Текст книги "The Butcher's Theatre"

Автор книги: Jonathan Kellerman

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 41 страниц)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sheindel was biting her knuckles to keep from hyperventilating.

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

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

"Momzer! Meeskeit! Shoyn opgetrent?"

Sheindel let go of her knuckles and started to wail.

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

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

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

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

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

Great. Yom Kippur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Malkovsky stood and raised Sheindel to her feet.

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

The two of them walked into the apartment.

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

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

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

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

"What has he done?"

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

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

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

"Criminals? Never-"

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

Malkovsky moaned.

Greenberg ran.

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

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

He ignored her, opened the door.

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

"I need to know where he is."

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

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

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

"Get the hell out."

"I want to know where Malkovsky is."

"He's not your concern."

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

"Out."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cohen was-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't really want it."

'What!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Still want it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Killer Hassidim-too crazy to consider.

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

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

Rooting in the garbage.

Try calling Australia.

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

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

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

Not that there had been any choice.

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

Surely he must have known it would all come out.

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

Gavrieli had always had a way with words.

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

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

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

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

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

You're Yemenite.

Yes.

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

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

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

I am.

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

Yes.

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

He's a jeweler.

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

I don't know.

Do you make jewelry too!

Some.

But you're not as good as your father.

No.

And never will be.

Never.

A common problem. What are your other career options!

I've thought of law.

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

I don't know.

Why not!

I haven't thought about it in detail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The recoilless attack ended.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Jordanian stopped. Daniel held his breath.

The Jordanian fired; Daniel rolled away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tried to bite the Jordanian's chin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're all right," he said.

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

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

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

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

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