deceitfully!"


Daoud nodded in agreement, offered Barakat more water. When the young man had finished drinking, Daoud resumed his questioning, searching for a link to Shahin's whereabouts after her expulsion, inquiring about friends or acquaintances who might have taken her in.


"No, there were no friends," said Barakat. "Shahin shuttered herself in the house all day, refused to have anything to do with other women."


"Why was that?"


"Their children bothered her."


"She didn't like children?"


"At first she did. Then she changed."


"In what way?"


"They reminded her of her defect. It sharpened her tongue. Even the children of my brothers made her angry. She said they were ill-trained-a plague of insects, crawling all over her."


An angry, isolated woman, thought Daniel, no friends, no family. Stripped of the security of marriage, she'd have been as helpless as Fatma, as rootless as Juliet.


Picking off the weak ones.


But where had the herd grazed?


"Let's go back to Monday," said Daoud. "The last time you saw her, what time was it?"


"I don't know."


"Approximately."


"In the morning."


"Early in the morning?"


Barakat tapped his tooth with a fingernail and thought. "I left for work at eight. She was still there…" The sentence died in his throat. All at once he was crying again, convulsively.


"She was still there what, Abdin?"


"Oh, oh, Allah help me! I didn't know. Had I known, I never…"


"What was she doing when you left for work?" Daoud pressed softly but insistently.


Barakat kept crying. Daoud took hold of his shoulders, shook him gently.


"Come, come."


Barakat quieted.


"Now, tell me what she was doing the last time you saw her, Abdin."


Barakat muttered something unintelligible.


Daoud leaned closer. "What's that?"


"She was… Oh, merciful Allah! She was cleaning up!"


"Cleaning what up, Abdin?"


Sobs.


"The kitchen. My dishes. My breakfast dishes."


After that. Barakat became withdrawn again, more mannequin than man. Answering Daoud's questions but perfunctorily, employing grunts, shrugs, nods, and shakes of the head whenever they could substitute for words, muttered monosyllables when speech was necessary. Pulling the information out of him was a frustrating process, but Daoud never flagged, taking the husband over the same territory time and time again, returning eventually to the issue that had driven a wedge between him and Shahin.


"Did she ever take steps to correct her defect?" Phrasing it so that all the responsibility rested on the woman's shoulders.


Nod.


"What kind of steps?"


"Prayer."


"She prayed, herself?"


Nod.


"Where?"


"Al Aqsa."


"Did others pray for her as well?"


Nod.


"Who?"


"My father petitioned the waqf. They appointed righteous old men."


"To pray for Shahin?"


Nod. "And…"


"And what?"


Barakat started to cry again.


"What is it, Abdin?"


"I-prayed for her too. I recited every surah in the Quran in one long night. I chanted the zikr until I fainted. Allah shut his ears to me. I am unworthy."


"It was a strong djinn," said Daoud. Playing his part well, thought Daniel. He knew what Christians thought of Muslim spirits.


Barakat hung his head.


Daoud looked at his watch. "More water, Abdin? Or something to eat?'


Shake of the head.


"Did Shahin ever consult a doctor?"


Nod.


"Which doctor?"


"A herbalist."


"When?"


"A year ago."


"Not more recently?"


Shake of the head.


"What's the herbalist's name?"


"Professor Mehdi."


"The Professor Mehdi on Ibn Sina Street?"


Nod.


Daoud frowned, as did Daniel, behind the glass. Mehdi was a quack and illegal abortionist who'd been busted several times for fraud and released when the magistrates took seriously his lawyer's claims of ethnic harassment.


"What did Professor Mehdi advise?"


Shrug.


"You don't know?"


Shake of the head.


"She never told you?"


Barakat started to throw up his hands, got midway to his shoulders, and let them drop. "He took my money-it didn't work. What was the use?"


"Did she see a medical doctor?"


Nod.


"After she saw Professor Mehdi or before?"


"After."


"When?"


"Last month, then later."


"When later?"


"Before she…" Barakat chewed his lip.


"Before she left?"


Nod.


"When before she left?"


"Sunday."


"She saw this doctor the day before she left?"


Nod.


"Was she going for treatment?"


Barakat shrugged.


"What was the purpose of her appointment?"


Tension, then a shrug.


Daoud tensed also, looked ready to throttle Barakat. Tapping the table with his fingertips, he sat back, forcing a reassuring smile onto his face.


"She saw this doctor the day before she left, but you don't know for what."


Nod.


"What was the doctor's name?"


"Don't know."


"Didn't you pay his bill?"


Shake of the head.


"Who paid the doctor, Abdin?"


"No one."


"The doctor saw Shahin for free'.


Nod.


"As a favor?"


Shake of the head.


"Why, then?"


"A U.N. doctor-she had a refugee card. They saw her for free."


Daoud edged his chair closer to Barakat's.


"Where is this U.N. doctor's office?"


"Not an office. A hospital."


"Which hospital, Abdin?"


There was an edge in the detective's voice and Barakat heard it clearly. He pressed himself against his chair, shrinking back from Daoud. Wearing an injured look that said I'm doing the best I can.


"Which hospital?" Daoud said loudly. Getting to his feet and standing over Barakat, abandoning any pretense of patience.


"The big pink one," said Barakat, hastily. "The big pink one atop Scopus."


Patients began arriving at the Amelia Catherine at nine-thirty, the first ones a ragtag bunch of men who'd made the walk from the city below. Zia Hajab could have started processing them right then, but he made them wait, milling around the arched entry to compound, while he sat in his chair sipping sweet iced tea and wiping his forehead.


This kind of heat, no one was going to rush him.


The waiting men felt the heat, too, shuffling to avoid baking, grimacing and fingering their worry beads. Most of them bore obvious stigmata of disease or disability: bandaged and splinted limbs, sutured wounds, eye infections, skin eruptions. A few looked healthy to Hajab, probably malingerers out for pills they could resell-with what they were paying, pure profit.


One of them lifted his robe and urinated against the wall. A couple of others began grumbling. The watchman ignored them, took a deep breath and another sip of the cool liquid.


What they were paying, they could wait.


Only ten o'clock and already the heat was reaching deep inside Hajab, igniting his bowels. He fanned himself with a newspaper, peered into the tea glass. There was a lump of ice floating on the top. He tilted the glass so that the ice rested against his teeth. Enjoyed the sensation of chill, then nibbled a piece loose and let it rest upon his tongue for a while.


He turned at the sound of a diesel engine. A UNRWA panel truck-the one from Nablus-pulled up in front of the hospital and stopped. The driver got out and loosened the tailgate, disgorging twenty or thirty men who limped down and joined the grumblers from the city. The groups merged into one restless crowd; the grumbling grew louder.


Hajab picked his clipboard off the ground, got up, and stood before them. A sorry-looking bunch.


"When may we enter, sir?" asked a toothless old man.


Hajab silenced him with a look.


"Why the wait?" piped up another. Younger, with an impudent face and runny, crusted eyes. "We've come all the way from Nablus. We need to see the doctor."


Hajab held out his palm and inspected the clipboard. Seventy patients scheduled for Saturday Men's Clinic, not counting those who walked in without appointments, or tried to be seen with expired refugee cards or no cards at all. A busy Saturday made worse by the heat, but not as bad as Thursdays, when the women came-droves of them, three times as many as the men. Women were weak-spirited, crying Disaster! at the smallest infirmity. Screeching and chattering like magpies until by the end of the day, Hajab's head was ready to burst.


"Come on, let us in," said the one with the bad eyes. "We have our rights."


"Patience," said Hajab, pretending to peruse the clipboard. He'd watched Mr. Baldwin, knew a proper administrator had to show who was in charge.


A man leaning on a cane sat down on the ground. Another patient looked at him and said, "Sehhetak bel donya"-"without health, nothing really matters"-to a chorus of nods.


"Bad enough to be sick," said Runny Eyes, "without being demeaned by pencil pushers."


A murmur of assent rose from the crowd. Runny Eyes scratched his rear and started to say something else.


"All right," said Hajab, hitching up his trousers and pulling out his pen. "Have your cards ready."


Just as he finished admitting the first bunch, a second truck-the one from Hebron-struggled up the road from the southeast. The engine on this one had an unhealthy stutter-the gears sounded worn, probably plenty else in need of repair. He would have loved to have a go at it, show what he could do with a wrench and screwdriver, but those days were gone. Al maktoub.


The Hebron truck was having trouble getting over the peak of Scopus. As it lurched and bucked, a white Subaru two-door came cruising by from the opposite direction-from the campus of the Jews' university. The Subaru stopped, rolled several meters, and came to a halt directly across the road from the Amelia Catherine. Probably a gawker, thought Hajab, noticing the rental plates and the yellow Hertz sticker on the rear window.


The door of the Subaru opened and a big guy in a dark suit got out and started walking toward the Amelia Catherine. The sun bounced off his chest and reflected something shiny. Cameras-definitely a gawker-two of them, hanging from long straps. From where Hajab sat they looked expensive-big black-and-chrome jobs with those oversized lenses that stuck out like noses.


The gawker stopped in the middle of the road, oblivious to the approaching truck despite all the nose it was making. He uncovered the lens of one of the cameras, raised the machine to his eyes, and started shooting pictures of the hospital.


Hajab frowned. That kind of thing just wouldn't do. Not without some sort of payment. His commission.


He pushed himself out of his chair, wiped his mouth, and took a step forward, stopped at the sight of the Hebron truck coming over the peak and headed straight for the guy with the cameras, who just kept clicking away-what was he, deaf?


The driver of the truck saw him late, slammed on the brakes, which squealed like scared goats-another job for an expert mechanic-then leaned on his horn. The guy with the cameras looked up, waved hello like some kind of mental defective, and stumbled out of the way. The driver honked again, just for emphasis. The guy with the camera bowed and trotted across the road. Headed right for Hajab's chair.


As he got close, Hajab saw he was a Japanese. Very big and broad for one of them, but Japanese just the same, with the goofy tourist look they all had: ill-fitting suit, wide smile, thick-lensed eyeglasses, the hair all slicked down with grease. The cameras hanging on him like body parts-Japanese babies were probably born with cameras attached to them.


They were the best, the Japanese. Rich, every one of them, and gullible-easy to convince that the commission was mandatory. Hajab had posed for a group of them last month, gotten five dollars from each one, money he still had in a coffee can under his bed in Ramallah. His own bed.


"No pictures," he said sternly, in English.


The Japanese smiled and bowed, pointed his camera at the rose garden beyond the arch, snapped a picture, then swung the lens directly in line with the front door.


"No, no, you can't take pictures here," said the watchman, stepping between the Japanese and the door and wagging his finger in the big yellow face. The Japanese smiled wider, uncomprehending. Hajab searched his memory for English words, retrieved one Mr. Baldwin had taught him: "Forbidden!"


The Japanese made an O with his mouth, nodded his head several times, and bowed. Refocusing his camera-a Nikon; both of then were Nikons-on Hajab. The Nikon clicked and whirred.


Hajab started to say something, was distracted for a moment by the rattle of the Hebron truck's tailgate chains, the slamming of the gate on the asphalt. The Japanese ignored the noise, kept shooting Hajab's portrait.


"No, no." Hajab shook his head.


The Japanese stared at him. Put the first camera down and picked up the second. Behind him the Hebron truck drove away.


"No," Hajab repeated. "Forbidden."


The Japanese smiled, bowed, started pressing the second camera's shutter.


Idiot. Maybe "no" meant yes in his language-though the ones last month had understood. Maybe this one was just being obstinate.


Too big to intimidate, Hajab decided. The best he could do was disrupt the photographs, follow up with a little pantomime using his wallet.


He told the idiot: "U.N. say, must pay for pictures," put his hand in his pocket, was prevented from proceeding by the swarm of Hebron patients hobbling their way to the entry.


Aggressive bunch, they pushed against him, tried to get past him without showing their cards. Typical Hebron animals. Whenever they were around, it meant trouble.


"Wait," said Hajab, holding out his palm.


The Hebron patients pressed forward anyway, surrounding the big Japanese and beginning to stare him with a mixture of curiosity and distrust as he kept taking pictures.


"Cards," announced Hajab, spreading his arms to prevent any of them from getting through. "You must show cards! The doctors won't see you without them."


"He saw me last month," said a man. "Said the card wasn't necessary."


"Well, it's necessary now." Hajab turned to the Japanese and grabbed hold of his arm, which felt huge under the suit sleeve: "Stop that, you. No pictures."


"Let the man take his pictures," said a man with a bandaged jaw and swollen lips, the words coming out slurred. He grinned at the Japanese, said in Arabic: "Take my picture, yellow brother."


The Hebron ruffians laughed.


"And mine."


"Mine, too, I want to be a movie star!"


The Japanese reacted to the shouts and smiles by snapping his shutter.


Hajab tugged at the Japanese man's arm, which was hard as a block of limestone and just as difficult to budge. "No, no! Forbidden, forbidden!"


"Why can't he take his pictures?" a patient demanded.


"U.N. rules."


"Always rules! Let us in-we're sick!"


Several patients pushed forward. One of them managed to get around Hajab. The watchman said, "Stop, you!" and the sneak halted. Stooped-over little fellow with sallow skin and a worried ace, he pointed to his throat and his belly.


"Card?" said Hajab.


"I lost it," said the man, talking with effort in a low croak, still holding his belly.


"The doctor won't see you without it."


The man moaned in pain.


"Let him in!" shouted someone. "He vomited in the truck, stunk it up."


"Let me in-I have to vomit too," said another voice from the crowd.


"Me, too. I have loose bowels as well."


Laughter, followed by more crudities.


The Japanese seemed to think the merriment was directed at him; he responded to each jest and rude remark with a click of his shutter.


A circus, thought Hajab, all because of this camera-laden monkey. As he reached up to pull down the Nikon, several rowdies made for the door.


"Stop your pictures!" he said. "Forbidden!" The Japanese smiled, kept clicking away.


More patients were pushing through now. Heading for the front door, not a single of them bothering to show his card.


Click, click.


"Forbidden!"


The Japanese stopped, lowered his camera and let it rest against his broad chest.


Probably out of film, thought Hajab. No way would he be permitted to reload on hospital property.


But instead of reaching into his pocket for film, the Japanese smiled at Hajab and held out his hand for a shake.


Hajab took it briefly, withdrew his hand, and held it palm up. "Twenty dollars, American. U.N. rules."


The Japanese smiled again, bowed, and walked away.


"Twenty dollars," laughed a patient as he walked.by.


"Twenty dollars for what, a kiss?" said another.


Hajab thought of going after them, stepped aside instead. The Japanese stood in the middle of the road again, pulled a third camera, a smaller one, out of his jacket pocket and took more of his damned pictures, then finally got in his Subaru and drove off.


Nearby all the Hebron patients had gotten to the door. Only a few stragglers remained, limping or walking the stingy, halting steps of the truly disabled.


Hajab headed back to the shade of his chair. Hot day like this, it didn't pay to expend precious energy. He settled his haunches on the thin plastic seat and wiped his brow. If things got crazy inside, that wasn't his problem.


He sat back, stretched his legs, and took a long sip of tea. Unfolding the paper, he turned to the classified section, became engrossed in the used car ads. Forgetting his surroundings, forgetting the Japanese, the jokers and malingerers. Not paying the stragglers one bit of attention, and certainly not noticing two of them who hadn't arrived on the truck with the others. Who'd emerged, instead, during the height of the commotion created by the Japanese, from a thicket of pines growing just outside the chain-link border at the rear of the hospital compound.


They wore long, heavy robes, these two, and dangling burnooses that concealed their faces. And though they hadn't been required to use them, in their pockets were refugee cards closely resembling the ones issued by UNRWA. Reasonable facsimiles, printed up just hours before.


Inside the hospital, things were indeed crazy. The air-conditioning system had broken down, turning the building into a steam bath. Two volunteer doctors hadn't shown up, appointments were already running an hour behind schedule, and the patient load was heavy, injured and sick men spilling out of the waiting room and into the main hallway, where they stood, squatted, sat, and leaned against the plaster walls.


The stagnant air was fouled by unwashed bodies and infection. Nahum Shmeltzer staked out a place against the north wall and watched the comings and goings of doctors, nurses, and patients, with a jaundiced eye.


The little false mustache was ridiculous, perched above his lip like a piece of lint. He hadn't shaved or showered and felt as unclean as the rest of them. To top it off, the robes Latam had provided him wercabrasive as horsehair, heavy as lead. He was sweating like a sick man, starting to feel really feverish-how was that for method acting?


The only bright spot was the smile the costume had elicited from Eva. He'd picked her up at Hadassah, taken her home, tried to get her to eat, then held her for four hours before falling asleep, knowing she'd be up all right, waiting by the phone. The old man was close to death; she kept wanting to return to the hospital, afraid of missing the moment he slipped away.


Still, when Shmeltzer had gotten up at five and put on the Arab get-up, the corners of her mouth had turned up-only for a moment, but every little bit helped… Shit, he was uncomfortable.


Daoud didn't seem to mind any of it, he noticed. The Arab stood across the hall, blending in with the others, cool as rain. Making occasional eye contact with Shmeltzer, but mostly just fading into the background. Backing up against the door of the Records Room and waiting for Shmeltzer's signal before making unobtrusive movements with his hands.


Movements you wouldn't notice if you weren't looking for them. The hands busy at the lock but the face blank as a new note pad.


Maybe Arabs weren't bothered by this kind of thing, thought Shmeltzer. If they could be trusted, they'd make great undercover men.


Arabs. Here he was, surrounded by them. Except for prison camp duty in '48, he'd never been with so many of them at one time.


If they knew who he was, they'd probably tear him apart. The Beretta would pick off a few, but not enough. Not that they'd ever find out. He'd looked in the mirror after putting on the outfit, surprised himself with what a good Arab he made. Ahmed Ibn Shmeltzer


Someone lit a cigarette. A couple of others followed suit. A guy next to him nudged him and asked if he had a smoke. All that despite the fact that the American nurse, Cassidy, had come out twice and announced No Smoking in loud, lousy Arabic.


The Arabs ignored her; a woman talking, she might just as well have been a donkey braying.


"Smoke?" repeated the guy, nudging again.


"Don't have any," Shmeltzer said in Arabic.


The Cassidy girl was out in the hall again, calling out a name. A beggar on crutches grunted and bumped his way toward her.


Shmeltzer looked at the nurse as she escorted the cripple to an examining room. Plain as black bread, no breasts, no hips, the type of dry cunt always exploited by greasy sheikhs like Al Biyadi.


A few minutes later, the sheikh himself stepped out of another examining room, all pressed and immaculate in his long doctor's coat. He glanced at the mob of patients with disdain, shot his cuffs, and exposed a flash of gold watch.


A white swan among mud ducks, thought Shmeltzer, and he knows it. He followed Al Biyadi's path across the hall and into the Records Room. Daoud had moved away from the door, sat down, and was feigning sleep.


Al Biyadi used a key to open the door. Arrogant young snot -what the hell was he doing working here instead of renting a suite of offices in Ramallah or on a good street in East Jerusalem? Why lower himself to stitching up paupers when he could be raking in his big money attending to landowner's families or rich tourists at the Intercontinental Hotel?


The initial research had shown him to be a playboy with expensive tastes. Hardly the type to go in for do-gooding. Unless there was an ulterior motive.


Like access to victims.


Dani's theory was that the Butcher was a psycho with something extra-a racist out to cause trouble between Jews and Arabs. Shmeltzer wasn't sure he bought that, but if it was true, it only strengthened his own theory: Al Biyadi was a closet radical and best bet for the Butcher. He'd said as much at the emergency staff meeting last night. No one had agreed or disagreed.


But he fit, the snot, including the fact that he'd lived in America.


Ten years ago, Nahum, Dani had objected. Their typical debate.


How do you know?


Our passport records confirmed it during the initial research.


Ten years. Four years too late to match two of the murders from the FBI computer.


But Shmeltzer wasn't ready to let go of the bastard that easily. Before settling in Detroit, Michigan, for college, Al Biyadi had lived in Amman, attending a high-priced boarding school, the same one Hussein's kids went to. Rich kid like that, he could have easily gone back and forth between Jordan and America as a tourist, using a Jordanian passport. Any trips taking place before his return to Israel wouldn't show up in their files.


American Immigration would have records of them, though. Dani had agreed to get in touch with them, though if past history was any indicator, getting the information would take weeks, maybe months.


Meanwhile, as far as Nahum Shmeltzer was concerned, the book was still open on Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi. Wide open.


Anyway, there was no reason to be wedded to the American murders. Maybe the similarity was just a coincidence-a strong one, granted, what with the caves and the heroin. But maybe certain types of sex maniacs operated in patterns, some common psychological thread that made them carve up women in similar ways, dump them in caves. Dani's black friend had said the match was too close for coincidence. An American detective would know plenty about that, but even he was theorizing. There was no hard evidence


Al Biyadi came out of the Records Room bearing several charts, locked it, stepped over Daoud, and pursed his lips in distaste.


Prissy, thought Shmeltzer. Maybe a latent homosexual- the head-doctor had said serial killers often were.


Look at the woman he chose: The Cassidy girl had no meat on her-not much of a woman at all, especially for a hotshot rich kid like Al Biyadi.


A strange pairing. Maybe the two of them were in it together. Closet radicals intent on fomenting violent revolution-a killing team. He'd always liked the idea of more than one murderer. Multiple kill spots, a partner to help carry stuff to and from the cave, serve as lookout, do a nice thorough washing of the bodies-nursie serving doctor.


And a female partner, to make it easier to snag victims. A woman would trust another woman, especially a do-gooder in a white uniform. Believe her when when she said Relax. This little shot is to make you feel better.


Trust… Maybe Cassidy had done the first two American ones by herself-a female sex maniac. Why not? Then, four years later, Al Biyadi comes to America, meets her at Harper Hospital, the two of them find they have a common interest and start a killing club.


It sounded far-fetched, but you never knew. Anyway, enough speculating. It was giving him a headache. What was needed was good old-fashioned evidence.


The old Swiss nurse, Catherine Hauser, walked out into the center of the corridor and called out a name. Her voice was too soft amid the white noise of small talk, and no one heard her.


"Quiet," ordered Al Biyadi, just about to enter an examining room. "Quiet immediately."


The men in the hall obeyed.


Al Biyadi glowered at them, nodded like a little prince granting favors. "You may read that name again, Nurse Hauser."


The old one repeated it. A patient said, "Me" and got up to follow her. Al Biyadi pushed the door open and disappeared inside.


Shmeltzer leaned his elbows against the wall and waited. The man next to him had managed to get a cigarette from someone else and was blowing thick plumes of smoke that swirled in the hot air and took a long time to die. Across the hall Daoud was talking to a guy with a patch over his eye. Ahmed Ibn Dayan


The two other doctors-the older Arab, Darousha, and the Canadian, Carter, came out of a room with an Arab between them. The Arab had one foot in a cast and was stumbling along as they propped him up, his arms on their shoulders.


How sweet.


Do-gooders. As suspects, Shmeltzer thought they were weak. True, a Canadian was almost like an American. Carter would certainly have had easy access to a big open border. But if the American murders cleared anyone, it was him: The initial research placed him in South America during four of the killings, A hitch in the Peace Corps in Ecuador during the last year in medical school, a return trip years later, as a doctor. Real do-gooder, the soft, hippie type, but probably an anti-Semite down deep-anyone who worked for UNRWA had to be. But his references from the Peace Corps were all glowing: devoted physician, saved lives, prevented outbreaks of cholera, helped build villages, dam streams, blah blah blah. To believe it, Dr. Richard Carter pissed champagne.


Darousha also shaped up as one hell of a tzadik: reputation for kindness, no political interests, got along with Jewish doctors-took courses at Hadassah and received high marks. So clean he'd never even had a traffic ticket. Everyone said he really liked making people feel better, was especially good with children.


Only mark against him was the fact that he was queer- and a real Romeo. Shin Bet had just firmed up some rumors connecting him with a series of male lovers, including a married Jewish doctor three years ago. The latest boyfriend was the moronic watchman out in front. What a pair they'd make-two pudgy guys bouncing around in bed.


But being homosexual meant nothing in terms of this case, decided Shmeltzer. According to the head-docs, the magic word was latent. The theory was that the violence came about because the killer was repressing his homosexual impulses, trying to overcompensate by being supermasculine and taking control of women by destroying them.


If Darousha was already overtly queer, didn't it mean he'd stopped repressing? Had nothing to hide, nothing to be upset about? Unless he thought no one knew about him


All bullshit, anyway, the psychology stuff. Including the bullshit profiles Dani's black friend had quoted from the FBI: Men who cut up women are usually sadistic psychopaths. Which was like saying you could make something smaller by reducing it in size. Nice guy, the black-no doubt he had more experience than any of them, and Nahum Shmeitzer was the last person to refuse help from outsiders. But only if they had something solid. Like evidence.


Which was what they were after this morning, stuck here in the midst of all this stink and pestilence. He looked over at Daoud, hoped the chance came soon. Goddamned robes itched like crazy.


At one in the afternoon the doctors took a lunch break. Free coffee and pastries were offered to the patients, who went after the food like starving animals, rushing out to the front courtyard of the hospital where folding tables had been set up.


Moving damned fast, noticed Shmeltzer, for guys on crutches and canes. He signaled for Daoud to make his move.


Shielded by the commotion, the Arab detective sidled up to the Records Room door again, worked the pick out from inside his sleeve, and played with the lock.


Slow, thought Shmeltzer, keeping one eye on the hallway. One minute more, he'd have a try at it himself.


Finally the lock yielded. Daoud turned and looked at Shmeltzer, who looked up and down the corridor.


Coast was clear, but the hallway was emptying, their cover was dissipating.


Go, Shmeltzer signaled.


Daoud opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it after him.


The corridor grew silent. Shmeltzer waited for the Arab to do his work, standing watch five meters to the east of the door. Then footsteps sounded from the around the corner. A man appeared, a Westerner, walking quickly and purposefully.


Baldwin, the administrator-now there was an American. Real uncooperative bastard, according to Dani. And the shmuck had been out of America only for the last two murders in the FBI file, which were dismemberments anyway, no ID on the victims-far from clear that they belonged with the first ones.


A pencil-pushing bastard. Shmeltzer would have liked to see him as the killer. No doctor, but he'd hung around hospitals along enough to learn about drugs, surgical procedures.


Look at him, wearing a Great White Father safari suit and shiny black boots with hard leather heels that played a clackety drumbeat on the tile floor. Gestapo boots.


Shmuck was walking fast but his eyes were buried in a magazine-Time. A large ring of keys dangled from one hand as he approached.


Heading straight for the Records Room, realized Shmeltzer. Hell of a disaster if Daoud stepped out right now and came face to face with the bastard.


Shmeltzer backed up so that he stood in front of the door. Heard rustling inside and knocked a signal to the Arab, who locked the door and stopped moving.


Baldwin came closer, looked up from his magazine and saw him.


"Yes?" he said. "Can I help you?" Heavily accented Arabic.


Shmeltzer leaned against the door, clutched his chest, and moaned.


"What's the matter?" said Baldwin, looking down on him.


"Hurts," said Shmeltzer in a whisper, trying to look and sound feeble.


"What's that?"


"Hurts."


"What hurts?"


"Chest." A louder moan. Shmeltzer fluttered his eyelids, made as if his knees were giving way.


Baldwin grabbed his elbow, dropping his Time magazine in the process. Shmeltzer went semi-limp, let the bastard support his weight, smiling to himself and thinking: Probably the first real work he's done in years.


The American grunted, fumbled with his key ring until he'd attached it to his belt, freed his other hand to prop up Shmeltzer's steadily sagging body.


"Have you seen the doctor yet?"


Shmeltzer gave a miserable look and shook his head. "Waiting. Waiting all day… oh!" Letting out a wheezing breath.


Baldwin's pale eyebrows rose in alarm.


"Your heart? Is it your heart?"


"Oh! Ohhh!"


"Do you have a heart problem, sir?"


"Oh! Hurts!"


"All right. Listen," said Baldwin. "I'm going to lower you down. Just wait here and I'll go get one of the doctors."


He let Shmeltzer slide to the floor, propped him against the wall, and jogged off back toward the east wing. The moment he rounded the corner, Shmeltzer got to his feet, rapped on the Records Room door, and said, "Get the hell out!"


The door opened, Daoud emerged, eyes alive with excitement. Success.


"This way," said Shmeltzer, pointing west.


The two of them ran.


As they put space between them and the Records Room, Shmeltzer asked, "Get anything?"


"Everything. Under my robes.".


"Mazel tov."


Daoud looked at the older man quizzically, kept running. They passed the examining rooms and the X-ray lab. The hallway terminated at a high wall of windowless plaster marked only by a bulletin board.


"Wait," said Shmeltzer. He stopped, scanned the board, pulled off a clinic schedule, and stashed it in his pocket before resuining his run.


A right turn took them into a smaller corridor lined by a series of paneled wood doors. Recalling the Mandate-era blueprints they'd examined last night, Shmeltzer identified their former function: servants' quarters, storage rooms. The Brits had pampered themselves during their reign: The entire west wing had been devoted to keeping them well clothed and well fed-quarters for an army of butlers, maids, cooks, laundry room, linen closets, silver storage, auxiliary kitchen, auxiliary wine cellar.


Now those rooms had been turned into flats for the do-gooders, doctors' and nurses' names typed on cards affixed to each door. Al Biyadi's room was next to Cassidy's, Shmeltzer noticed. He took in the names on the other cards too. Committing all of it to memory-automatically-as he continued to run.


Behind them, from behind the corner, came the sound of distant voices-echoing voices full of worry, then surprise.


The voices grew louder. As did the footsteps. Hard Gestapo heels.


At the end of the smaller corridor were French doors that yielded to the turn of a brass handle. Shmeltzer and Daoud ran out onto a stone landing guarded on both sides by reclining statuary lions, leaped down half a dozen steps, and found themselves facing the rear grounds of the hospital-neglected estate grounds, once elaborately landscaped, now just an expanse of red dirt bordered by the ragged remains of privet hedges and walled by tall old pines. Empty flower beds and patches of rusty earth interrupted by seemingly random copses of younger trees. To the far west of the ground was an enclosed pen for animals; all else was open space.


But the entire property was enclosed by three meters of chain link.


Trapped.


"Where now?" said Daoud, running in place.


Shmeltzer stopped, felt his knees aching, his heart pumping furiously. Thinking: Funny if I got a real heart attack.


He surveyed the grounds, looked back at the hospital. Much of the rear of the huge pink building's ground floor consisted of glass panels-more French doors leading out to a canopied sun porch. A solarium back in Mandate days-goddamned Brits sunning themselves while their empire rotted out from under them. Now the dining room.


The sun porch was unoccupied, but if anyone was inside the dining room looking out, he and the Arab would be easy to spot. A real mess.


Still, what was the alternative?


"Keep going," he said, pointing to the north end of the property.


What had once been a rolling lawn was now dirt coated with stones and pine needles. They ran for the shelter of a copse of pines, ran through several meters of shade before exiting the trees and finding themselves on steeply sloping barren ground leading directly to the northern perimeter of the property-a cliff edge. A hinged rectangle had been cut out of the chain link, framing blue sky. A door to the heavens.


Hell of a view, thought Shmeltzer, taking in the distant cream-and-purple contours of the desert, the terraced hills of Judea, still coated with greenery.


Sapphire sky above; big dry blanket below. Hills for folds. Caves for moth holes.


Caves.


He looked back through the trees, saw two figures on the sun porch, one of them in khaki, the other in white. They stood there for a while, went back inside.


Who the hell cared about one sick old Arab?


Daoud had opened the chain-link door. Was gazing out at the wilderness.


"What's it look like over the side?" Shmeltzer asked him.


The Arab dropped to the ground, crawled to the edge, and peered down.


"Small drop, easy," he said, surprised. "Looks like a hiking trail."


They lowered themselves over the side, Daoud first, Shmeltzer following. Landed on flat, soft earth, a wide terrace-three meters by two. The first of several oversized steps notched into the hillside.


"Like stairs," said Daoud.


Shmeltzer nodded. Below the steps was a thick, coarse growth of water-spurning shrubbery. Ugly stuff, green-gray spikes and coils, some of it browning in the heat.


He noticed a split in the brush, a parting like the Red Sea. The two detectives climbed down the steps and entered it, edging through a narrow pathway, barely one person wide. Beneath their feet, flat surface rounded to a concave ditch; they sank suddenly and had to use their arms for balance. But soon they grew used to the concavity, were walking steadily and rapidly down the side of the hill. Bent at the waist to avoid being snagged by the thorny branches overhead.


Shmeltzer slowed and looked up at the branches. An arch of greenery-the classic Jerusalem arch, this one fashioned by nature. Opaque as a roof except for frayed spots where the sun shone through, letting in shards of light that cast brilliant white geometric patterns upon the hard-packed earth.


A tunnel, he thought. Leading straight down to the desert, but from the air or below you'd see only brush, a serpentine line of gray-green. Probably fashioned years ago by the Brits, or maybe the Jordanians after them or the Turks before them. An escape route.


"How you doing?" he asked Daoud. "Still got the stuff?"


The Arab patted his middle. "Still got it."


"Okay, let's follow this. See where it leads."


After a while, Nightwing got more open about herself, lying in his arms in the backseat of the Plymouth after she did him.


and talking about her childhood-growing up fat and pimply and unpopular, terrorized by an asshole father who crawled into her bed every night and raped her. The next morning he'd always feel guilty and take it out on her by slapping her around and calling her a whore. The rest of the family going along with it, treating her like scum.


Once he saw tears in her eyes, which nauseated him; hearing about her personal shit made him sick. But he didn't stop her from spilling it out, sat back and pretended he was listening, sympathetic. Meanwhile he was filling his mind with pictures: real science experiments on whimpering mutts, touching the stiffs in the path lab, memory slides of what he'd done to Fields, how the slimeball's head had looked all bashed to trash. Thinking: It's easy to be a shrink.


One night they were driving on Nasty, headed for a parking spot, and she said, "That's him-that's BoJo!"


He slowed the car to get a good look at the pimp, saw a short, skinny nigger in a purple suit with red fake-fur lapels and a red hat with fake leopardskin band and peacock feathers. Little slime was standing on a corner talking to two fat blond whores, his arms around them, showing lots of gold tooth.


Nightwing slumped low on the seat and prodded his arm. "Speed up. I don't want him to see me!"


He slowed the Plymouth, smiled. "What, you're scared of a little shit like that?"


"He may be little, but he's bad."


"Yeah, right."


"Believe it, Doctor T. C'mon, let's get out of here!"


"Yeah, right."


After that, he started watching the nigger.


BoJo was a creature of habit, showed up on the boulevard Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays, always around eleven P.M. Always driving from the south side of town in a five-year-old lacquer-flake purple Pontiac Grand Prix with gangster whitewall tires wrapped around chrome reversed mag wheels, silver sparkle vinyl top, etched opera windows, fake ermine tuck-and-roll interior with purple piping, "BJ" mono-grammed in gold on the doors, and blackened windows with stickers on them warning that the entire shitty mess was protected by a supersensitive motion-detector alarm system.


The pimpmobile was always left in the same no-parking zone on the south side of Nasty. Cops never checked; Grand Prix never got ticketed. When BoJo got out of the car, he always stretched, then lit an extra-large gold-tipped purple Sherman's with a gold lighter shaped like a Playboy rabbit, before setting the alarm with a little handpiece. Repeated the same song-and-dance on his way back to the car.


The little shit's evenings were just as predictable: a westward stroll on Nasty, collecting from his whores until midnight, then the rest of the night spent drinking at a puke-stinking pimp bar called Ivan's Pistol Dawn on Wednesdays and Fridays. Ogling the dancers at a strip joint called the Lube Job on Sundays.


Dr. Terrific followed him. No one noticed the clean-cut guy in the windbreaker, T-shirt, freshly laundered jeans, and blue tennies. Just another soldier on leave, looking for action.


Soldier of destiny.


Once in a while BoJo left with one of the Lube Job strippers or a whore. Once in a while another nigger, a big, light-skinned, muscle-bound type, hung around him playing bodyguard. But usually he did his thing alone, swaggering along the boulevard as if he owned it. Probably feeling confident because of the nickel-plated pistol he carried-big.45-caliber cowboy job with a white fake-pearl handle. Sometimes he took it out of the glove compartment and waved it around like some kind of toy before sticking it back in his waistband.


Fucker certainly seemed confident, dancing and prancing, laughing all the time, his mouth a fucking gold mine. He wore tight, satin-seamed pants that made his legs look even skinnier than they were, custom-made ticky-tacky wide-shouldered jackets, and patent-leather shoes with high stacked heels. Even with the heels he was short. Black dwarfshit.


Easy to spot.


He watched the scuzz for weeks, was there one warm Friday night, waiting, when BoJo returned from his prowl/party at three-thirteen A.M. Had been waiting in the shit-stinking alley for four hours, standing next to a shit-stinking dumpster, but not the least bit tired. Letting the garbage smells pass right through him, floating above it like some angel, his mind pure and free of thoughts.


Seeing only Fields's face, then BoJo's, then the two of them merging into a white/nigger slime mask.


Pow. His hands itched.


BoJo turned off Nasty and onto the side street, snapping his fingers and staggering-probably stoned out of his gourd from too much juice or weed or whatever. He paused a block away from the Pontiac, the way he always did, hitched up his pants, and lit his Sherman's. The flame from the rabbit lighter illuminated his monkey face for one brief, ugly moment.


Soon as the flame died, Dr. Terrific came running silently out of the alley, all superhero clean-cut and full of destiny.


Sliding a crowbar out from under the windbreaker, he jogged over to the Grand Prix on bouncy tennie feet, raised the crowbar over his head, and brought it down as hard as he could, pulverizing the windshield. The sound of shattering glass still sweet in his ears, he zipped around to the passenger side, squatted low on the sidewalk.


The supersensitive motion-detector alarm started screaming.


BoJo had been dragging on his cigarette. It took a second for the pimp to realize what was happening. Another second before he started screaming too. In harmony with the alarm.


Soul music.


Fucker pulled out his gun, ran/staggered to the Grand Prix as fast as those faggy high heels could take him. Tripping and cursing, finally getting there and staring open-mouthed at the rape of the windshield. Meanwhile, the alarm was still screaming out its mechanical painsong.


BoJo jumped up and down, swung the.45 in a arc, and looked from side to side, spitting and cursing, saying "Come here, mothahfuckahs, goddam fuckin' mothahfuckahs!"


The alarm continued pouring its little electronic heart out.


Meanwhile, he was staying still as a dead man, crouching with the crowbar in his hand. Ready. Stupid nigger never saw him, never thought of checking the passenger side of the car. Just kept jumping and spitting and cursing, leaning over to finger what was left of the windshield, staring at whole chunks of safety glass that had come loose, hundreds of bubbles of glass all over the fake-ermine tuck-and-roll dashboard, stuck in the high-pile fake-ermine bucket seats.


Repeating "Mothahfuckah, fuckin' mothahfuckah" like some spear-chucker chant, stomping his little high-heeled foot, waving the gun around, then finally putting it away, taking the handset out of his pocket and turning off the alarm.


The screaming died; the silence seemed even louder.


Dr. T. held his breath.


"Shit," said BoJo, removing his hat and rubbing a balding head. "Oh, fuck, mothahfuckin' shee-it."


Nigger opened the driver's door with a gold-plated key, brushed glass from the seat and the dashboard, listened to the sad-song tinkle as it fell to the curb, said "Shee-it" again, then got out to reexamine the windshield, as if it had all been a bad dream, next time he looked everything would be okay.


It wasn't.


"Mercy fuck. Shee-it"


Famous last words, because when the fucker straightened up, he was staring into a clean-cut superhero face, hearing:


"Hi, I'm Doctor Terrific. What seems to be the problem?"


"Say wha-" Feeling without really comprehending, the stunning pain as the crowbar smashed him square across his nose, pulverizing his face, driving bone slivers into whatever poor excuse for cerebral tissue he carried in that ugly black' monkey skull.


So easy, just like Fields.


So easy, it made him hard.


Blackberry jelly, he thought, as he hit the nigger slime again and again, stepping back and wiping himself with tissues each time, so that the blood wouldn't spatter his clothes. Wiping the crowbar clean, and leaving it next to the body. Using the tissues to extract the.45 from the slime's waistband and laying the gun on top of the pimp's crotch.


"Umgawa, umgawa. Suck this, coonshit."


Then heading back to the alley, where he retrieved his Polaroid camera, returned to the heap of wet blacktrash, and snapped a flash picture before sauntering " off, soooo casual.


He stopped under a streetlight three blocks away, found a few riny blood freckles on his shoes and T-shirt. The shoes he wiped. The shirt was quickly concealed by zipping up the windbreaker. Then he walked on. Two blocks farther was the Plymouth, nice and comfy. He got in it, drove a mile to another alley with dumpsters. Opened the trunk of the car and wet some rags with alcohol and water from plastic hospital bottles he'd stored there. Pulled the camera apart with his hands, enjoying the cracking sound and imagining it was the nigger's body he was breaking. Wiping each piece, then throwing them into three separate dumpsters.


Riding on and tossing the tissues in four separate sewer drains, tearing off the corner of the one with the most blood and eating it.


He rewarded himself by getting a beer out of the ice chest in the trunk. Drinking it slowly, so casual.


Twenty minutes later he was back on the boulevard, foot-cruising among the geeks and creeps and night-crawling slimeballs, knowing they were his, knowing he could have any of them any time he wanted.


He found a twenty-four-hour fast-food stand-greasy, run-down joint with a pockmarked slant behind the counter. After staring the slant into giving him the key to the men's room, he washed up, examined his face, touched himself, not quite believing he was real.


Then he went back to the counter, ordered a double cheeseburger and vanilla shake from the slant, sat on a cracked plastic stool, eating. Really enjoying his dinner.


The only other customers were a pair of stinking biker faggot types in black leather, stuffing their faces with teriyaki dogs and onion rings. They noticed him, nudged each other, tried to stare him down, tried to give him the evil eye.


His grin changed their minds.


He thought Nightwing would be impressed by the snapshot of all that dead black jelly, overcome with My Hero! gratitude. Instead she gave him a weird look like he was dirty. It made him feel bad for a moment, kind of nauseous and scared, like when he'd been a kid sitting tight-sphinctered on step number six, terrified of being caught.


He stared back at her stare, heard the bad-machine noise get louder, and thought: Stupid ungrateful cunt. Hot rage-pain clawed at the roof of his mouth; he felt the cold rolled steel of the crowbar in his hands. Cooled it with a chest-ballooning deep breath and mind-pictures of the nigger as he'd gone down. Patent shoes black with nightblood.


Be casual. Patient.


But he knew she was hopeless. The romance was over.


He tore the picture in little pieces, ate them, and grinned. Stretched and yawned. "I did it for you. Now you're safe, babe."


"Yeah." Forced smile. "G-great. Thanks-you're terrific!"


"My pleasure, babe." A command.


A minute later: "Do me again, babe."


She hesitated, saw the look on his face, then said, "Yeah, sure, my pleasure, gratis," and lowered her head.


After that their relationship changed. They continued to date, she took his money, did what he wanted, but held back. Emotionally. He could tell.


No more boyfriend/girlfriend, this was heavy duty love/ respect, like a kid for a parent.


Which was okay. He was sick of hearing her sob stories, mean old daddy, all the johns who couldn't get it up, dribbled on her legs, the ones who liked to hurt her.


Fuck that noise. Power was better than closeness any day of the week. Far as he was concerned, they could have continued that way for a while.


But she fucked it up. What happened was her fault, when you got right down to it. The thoughtlessness, dirtying his heritage.


Dirtying Schwann.


He'd say one thing for Fields: The shitbag had been thorough. Checking foreign phone books, employment and immigration records, physicians' directories, licensing board rosters, motor vehicle registrations. Medical journal obituaries.


Being a private eye was clearly more busywork than brainwork, all that TV stuff pure bullshit.


He learned something: Lots of information was just lying around for the taking, if you knew where to look for it.


One downer: The best information Fields had gotten hold of came right out of Schwann's hospital file-Doctor's hospital, the same hospital he'd been working in for two years! In the Pathology Department, of all places-he'd delivered mail there at least a thousand times, was still doing it, had fondled a stiff there just last week.


All those sacred facts right under his nose and he'd paid a dumb slime to find them!


Overlooking it made him tremble, want to cut himself. He cooled himself down with a beer and a stroke, told himself it was okay to make mistakes as long as you learned.


He'd learned. From a dead man, a fucking scumbag.


It paid to keep an open mind.


Visually, Fields's report was a mess, just what you'd expect from a lowlife slob: cheap machine, ink smudges, bent corners, the text typed on a cheap machine with chipped letters, and marred by typographical errors and slipping margins. In those margins, Fields had scrawled little handprinted comments-the slime had obviously planned on squeezing more money out of him by coming across superhelpful. Writing in a oily buddy-buddy tone that made him wish he could bring the fucker back to life in order to smash him to trash again.


Despite all that, the file was sacred, a bible.


Bless you. Daddy.


He set aside bible time every day, sitting naked on the floor of the ice palace, touching himself. Sometimes he worshipped more than once, memorizing the text, every word was sacred. Staring at the hospital ID photo for hours until the image of Schwann's face was burned into his brain.


His face.


The same face. Clean-cut and handsome.


Handsome, because Schwann had wanted to pass the superhero legacy on to him, had squeezed those face-chromosomes into her filthy womb.


Dominating her inferior tissue with Schwann supersperm. The line of command from father to son, a sparkling clone chain.


Looking at his face, anyone knowing Schwann would have to know. Doctor had been a stupid kikefuck not to have caught it.


No one else had ever mentioned it because they were kike-dupes. Doctor had paid them off.


He intensified his bible studies, started reading…„…the file after every meal. The New New Testament. Book of Dieter, Chapter One, Verse One.


In the beginning, Dieter Schwann was born.


Only child-like him!-of Hermann Schwann and Hilde Lobauer Schwann.


Date of the blessed event: April 20, 1926.


The sacred place: Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany.


("Fancy ski resort for the rich, Doc," Fields had scrawled. "Family probably had money, may still have some. You could try to attach some of their bank accounts but overseas stuff is hard to pull off without an internt'l attorney-be happy to get you a referral.")


Grandma Hilde: Fields had little to say about her. ("Nothing traceable. Died 1962, haven't been able to find out who inherited her estate. A foreign trace might obtain you more.") But he was certain she was beautiful. Clean and cool. And blond.


Grandpa Hermann: a doctor, of course. An important one-two doctorates, M.D and Ph.D. Professor of Surgery, University of Berlin.


Herr Doktor Professor Hermann Schwann, M.D., Ph.D. ("Died, 1952. A Nazi. I checked the Periodicals Index and his name turned up in a 1949 Life magazine article on the Nuremberg trials. Seems he ran experiments at Dachau, was convicted of war crimes and imprisoned after the war. Died in jail. Tough luck for the bastard, eh, Doc?")


Tough luck for slime-o Fields, eh?


Chapter Two, Verse One: Dieter Grows to Manhood.


Supercloner had been a doctor too. A brilliant one-you could tell by reading between the lines of the bible/report:


"M.D., 1949, University of Berlin"-which made him a doctor at 23! "Residency and fellowship in surgical pathology, '49-'51"-they didn't give that to just anyone! "Immigrated to the U.S. on a student visa in '51 for a post-doctoral fellowship in micro-anatomy research. Finished up in '53, and went to New York as a staff pathologist at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital."


Reading between the lines revealed a dual mission to the emigration:


A. Put the finishing touches on a brilliant medical education.


B. Shoot superhero sperm into a womb-receptable until it cloned to perfection.


Fuck the womb-the seed lives on!


Dr. Terrific, alias Dieter Schwann, Junior-no, the second. No, Roman numerals: II. II. II.


Dr. Dieter Schwann, II.


Herr Doktor Professor Dieter Schwann, II: Famous- world-renowned physician, surgical pathologist, micro-anatomist, life giver and taker, cleanser of dirt and scum, mind-picture artist, and man-about-town.


Dieter Schwann had died for the sins of the world, but his seed lived on.


Lived.


A noble story, but the end of the report couched it in lies. The Apocrypha. By trying to conceal the truth, Fields had justified his death a million times over.


It had happened too fast. The slime had deserved a lesson. Real science.


No more Mr. Nice Guy.


Still, he didn't tear out the lies, not wanting to alter any part of the bible. Forced himself to read, in order to strengthen his will, harden his heart.


"Schwann left Columbia in '59. They wouldn't say why- his file was closed. (I picked up a hint of something smelly in the ethics department, which makes sense when you follow what happened to the guy.) After that, the State Board has him working in a storefront medical clinic in Harlem-that's a bad black neighborhood-from '60 through '63. The first dope arrest is in '63. He got probation, lost his license, appealed, and lost. No employment record after '63. Second arrest, '64, possession of heroin and conspiracy to sell. A year at Rikers Island-that's a New York City jail-released on probation after six months. Arrested again in '65, sent to the state prison at Attica for seven years. Died of a heroin overdose in prison in '69."


In the margin: "Like father, like son, eh?"


He read the scrawled note for the millionth time, became inflamed with rage. Rubbed his cock until the skin was raw and pinpointed with blood. Clawed at his thighs, tore the skin, pushed through the bad-machine noise, which was as loud as thunder, strong as a tidal wave.


"No records of burial service," wrote Fields. "Probably a potter's field situation (pretty low for a doctor, eh?). No bank accounts or credit cards, no permanent address since '63." In the margin: "I wouldn't count on getting your dough, Doc. This guy may have made a good living at one time but he pissed it all away on dope. Top of that, it's been a couple of years. The foreign angle seems our best bet. What do you think, Doc?"


He thought-he thought-he though the thought.



NOTHING!!!



One summer, two tourist girls from the Midwest got raped and stabbed to death near Nasty and the politicians got all hot and bothered about the crime situation. The cops responded like good little robots, enforcing a ten P.M. curfew, raiding bars and skin joints, busting heads, hauling geeks and creeps off to jail for spitting on the sidewalk.


A threat to his relationship with Nightwing, but no problem for Dr. T.-he was ready to break it off with the ungrateful cunt anyway. Had been figuring out the best way to do it. The best plan.


She was a shallow person, had stopped acting scared but the emotional distance was still there. But she wanted him, said:


"Listen, Doc, no reason for you to boogie away. I found another place. A safe one."


He thought for a while.


"Sure, babe."


There was a big park in the hills north of the boulevard, huge place with a zoo and an observatory and a dozen gates. She told him to drive there, directed him to an obscure gate on the east side, almost completely hidden by giant eucalyptus-a swinging metal frame crossed by wood beams that the park rangers never bothered to lock. She got out of the car, pushed it open, got back in, and they drove through.


The park was oil-black at night. Nightwing pointed left, to a winding road that circled one of the mountains that formed the core of the park. He drove slowly and carefully, with his headlights off, aware of sheer drops on both sides, the city lights that got smaller as they climbed.


They cruised nearly to the top of the mountain, came to a flat turnoff before she said, "Right here. Park under those trees and turn off the engine." When he hesitated: "Come on, don't be a party pooper."


He parked. She got out. "Come on. There's something I want to show you."


He got out carefully. Walked down a twisting dirt path, through walls of trees.


Spooky. But not scared. His body was hard and strong from hours of self-torture and weight lifting, his eyes cat-sharp in the darkness-he was part cat, now. Snowball's contribution to his Aryan ubermensch superconsciousness.


Ubermensch. Kultur. Das Reich. He sang the sacred words to himself as he followed Nightwing's ass-wiggle. Arbeit machl frei.


So many things you could learn in the library.


The librarian at the junior college was an older woman with big tits, not bad-looking, but not his type.


Excuse me


Smile. Yes, what can I do for you?


Uh, I'm doing a term paper on racist literature for Soc. 101. What kind of reference material do you have?


Let's see. The general references would be in the card catalogue-you could try bigotry, racism… prejudice, possibly ethnicity. How far back do you want to go?


Twentieth century.


Hmm. We also have a special collection of Nazi and neo-Nazi literature just donated a few months ago.


Oh? (I know, bitch. A truckload of stuff donated by the wimps at the Coalition Against Racism. Long-haired kikes and spies and niggers wanting to expose the student body to the evils of prejudice, raise the fucking student consciousness. Fucking candlelight ceremony with some hook-nosed rabbi mouthing off about the peace-love-brotherhood scam. Campus paper covered it big-he'd cut out the article, put it in his research file.)


Is that something you'd be interested in looking at? Smiling. The tits jiggling as she talked.


I guess so.


She kept him waiting, went into the back room and came back pushing a trolley of file cases.


Here you go. It can't be checked out. You'll have to read it right here.


Thanks. You've been a great help.


Smile. That's what we're here for.


He wheeled the trolley to a table against the wall, away from everyone else, opened the cases, and found a treasure trove.


Mein Kampf, in English. Gerald L.K. Smith. George Lincoln Rockwell. The Thunderbolt. The Klansman. And classic stuff: Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Der Sturmer with those terrific cartoons.


Truth-tellers.


Their words gripped him, set off something inside of him that he knew was right and real.


He wanted to eat all of it, chew up and swallow every book and pamphlet, infuse it directly into his genetic code.


But not the liars' books.


Whiny, whimpering shit written by kikes and kikesymps about the SS, the death camps, Josef Mengele, M.D., Ph.D. Photos of twin victims, piles of bodies, supposed to repulse.


But they turned him on.


Among the lies, a find: a book on the Nuremberg trials written by some kike lawyer who'd been there. A list at the back, naming the defendants. Noble Herr Doktor Grandpa occupying a place of honor in the S column. His sweet name shining like a beacon.


A fuzzy group picture of defendants at the docket.


The same face!


Hermann to Dieter to Dieter II.


The seed lives!


He returned to the library, again and again, got the trolley and wheeled it to a quiet corner-such a studious boy. Lived with the treasure for weeks while he copied sacred sentences into spiral notebooks, preserving the words, burning the truth into his mind.


The kikes were behind the drug trade, world communism, diseases of the genitals. War and crime. Out to turn the world hook-nosed and filthy.


Gerald L.K. Smith said so. So did George Lincoln Rockwell, Robert Shelton. They proved it with facts, exposed Holocaust lies, the kike-banker conspiracy.


The Fuhrer, persecuted. Grandpa Hermann, framed, dead in a prison cell.


Daddy Dieter dead in a prison cell!


Crucified by nigger-pimp-pushers and the kike drug bankers who bankrolled all of it.


Heil Daddy! He felt like crying


Thin fingers on his arm brought him back to the park, the night air. They'd reached the end of the pathway. Nightwing stroked his hair.


"Come on, Dr. T., it's cool, no patrols. Nothing to get freaked about!"


He looked at her, through her.


Stupid cunt had her mesh blouse unbuttoned, revealing her tits, hands on her hips, trying to look sexy. The moonlight hit her face, turned her into a skeleton, then back to a girl, then back to a skeleton again.


Shifting layers.


The beauty beneath the surface.


"C'mon, cutie." Pointing to a cave. Taking his hand and leading him into it.


Dark, mildew-smelling place. She took a penlight from her purse, switched it on, revealing grooved rock walls, sloping rock ceilings. A June bug, momentarily paralyzed by the light, came to its senses and scampered for cover. Other insects wiggled in the corners of the cave-spiders and whatever. Ignoring them, Nightwing crawled to the far end, showing him her ass under her microskirt, the line of black panties splitting the cheeks. There was a filthy-looking army blanket wedged near the wall. She lifted it, dragged out a cheap vinyl suitcase and opened it.


Watching her practiced movements, seeing the suitcase, he knew she'd been there before, thousands of times, with thousands of other men. Had shared the secret place with them, but not him.


Stupid, unfeeling cunt! After all he'd done for her, she hadn't trusted him enough to show him her little hidey-hole. Not until thousands of others had come up here first, filling her with their lies and their scuzzy jizz.


The last straw. Be casual.


"What's in the case, babe?"


"To-oys." Licking her lips.


"Let's see them."


"Only if you promise to be a good bo-oy."


"Sure, babe."


"Prom-ise?"


"Promise."


The "toys" were predictable: novelty-shop SM props, the stuff seen in the ads at the back of fuck books-whips, chains, spiked boots, an oversized black dildo studded with bumps, a leather domination helmet with straps and buckles all over it.


Yawn.


She put on the boots, lifted her legs to give him a beaver shot while she did it.


Double yawn.


Took off the mesh blouse, put on a leather bra with holes cut out for the nipples.


Borrring.


Then she pulled out the hat. Black silk Nazi officer's hat with a shiny black brim, the SS death's-head insignia above the center of the crown. Under the grinning skull, the double lightning bolts that stood for:


Schwann-Schwann.


"Where'd you get that? Babe?"


"Some-where." Leaning close and running a long-nailed finger down the side of his arm, thinking she was turning him on when all she was doing was shoving hot needles into his flesh.


Putting on the hat. Raising her arm in salute.


"Heil, Nightwing! Da dum, da dum." Putrid smile. Bad German accent: "Vont me to poot it on ven I do you, little Adolf? I giff grreat hat!"


Keep cool. Stay in control. "Sure, babe."


"Hey, feel that! You like this Nazi shit, don't you? Thought so." Salute. "Heil blow-jobs!"


Touching him, unzipping him.


"Look at me, Fraulein Adolfa Titler, ready to suck you all the way to the Fourth Reich. God, you're hard. You really love this, don't you? I found your thing!"


He could have done her the same way he'd done Fields and the nigger, but that was wrong. She deserved better.


Gluing his jaws together, fighting back the noise, acid tears, he said: "Sure do, babe."


She gave a death-eating smile, went down.


They went to the cave three more times after that. The third time, he put sheets, soap, a bunch of water bottles, and the knives in the trunk of the car. The dope was in her purse. He knew from her leg tracks that she'd developed a heavy Jones. Wasn't surprised to find out she was carrying blatantly, disobeying him. Because that was the way a junkie functioned. As addicted to sneakery as the needle.


When he pulled her works out of her purse, she was scared shitless. Relieved-grateful-when he didn't get angry.


Downright orgasmic when he said, "No sweat. I've been too uptight about your getting off, babe. You want to fix, go ahead."


"You're sure?" Already breathing hard.


"Sure, babe."


Before he finished talking, she'd jumped on the works, was panting, fixing, smiling, nodding off.


He waited. When she was totally out of it, he walked back to the car.


The morning after his last date with Nightwing, he woke up with a new sense of purpose, knowing he was ready for bigger and better things. After he'd touched himself to the accompaniment of new real science pictures, he went to work at the hospital, delivered the mail to the Surgery Department, and cornered Doctor in his office.


"What do you want?"


"Been a long time, stud. Cash-in time. I want to go to med school."


Kikefuck was blown away.


"That's crazy! You haven't even finished two years of junior college!"


Shrug.


"Have you taken any science courses?"


"Some."


"Are your grades any better?"


"I'm doing fine."


"Sure you are-oh, great. Terrific. Straight D's and you want to be a doctor."


"I'm going to be a doctor."


Fucker slammed his hand on the desk. His eyes were popping out of his ugly purple face. Mad because an Aryan warrior was breaking into the kike medico conspiracy.


"Now you listen-"


"I want an M.D. You're going to fix it for me."


'Jesus Christ! How the hell do you expect me to pull something like that off!"


"Your problem." Stare-down, melting the fucker by being totally cool.


He walked away with a spring in his step, ready for a bright new future.


Saturday, seven forty-three P.M. Daniel had just finished praying ma'ariv and havdalah, bidding farewell to a Sabbath that, for all practical purposes, had never existed. Talking to God with all the devotion of a nonbeliever, his mind on the case, chewing on the new information as if it were fine filet steak.


He put away his siddur and had started to assemble his notes for the staff meeting when the operator phoned and said a Mr. Vangidder was on the line.


Unfamiliar name. Foreign. "Did he say what it was about?"


"No."


Probably some foreign reporter. Despite Headquarters' blackout on Butcher information, journalists were being their usual persistent selves. "Take his number and tell him I'll call him back."


He hung up, made it to the door when the phone rang again. He considered ignoring it, let it ring, finally answered.


"Pakad?" said the same operator. "It's about this Vangidder. He says he's a policeman calling from the Netherlands, says you'll definitely want to speak to him. It has to be now-he's leaving tonight for a one-week holiday."


Dutch police? Had the Interpol man finally done his Job?


"Put him on."


"Okay."


He waited anxiously through a series of electronic bleeps, hoping he hadn't lost the call. In light of what Shmeltzer and Daoud had found at the Amelia Catherine, information from Europe could narrow the investigation.


The bleeps were followed by a serenade of static, a low, mechanical rumble, then a high-pitched, cheerful voice, speaking in flawless English.


"Chief Inspector Sharavi? This is Joop Van Gelder of the Amsterdam police."


"Hello… is it Chief Inspector?"


"Commissaris," said Van Gelder. "It's similar to a chief inspector."


It was, Daniel knew, a rank above chief inspector. Joop Van Gelder was unassuming. Instinctively, from thousands of miles away, he liked the man.


"Hello, Commissaris. Thank you for calling and sorry for the delay in putting you through."


"My fault, really," said Van Gelder, still cheerful. "I ne-glected to identify myself as a police officer, was under the impression that your Interpol man had passed my name along."


Thank you, Friedman.


"No, I'm sorry, Commissaris, he didn't."


"No matter. We've got more important things to chat about, yes? This morning, your man passed along some homicide data that so clearly matched an unsolved murder in our city that I knew I had to get in touch with you. I'm off-duty, packing for a holiday to England. Mrs. Van Gelder won't tolerate any further postponements, but I did manage to find the file on the case and wished to pass the information along to you before I left."


Daniel thanked him, again, really meaning it. "When did your murder take place, Commissaris?"


"Fifteen months ago."


Fifteen months ago. Friedman had been right about the Interpol computer.


"Ugly affair," Van Gelder was saying. "Clearly a sex killing. We never cleared it up. Our consulting psychiatrist thought it had all the characteristics of the first in a series of psychopathic killings. We weren't certain-we don't often get that kind of thing."


"Neither do we." Or didn't.


"The Germans do," said Van Gelder. "And the Americans. One wonders why, yes? In any event, when no second murder occurred, we weighed two alternatives: that the psychiatrist had been mistaken - it does occur, yes?" He laughed. "Or that the murderer was someone passing through Amsterdam and had departed to do his killing elsewhere."


"Traveling psychopath," said Daniel, and told him about the FBI data.


"Horrifying," said Van Gelder. "I began an inquiry into the FBI files myself. However, the Americans were less than helpful. They put up bureaucratic barriers and when a second murder didn't occur, given our work load…" The Dutchman's voice trailed off, guiltily.


Knowing it would be rude to brush off the lack of thoroughness, Daniel said nothing.


"We can check suitcases for bombs," said Van Gelder, "but this kind of terrorist is harder to spot, yes?"


"Yes," said Daniel. "A person can buy knives anywhere. Even if he uses the same ones over and over, there are ways to transport them that can be legitimately explained."


"A doctor."


"It's one of our hypotheses."


"It was one of ours too, Chief Inspector. And for a while I thought it would help solve the case. Our records check revealed no matching homicides in the rest of the Interpol countries, but an almost identical crime did take place in September of 1972 in Sumbok-it's a tiny island in the southern region of the Indonesian complex that used to be a Dutch colony. We still consult to the local police in many of the colonies-they send their records to us biannually. One of my clerks was sifting through the biannual reports and came across the case-an unsolved mutilation homicide of a sixteen-year-old girl.


"At first we thought there might be a tribal link-our Amsterdam victim was an Indonesian-half-Indonesian, really. Prostitute by the name of Anjanette Gaikeena. It seemed possible that her murder might have been related to some primitive rite or revenge plot-an old family score to settle. But her family turned out to have no connection whatsoever to Sumbok. The mother is from Northern Borneo; the father is Dutch-met the mother while serving in the army and brought the family back to Amsterdam eighteen years ago.


"When I read about a sex murder there, I was puzzled, Chief Inspector. Sumbok really is an insignificant little bar of sand and jungle-a few rubber plantations, some cassava plots, no tourist trade at all. Then I remembered that a medical school once existed there: The Grand Medical Facility of St. Ignatius. No connection to the Catholic Church-the 'saint' was used for its official sound. It was a fourth-rate place at best. Unaccredited, the barest of facilities, but charging very high tuition-a money-making scheme, really, run by unscrupulous American businessmen. There was a dispute about taxes; the Indonesian government closed it down in 1979. But back in '72 it was functioning, with over four hundred students-mostly foreigners who'd been denied acceptance anywhere else. I managed to obtain a '72 faculty list and student roster, ran a check with our passport files during the time of the Gaikeena murder, but unfortunately found no match."


While Van Gelder talked, Daniel had pulled out the list of American homicides from the FBI data bank. Shehadeh: March '71. Breau: July '73. The Sumbok homicide fell neatly in between.


"Do you have that roster handy, Commissaris?"


"Right here."


"I'd like to read some names for you, see if any of them appear on it."


"Certainly."


None did.


"Too easy," said Van Gelder. "It never is, yes?"


"Yes. I'd like to see the roster anyway."


"I'll cable it to you, today."


"Thank you. Tell me more about your homicide, Commissaris."


Van Gelder described the Amsterdam killing: Anjanette Gaikeena's savaged body had been found in a fish-cleaning shed near one of the docks on the northeast side of town.


"It's a rough part of the city," said the commissaris. "Just above our famous red light district-have you been to Amsterdam, Chief Inspector?"


"Just once, last year, on stopover. What I saw was beautiful, but I had no real chance to tour. However, I did see the district." No chance to do anything but wait out a two-day sentence of house-imprisonment in an apartment suite, babysitting half a dozen Olympic rowers and football players. Listening to the athletes' nervously rowdy jokes with half an ear, one hand wedded to his Uzi. The athletes had grown irritable and difficult to manage, had finally been allowed a single excursion. Unanimous choice: the famous whores of Amsterdam.


"Everyone sees the district," said Van Gelder, somewhat sadly. "However, the part of the dock where Gaikeena was found isn't one of our tourist spots. At night it's deserted, except for prowlers, drunken sailors, and other undesirables. The shed was left unlocked-nothing to steal but herring bones and a warped old table. She was on the table, laid out on white sheets. The wounds match your first one precisely.


Our pathologist said she'd been anesthetized with heroin, at least three knives were used, sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, but not necessarily a surgeon's scalpel. What impressed him was how clean she'd been washed-not a.trace of fiber evidence, no semen, nothing for serum typing. A local soap had been used on the body and the hair, the brand most commonly provided by many hotels, but millions of bars are sold each year here-that's not much of a lead. We tried to trace the purchaser of the sheets, with no success."


"Was she killed on the spot?"


"Unclear. However, she was definitely washed and drained there. The shed contained a large trough for gutting and washing fish, large enough to hold a woman of Gaikeena's size. It ran out to sea, but there was a bend in the pipe before it reached the sluice gate. Traces of human blood were found mixed in with the fish waste."


Thorough procedure, thought Daniel. But useless.


Van Gelder was thinking the same thing. "We reviewed our list of known sex offenders and knife-weilders, put every one of them through hours of interrogation, talked to the girl's habitual customers, interviewed every prostitute and procurer in the district to see if they remembered who she went off with that night. There was no shortage of leads, but all were false. Given what we know now about this traveler, it was a waste of time, yes?" The Dutchman's voice lost its cheer and took on a sudden intensity. "But now you may have him, my friend. We'll work together."


"Those names I read to you," said Daniel. "It would be nice if any of them turn up on your passport records."


"All of them are serious suspects?" asked the Dutchman.


"As serious as we've got." Daniel knew Van Gelder wanted more, a ranking of the names in terms of seriousness; he regretted not being able to provide it. "Anything you can find out about any of them would be tremendously helpful."


"Should a passport check prove positive, we'll be glad to pursue it with the hotels, the airlines, tour bus operators, canal boat drivers, local merchants. If any of those people were in Amsterdam during Gaikeena's murder, we'll provide you with the most precise records of their whereabouts and activities that we can muster. I'll be in England for a week on holiday. While I'm gone, the man to talk to is Pieter Bij Duurstede." Van Gelder spelled it, said, "He's a chief inspector, a very conscientious fellow. He'll contact you immediately if something turns up."


Van Gelder gave Daniel Bij Duurstede's direct-dial phone number, then said, "Meanwhile, I'll be watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace."


Daniel laughed. "Thank you, Commissaris. You've been tremendously helpful."


"Doing my job," said Van Gelder. He paused. "You know, we Dutch pride ourselves on our tolerance. Unfortunately, that tolerance is sometimes mistaken for passivity." Another pause. "Let's catch this madman, my friend. Show him we have no tolerance for his brand of evil."


Everyone was on time, even Avi, looking like a schoolboy with his short haircut and clean-shaven face; the skin where the beard had been, a sleek bluish-white.


Daniel turned to the summary of the medical charts and began:


"All three of them were patients at the Amelia Catherine. Nahum and Elias obtained the files this morning and I've abstracted the contents. Both Fatma and Shahin were seen at the Women's General Health Clinic, which is held three out of four Thursdays a month. The second Thursday each month is devoted to specialty clinics for women-gynecology and obstetrics; eye diseases; ear, nose, and throat; skin and neurology. Juliet attended Neurology Clinic to get a refill of her epilepsy medicine.


"Fatma first: The Thursday before she left the monastery, she was seen, treated for a vaginal rash and pubic lice. The American nurse, Peggy Cassidy, seems to have done most of the actual examining and treating. According to her notes, Fatma came in claiming she was a virgin, had no idea where she could have picked up the lice, or the rash-which turned out to be a yeast infection, something called Candida albicans. During the health screening interview, however, she quickly broke down, admitted she'd been havingintercourse with her boyfriend, had brought shame upon her family, and had been kicked out of her home. Cassidy described her as "suffering from an agitated depression, fearful, isolated, and lacking in psychosocial support.' In addition to the guilt about losing her virginity and fear of her family, Fatma was convinced she'd given the lice to Abdelatif and was terrified he'd find out and leave her-though we know from Maksoud, the brother-in-law, that the reverse was probably true. Abdelatif consorted with prostitutes, had infected Maksoud's entire family with lice more than once.


"Cassidy dispensed ointment-neomycin sulfate-for the infection and had Fatma take a delousing bath. Her dress was laundered in the hospital washing machine. Cassidy also tried to counsel her psychologically, but wrote that 'the language barrier and the patient's defensiveness prevented the development of a therapeutic bond.' A recheck appointment was scheduled for the following week; Cassidy expressed doubts Fatma would show up. But she did, right on time, at nine-thirty in the morning-consistent with Anwar Rashmawi's account of observing his sister and Abdelatif leave the New Gate Thursday morning and go. different ways. Abdelatif walked to the east side bus station and bought a ticket for Hebron. Now we know where Fatma went.


"Cassidy's notes for the second appointment indicate the infection had cleared up, Fatma was free of lice, but emotionally she was worse-'profoundly depressed.' Counseling was tried again, with no more success. Fatma was told to return in two weeks, for the next General Health Clinic. Cassidy raised the possibility of a psychiatric consultation. Her notes for both visits were co-signed and concurred with by Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi."


The detectives were stone-faced. No one spoke or moved.


"Now, Juliet," said Daniel. "She was seen the following Thursday at Neurological Clinic, though the distinctions between the clinics may be in name only. She, too, was seen first by Peggy Cassidy, who noticed the needle marks on her arms and legs, inquired about drug use, and received a denial. Cassidy didn't believe her, wrote: 'Patient presents us with symptoms of addiction, as well as mental dullness, perhaps even retardation; possible aphasia due to narcotics abuse, chronic grand mal seizure disorder, or a combination of both.' The fact that Juliet was a new arrival from Lebanon, lacked family connections and psychosocial support was also recorded."


"Another perfect victim," said the Chinaman.


Daniel nodded. "Cassidy termed Juliet 'high-risk for non-compliance,' also suggested she be given only a small amount of medication to ensure that she returned for an electroencephalogram and intelligence testing. Al Biyadi examined her, dispensed a week's worth of phenobarbitol and Dilantin, and co-signed Cassidy's notes. That evening Juliet was murdered."


Shmeltzer grunted and shook his head. He'd allowed his beard to grow for several days, looked haggard and old.


"Our new one, Shahin Barakat," continued Daniel. "She was seen three times within the last six weeks at the General Health Clinic, the first time by Cassidy and Dr. Carter; the other two by Cassidy and Dr. Al Biyadi. She came in requesting a general checkup, which Cassidy performed and Carter co-signed. Other than an outer-ear infection treated with antibiotics, she was found in good health, though Cassidy noted that she looked depressed. Cassidy also wrote that she 'related well.'"


"Translate: gullible," said Shmeltzer.


"The second visit was a recheck on the ear, which was fine. However, Cassidy noted that she looked even more depressed-sounds familiar, doesn't it?-and when she was asked about it, began talking about her infertility problems, how being barren had shamed her in the eyes of her husband and his family, how her husband had once loved her but now he hated her. He'd already denounced her once. She was certain he'd complete the talaq and kick her out. To quote Cassidy, she 'probed for family support and psychosocial resources. Patient reports no siblings, father deceased, a living mother whom she describes as "very sick." When asked about the nature of the maternal "sickness," patient responds with visible tension and ambiguous evasions, suggesting some sort of psychiatric problem or other stigmatizing condition.'


"Cassidy suggested Shahin undergo a pelvic exam as the first stage of diagnosing the cause of her infertility. Shahin asked if any female doctors were available. When informed none were, asked Cassidy to do the exam herself. Cassidy told her she wasn't qualified for that. Shahin refused to be examined, saying no man other than her husband was allowed to touch her intimately. She also insisted upon an Arab doctor. Cassidy told her the nearest female Arab physician working for UNRWA was a general practitioner who volunteered once a month at a mobile clinic set up in the Deir El Balah camp in Gaza-she'd be happy to arrange a referral. Shahin refused, saying Gaza was too far to travel. At that point, Cassidy gave up, writing: 'Patient is still firmly in the denial stage regarding her infertility and the status of her marriage. As the marital stress increases she may be more amenable to diagnostic evaluation.'


"Shahin's final visit was two days ago. At that time, she was described by Cassidy as 'profoundly depressed.' Her husband had completed the talaq, she had nowhere to go, nothing to eat. A weight check showed she'd lost three kilos during the month since the second visit. She explained to Cassidy that she'd lost her appetite, hadn't eaten or slept since being banished, had camped under one of the old trees near the Garden of Gethsemane, didn't care if she lived or died. Cassidy found her blood pressure to be very low, got her some food and a bath, and tried to offer 'supportive counseling.' Shahin expressed fears that she was going insane, admitted that her own mother was mentally ill and her husband had always told her she'd inherit it. Cassidy suggested temporary bed rest in one of the hospital wards, with eventual placement at a women's shelter. Shahin refused, though she did accept more food. Then, according to Cassidy, she walked out of the hospital against medical advice. Al Biyadi never saw her but he co-signed Cassidy's notes and concurred with them."


Daniel looked up from the summary.


"Three rootless women, two of them scared and depressed and abandoned, the other a mentally deficient drug addict on the run, with no family ties. As Yossi said, perfect victims, except that the killer hadn't counted on Abdin Barakat's enduring love for Shahin. If Elias hadn't gotten him to open up, we'd still be wondering about the common thread."


Daoud acknowledged the compliment with the stingiest of nods.


"Cassidy and Al Biyadi saw all three of them," said Daniel. "Carter saw one of them. Both doctors' contacts appear to have been minimal-a quick look and out the door. Given the patient load at the clinics, it's possible Fatma's and Juliet's names wouldn't have meant anything to them. But Peggy Cassidy spent time with them. She'd be likely to remember, so at best she withheld material knowledge. At worst-"


"At worst is more like it," said Shmeltzer, "Motive, opportunity, means. She and Lover Boy, together."


"What's the motive?" asked the Chinaman.


"What Dani's been saying: The two of them are PLO symps, want to pit us against the Arabs, cook up a revenge bloodbath."


Daniel noticed Daoud smile at the use of the word us, then lose the smile, quickly. He, too, was unshaven, fatigued. Sitting next to the older man. Scruffy comrades-in-arms.


"A perfect setup," Shmeltzer said. "Hundreds of patients coming in and out of that place, the women one day, the men the next. Cassidy screens them, selects the vulnerable ones. As a woman, it's easy to get them to trust her. To relate. She reassures them the needle is going to make them feel better, calm them down. Then Lover Boy enters and…" Shmeltzer drew a finger across his throat.


Stalking the herd, thought Daniel. Picking off the weak ones.


"Three kill spots," continued Shmeltzer. "The cave and each of their rooms." He turned to Daoud. "Show them the plans."


Daoud unfurled the Mandate-era blueprint of the Amelia Catherine's ground floor and spread it across the center of the conference table. Everyone leaned forward. Daoud pointed to several rooms on the west wing freshly relabeled in red.


"These were formerly servants' rooms," he said. "Now they're staff quarters. Nahum memorized the door plates."


"He did, also," said Shmeltzer. Frowning at Daoud: "False modesty's no virtue."


"Al Biyadi's room is right here at the end, closest to the back door," said Daoud. "Cassidy's is here, right next to his."


"No big surprise if there's a connecting door between them," said Shmeltzer. "Two sinks, two bathtubs, pletvty of space to butcher and wash at leisure. Easy access to dope, knives, sheets, towels, soap, the hospital washing machine. A few steps to the rear door of the hospital and a quick walk in the darkness down to that tunnel we found."


"How far is the end of the tunnel from the murder cave?" asked Daniel.


"Good couple kilometers," said Shmeltzer, "but if you went down at night, you could easily escape notice. One of them carries the body; the other, the equipment. All that brush offers a straight, camouflaged track from the hospital lo the desert. An aerial view would show one strip of green among many-we could probably get some photos from the air force to prove it."


"If they've got two rooms, why the cave?" asked the Chinaman.


"Who the hell knows? They're crazy," said Shmeltzer. "Political, but two crazy assholes-a marriage made in hell."


Daniel studied the blueprint, then rolled it up and put it next to his notes. "Any chance you were noticed going over the side?"


"Doubtful," said Shmeltzer. "They didn't look for me seriously. Baldwin probably saw it as one crazy old Arab who'd limped off somewhere to die-high risk for noncompliance. They're probably used to it."


Daoud nodded in agreement.


"What about the missing files?" asked Daniel.


"Sure, if someone was looking for them," said Shmeltzer. "But why would they?"


"Why would Cassidy and Al Biyadi do something as obvious as killing their own patients?" asked Daniel. "And why would they leave records? Why not destroy the charts?"


"Arrogance," said Shmeltzer. "Typical U.N. arrogance. They've been violating their charter every day since '48, getting away with shit for so long, they think they're invulnerable. On top of that, Cassidy and Al Biyadi are both arrogant as individuals-she's a cold bitch; he prances as if he owns the place, treats the patients as if they're subhuman."


"Sounds like any doctor," said the Chinaman.


Daniel recalled his first and only encounter with Al Biyadi, the young physician's nervous hostility. He remembered the frosty reception Baldwin had given him, how the Amelia Catherine people had made him feel like a foreigner on his own native soil.


The big pink building had been the logical place to begin. The killer had done his initial dirty work close to home, studying Yaakov Schlesinger's disciplined schedule, knowing when it was safe to cross the road and dump Fatma's body. Then dumping Juliet and Shahin across town to divert attention from Scopus.


Now the investigation had come full circle.


Two deaths later.


His mind started to fill with maddening hindsights. Again. Should-haves and could-haves that gnawed at him like tapeworms.


"Anyone at the hospital could have been watching for vulnerable patients," he said. "Not just Al Biyadi and Cassidy. Anyone could have gained access to those charts-look how easily you got hold of them. And let's remember Red Amira Nasser's weird-eyed American. No way could Biyadi be mistaken for a Westerner. In light of what we know, Amira's story may be irrelevant, but it would still be nice to get a detailed description from her. Is Mossad still claiming they can't find her in Jordan, Nahum?"


"Not a trace," said Shmeltzer. "It could be the truth, or just more of their cloak-and-dagger bullshit. Either way, I think her story Ťirrelevant, one of Little Hook's fantasies. We found no record of her being treated at the Amelia Catherine. She doesn't fit the mold. And if you want a weird-looking American, why not Cassidy? Maybe she dressed up like a man-she's a mannish type, anyway. Maybe that's what impressed Nasser as being weird."


"Maybe," said the Chinaman, "she had one of those sex-change operations." He chuckled. "Maybe she had balls sewn on 'cause she wanted to be another Golda."


Weak smiles all around.


"With clinics every Thursday, why the time lag?" said Avi. "Two murders a week apart, then nothing until last Friday."


"If Amira Nasser's story is true," said Daniel, "he made a play for her exactly a week after Juliet's murder. A break in modus, but Ben David says psychopaths sometimes do that-it's evidence of a breakdown in their impulse control. Maybe his failure to snare her gave him pause for a couple of weeks, made him careful."


"The Amira story is fantasy," said Shmeltzer. "More likely that the right victim didn't show up during the next couple of clinics. Not stupid or vulnerable enough."


"Good point, Nahum. But we've got eight matching American homicides that aren't fantasies. When Al Biyadi was being denied a visa, his history was looked into pretty carefully, and according to our records, he was in Amman until 1975, no American trips. That encompasses the first killing in Los Angeles and the second one in New Orleans. I've taken seriously your suggestion that he could have traveled back and forth between Jordan and America prior to 75, as a tourist. I asked the Americans to check their records, in case we missed something the first time. But that means getting their State Department involved and whenever that happens it means paperwork and long delays. In order to shortcut the process I've asked Lieutenant Brooker to use his American connections to help me trace the Amelia Catherine staff's American activities-see what else we can learn about Al Biyadi and Cassidy and the others.


"In terms of the others, the Canadian, Carter, examined Shahin the first time. He's fair-haired, would have had free entry to America. Everything we know about him comes from the Peace Corps report. Let's take a closer look at him. Then there's the administrator, Baldwin, who is an American. He runs the hospital, has easy access to every file, keys to every room. I also got the impression that he and his Lebanese secretary, Ma'ila Khoury, have a thing going-maybe he had a love/hate relationship with Arab women.


"Dr. Darousha and Hajab seem clean," he continued. "According to Shin Bet, neither has been out of the country since '67. Hajab's never even been issued a passport. But we'll look at them again, anyway. Same for the old nurse, Hauser, whom I can't imagine harming anyone. The volunteers will be more of a problem. Shin Bet's passed along a list of about two dozen foreign doctors, nurses, and technicians who volunteer at the Amelia Catherine on an occasional basis. They're generally affiliated with one of the church groups as well as UNRWA, spend most of their time in the camps. Shin Bet had an old list they'd gotten hold of, didn't want to burgle the U.N. at this particular time, and obtained this list from a plant in one of the Gaza camps. Just a compilation of names, doesn't give any idea which volunteers, if any, were present at the Amelia Catherine the days our victims were examined."


The Chinaman lit a cigarette, offered the pack around. Avi and Daoud accepted. The room went thick with smoke.


"One more piece of information," said Daniel. "Just before coming here, I received a call from Holland that strengthens the foreigner angle."


He recounted his conversation with Van Gelder, said, "None of the permanent Amelia Catherine staff people or volunteers show up on the Indonesian medical school list. It's possible one of them attended St. Ignatius under a false name-or under a real name which was changed later. The school had a bad reputation; it was eventually closed down. A doctor who managed to transfer to an accredited institution might very well have wanted to disassociate himself from Sumbok. Thinking along those lines also brought me back to Baldwin-a professional medical administrator. Sometimes people who fail to become doctors establish careers working with doctors."


"Boss over the doctors," said Shmeltzer.


"Exactly. He could have begun medical studies at Sumbok, been unable to transfer to a legitimate school, and gone into pencil pushing. The same logic could apply to one of the volunteer technicians. In any event, the Dutch murder could come in handy-the Gaikeena girl was killed fifteen months ago. Van Gelder is certain no other similar European homicides have been discovered by Interpol, though I'm still trying to confirm that. If the killer went from Amsterdam straight to Israel, he'd probably be using his current name on his passport. Amsterdam's working on their passport records-I expect a call, soon. I've also requested the original American homicide files, which may contain some helpful details, and the Sumbok medical school list. We'll be trying to trace where the St. Ignatius students went-graduates and dropouts-if any of them filed for name changes. Gene Brooker will take the Americans; I'll look at everyone else. If we can place anyone in Amsterdam during the time of the Gaikeena murder, and here during our killings, we'll move on them."


"And if not?" said the Chinaman.


"If none of our traces is fruitful, we'll have to start looking at all post-Gaikeena travelers from Amsterdam as well as those arriving on any other flight or cruise that stops over in Amsterdam-which includes a good portion of the New York flights. Big numbers."


"Bigger than that," said Shmeltzer, "if the killer went from Amsterdam to Paris, London, Zurich, Istanbul, Athens, Rome, et cetera, and didn't kill anyone in those places. Just spent enough time to get hold of a false passport before getting on the plane to Ben Gurion. There goes our match."


"It's possible," Daniel admitted.


"Are we planning to check every person who's entered the country since Gaikeena, Dani? Meanwhile, in five days another bunch of potential victims will be herded into that hospital. Why don't we go the hell in there, have a look at Ihose staff rooms, try for some physical evidence?"


"Because the brass says absolutely no. They're furious about our lifting the Amelia Catherine files without informing them first. Trying to get in there legally is also out of the question-no way will the U.N. capitulate without putting up a fuss. The brass is viewing this case primarily in political terms. During the last week, the United States covertly killed seven Arab-sponsored attempts to condemn us in the Security Council because of the murders. There've been there more revenge attempts on Jewish women since the Beit Gvura riot. One came dangerously close to tragedy. I didn't know about any of them until Laufer told me. Did any of you?" Shakes of heads.


"That shows you how serious they are about keeping this quiet. The early ID on Shahin allowed us to keep the story of her murder completely out of the papers. Two Arab dailies found out anyway, through the Old City rumor mill, and tried to sneak through back-page items on her. They had their presses shut down for seventy-two hours. But we can't control UNRWA. A confrontation with them will shove the entire case back in the limelight. As will a bungled covert-I know that won't happen, Nahum, but the guys with the wood-paneled offices don't share my level of confidence. In neither case are they willing to risk a special session of the Security Council based on three medical charts."


"That's not just Laufer trying to stick it to us?" said Avi.


"No. Since the mayor's visit, Laufer's been relatively quiet, though he's starting to lean on me again. He's under plenty of pressure to have the case solved, wouldn't mind some action. The clear message from on top is we need to give them more evidence before they can authorize a move."


"Shmucks," said Shmeltzer. He made circular motions with his hands. "We have to give them evidence before they'll allow us to look for evidence-what the hell do they want us to do?"


"Keep a watch on the hospital, on everyone who works there, log who goes in and who goes out."


"Surveillance. Very creative," said Shmeltzer. "While we sit on our asses, the wolves inspect the lambs."


"As you said, we've got five days until the next clinic" said Daniel. "If nothing further turns up by then, a pair of female Latam officers will infiltrate the clinic, prevent any outright abduction. In the meantime, let's talk about the surveillance."


Shmeltzer shrugged. "Talk."


"Latam has been authorized to give us ten officers-eight men and the two women. Given the size of Amos Harel's staff, that's generous, and they're all good people-Shimshon Katz, Itzik Nash, guys of that caliber. I briefed them this afternoon. They'll be keeping a general watch on the hospital premises, check out the volunteers, be at our disposal for backup. It's still a thin spread, but better than nothing. Avi, I want you to stick with Mark Wilbur, keep an especially close eye on his mailbox. This killer is power-mad, craves the attention all those stories brought him. He'll be watching the papers for something about Shahin. When nothing turns up, he may get angry, do something dramatic to get Wilbur's attention. It's crucial you don't get made, so change your appearance frequently-kipot, hats, eye-glasses, dirty clothes. Litter-skewer and dustbin one day; felafel wagon, the next."


"Litter-skewer-there goes your love life, kid," said the Chinaman, holding his nose and slapping Avi on the back.


The young detective rubbed his naked jaw and feigned misery. "Worth catching the bastard just so I can grow it back."


"The rest of you, these are your assignments."


Back in his office, Daniel checked his desk for the Amsterdam wire, found nothing, and asked the message operator about a call from Bij Duurstede.


"Nothing, Pakad. We have your message to call you immediately."


He depressed the button, released it, and phoned Gene at the Laromme.


The black man picked upon the fourth ring, said, "Nothing interesting, so far. I reached all the medical and the nursing schools, Baldwin's college in San Antonio, Texas. Far as I can tell, everyone seems to have gone to school where they said they did-this is only verification of graduation I'm talking about. All the clerks promised to check their complete records. I'll get back to them by the end of their working day, see if they keep their word. They think I'm calling from L.A. Just in case they bother to check, I phoned my desk sergeant, told him to certify me kosher. But they could end up talking to someone else, so fingers crossed. What about those directories of medical specialists I mentioned-does your library have them?"


"No, only a list of Israeli doctors."


"Too bad. Okay, I can call one of my buddies, have him do a little legwork for me. Anything new from your end?"


Daniel told him about the call from Amsterdam.


"Hmm, interesting," said Gene. "A world traveler."


"The wounds on the Amsterdam victim matched our first one. Yet ours duplicates the American pattern. To me it seems like he used Amsterdam as a dry run, Gene. Preparing for something big, here."


"Something personal," said Gene. "Fits with the anti-Semite thing." Silence. "Maybe that island med-school roster will speed things along."


"Yes. I'd better go now, see if the wire's arrived. Thanks for everything, Gene. When I hear more I'll let you know. When are you moving?"


"Right now. I was just out the door. You sure this is necessary?"


"I'm sure. Your phone bill's already enormous. If you won't let me compensate you, at least use my phone."


"Who compensates you?"


"I'll put in a requisition form; eventually they'll reimburse me. Explaining you would be harder."


"All right, but I already gave my hotel room as the mailing address to half the departments I spoke to. Someone's going to have to be checking all the time to see if something comes in."


"I'll do the checking-you do the phoning. Laura's expecting you. She's cleared the desk in her studio. There'll be sandwiches and-"


"Drinks in the refrigerator. I know. Lu and I were over for Shabbat lunch. Shoshi made the stuff herself, showed me how she wrapped it all in plastic. They're all planning on going out for ice cream tonight. Call soon-you might still catch them."


"Thank you for the tip. Shalom."


"Shalom," said Gene. "And Shavua tov." The traditional post-Shabbat wish for a good week.


"Where'd you learn that?"


"Your kids have been educating me."


Daniel laughed, fought back the loneliness. Said, "Shavua tov." Wishful thinking.


Talking to Gene made him want to call home. Laura answered the phone with tension in her voice.


He said, 'Shavua tov. Sorry I haven't called sooner-"


"Daniel, the dog's gone."


"What?"


"Dayan's gone, run away. He didn't get out this afternoon, so Shoshi took him for a walk in the park. She met a girlfriend, started talking, and let go of the leash. When she turned around, he'd disappeared. The two of them looked all over for him. She didn't want to come home, is locked in her room at this moment, hysterical."


"Let me speak to her."


"Hold on."


He waited for a moment. Laura came back on, said, "She's too upset or ashamed to talk to anyone right now, Daniel."


"How long ago did it happen?"


"Right after Shabbat."


Over an hour ago. No one had called him.


"He's never done this before," said Laura. "He's always been such a coward', clinging to your pants leg."


No pants leg to cling to for a while, thought Daniel.


"How are the boys?"


"Uncharacteristically quiet. Mikey even tried to kiss Shoshi, so you can imagine what it's been like."


"He'll come back, Laura."


"That's what I think too. I left the lobby door unlocked in case he does. We were planning to go out for ice cream, but I don't want the poor little guy trotting up and finding us gone."


"Gene will be over soon. As soon as he arrives, go out-it will be good for all of you. In the meantime, I'd check with the Berkowitzes on the second floor-Dayan likes their cat. And Lieberman's grocery-Shoshi takes him by there regularly. Lieberman gives him chicken scraps."


"The Berkowitzes haven't seen him and he wasn't hanging around near the grocery. I just got off the phone with Lieberman-he's home, not opening until tomorrow at ten. I asked him to check for Dayan when he comes in. How'm I doing, Detective?"


"Aleph-plus. I miss you."


"I miss you too. Anything new?"


"Some progress, actually. Far from solved, but the net is tightening, bit by bit."


She knew better than to ask for details, said, "You'll get him. It's just a matter of time." Then: "Will you be home tonight?"


"I'm planning on it. I'm waiting for a wire from overseas, will head home as soon as I get it. Where will you be going for ice cream? I can pick up Gene-maybe we can catch you."


Laura laughed. "What are the chances of that?"


"Just in case," said Daniel.


"Just in case, I thought Cafe Max. The boys took long naps-they might be able to handle the late hour. If not, we'll eat on the run, maybe drop in on your dad." Laura's voice broke. "I feel so bad about that little dog. I never wanted him in the first place, but now he's become a part of us. I know it's not important compared to what you're dealing with but-"


"It is important. When I get out of here, I'll drive around and look for him, okay? Was he wearing his tag?"


"Of course."


"Then, one way or another, we'll find him. Don't worry."


"I'm sure you're right. Why would he go and do this, Daniel?"


"Hormones. He's probably feeling romantic. Probably found himself a girlfriend-a Great Dane."


Laura laughed again, this time softly. "Put it that way, and I don't feel so sorry for him."


"Me neither," said Daniel. "I feel jealous."


Gone, all three charts.


Predictable. Boring.


Borrring.


He though about it and stretched his grin until it threatened to split his face, visualized his face dividing in two and reconstituting. Mytosis-wouldn't that be something? Two superior Aryan Schwann-hemi-faces rolling over Kikeland like nuclear mace balls, churning up the soup, steamrolling the scum


Three charts, big deal. They probably thought they had a fucking bible, but they were limited thinkers, predictable. Let it lull them into a false sense of superiority.


Meanwhile, he'd be creative. The key was to be crea-


Stick to the plan, but allow for improvisation. Float above the scum-sump, trading identity for triumph.


Clean up afterward.


No doubt they were watching.


No doubt they thought they had it all figured out.


Like Fields had, so long ago. Grand Prix BoJo, all the real science girls.


All his little pets, now purified, part of him.


Nightwing.


Pet names, private identities. Remembering them made him hard.


Gauguin Girl, washing clothes by the river when he found her. Hi!


Voodoo Queen, talking gris-gris and mojo and other ipooky jive in the light of a wet, yellow Louisiana moon. Taking him to the cemetery, trying to come on evil. But fading without struggle, just like all the others.


Pocahontas. Trading it all-for powdered trinkets.


Jugs. Twinkie. Stoner. Kikette. Still, white shells lying emptied, explored. All those welcome holes the ultimate memory picture. All the others. So many others. Pet names, limp limbs, last looks before fading to final bliss.


Last looks full of trust.


And here: Little Lost Girl. Beirut Bimbo. The Barreness.


These sand-nigger females the most trusting of all; they respected a man, looked up to a man of position-a man of science.


Yes, Doctor.


Do with me what you will, Doctor.


He'd come to Kikeland with just a general blueprint for Project Untermensch. Discovering that cave on the nature hike had put it all in place-an inspiration jolt straight to the brain, straight to the cock.


Nightwing II. Meant to be.


Executive command to Dieter II, directly from the F?hrergod.


His own nature hike with Little Lost Girl.


Wet cavework, then spread out.


Spread them all out, wiping his ass all over Kike City.


He started to stroke himself, one hand resting on the dog collar, fondling the dog tag with the kike letters stamped into it-what did it say? Kikemutt?


Knowing it wouldn't take long, the safari almost over.


Rest in peace. Pieces. Clean-up time.


Surprise, surprise!


Bow wow wow.


At ten P.M., Amsterdam called. Van Gelder's man was a slow talker, deep-voiced. No policeman-to-policeman chit-chat: This one was all business.


"Am I speaking to Chief Inspector Daniel Sharavi?"


"You are."


"This is Pieter Bij Duurstede, Amsterdam police. Have you received the St. Ignatius medical school list?"


"Not yet, Chief Inspector."


"We wired it to you some time ago. Let me verify."


Bij Duurstede put him on hold, came back moments later.


"Yes, I've verified that it was wired and received. Twenty minutes ago."


"I'll verify on my end."


"Let me give you something else first. You requested a cross-reference of eight names with our passport list at the time of the Anjanette Gaikeena homicide. Five out of the eight turned up. I'll read them to you, in alphabetical order: Al Biyadi, H.M.; Baldwin, ST.; Carter, R.J.; Cassidy, M.P.; Hauser, C."


Daniel copied the names in his notebook, just to keep his hands busy.


"They arrived from London five days before the Gaikeena homicide," said Bij Duurstede. "All of them traveled on the same flight-Pan American Airlines, number one twenty first-class passage. They were in London on a one-day stopover, arrived there on Pan American flight two, from New York, first-class passage. In London they stayed at the Hilton. In Amsterdam, at the Hotel de l'Europe. They were here a total of six days, attended a three-day United Nations conference on refugees held at The Hague. After the conference, they did some sight-seeing-canal rides, Volendam and Marken, Edam, the Anne Frank house. The tours were arranged by an agency here-I have the records."


The Anne Frank house. A street-corner Mengele would have enjoyed that.


"Over a hundred delegates attended the conference," added Bij Duurstede. "It's held every year."


"How close is the De l'Europe to where Gaikeena was found?"


"Close enough. In between is the red light district."


The narrow, cobbled streets of the district came into focus again. Bass-heavy rock music blaring from nearby bars, the night air clammy, the waters of the canals black and still. The athletes, bug-eyed at the brazenness of the place: milk-fed blondes and sloe-eyed Orientals selling themselves as easily as chocolate bars. Some working the streets, others posed, half-naked, in blue-lit window tableaux, inert as statuary.


Passive. Made to order for a fiend with control on his mind.


He visualized a late-night stroll, a solitary stroll after cocktails and small talk at a hotel lounge-the De l'Europe? A respectable-looking killer, wearing a long coat with deep pockets for the knives. Checking out the herd, eyeing the long-lashed come-hithers, then selection: a flash of thigh, the exchange of guilders. Extra money for something different-something a little kinky. Intentions camouflaged by shyness. Maybe even an embarrassed smile:


Could we-uh-go down by the docks?


What for, honey? I've got a nice warm bed.


The docks, please. I'll pay for it.


Got a thing for water, handsome?


Uh-yeah.


Plenty of water right around here.


I like the docks. Will this be enough?


Oh, sure, honey. Anjanette loves the docks loo. The tides, going back and forth


"Gaikeena was killed the day after the convention," said Bij Duurstede. "Your five left the next morning for Rome, along with twenty-three other U.N. people. Alitalia flight three seventy-one, first class. The U.N. always travels first class."


Daniel picked up the list of Amelia Catherine's volunteer staff, compiled by Shin Bet.


"I have some other names, Chief Inspector. I'd appreciate your checking if any of them attended the convention as well."


"Read them to me," said Bij Duurstede. "I have the convention roster right in front of me."


Soon Daniel had added five more names to those of the permanent Amelia Catherine staff: three doctors, two nurses. A Finn, a Swede, an Englishman, two Americans. Same arrival, same hotel, same departure.


"Any idea why they went to Rome?" he asked.


"I don't know," said Bij Duurstede. "Maybe an audience with the Pope?"


He placed a call to Passport Control at Ben Gurion Airport, pinpointed the arrival of ten U.N. staffers from Rome on a Lufthansa flight one week after the Gaikeena murder. Two more calls, to Scotland Yard and Rome police, confirmed that neither had experienced similar murders during the New York to Tel Aviv time frame. By the time he hung up, it was ten-thirty-forty-eight hours since he'd bathed; the last thing he'd eaten was a water biscuit at eight in the morning.


His head itched. He scratched it, looked at his open notebook, frustrated.


After the Amelia Catherine covert and Van Gelder's call, he'd felt the case starting to resolve. The net tightening. He'd put faith in the second Amsterdam call-too much faith-hoping for a magical intersection of geographical axes: a single name singing out its guilt. Instead the net had loosened, accommodating a large catch.


He had ten suspects to consider. Individually or in pairs, triplets-cabals. Maybe Shmeltzer had something, with his group-conspiracy theory.


All of the above. None of the above.


Ten suspects. His men and Amos Harel's undercover backups would be stretched to capacity. The chance of getting something before next Thursday's women's clinic seemed slimmer than ever.


The Sumbok wire. Bij Duurstede had sent it, but he hadn't received it. He left his office to check with Communications and, midway down the corridor, met a female officer carrying the printout.


Taking it from her, he read it in the hall, running his finger down the names of St. Ignatius students, and getting even more frustrated when he saw the size of it.


Four hundred thirty-two students, fifteen faculty, twenty "ancillary" staff. Not a single match to his ten.


Four hundred sixty-eight surnames followed by first initials. None of them identified in terms of nationality. About half the names sounded Anglo-Saxon-that could mean British, Australian, New Zealanders, and South Africans as well as Americans. And, for that matter, Argentinians-some of them had names like Eduardo Smith. And some of the Italian, French, German, and Spanish names could have belonged to Americans too.


Useless.


He scanned the list for Arabic names. Three definites: Abdallah. Ibn Azah. Malki. A few possibles that could also have been Pakistani, Iranian, Malaysian, or North African: Shah, Terrif, Zorah.

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