The Butcher's Theatre (4 page)

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, followed 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.”