The Butcher's Theatre (65 page)

“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.