They wore long, heavy robes, these two, and dangling burnooses that concealed their faces. And though they hadn't been required to use them, in their pockets were refugee cards closely resembling the ones issued by UNRWA. Reasonable facsimiles, printed up just hours before.
Inside the hospital, things were indeed crazy. The air-conditioning system had broken down, turning the building into a steam bath. Two volunteer doctors hadn't shown up, appointments were already running an hour behind schedule, and the patient load was heavy, injured and sick men spilling out of the waiting room and into the main hallway, where they stood, squatted, sat, and leaned against the plaster walls.
The stagnant air was fouled by unwashed bodies and infection. Nahum Shmeltzer staked out a place against the north wall and watched the comings and goings of doctors, nurses, and patients, with a jaundiced eye.
The little false mustache was ridiculous, perched above his lip like a piece of lint. He hadn't shaved or showered and felt as unclean as the rest of them. To top it off, the robes Latam had provided him wercabrasive as horsehair, heavy as lead. He was sweating like a sick man, starting to feel really feverish-how was that for method acting?
The only bright spot was the smile the costume had elicited from Eva. He'd picked her up at Hadassah, taken her home, tried to get her to eat, then held her for four hours before falling asleep, knowing she'd be up all right, waiting by the phone. The old man was close to death; she kept wanting to return to the hospital, afraid of missing the moment he slipped away.
Still, when Shmeltzer had gotten up at five and put on the Arab get-up, the corners of her mouth had turned up-only for a moment, but every little bit helped Shit, he was uncomfortable.
Daoud didn't seem to mind any of it, he noticed. The Arab stood across the hall, blending in with the others, cool as rain. Making occasional eye contact with Shmeltzer, but mostly just fading into the background. Backing up against the door of the Records Room and waiting for Shmeltzer's signal before making unobtrusive movements with his hands.
Movements you wouldn't notice if you weren't looking for them. The hands busy at the lock but the face blank as a new note pad.
Maybe Arabs weren't bothered by this kind of thing, thought Shmeltzer. If they could be trusted, they'd make great undercover men.
Arabs. Here he was, surrounded by them. Except for prison camp duty in '48, he'd never been with so many of them at one time.
If they knew who he was, they'd probably tear him apart. The Beretta would pick off a few, but not enough. Not that they'd ever find out. He'd looked in the mirror after putting on the outfit, surprised himself with what a good Arab he made. Ahmed Ibn Shmeltzer
Someone lit a cigarette. A couple of others followed suit. A guy next to him nudged him and asked if he had a smoke. All that despite the fact that the American nurse, Cassidy, had come out twice and announced No Smoking in loud, lousy Arabic.
The Arabs ignored her; a woman talking, she might just as well have been a donkey braying.
"Smoke?" repeated the guy, nudging again.
"Don't have any," Shmeltzer said in Arabic.
The Cassidy girl was out in the hall again, calling out a name. A beggar on crutches grunted and bumped his way toward her.
Shmeltzer looked at the nurse as she escorted the cripple to an examining room. Plain as black bread, no breasts, no hips, the type of dry cunt always exploited by greasy sheikhs like Al Biyadi.
A few minutes later, the sheikh himself stepped out of another examining room, all pressed and immaculate in his long doctor's coat. He glanced at the mob of patients with disdain, shot his cuffs, and exposed a flash of gold watch.
A white swan among mud ducks, thought Shmeltzer, and he knows it. He followed Al Biyadi's path across the hall and into the Records Room. Daoud had moved away from the door, sat down, and was feigning sleep.
Al Biyadi used a key to open the door. Arrogant young snot -what the hell was he doing working here instead of renting a suite of offices in Ramallah or on a good street in East Jerusalem? Why lower himself to stitching up paupers when he could be raking in his big money attending to landowner's families or rich tourists at the Intercontinental Hotel?
The initial research had shown him to be a playboy with expensive tastes. Hardly the type to go in for do-gooding. Unless there was an ulterior motive.
Like access to victims.
Dani's theory was that the Butcher was a psycho with something extra-a racist out to cause trouble between Jews and Arabs. Shmeltzer wasn't sure he bought that, but if it was true, it only strengthened his own theory: Al Biyadi was a closet radical and best bet for the Butcher. He'd said as much at the emergency staff meeting last night. No one had agreed or disagreed.
But he fit, the snot, including the fact that he'd lived in America.
Ten years ago, Nahum, Dani had objected. Their typical debate.
How do you know?
Our passport records confirmed it during the initial research.
Ten years. Four years too late to match two of the murders from the FBI computer.
But Shmeltzer wasn't ready to let go of the bastard that easily. Before settling in Detroit, Michigan, for college, Al Biyadi had lived in Amman, attending a high-priced boarding school, the same one Hussein's kids went to. Rich kid like that, he could have easily gone back and forth between Jordan and America as a tourist, using a Jordanian passport. Any trips taking place before his return to Israel wouldn't show up in their files.
American Immigration would have records of them, though. Dani had agreed to get in touch with them, though if past history was any indicator, getting the information would take weeks, maybe months.
Meanwhile, as far as Nahum Shmeltzer was concerned, the book was still open on Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi. Wide open.
Anyway, there was no reason to be wedded to the American murders. Maybe the similarity was just a coincidence-a strong one, granted, what with the caves and the heroin. But maybe certain types of sex maniacs operated in patterns, some common psychological thread that made them carve up women in similar ways, dump them in caves. Dani's black friend had said the match was too close for coincidence. An American detective would know plenty about that, but even he was theorizing. There was no hard evidence
Al Biyadi came out of the Records Room bearing several charts, locked it, stepped over Daoud, and pursed his lips in distaste.
Prissy, thought Shmeltzer. Maybe a latent homosexual- the head-doctor had said serial killers often were.
Look at the woman he chose: The Cassidy girl had no meat on her-not much of a woman at all, especially for a hotshot rich kid like Al Biyadi.
A strange pairing. Maybe the two of them were in it together. Closet radicals intent on fomenting violent revolution-a killing team. He'd always liked the idea of more than one murderer. Multiple kill spots, a partner to help carry stuff to and from the cave, serve as lookout, do a nice thorough washing of the bodies-nursie serving doctor.
And a female partner, to make it easier to snag victims. A woman would trust another woman, especially a do-gooder in a white uniform. Believe her when when she said Relax. This little shot is to make you feel better.