Pattern Crimes (41 page)

The dome, the great dome of the reactor—it was so thick, so strongly reinforced, that it required direct hits from every plane...

At five o'clock that morning he woke up in a sweat. At last the design was clear:
The craters!

There had been no craters in the original drawings, or in the photographs taken just after "Circle in the Square" had been completed. But craters were clearly visible in
Rokovsky's Polaroids. They
were what had excited Sokolov and sent him rushing to the foundation to try and extort extra money.

Craters meant bombs. Bombs meant a bombing target. The pilots who'd flown against the Iraqi reactor had practiced for months against a target carved out in the sand.

"Circle in the Square" was a practice target for bombers. And this time too the target was a dome.

He shook Anna awake.

Now I know," he said. "I know what they're going to do."
The Ninth!
He reached for the phone.

"Rafi?"

He shook his head. "Today's the Ninth of Av, anniversary of the destruction of our ancient temple. No time now to go through channels. I have to go directly to the minister."

After Targov woke up he lay in bed, eyes closed, breathing in the sweet aromas. These scents, released from the terraced gardens surrounding Mishkenot, seeped into his room each morning through the barred windows he left open to the breeze. Sometimes there was another smell too, dry and ancient, that came to him from the Old City across the ravine. And occasionally a stray Jerusalem cat would jump through the window, and he would chase it around the apartment, finally corner it in the tiny kitchen, then the two of them, old sculptor and slinky cat, would bare their teeth at one another, then Targov would grin, yield, and turn away.

But this Thursday morning as he lay in bed his mind struggled with the puzzle of the earthwork. He had been astonished by what David Bar-Lev had suggested: that it was not an ideogram, not abstract, that it could be some kind of replica or map.

But a replica of what? An image of the thing, which he now wanted to recapture, had come to him in his sleep. He had seen it from the air, just as he had on his first visit; there was a terrible roar and then Sergei's markings had grown larger as he'd approached. Yes, he'd been flying toward the earthwork, soaring down upon it like a hawk. What was it then? The idea was within his grasp. Recalling a line from Macbeth, he opened his eyes: "0! full of scorpions is my mind."

Sergei had not designed it and it had nothing to do with art. But it did have a purpose, which he might have guessed if he had paid proper attention to that roaring Air Force jet. Its rush at him from off the sand, its surge and plunge could have explained the markings. But he had refused to acknowledge their significance, preferring instead the torment of a mystery.

His mind racing, he played with the shape, turning it, revolving it, looking at it from every side. He'd seen it before. Many times. Here. In Jerusalem. His was a sculptor's mind accustomed to manipulating forms. He fixed the shape in his brain, then strode across the room, opened the top drawer of his bureau, rummaged inside until he found his pocket city map, took one glance at it, and knew that he was right.

"Faster!" Targov cried. Rokovsky was racing around the Old City walls. "Faster! Faster!" Targov felt an urge to punch groggy unshaven Tola in the arm.

The road curved and swerved as they passed the Dung Gate, plunged down into the Kidron Valley, then rejoined the Jericho Road. As they turned to climb Mount Scopus a truck carrying vegetables almost ran them down. But Rokovsky drove skillfully. Eleven minutes after he'd picked up Targov at the door of Mishkenot, he deposited him, with a screeching of brakes, at the overlook on the crest of the Mount of Olives.

It was 7 A.M. The sun, which had risen an hour and a half before, hung behind them in the east. Below the city sparkled; in another hour it would begin to steam. The crenellated walls that surrounded the Temple Mount were a blinding pale beige, the trees upon the Mount were dusty green, and its two great structures, the silver dome of El Aqsa and the larger golden Dome of the Rock, shot back
the sun like
mirrors.

"Tola, look down there at the city."

"I'm
looking," Rokovsky stared. "What am I looking for?"

"The shape out in the desert. The thing we saw. The map."

Rokovsky squinted. "I know Bar-Lev said it might be a map, but I don't see—"

"We've seen it at least a hundred times."

"Please, Sasha, help me out."

"Look at the shape of the Temple Mount—it's the same, a trapezoid. And the circle in the center." Targov pointed at the golden dome. "That circle is the Dome of the Rock. Now do you see?"

Rokovsky nodded slowly. "The shorter end faces south and . . ."

"Yes. It's a full-sized replica, oriented the same way too. And those craters we saw near the center... Think, Tola, think of what we saw out there: a map of the Temple Mount, signed by my old friend Sergei, constructed far out in the desert. So, think about it—for whom? and why?"

"They
want to start a war," David said. He twisted around to watch the minister. He had awakened him and now the older man, expression still opaque, paced the living room of his villa in leather slippers and a silk floral-patterned dressing gown.

"Yes—a war. I like the shape of that," the minister said. His perfectly parted silver hair caught the early morning light. "As a man with such an extraordinary mind, I think you may be wasted in the Jerusalem Command. I could use you on my personal staff."

"I didn't come—"

"I know why you came. You have a very pretty theory. Your only problem is that you can't prove it."

"I'll do my best," David said. "Meantime, by the Jewish calendar—"

"The holiday—yes, I understand. But what does that have to do—?"

"What better day, minister, than the anniversary of the Romans' destruction of our temple? The pilot, whoever he is, flies in, drops his bomb, and blows up the Dome of the Rock now situated on our sacred ground. Then Jewish fanatics rush the place and cheer
Jewish sovereignty has been restored; the temple will be rebuilt, the Messianic Age has come. Meantime, of course, every Arab in Jerusalem becomes a homicidal maniac. A sacred shrine of Islam has been destroyed. The rampaging Jews must be fought off and killed. So, to defend ourselves, we shoot the rioting Arabs, blood flows in the streets, and suddenly we're up to our ass in a holy war. Considering that since sunset we've been facing that kind of threat, do you really want me out scrounging around for proof?"

The minister had stopped pacing and was examining him now with curiosity. "No need to patronize me, captain. Either you've got a case, or you've come here with a fantasy."

He was right; David knew that sarcasm was not going to help his cause. "I apologize," he said. "I understand that what I've told you must strike you as farfetched."

"Farfetched? It's outrageous! We know fanatics want to do these things. But people of such stature, whether we like them or not—it's almost too much to believe...."

"I agree, which is why it took me so long to see it." David paused. He knew now that he had the minister's attention, recognized that same narrow, somewhat skeptical, yet sympathetic gaze he'd observed in his eyes the day he'd removed him from the case. "Let me try and explain it again as simply as I can. Each of the men in that van had reason to enter into this conspiracy. Katzer because he
wants
a bloodbath—it will justify his plan to expel the Arabs. Stone because he believes in biblical prophecy. And Gati because the Mount's the 'high ground' and the fact that we gave it back' in '67 proves to him we're soft. So bomb the Dome, retake the high ground, and, while you're at it, redraw the map. But this time don't stop at the Jordan River—take the East Bank too!" David paused. "They make a perfect threesome: an ideologue, a moneybags, and a military genius. A year and a half ago they tried to blackmail my brother. He didn't like their scheme so he jettisoned his bombs and crashed his plane. My guess is that this year they're simply paying the pilot off. Which is why now I want to move very fast, and stop this thing before it gets off the ground."

"That's quite a little speech. What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Authorize arrests."

"Without warrants?"

"Here we have an imminent danger to human life."

The minister winced. "I'm a defense lawyer. General Gati's a national hero. Katzer, horrible as he is, is an important politician. If they were my clients I know exactly what I'd do. Threaten. Sue. Make sure the police never heard the end of it. And while I was at it I'd go straight to a judge and have them out within the hour."

"You're saying they're untouchable. I don't think so, but I'm not a lawyer—I'm a cop. Anyway it doesn't matter. The point is to expose the plot. Once it's exposed they'll have to cancel it. Exposure is what they fear the most, which is why they had the accident witnesses killed."

"And if you're wrong?"

"I'm not."

"What if you are?"

"You'll kick me off the force."

The minister stared at him, appraising. "I could do that now if I wanted to."

David met his gaze straight-on; this, he knew, was not the time to blink.

"You'll really stake your career on this?"

"I wouldn't have come here otherwise."

David sat quietly; the minister was making up his mind. He hesitated, squinted, then gave a short swift nod.

"Okay. Make your arrests." He moved toward his desk. "But you'd better make them fast. I'll phone the prime minister, recommend the grounding of military aircraft for just one hour." He turned to David. "You understand what that means? You'd better be right, captain, because if you're not, and something happens, and Israeli airspace is undefended, then you and I are going to be the biggest assholes this country's ever seen."

Targov wandered the Old City for hours. The heat was punishing. The dry dust of Jerusalem clung to his clothes. There were so many mysteries here, interstices, hidden corners, tunnels that led to bolted doors. But above the labyrinth, dominating everything, was that great and stunning golden dome.

To want to destroy beauty like this—what could be Sergei's purpose? But the moment Targov posed the question, he knew what the answer had to be. It was the classic rage of the unsuccessful artist against anything that mocked his mediocrity. If you can't create great art, then feel free to destroy it. Sergei was no better than that miserable little Dutch painter who, despairing at his own failure, had slashed out at Rembrandt's "Nightwatch" with his knife.

He phoned Rokovsky from an Arab money changer's shop just outside Herod's Gate.

"Fetch him!"

"Where are you?"

"The Old City. Bring him to David's Tower."

"When?"

When you find him."

"And what if I can't?"

"Find the bastard!" Targov hung up, then plunged back into the labyrinth.

"Y
ou bypassed me and Latsky!" Rafi was furious.

"I did what I thought I had to do."

"Send an oaf like Uri Schuster to handcuff Rabbi Katzer! Send twenty-two-year-old Shoshana Nahon to arrest General Gati!"

"They're my people, Rafi. Who else was I going to send?"

"I understand you personally hauled Ephraim Cohen out of bed in front of his wife and kids."

"So what?"

"So what!
Cohen's a hard-ass. You don't make an enemy of a man like that. You must be out of your mind."

"If I am I'll pay for it, won't
I?"

"
Oh
,
you'll pay for it all right. Latsky's neck's gone purple. His blood vessels are about to burst." Rafi shook his head, tried to calm himself. "You're over-involved, David. Twisted around and riddled with guilt. This whole business about Gideon and Ephraim Cohen..."

"What about it?"

"It's taken its toll on your good sense." He picked up a pipe, knocked it against his palm. "As for Miss Stephanie Porter and her unsourced rumors about 'the ninth'—the bitch is jerking you off. She's got her own agenda and she's got you pussy-whipped, and you don't even see how you're being used."

David felt the heat rise to his cheeks and sweat break out on his brow. He felt like punching Rafi in the face.

"Oh, Rafi—what a stupid lousy thing to say...."

When she put down the phone after Rokovsky called, Anna knew this was the day that David's and Sasha's vectors were destined to converge. Each of them had been following a separate trail with obsessive intensity, and now they were both running around madly in the city, and she felt that the meeting of their trails, of which she'd dreamed the night she'd tried to dream herself inside her cello, could end in some kind of tragedy, and that she must not let them meet alone.