go on talking pleasantly with Roy...there? So I excused
myself and got a cab. I didn't think to call ahead."
"It's all right. But you know I can't do anything. The case is different now."
Stedman looked up. "Why is it different?" He knew, of course, but he wanted to talk about it.
"C'mon. Dan. Before, they had nothing on him. He was friendly with an Arab. So what? Lots of American students, and Israelis too. are. He was in the vicinity of the bombing— at the site even— but he had a plausible excuse. No overt action, no official action, had been taken by the police."
"They pulled his passport, didn't they?"
"No, they didn't. You know they did, and I know they did, and they know they did, but officially they had just mislaid it and hadn't got around to sending it back to him."
"Sure."
"But now they caught him trying to cross the border." Donahue hurried on. "That's a crime at any time in any country. But in a country at war. it can be a serious crime. And if it means crossing into enemy territory, it can be damn serious."
"But he didn't know he was crossing the border." cried Stedman.
"I told you he said he didn't know." Donahue corrected. "His story was that this Abdul had invited him to visit an uncle— some big shindig that would last a few days. So they drove north, presumably to Abdul's uncle's place. And when they were almost there, they abandoned the car to take a shortcut. And Roy isn't too clear as to just why they abandoned the car— it either conked out or Abdul ran it into a ditch. The whole story is a little weak. Dan— you got to admit. I mean, this kid of yours has the normal amount of smarts. He has to have to be in the university at all. But at this point, leaving the car and taking a shortcut through the woods— dammit, driving all that time, he must’ve known that they were damn close to the border."
"Why would he have to know? Chances are he's never been up that way before. And if the other was driving, he could have dozed off."
"All right, but he found out damn quick when suddenly there were Israeli soldiers all over the place." He cocked his head to one side and considered. "That's a little unusual, their being in force right at that point."
"You think it was a trap?"
"Could be. It wouldn't surprise me. Anyway, your boy showed some sense for the first time: He stopped and put his hands up. The Arab tried to make a run for it, and they shot him."
"They killed him?"
"No. just through the leg. I guess they wanted him for questioning."
"And of course he'll implicate Roy." said Stedman bitterly.
"Not necessarily. Why should he? It wouldn't make it any easier for him. And if he did, they'd probably discount it. The whole affair is a little funny. It has a Shin Bet flavor. I get the impression that they're not really concerned about the border crossing. That's a matter for the border guard. I should think, which comes under the Police Ministry, but they don't seem to be handling it. The case seems to be directed from Jerusalem. That would suggest to me that they're really interested in the possible connection with the bombings they've had up there. And if they tied your boy in with the bombings, it would be a murder charge. I'm sorry. Dan, but there's no sense in trying to minimize the situation."
"No. no sense at all." said Stedman dully. "The thing to do would be to get a lawyer."
"That's the last thing to do. You know what it would mean to Roy even if a lawyer managed to get him off? An Arab — he's a hero among his own people, and even the Israelis have some understanding of his reasons. But an American and a Jew! Even if he got off scotfree. what kind of life would he have? I can't have him stand trial. There must be something you can do."
"Be reasonable. Dan. Now a lawyer—"
Stedman nodded quietly. "If worse comes to worst, of course I'll get a lawyer. But first— well, that's why I'm coming to you."
Donahue got up and poured himself a drink. "There's no way I could make a deal if it's murder. The ambassador himself couldn't. You can't go to the government of a sovereign state and say that this man killed one of your nationals but I want you to let him off."
"No. I suppose not."
"Well, then—"
"Look, can you find out who's in charge in Jerusalem?"
"I guess I could." Donahue said. "What good would that do?"
"I don't know. I could try to see him. maybe convince him. What else can I do?"
"I'll see what I can do."
Stedman rose and headed for the door.
"Dan."
Stedman stopped.
"Are you sure he didn't do it?" Stedman hesitated. "I don't know. I don't want to think of it." He turned to go and then stopped. "I suppose I don't really know my son."
Chapter Forty-Six
Although the monthly Haolam ran articles on science and politics, and regular sections on literature, the arts and fashion trends, it was essentially a picture magazine. It used photographs not only to illustrate its articles, and because they were newsworthy, but also because they were simply dramatic or arresting or bizarre camera shots. So although the excitement engendered by the explosion on Mazel Tov Street had died down, the front cover of Haolam featured a picture of Memavet lying dead on his living-room floor.
They ran it not to revive interest in the affair; in fact, there was no comment other than a small note of identification and explanation in a box on the masthead page. They ran it because the angle from which the photograph had been taken made a strikingly dramatic shot. The photo showed Memavet lying on his left side, his knees drawn up in the fetal position. The outstretched right arm, flung across the body, clutched a brandy bottle like an Indian club. The eyes were open and staring and from the right temple ran a trickle of blood. What made the picture so unusual was that it had been focused along the line of the bottle, and the whole figure had been fantastically foreshortened as a result. At the bottom of the picture, dead center, was the iridescent arc of the heel of the bottle. Lying along the swelling shoulder of the bottle and pointing directly at the viewer was the tip of the forefinger. And above that, the knuckles of the hand curving around the neck of the bottle, and— the foreshortening having all but eliminated the arm— in the very center of the picture, the upturned face of the dead man, eyes open and staring.
"Yeah, it's quite a picture." Adoumi admitted. "But there's something about it that bothers me."
"I know." Ish-Kosher agreed. "Me too. No matter how you hold it— away from you or one side or the other— the finger seems to be pointing right at you and his eyes seem to be looking right at you. too. I asked the boys at the photo lab about it and they said it was because the camera was focused right on the tip of his finger. That's what gives that effect."
"I wonder who took it."
"They don't say." said Ish-Kosher. "It could have been almost anybody— maybe even a tourist. They have their cameras with them all the time. Before we could get the place cordoned off after the explosion, there must have been fifty or a hundred people there on Mazel Tov Street, and half of them had cameras and were snapping away. A fellow gets an unusual shot like this and he might send it to Haolam. They'd pay pretty good for something like this. I'd say. Or it could even have been a press photographer for one of the dailies."
"I understand all that, but why did they decide to run it now? Do you suppose they've heard something?"
Ish-Kosher shook his head decisively. "Impossible. The arrest was made only a few days ago, and the copy for this issue of Haolam must have gone to the printer at least a couple of weeks ago."