Last looks full of trust.
And here: Little Lost Girl. Beirut Bimbo. The Barreness.
These sand-nigger females the most trusting of all; they respected a man, looked up to a man of position-a man of science.
Yes, Doctor.
Do with me what you will, Doctor.
He'd come to Kikeland with just a general blueprint for Project Untermensch. Discovering that cave on the nature hike had put it all in place-an inspiration jolt straight to the brain, straight to the cock.
Nightwing II. Meant to be.
Executive command to Dieter II, directly from the F?hrergod.
His own nature hike with Little Lost Girl.
Wet cavework, then spread out.
Spread them all out, wiping his ass all over Kike City.
He started to stroke himself, one hand resting on the dog collar, fondling the dog tag with the kike letters stamped into it-what did it say? Kikemutt?
Knowing it wouldn't take long, the safari almost over.
Rest in peace. Pieces. Clean-up time.
Surprise, surprise!
Bow wow wow.
At ten P.M., Amsterdam called. Van Gelder's man was a slow talker, deep-voiced. No policeman-to-policeman chit-chat: This one was all business.
"Am I speaking to Chief Inspector Daniel Sharavi?"
"You are."
"This is Pieter Bij Duurstede, Amsterdam police. Have you received the St. Ignatius medical school list?"
"Not yet, Chief Inspector."
"We wired it to you some time ago. Let me verify."
Bij Duurstede put him on hold, came back moments later.
"Yes, I've verified that it was wired and received. Twenty minutes ago."
"I'll verify on my end."
"Let me give you something else first. You requested a cross-reference of eight names with our passport list at the time of the Anjanette Gaikeena homicide. Five out of the eight turned up. I'll read them to you, in alphabetical order: Al Biyadi, H.M.; Baldwin, ST.; Carter, R.J.; Cassidy, M.P.; Hauser, C."
Daniel copied the names in his notebook, just to keep his hands busy.
"They arrived from London five days before the Gaikeena homicide," said Bij Duurstede. "All of them traveled on the same flight-Pan American Airlines, number one twenty first-class passage. They were in London on a one-day stopover, arrived there on Pan American flight two, from New York, first-class passage. In London they stayed at the Hilton. In Amsterdam, at the Hotel de l'Europe. They were here a total of six days, attended a three-day United Nations conference on refugees held at The Hague. After the conference, they did some sight-seeing-canal rides, Volendam and Marken, Edam, the Anne Frank house. The tours were arranged by an agency here-I have the records."
The Anne Frank house. A street-corner Mengele would have enjoyed that.
"Over a hundred delegates attended the conference," added Bij Duurstede. "It's held every year."
"How close is the De l'Europe to where Gaikeena was found?"
"Close enough. In between is the red light district."
The narrow, cobbled streets of the district came into focus again. Bass-heavy rock music blaring from nearby bars, the night air clammy, the waters of the canals black and still. The athletes, bug-eyed at the brazenness of the place: milk-fed blondes and sloe-eyed Orientals selling themselves as easily as chocolate bars. Some working the streets, others posed, half-naked, in blue-lit window tableaux, inert as statuary.
Passive. Made to order for a fiend with control on his mind.
He visualized a late-night stroll, a solitary stroll after cocktails and small talk at a hotel lounge-the De l'Europe? A respectable-looking killer, wearing a long coat with deep pockets for the knives. Checking out the herd, eyeing the long-lashed come-hithers, then selection: a flash of thigh, the exchange of guilders. Extra money for something different-something a little kinky. Intentions camouflaged by shyness. Maybe even an embarrassed smile:
Could we-uh-go down by the docks?
What for, honey? I've got a nice warm bed.
The docks, please. I'll pay for it.
Got a thing for water, handsome?
Uh-yeah.
Plenty of water right around here.
I like the docks. Will this be enough?
Oh, sure, honey. Anjanette loves the docks loo. The tides, going back and forth
"Gaikeena was killed the day after the convention," said Bij Duurstede. "Your five left the next morning for Rome, along with twenty-three other U.N. people. Alitalia flight three seventy-one, first class. The U.N. always travels first class."
Daniel picked up the list of Amelia Catherine's volunteer staff, compiled by Shin Bet.
"I have some other names, Chief Inspector. I'd appreciate your checking if any of them attended the convention as well."
"Read them to me," said Bij Duurstede. "I have the convention roster right in front of me."
Soon Daniel had added five more names to those of the permanent Amelia Catherine staff: three doctors, two nurses. A Finn, a Swede, an Englishman, two Americans. Same arrival, same hotel, same departure.
"Any idea why they went to Rome?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Bij Duurstede. "Maybe an audience with the Pope?"
He placed a call to Passport Control at Ben Gurion Airport, pinpointed the arrival of ten U.N. staffers from Rome on a Lufthansa flight one week after the Gaikeena murder. Two more calls, to Scotland Yard and Rome police, confirmed that neither had experienced similar murders during the New York to Tel Aviv time frame. By the time he hung up, it was ten-thirty-forty-eight hours since he'd bathed; the last thing he'd eaten was a water biscuit at eight in the morning.
His head itched. He scratched it, looked at his open notebook, frustrated.
After the Amelia Catherine covert and Van Gelder's call, he'd felt the case starting to resolve. The net tightening. He'd put faith in the second Amsterdam call-too much faith-hoping for a magical intersection of geographical axes: a single name singing out its guilt. Instead the net had loosened, accommodating a large catch.
He had ten suspects to consider. Individually or in pairs, triplets-cabals. Maybe Shmeltzer had something, with his group-conspiracy theory.
All of the above. None of the above.
Ten suspects. His men and Amos Harel's undercover backups would be stretched to capacity. The chance of getting something before next Thursday's women's clinic seemed slimmer than ever.
The Sumbok wire. Bij Duurstede had sent it, but he hadn't received it. He left his office to check with Communications and, midway down the corridor, met a female officer carrying the printout.
Taking it from her, he read it in the hall, running his finger down the names of St. Ignatius students, and getting even more frustrated when he saw the size of it.