The Butcher's Theatre (64 page)

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 singsong 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.”