"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.
"The big problem is going to be between Jew and Jew-the black-coats and everyone else. They're fanatics, don't recognize the state, want to tear down everything we've fought for, turn it into another Iran run by Jewish ayatollahs. Think of it: no cinema, no cafes, no museums or concert halls, fanatics telling us to hang mezuzahs on every door and daven three times a day or be flogged in Zion Square. And they're breeding heavily-nine, ten kids a family. Thousands of them emigrating from ghettos in America in order to build ghettos here. They huddle in their yeshivas all day, live off the dole-not one of them does a day of army service. Thousands of enemies of the state and future enemies-and dangerous because they're repressed-sexually, emotionally. You know how violent they can get, the bus burnings we had every Saturday night in Mea She'arim. Even the soccer field we built them didn't drain off all the aggression."
The mayor relit his cigar.
"Violent," he repeated. "Which is why the religious implications of the note didn't sound all that implausible to me-those blackies are capable of doing violence to anyone who offends them. However, you inform me there's no evidence of any particular group at work."
"Malkovsky," Daniel reminded him.
The mayor's expression said the whole issue was trivial.
"Malkovsky's'rebbe-the Prostnitzer-is a potential asset, someone definitely to be reckoned with. He's a cousin of the Satmar rebbe, broke off from the Satmar three years ago because of some dispute about the line of succession. That, of course, is no big deal-they're always fighting with each other. But as part of establishing his own identity, the Prostnitzer adopted a pro-state stance. Think of it: your basic ultrafanatic type-black hat, side curls, fur hats, leggings-and he's coming out saying righteous Jews should support the state."
"Agudah's been doing that for years."
"Agudah's of no importance. All they want to do is build kosher hotels and get rich. This Prostnitzer is a man with stature. Charisma. When he tells his Hassidim the '67 victory is a sign from Messiah, it carries weight."
"I never heard him say that," said Daniel.
"He's said it in private, to me. He's waiting for the right time to go public. The Malkovsky thing has pushed the date up a bit, but he's made a commitment, requested only a few favors in return. Small favors, which I'm more happy to grant him because the stakes are high. Exposing one of his followers as a pervert would only be destructive. Think of it: an inroad to the fanatics, a first wedge driven into their intransigent ranks. They're followers by nature. Conformists. One begins; other follow suit; pretty soon you've introduced ambiguity into their belief system-creative tension. Lack of absolutes weakens fanaticism. The battle lines become obscured, strengthening the vitality of our pluralism."
"Ants crawling from hole to hole?" asked Daniel.
The mayor looked at his watch and stood.
"It's late. I've spent too much time on theoreticals. I expect Mark Wilbur to be released immediately, with no further harassment. You're obviously an intelligent fellow. If you wish to discuss ant holes further, feel free to call me at the office or at home-both numbers are listed. We'll set up an evening, break out the schnapps, open a few philosophy books. But not yet. After you clear up this Butcher nonsense."
Alone, Daniel read the tour file. The university had provided lists of participants in nine field studies in the general vicinity of the murder cave, three expeditions a year for the past three years. Exploration had been going on since '67, but older lists hadn't turned up. ("D: You should see their files, what a mess," Shmeltzer had noted. "Professors.")
The most recent trip had taken place last summer, a surface dig one and a half kilometers north of the cave, sponsored by the Department of Archaeology. The others were a pair of water-retention surveys conducted by Geology. Participants were faculty members, students, and visiting scholars. Only the names of the professors were listed, the same half-dozen over and over. Two were out of the country; Shmeltzer had interviewed the other four, three of them women, coming up with no leads and an incomplete list of student names gleaned from cluttered academic memories. The students were all Israelis, with the exception of one Nigerian who'd returned to Africa six months before the first murder. They had yet to be questioned.
None of the private tour companies visited that part of the desert, which wasn't surprising-nothing flashy down there. When the tourists asked for desert, they were shown the camel market in Beersheva, Massada, Ein Gedi, the Dead Sea mud spas.