Текст книги "The Butcher's Theatre"

Автор книги: Jonathan Kellerman

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"Liberation through mutilation," spat Laufer. "Just what we need." He grimaced in contemplation, then said, "Okay. I'll make the appropriate inquiries, find out if any new rumblings have been picked up. It if turns into a security case you'll liaison with Latam, Shin Bet, and Mossad." He began walking up the road, toward the still-quiet southern border of the old Hebrew University campus. Daniel stayed by his side.

"What else?" said the deputy commander. "You said possibilities."

"Blood revenge. Love gone wrong."

Laufer digested that.

"A little brutal for that, don't you think?"

"When passion plays a role, things can get out of hand," said Daniel, "but yes, I think it's only a remote possibility."

"Blood revenge," Laufer reflected. "She look like an Arab to you?"

"No way to tell."

Laufer looked displeased, as if Daniel possessed some special insight into what Arabs looked like and had chosen to withhold it.

"Our first priority," said Daniel, "should be to identify her, then work backward from here. The sooner we assemble the tleam, the better."

"Fine, fine. Ben-Ari's available, as is Zussman. Which do you want?"

"Neither. I'll take Nahum Shmeltzer."

"I thought he retired."

"Not yet-next spring."

"None too soon. He's a dray horse, burned out. Lacks creativity."

"He's creative in his own way," said Daniel. "Bright and tenacious-well suited for records work. There'll be plenty of that on this case."

Laufer blew smoke at the sky, cleared his throat, said finally, "Very well, take him. In terms of your subinspector-"

"I want Yosef Lee."

"Free egg rolls, eh?"

"He's a good team worker. Knows the streets, indefatigable."

"How much homicide experience?"

"He put in time on the old woman from Musrara-the one asphyxiated by the burglar's gag. And he came onto Gray Man shortly before we… reduced our activity. Along with Daoud, whom I also want."

"The Arab from Bethlehem?"

"The same."

"That," said Laufer, "could prove awkward."

"I'm aware of that. But the benefits exceed the drawbacks."

"Name them."

Daniel did and the deputy commander listened with a bland expression in his face. After several moments of deliberation he said, "You want an Arab, okay, but you'll have to run a tight ship. If it turns into a security case he'll be transferred out immediately-for his own good, as well as ours. And it will go down on your record as an administrative blunder."

Daniel ignored the threat, put forth his next request. "Something this big, I could use more than one samal. There's a kid over at the Russian Compound named Ben Aharon-"

"Forget it on both counts," said Laufer. He turned on his heel, began walking back to the Volvo, forcing Daniel to follow in order to hear what he was saying. "Business as usual-one samal-and I've already chosen him. New hire named Avi Cohen, just transferred from Tel Aviv."

"What talent does he have to pull a transfer so soon?"

"Young, strong, eager, earned a ribbon in Lebanon." Laufer paused. "He's the third son of Pinni Cohen, the Labor MK from Petah Tikva."

"Didn't Cohen just die?"

"Two months ago. Heart attack, all the stress. In case you don't read the papers, he was one of our friends in Knesset, a sweetheart during budget struggles. Kid's got a good record and we'd be doing the widow a favor."

"Why the transfer?"

"Personal reasons."

"How personal?"

"Nothing to do with his work. He had an affair with the wife of a superior. Asher Davidoff's blonde, a first-class kurva."

"It indicates," said Daniel, "a distinct lack of good judgment."

The deputy commander waved away his objection. "It's an old story with her, Sharavi. She goes for the young ones, makes a blatant play for them. No reason for Cohen to eat it because he got caught. Give him a chance."

His tone indicated that further debate was unwelcome, and Daniel decided the issue wasn't worth pressing. He'd gotten nearly everything he wanted. There'd be plenty of quiet work for this Cohen. Enough to keep him busy and out of trouble.

"Fine," he said, suddenly impatient with talk. Looking over his shoulder at the Hagah man, he began mentally framing his interview questions, the best way to approach an old soldier.

"… absolutely no contact with the press," Laufer was saying, "I'll let you know if and when a leak is called for.

You'll report directly to me. Keep me one hundred percent informed."

"Certainly. Anything else?"

"Nothing else," said Laufer. "Just clear this one up."

After the deputy commander had been driven away, Daniel walked over to Schlesinger. He told the uniformed officers to wait by their car and extended his hand to the Hagah man. he one that gripped it in return was hard and dry.

"Adon Schlesinger, I'm Pakad Sharavi. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Sharavi?" The man's voice was deep, hoarse, his Hebrew dipped short by the vestiges of a German accent. "You're a Yemenite?"

Daniel nodded.

"I knew a Sharavi once," said Schlesinger. "Skinny little fellow-Moshe the baker. Lived in the Old City before we lost it in '48, left to join the crew that built the cable trolley from the Ophthalmic Hospital to Mount Zion." He pointed pouth. "We put it up every night, dismantled it before sunrise. So the goddamned British wouldn't catch us sending food and medicine to our fighters."

"My uncle," said Daniel. "Ach, small world. How's he doing?"

"He died five years ago."

"What from?"

"Stroke."

"How old was he, seventy?" Schlesinger's face had drawn tight with anxiety, the bushy white eyebrows drooping low over watery blue eyes. "Seventy-nine."

"Seventy-nine," echoed Schlesinger. "Could be worse. He was a hell of a worker for a little guy, never griped. You come from good stock, Pakad Sharavi."

"Thank you," Daniel pulled out his note pad. Schlesinger's eyes followed him, stopped, focused on the back of his hand. Stared at the scar tissue. An observant one, thought Daniel.

"Tell me about your patrol," he said.

Schlesinger shrugged. "What's there to tell? I walk up and down the road five times a night, scaring away jack-rabbits."

"How long have you been with Hagah?"

"Fourteen years, first spring out of the reserves. Patrolled Rehavya for thirteen of them, past the Prime Minister's house. A year ago I bought a flat in the towers on French Hill-near your headquarters-and the wife insisted I take something closer to home."

"What's your schedule?"

"Midnight to sunrise, Monday through Saturday. Five passes from Old Hadassah to the Ben Adayah intersection and back."

"Fifteen kilometers a night," said Daniel.

"Closer to twenty if you include curves in the road."

"A lot of walking, adoni."

"For an old fart?"

"For anyone."

Schlesinger laughd dryly.

"The brass at the Civil Guard thought so too. They worried I'd drop dead and they'd be sued. Tried to talk me into doing half a shift, but I convinced them to give me a tryout." He patted his midsection. "Three years later and still breathing. Legs like iron. Active metabolism."

Daniel nodded appreciatively. "How long does each pass take you?" he asked.

"Fifty minutes to an hour. Twice I stop to smoke, once a shift I take a leak."

"Any other interruptions?"

"None," said Schlesinger. "You can set your watch by me."

"What time did you find the girl?"

"Five forty-seven."

"That's very precise."

"I checked my watch," said Schlesinger, but he looked uneasy.

"Something the matter?"

The old man glanced around, as if searching for eavesdroppers. Touched the barrel of the M-l and gnawed on his mustache.

"If you're not certain of the precise time, an estimate will do," said Daniel.

"No, no. Five forty-seven. Precisely."

Daniel wrote it down. The act seemed to increase Schlesinger's uneasiness.

"Actually," he said, lowering his voice, "that's the time I called in. Not when I found her."

Daniel looked up. "Was there much of a time lapse between the two?"

Schlesinger avoided Daniel's eyes.

"I… when I saw her I became sick. Tossed my dinner into the bushes."

"An understandable reaction, adoni."

The old man ignored the empathy. "Point is, I was out of it for a while. Dizzy and faint. Can't be certain how much time went by before my head cleared."

"Did it seem more than a few minutes?"

"No, but I can't be certain."

"When did you last pass by the spot where you found her?"

"On the way up from the fourth trip. About an hour before."

"Four-thirty?"

"Approximately."

"And you saw nothing."

"There was nothing," said Schlesinger adamantly. "I make it a point to check the gully carefully. It's a good place for someone to hide."

"So," said Daniel, writing again, "as far as you could tell, she was brought there between four-thirty and five forty-seven."

"Absolutely."

"During that time, did you see or hear any cars?"

"No."

"Anyone on donkey or horseback?"

"No."

"What about from the campus?"

"The campus was locked-at that hour it's dead."

"Pedestrians?"

"Not a one. Before I found it… her, I heard something from over there, on the desert side." He swiveled and indicated the eastern ridge. "Scurrying, a rustle of leaves. Lizards, maybe. Or rodents. I ran my light over it. Several times. There was nothing."

"How long before you found her did this occur?"

"Just a few minutes. Then I crossed over. But there was no one there, I assure you."

Daniel lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and looked out at the wilderness: jagged golden heights striped rust and green by ancient terraces, dropping without warning to the bone-white table of the Jordanian Rift; at vision's end, the shadow-like ellipse that was the Dead Sea. A leaden wedge of fog hovered over the water, dissolving the horizon.

He made a note to have some uniforms go over the slope on foot.

"Nothing there," repeated Schlesinger. "No doubt they came from the city side. Sheikh Jarrah or the wadi."

"They?"

"Arabs. This is obviously their dirty work."

"Why do you say that?"

"She was cut up, wasn't she? The Arab loves a blade."

"You said Arabs," said Daniel. "In the plural. Any reason for that?"

"Just being logical," said Schlesinger. "It's their style, the mob mentality. Gang up on someone defenseless, mutilate them. It was a common thing, before your time-Hebron, Kfar Etzion, the Jaffa Gate riots. Women and children slaughtered like sheep. The goddamned British used to stand by and let it happen. I remember one time-end of '47-they arrested four of our boys and handed them over to a mob at the Damascus Gate. The Arabs ripped them apart. Like jackals. Nothing left to bury."

Schlesinger's face had grown hawklike, the eyes com-rressed to slashes, the mouth under the mustache thin-lipped and grim.

"You want to solve this, son? Knock on doors in East Jerusalem."

Daniel closed the pad. "One more thing, adoni."

"Yes?"

"You said you live on French Hill."

"That's correct. Just up the road."

"That's within walking distance of your patrol route."

"Correct."

"And by your own account, you're a strong walker. Yet you drive your car and park it on Sderot Churchill."

Schlesinger gave him a stony look.

"Sometimes when I finish," he said, "I'm not ready to go ne. I take a drive."

"Anywhere in particular?"

"Here and there. Anything wrong with that, Pakad?" The old man's gutturals were harsh with indignation.

"Nothing at all," said Daniel, but to himself he thought: Ben adam afor, Carmellah Gadish had gasped, when they'd found her. A gray man. Three barely audible words bubbling from between bloody lips. Then, the loss of consciousness, descent into coma. Death.

Ben adam afor. A feeble bit of information, perhaps nothing more than delirium. But it was the closest thing they had to evidence and, as such, had taken on an aura of significance. Gray man. They'd spent days on it. An alias or some kind of underworld code? The color of the slasher's clothing? A sickly complexion? Something characterological?

Or advanced age?

He looked at Schlesinger, smiled reassuringly. White hair and mustache. Sky-blue eyes, bordered by a ring of gray. White, light-blue. At night it could all look the same. Gray. It seemed crazy, almost heretical, to think of an old Palmahi doing something like that. And he himself had pointed out to Laufer the discrepancies between this death and the other five. But one never knew. Schlesinger had begun patrolling Scopus shortly after the last Gray Man murder. Thirteen years in one neighborhood, then a sudden move. Perhaps there was some connection, something oblique that he had yet to grasp. He resolved to look into the old man's background.

"I fought for this city," Schlesinger was saying, testily. "Broke my ass. You'd think I'd deserve better than being treated like a suspect."

Daniel wondered if his thoughts were that transparent, looked at Schlesinger and decided the old man was being touchy.

"No one suspects you of anything, adoni," he soothed. "I was merely succumbing to curiosity-an occupational hazard."

Schlesinger scowled and asked if he could go.

"Certainly, and thank you for your time. I'll have the officers take you back to your car."

"I can walk just fine."

"I'm sure you can, but regulations dictate otherwise."

He called the uniforms over while the old man muttered about bureaucrats and red tape, had one of them walk him to the blue-and-white, and drew the other aside.

"Take a look at his car, Amnon. Nothing detailed, just a casual glance. Inform him that the carbine must be kept in the trunk and put it there yourself. When you do, check the trunk."

"Anything in particular to look for?"

"Anything out of the ordinary. Be sure to keep it casual-don't let on what you're doing."

The officer looked at Schlesinger's retreating form.

"Is he a suspect?"

"We're being thorough. He lives on French Hill. Escort him to the towers, and radio for two more men. Have them bring a metal detector and the four of you climb down there and do a grid search of the slope on the desert side. Concentrate on the immediate vicinity beyond the ridge-a two-kilometer radius should be sufficient. Look for footprints, blood, human waste, food wrappers."

"Anything out of the ordinary."

"Exactly. And no loose lips. The brass wants this kept quiet."

The officer nodded and left, talked to Schlesinger, and ushered him to the car. The blue-and-white drove off, fol-lowed shortly by the technical van. The transport drivers disappeared into the gully with a stretcher and a folded black plastic body bag and reappeared shortly with the bag filled. They slid it into the Abu Kabir van, climbed in, slammed the doors, and sped away. Daniel walked over to Afif and together they removed the barriers and loaded them into the jeep.

"Salman, what's the chance of someone sneaking in from the desert in the early morning hours?"

"Everything's been quiet," the Druze said stoically. "Well under control."

"What about from Isawiya?"

"Silent. We've got infrared scopes at our stations in the Rift. On the tenders and some of the jeeps as well. All we've been picking up are snakes and rabbits. Small band of Bedouins up north of the Ramot, they won't come down until summer."

"What about Ramallah?"

"Local unrest, but nothing beyond talk."

"The Bethlehem sector?"

"Patrol's been beefed up since the girl's funeral. No suspi-cius movement."

The girl. Najwa Sa'id Mussa. Fourteen years old and on her way to market when she'd been caught in the cross fire between a mob of stone-throwing Arabs and two nineteen-year-old soldiers who'd fired back in defense. A bullet to the head had turned her into a heroine, posters emblazoned with her picture slapped to the trunks of the fig trees that grew along the Hebron Road, the graffiti of vengeance marring walls and boulders. A near-riot of a funeral, and then things had gotten quiet again.

Or had they?

He thought about another dead girl and wondered.

By seven forty-five, students had begun drifting toward campus and the hum of traffic filtered down the road. Daniel crossed over and walked down toward the Amelia Catherine Hospital. He'd passed the place numerous times but had never been inside. During the Gray Man investigation, Gavrieli had taken the task of handling the U.N. people on his own. A good boss. Too bad he'd been careless.

As Daniel neared the compound he was struck by how out of place it seemed, perched atop Scopus, with its pink stone facade, obelisk bell tower, yawning gargoyles, and steeply pitched tile roofs. An overdressed Victorian dowager camped out in the desert.

An arched, ivied entry fronted the main building. Embedded in the limestone at the apex was a rectangle of gray granite, carved with a legend in English: Amelia Catherine PILGRIMS' HOSPICE AND INFIRMARY, ERECTED BY HERMANN brauner, AUGUST 15,1898. An enameled plaque, white with blue letters, had been nailed just below: UNITED NATIONS RELIEF AND WORKS ASSOCIATION. CO-ADMINISTERED BY THE world ASSEMBLY OF CHURCHES. English and Arabic, not a trace of Hebrew. Climbing white roses, their petals heat-browned, embraced the fluted columns that flanked the arch. The entry led to a large dusty courtyard, shaded at the hub by a spreading live oak as old as the edifice. Circling the trunk of the big tree were spokelike beds of flowers: tulips, poppies, irises, more roses. A high, carved fountain sat in one corner, dry and silent, its marble basin striated with dirt.

Just inside the entry sat a portly middle-aged Arab watchman on a flimsy plastic chair, sleepy-eyed and inert except for fingers that danced nimbly over a string of amber worry beads. The man wore gray work pants and a gray shirt. Under his armpits were black crescents of sweat. A glass of iced tamarindy rested on the ground, next to one leg of the chair, the ice cubes rounding to slush.

Daniel's footsteps raised the watchman's eyelids, and the Arab's face became a stew of emotions: curiosity, distrust, the muddled torpor of one whose dreams have been rudely curtailed.

Daniel greeted him in Arabic and showed him his badge. The watchman frowned, pulled his bulk upright, and reached into his pocket for identification.

"Not necessary," said Daniel. "Just your name, please."

"Hajab, Zia." The watchman avoided eye contact and looked out at a distant point over Daniel's left shoulder. Running a thick hand over crew-cut hair the color and texture of iron filings, he tapped his foot impatiently. His mustache was a charcoal patch of stubble, the lips below, thin and pale. Daniel noticed that his fingers were horned with callus, the fingernails broken and rimmed with grime.

"Are you from Jerusalem, Mr. Hajab?"

"Ramallah." The watchman drew himself up with regional pride. The hubris of a poor man from a rich city.

"I'd like to ask you some questions."

Hajab shrugged resignedly, continued to look away. "Ask, but I know nothing about it."

"About what?"

"Your police matters." Hajab sucked in his breath and began working on the beads with both hands.

"What time did you come on duty this morning, Mr. Hajab?"

"Six-thirty."

"Is that when you usually begin working?"

"Not usually. Always."

"And which road did you take from Ramallah?"

"None."

"Pardon?"

"No road. I live here."

"Here at the hospital?"

"Yes."

"Is that arrangement part of your job?"

"I maintain a beautiful home in Ramallah," said the watchman defensively. "A large garden, fig trees, and vines. But my skills must be easily available, so the hospital has provided me with a room. Lovely, clean, freshly painted, and well furnished."

"It's a lovely hospital," said Daniel. "Well built."

"Yes." Hajab was solemn.

"When is your custom to awaken?"

"Six."

"And your routine upon rising?"

"Ablutions, the morning prayers, a light breakfast, and straight to my post."

"How long have you lived here at the hospital, Mr. Hajab?"

"Thirteen months."

"And before that?"

"Before that, I lived in Ramallah. As I told you." Exasperated.

"Were you a sentry in Ramallah as well?"

"No." Hajab paused, massaged his beads. His brow had glossed with perspiration and he used one hand to wipe it.

"In Ramallah, I was an… automotive engineer."

Daniel wrote "mechanic" next to Hajab's name.

"What caused you to change occupations?"

Hajab's meaty face darkened with anger. "The station that employed me was sold. The new owner gave my job to his son-in-law." He looked at his beads, coughed, and cursed in Arabic under his breath: "Zaiyel te'ban." Like a snake.

He coughed again, licked his lips and gazed longingly at the tamarindy.

"Please," said Daniel, indicating the drink, but the watchman shook his head.

"Go on with your questions," he said.

"Do you understand why I'm asking these questions?"

"An incident," said Hajab with forced disinterest.

Daniel waited for more and, when it didn't come, asked, "Do you have any knowledge of this incident?"

"As I told you, I know nothing of police matters."

"But you knew there had been an incident."

"I saw the barriers and the cars and assumed there was an incident." Hajab smiled mirthlessly. "I thought nothing of it. There are always incidents, always questions."

"Up here at the hospital?"

"Everywhere."

The watchman's tone was hostile and Daniel read the covert message: Life has been nothing but troubles since you Jews took over.

"Are you a sound sleeper, Mr. Hajab?"

"My dreams are peaceful. As sweet as roses."

"Did you dream sweetly last night?"

"And why not?"

"Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing at all."

"No unusual movement? Voices?"

"No."

"How," asked Daniel, "did you come to work at the Amelia Catherine?"

"After I left my engineering position I experienced an illness and was treated at a clinic run by the hospital."

"What kind of illness?"

"Head pains."

"And where was the clinic?"

"In Bir Zeit."

"Go on, please."

"What's to go on about?"

"How you came to work here."

Hajab frowned. "The doctor at the clinic advised me to come here for tests. On the day I arrived I saw a notice on one of the walls, soliciting help. Sentry duty and repairs. I made inquiries and when my engineering talents were discovered by Mr. Baldwin, I was asked to join the staff."

"A bit of good fortune."

Hajab shrugged.

"Al Maktoub" he said, casually. "It was written on my forehead."

"How is your head now?"

"Very well, bless the Prophet."

"Good. Tell me, Mr. Hajab, how many others live here at the hospital?"

"I've never taken count."

Before Daniel could pursue the point, a shiny black Lancia Beta drove up to the entrance. The sports car let out a belch, then shuddered as its engine died. The driver's door opened and out climbed a tall fair-haired man dressed in a khaki safari jacket over brown corduroy trousers. Under the jacket was a white shirt and green-and-red striped tie. The man was of indeterminate age-one of those smooth-faced types who could be anywhere from thirty to forty, wide-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with a heavy build and long arms that dangled loosely. His light hair was waxy and straight, thinning to outright baldness at the crown; his face, narrow and sunburned, topped by a high, freckled brow. His lips were chapped; his nose, uptilted, pink, and peeling. Mirrored sunglasses concealed his eyes. He faced Daniel, then Hajab. "Zia?" he said.

"Police, Mr. Baldwin," said Hajab, in English. "Questions."

The man turned back to Daniel, smiled faintly, then grew serious. "I'm Sorrel Baldwin, administrator of the hospital. What seems to be the trouble, Officer?"

His accent was American, tinctured by the kind of drawl Daniel had heard in cowboy movies. Ah'm for I'm.

"A routine investigation," said Daniel, offering his badge. Baldwin took it.

"An incident," said Hajab, growing bold.

"Uh hmm," said Baldwin, lifting his sunglasses and peering at the badge. His eyes were small, blue, shot through with red. Drinker's eyes? "And you're… an inspector."

"Chief inspector."

Baldwin handed back the badge.

"Any police dealings I've had have always been with Deputy Commander Gavrieli."

Buddies with boss. Letting Daniel know that he was outclassed. But the fact that he thought Gavrieli's name still carried weight gave lie to his words. Daniel ignored the snub, got down to business.

"Mr. Baldwin, during the early hours of the morning a crime was committed-crucial– evidence was found in that gully, just down the road. I'd like to talk to your staff, to find out if anyone saw something that could help us in our investigation."

Baldwin put his sunglasses back on.

"If anyone had noticed anything," he said, "they would have reported it, I assure you."

"I'm sure they would have. But sometimes people see things-small things-and are unaware of their significance."

"What kind of crime are we talking about?" asked Baldwin.

"A major one. I'm not at liberty to say more."

"Security censorship, eh?"

Daniel smiled. "May I talk to your staff?"

Baldwin kneaded his chin with one hand. "You realize, Officer…"

"Sharavi."

"…Officer Sharavi, that we are an arm of the United Nations Relief and Works Agency and, as such, are entitled to diplomatic privilege with regard to police procedure."

"Of course, Mr. Baldwin."

"Understand also that involvement in local political matters is something we make a concerted effort to avoid."

"This is a criminal matter, sir. Not a political one."

"In this city," said Baldwin, "that's a fine distinction. One, I'm sorry to say, that the police don't often seem able to make." He paused, looked down at Daniel. "No, I'm sorry, Officer Sharavi, I just can't see my way clear to letting you disrupt our procedures."

As Daniel listened to the American, the image of the murdered girl intruded on his consciousness and he surrendered to a fantasy etched in anger: He, the policeman, takes hold of the bureaucrat's arm and leads him to the gully, over the edge, right into the butchery. Presses his face close to the corpse, forces him to inhale the stench of evil. Breathe that, experience it. Viscerally. Is it criminal or political, pencil pusher?

"I agree," he heard himself saying. "It is a very fine distinction. But one that we're getting better at recognizing. You remember, of course, the case of Corporal Takumbai?"

"Vaguely." Baldwin shifted his weight, looked uncomfortable. "Somewhere up north, wasn't it?"

"Yes it was. In Tiberias. Corporal Takumbai was part of a Fijian contingent assigned to the UNIFIL patrol in Southern Lebanon. He had a history of mental imbalance that no one thought was important. One night, during a holiday on the Sea of Galilee, he left his comrades, broke into an apartment, and raped two old women. Someone heard screams and called the police. When they tried to capture him, Takumbai wounded one officer and-"

"I really don't see what this has to do with-"

"-came close to killing another. Despite all that, we let him go, Mr. Baldwin. Back to Fiji, without prosecution. He was protected by his position with the United Nations and we respected that. We were able to separate the political from the criminal. There have been others, of course-a Frenchman, Grimaud, who was a compulsive shoplifter; a Finn named Kokkonen, who enjoyed getting drunk and beating up women. Even as we speak, the file of another Frenchman is being processed. This one was caught smuggling hashish resin out of the Beach Refugee Camp in Gaza. Like all the others, he'll be expelled without trial. Without public exposure. So you see, Mr. Baldwin, you have nothing to fear. We continue to protect the good name of the United Nations. We are able to make fine distinctions."

Baldwin glanced over his shoulder at Hajab, who'd listened to the exchange raptly, moving his head back and forth like a soccer fan. Reaching into his pocket, the American pulled out a set of car keys and tossed them to the watchman.

"Park the car, Zia."

Though clearly disappointed, the watchman complied. When the Lancia had driven off, Baldwin said to Daniel: "In any organization, there are going to be a few bad apples. That has nothing to do with the staff of this hospital. They're handpicked. Altruists. Good solid folk."

"I don't doubt that for a moment, Mr. Baldwin. As altruists they should be pleased to help."

The American peeled a papery shred of skin from his nose and looked toward the scene of the crime. A flock of crows rose from the gully. From somewhere behind the hospital came the bray of a donkey.

"I could," said Daniel, "go through channels. Which would mean a delay of the investigation-meetings, memoranda. We are a small country, Mr. Baldwin. News travels quickly. The longer something stretches out, the more difficult it is to keep it out of the public eye. People would want to know why so many criminals are avoiding punishment. One would hate to see the public image of the U.N. suffer needlessly."

When Baldwin didn't respond, Daniel added, "Perhaps I'm not speaking clearly. My English-"

"Your English is just fine," said Baldwin, smiling sourly.

Daniel returned the smile. "I had an excellent teacher," he said, then looked at his watch. Flipping over his note pad, he began to write. Several more moments passed.

"All right," said Baldwin, "but let's try to keep it quick."

He turned on his heel, and Daniel followed him under the arch and across the silent courtyard. A lizard scampered up the trunk of the big oak and disappeared. Daniel breathed in deeply and the aroma of roses settled moistly in his nostrils. Like a cool spray of syrup, filtered through the hot, morning air.

The hospital had a history. Daniel had learned about it in '67, during training with the 66th, when rumors of war caused every paratroop officer to study his maps and his history books.

The Amelia Catherine had begun its life as a private residence-a great, lumbering manse at the crest of the watershed between the Jordan Valley and the Mediterranean.

Conceived by a wealthy German missionary as a wedding present for his young bride and named for her, the estate had been fashioned of native limestone and marble by the hands of local masons. But its plans had been drawn up in Munich by an Anglophile architect and the result was a self-conscious display of Victoriana transported to Palestine-oversized, decidedly snobbish, surrounded by formal gardens replete with boxwood hedges, beds of flowers, and velvet lawns that perished quickly in the Judean heat. The missionary was also a man of high taste, and he shipped over tinned meats and preserved delicacies, bottles of French wine stored in cavernous cellars beneath the mansion.