"The doctors' first names, please."
"Richard Carter, Hassan Al Biyadi, Walid Darousha."
"Thank you. Any others?"
"Ma'ila Khoury, our secretary; Zia-whom you've met; and myself."
Daniel consulted his notes. "Dr. Carter is an American?"
"Canadian. Dr. Al Biyadi is a native of Jerusalem."
Daniel knew an Al Biyadi family. Greengrocers with a stall in the Old City, on the Street of Chains. He wondered about a connection.
"Ma'ila is Lebanese," Baldwin was saying, "Zia's a Palestinian, and I'm from the great Lone Star State of Texas. And that's it."
"What about patients?"
Baldwin cleared his throat.
"There are no clinics today, in honor of Muslim Sabbath."
"I mean hospitalized patients."
Baldwin frowned. "I explained before, we function primarily as an outpatient center and outreach facility. Our goal is to make contact with those who wouldn't ordinarily have access to health care. We identify problems and direct them to the appropriate source of treatment."
"A referral center."
"In a sense, but we do administer primary treatment at our clinics."
"So patients are never admitted here?"
"I wouldn't say never, but rarely."
Such a huge building, thought Daniel, housing only a handful of people. Vacant wards, empty beds. All that foreign money so that poor Arabs could see doctors who told them to go see other doctors. It seemed foolish, symbolism posing as function. Typical of the U.N. But that was neither here nor there.
"Mr. Hajab," he said. "What is his job?"
"Watchman, custodial work, general repairs."
"This is a large building to be maintained by one person."
"A cleaning crew-some women from East Jerusalem-do the daily mop-up. Zia helps with odds and ends."
"Both Mr. Hajab and Dr. Darousha are from Ramallah.
Did they know each other before Mr. Hajab began working here?"
"Dr. Darousha recommended Zia for the job. More than that, I can't tell you."
"Mr. Hajab told me his first contact with the hospital was as a patient. Was Dr. Darousha his physician?"
"You'll have to talk to Dr. Darousha about that."
"Very well," said Daniel, rising. "I'd like to do just that."
Baldwin made a phone call and, when no one answered, took Daniel across the hall, to the source of the typing. Ma'ila Khoury was a lovely-looking woman of about twenty-five, with full pale lips, curly hennaed hair, and widely spaced khaki eyes. She wore smart Western clothes and her nails were long and polished. An emancipated woman of old Beirut. Daniel wondered why and how she'd come to Israel to work and received his answer a moment later when a quick look-something that implied more than boss and secretary-passed between her and Baldwin. The American spoke to her in poor Arabic and she answered in a cultured Lebanese accent.
"Did Dr. Darousha sleep here last night, Ma'ila?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Is he here in the hospital?"
"Yes, sir. In examining room four, with an emergency patient who just arrived."
"Come with me, Officer Sharavi."
The examining rooms were on the other side of the staircase, on the west wing of the building, five numbered doors that had once been servants' quarters. Baldwin knocked lightly on number four and opened it. The room within was peacock-blue paint over lumpy plaster, relieved by a single grilled window just below the arch of the ceiling. An olive-wood crucifix and a white metal first-aid box adhered to one wall. Filling most of the floor space was a chipped white examining table next to a chipped white cabinet. A hanging white lamp swung from the ceiling, emitting cold bluish light.
On the examining table lay a man-from the looks of his dusty clothing a farm laborer-stolid and unmoving, one arm by his side, the other resting limply in the grasp of a second man in a long white coat. The man holding the arm looked up at the intrusion.
"Good morning, Dr. Darousha," said Baldwin.
Darousha gave a wait-one-minute gesture and returned his attention to the arm, which Daniel saw was as red and glossy as boiled sausage. The doctor was short, dark, fiftyish, froglike, with coarse, bushy hair and sad, drooping eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. His coat was starched and spotless, and he wore it buttoned, over a white shirt and dark tie and razor-pressed black slacks. A stethoscope hung scarflike around his neck. His feet were small and narrow in woven black loafers and, as he rocked from one to the other, seemed barely to touch the ground.
"How many wasps bit you?" he asked in a deep, authoritative voice.
"Hundreds. Maybe thousands."
Darousha scowled and laid the arm down gently. Inserting the prongs of the stethoscope in his ears, he placed the disc on the man's still-clothed chest, listened, and put the instrument away. Lifting the arm again, he said, "This is nasty. Very nasty." He stared down sternly at the farmer, who smiled weakly.
"Very well. I'm going to give you an injection of something that will fight the infection, as well as some pills. Take them twice a day for ten days and then come and see me again. If this isn't any better, I'll have to cut it open to drain it, which will hurt badly. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Doctor."
"Take every one of those pills, do you understand?"
"Yes, Doctor."
"How often must you take them?"
"Two times a day, Doctor."
"For how long?"
"Ten days."
"Roll over, facing the door."
Darousha pulled a hypodermic syringe out of the cabinet, went through the routine of filling, checking, and expelling air bubbles, and tugged down the waistband of the man's trousers, which were so loose they didn't need to be unfastened. Aiming the needle like a dart, he jabbed it into the fanner's buttocks. The man blinked at the pain, smiled at Daniel and Baldwin.
"Go on now. The nurse in number two will give you the pills."
"Thank you, Doctor."
When the farmer had gone, Darousha stepped out into the hallway and lit up a Rothmans. Daniel's presence didn't seem to bother him, when Baldwin introduced him as a policeman, Darousha nodded, as if the visit had been expected.
"I've got a few things to look into," said Baldwin, taking a step. "Be back in a minute, okay?"
There was furtive tension in the American's eyes and Daniel wondered what he planned to do. Warn the others of impending interrogation? Sneak a drink? Flirt with Ma'ila?
"Okay," he said and watched Baldwin lope down the hallway, then turned back to Darousha, who was smoking the cigarette as if it were his last.
"What can I do for you?" asked the doctor. Daniel had expected to converse in Arabic but the man's Hebrew was perfect.
"A serious crime has been committed in the vicinity of the hospital, Doctor. I'm questioning the staff of the hospital about unusual occurrences."