Текст книги "The Butcher's Theatre"

Автор книги: Jonathan Kellerman

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Текущая страница: 30 (всего у книги 41 страниц)

Babbling. Making things worse for himself.

The slime was staring at him. He shook himself out of the numbness.

"Give me the file."

"I got a report for you, Doc. All summed up and everything."

"I want the file."

"Eh, usually I keep the file. You want a copy, I got Xeroxing charges, extra expenses."

"Would twenty dollars take care of it?"

"Uh, yeah-thirty would be more like it. Doc."

Fields took the three tens and held out the folder.

"All yours, Doc."

"Thanks." He stood up, took the folder with one hand, picked up the old-fashioned desk calender with the other, and slammed the fucker across the face with the rusty metal base.

Fields went down without a sound, slumping on the desk. A red stain spread from under his face and saturated the blotter.

He wrapped his hands in tissues, lifted the slime, and inspected him. The front of Fields's face was flattened and bloody, the nose a soft smear. Still a weak wrist pulse.

He put him facedown on the desk, slammed him on the back of the head with the calendar base, kept slamming him, enjoying it. Making him pay for Schwann, for the twinkle in his slimy eyes.

No pulse-how could there be? The medulla oblongata had been turned to shit.

Looked out the window: only neon, and pigeons on the roof. He drew the shade, locked the door, searched for any mention of his or Schwann's names in any other file or in the calendar, then wiped his hands and everything he'd touched clean with a handkerchief-the important thing was to clean up properly.

A little blood had spattered on his shirt. He buttoned his jacket; that took care of that.

Picking up the Schwann file, he left the fucker lying there leaking, stepped out into the hallway, and walked away casually. Feeling like a king, the emperor of everything.

Dr. T.

Those good feelings grew as he drove home on Nasty. Looking at the geeks and pimps and junkies and bikers, all thinking they were bad, so bad. Thinking: How many of you losers have gone all the way? Remembering what Fields's face had looked like after being slammed. The weak pulse. Then nothing.

One giant step for Dr. Terrific.

Back home, he put the Schwann file on his bed, stripped naked, masturbated twice, and took a cold bath that made him angry and hungry for bloody mind pictures. After toweling himself dry, he jerked off some more, came weakly but nicely, and, still naked, went in and got the file.

Noble Schwann, dead.

Cut off at the roots.

The bad-machines started grinding.

He should have taken his time with Fields, really punished him. Brought the slime's body back here, for exploration, real science.

Except the guy's body would have had to be putrid, a real stinker. So no loss.

Anyway, no use crying over split milk… split blood, ha ha.

He grinned, took the file into the stale, empty space that had once been the Ice Palace, sat on the bare wooden floor, and began to read.

Fourteen minutes before Thursday night surrendered to Fri: day morning, Brother Roselli exited the Saint Saviour's monastery and began walking east on St. Francis Street.

Elias Daoud, swaddled in a musty Franciscan habit and concealed in the shadows of the Casa Nova Hospice, was not impressed. The farthest Roselli had ever gone was down the Via Dolorosa, tracing Christ's walk in reverse, to the doors of the Monastery of the Flagellation. Hesitating at the shrine, as if contemplating entry, then turning back. And that was a long-distance hike-usually Roselli walked no farther than the market street that bisected the Old City longitudinally, separating the Jewish Quarter from the Christian Quarter. And the moment he got there, he jerked his head back nervously and turned around.

Hardly worth the effort of following him.

Strange bird, thought Daoud. He'd come to resent the monk, deeply, for the numbing boredom he'd brought into his ife. Sitting, hour after hour,-*ight after night, as inert as the cobblestones beneath his feet, wearing the coarse, unwashed robes or some beggar's rags. So stagnant he feared his brain would soon weaken from disuse.

Feeling the resentment grow as he thought about it, then plagued by guilt at harboring anger toward a man of God.

But a strange man of God. Why did he stop and go like some wind-up toy? Setting out purposefully, only to reverse himself as if manipulated by some unseen puppeteer?

Conflict, he and Sharavi had agreed. The man is in conflict over something. The Yemenite had told him to keep watching.

He'd begun, eventually, to resent Sharavi too. Keeping him away from the action, stuck on this dummy assignment.

But let's be truthful: It wasn't the boredom that bothered him. A week wasn't that long-he was patient by nature, had always enjoyed the solitude of undercover, the shifting of identities.

It was being excluded.

He'd done his job well, identifying the Rashmawi girl. But no matter-now that things had gotten political, he was unwanted baggage. No way would they trust him with anything of substance.

The others-even young Cohen, little more than a rookie, with no judgment and no brains-banded together as a team. Where the action was.

While Elias Daoud sat and watched a strange monk walk two hundred meters and turn back.

He knew what was in store for him when this assignment ended: Off the Butcher case, back to Kishle, maybe even back in uniform, handling tourists' purse-snatches and petty squabbles. Maybe another undercover some day, if it wasn't political.

Working for the Jews, everything was political.

Not a single Arab he knew would regret seeing the Jews disappear. Nationalistic talk had grown fashionable even among the Christians. He himself couldn't muster much passion for politics. He had no use, personally, for the Jews, supposed an all-Arab state would be better. But, then again, without Jews to complain about, Christians and Muslims would surely turn on one another; it was the way things had been for centuries. And given-that state of affairs, everyone knew who'd win-look at Lebanon.

So it was probably best to have Jews around. Not in charge, to be sure. But a few, as a distraction.

He stepped out on St. Francis Street and looked east. Roselli's outline was visible a hundred meters up, just past Es Sayyida Road; the monk's sandal-shuffle could be heard clear up the street. Daoud wore sandals, too, but his were crepe-soled. Police issue. The discrepancy concealed by the floor-length robes.

Roselli kept walking, approaching the market intersection. Daoud stayed out of sight, flush with the buildings, prepared to duck into a doorway when the monk reversed himself.

Roselli passed the Abyssinian monastery, stopped, turned right onto Souq El Attarin, and disappeared.

It took a moment for the fact to register. Caught by surprise, Daoud ran to catch up, his boredom suddenly replaced by anxiety.

Thinking: What if I lose him?

To the east, the souq was ribbed with dozens of narrow roads and arched alleyways leading to the Jewish Quarter. Tiny courtyards and ancient clay-domed homes restored by the Jews, orphanages and one-room schools and synagogues* If someone wanted to lose himself at night, no section of the city was more suitable.

Just his luck, he lamented, sprinting silently in the darkness. All those stagnant nights followed by split-second failure.

A Thursday night, too. If Roselli was the Butcher, he might very well be prepared to strike.

Constricted with tension, Daoud sped toward the souq, thinking: Back in uniform for sure. Please, God, don't let me lose him.

He turned on El Attarin, entered the souq, caught his breath, pressed himself against a cold stone wall, and looked around.

Prayers answered: Roselli's outline, clearly visible in the moonlight streaming between the arches. Walking quickly and deliberately down stone steps, through the deserted market street.

Daoud followed. The souq was deserted and shuttered. Rancid-sweet-produce smells still clung to the night air, seasoned intermittently by other fragrances: freshly tanned leather, spices, peanuts, coffee.

Roselli kept going to the end of the souq, to where Attarin merged with Habad Street.

Pure Jewish territory now. What business could the monk have here? Unless he was planning to head west, into the Armenian Quarter. But a Franciscan would have little more to do with the Pointed Hats than he would with the Jews.

Daoud maintained his distance, ducking and weaving and maintaining a keen eye on Roselli, who kept bearing south. Past the Cardo colonnade, up through the top plaza of the

Jewish Quarter, the fancy shops that Jews had built there. Across the large parking lot, now empty.

Two border guards stood watch on the walls, turned at the sound of Roselli's sandals and stared at him, then at Daoud following moments later. A moment of analysis; then, just as quickly, the guards turned away.

Two brown-robes, nothing unusual.

Roselli passed under the arch that, during the day, served as an outdoor office for the Armenian moneylenders, showing no interest in either the Cathedral of Saint James or the Armenian Orthodox monastery. Daoud followed him toward the Zion Gate, mentally reviewing the Roman Catholic sites that graced that area: the Church of Saint Peter of the Cock-Crowing? Or perhaps the monk was headed outside the Old City walls, to the Crypt of Mary's Sleep-the Franciscans were entrusted with the tomb of Jesus' mother

But neither shrine proved to be Roselli's destination.

Just inside the Zion Gate was a cluster of Jewish schools– yeshivas. Newly built structures constructed on the sites of the old yeshivas Hussein had reduced to rubble in '48, Arab homes built by the Jordanians confiscated in '67 to make way for the rebuilding of the schools.

The typical Jerusalem seesaw.

Noisy places, yeshivas-the Jews liked to chant their studies for the world to hear. Black-coated longbeards and kids with skimpy whiskers hunched behind wooden lecterns, poring over their Old Testaments and their Talmuds. Reciting and debating without letup-even at this hour there was activity: brightly lit windows checkering the darkness; Daoud could hear a low sing-song drone of voices as he walked past.

Heretics, for sure, but one thing you had to give them: They had great powers of concentration.

Roselli walked past the larger yeshivas, approached a small one set back from the road and nearly obscured by its neighbors.

Ohavei Torah Talmudic Academy-domed building with a plain facade. Meager dirt yard in the front; to one side a big pine tree, the boughs casting spidery shadows over four parked cars.

The monk ducked behind the tree. Daoud closed the distance between them, saw that beyond the tree was a high stone wall separating the yeshiva from a three-story building with sheer stone walls. Nowhere to go. What was the monk up to?

A moment later, the monk emerged from the tree, a monk no longer.

The robes gone, just a shirt and pants.

One of those Jewish skullcaps on his head!

Daoud watched in astonishment as this new, Jewish-looking Roselli walked to the front door of Ohavei Torah Taimudic Academy and knocked.

A kid of about sixteen opened the door. He looked at Roselli with clear recognition. The two of them exchanged words, shook hands; the kid nodded and disappeared, leaving Roselli standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

Daoud was suddenly afraid: What was this, some Jewish plot, some cult? Had the Bible-quote letter sent to the American journalist been truthful? All the talk of Jewish blood sacrifices more than the idle rumors he'd taken them for?

Just what he needed: Arab detective unearths Jewish murder plot.

They'd be as likely to accept that as elect Arafat Prime Minister.

Behead-the-messenger time-what likelier scapegoat than Elias Daoud. Even success would bring failure.

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.