Next to the Latam man's chair was a metal table bearing a police radio, a pair of walkie-talkies, a logbook, three crushed, empty cola cans, a carton of Marlboros, an ashtray overflowing with butts, and greasy wax paper wrapped around a half-eaten steak pita. Under the table were three black hard-shell equipment cases. A high-resolution, wide-angle telescope equipped with infrared enhancement was set up almost flush with the glass, angled eastward so that it focused on the entire Amelia Catherine compound.
Weinroth lit a cigarette, sat back, and hooked a thumb at the telescope. Daniel bent to look through it, saw stone, wrought iron, chain link, pine trees.
He pulled away from the scope, said, "Anyone leave besides the watchman?"
The Latam man picked up the logbook, opened it, and found his place.
"The older doctor-Darousha-left fifty-three minutes ago, driving a white Renault with U.N. plates. He headed north-Border Patrol picked him up on the road to Ramallah. Our man Comfortes confirmed his arrival back home. The watchman showed up a few minutes later. Both of them went into Darousha's house and closed the shutters-probably planning a midday tryst. These U.N. types don't work too hard, do they?"
"Anything else?"
"A couple of brief in-and-outs," said Weinroth. "More romance: Al Biyadi and Cassidy jogged for half an hour- eleven-eleven to eleven forty-three. Down the Mount of Olives Road and back up again past the hospital and all the way to the east campus gate. I was tilted almost straight down-lost them for a bit, but picked them up again as they headed back for the Amelia Catherine. Short run, about five and a half kilometers, then back inside. Haven't seen them since. She's a better runner than he is, good strong calves, barely breathing, but she holds herself back-probably doesn't want to break his balls. The administrator, Baldwin, took a stroll with the Arab secretary, more Romeo and Juliet stuff. If you would have let us plant some audio surveillance, I might have picked up some sweet talk."
Daniel smiled at the Latam man, who smiled back pleasantly and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Weinroth had pressed him on the microphones-hi-tech types loved to use their toys. Codes and toys. But Daniel had judged the risk too high: If the killer/killers caught on to the surveillance, there'd be a pullback, stalemate. The madness had to end.
"Want me to videotape any of it?" asked Weinroth between puffs. "I can easily interface the recorder with the scope."
"Sure. Anything else? Any sign of Carter or Hauser?"
Weinroth shook his head, simulated snoring.
"Pleasant dreams," Daniel told him. By the time he reached the door, the Latam man was up and fiddling with latches on one of the equipment cases.
Sunday, eight P.M., and the old man was dead, Shmeltzer was sure of it. He could tell by the nurse's tone of voice over the phone, the failure resonating from every word, the angry way she'd refused to let him talk with Eva, insisted Mrs. Schlesinger was in no condition to speak with anyone. Telling him without telling him.
"She'll speak with me," he'd insisted.
"Are you family?"
"Yes, I'm her brother." Not really that much of a lie, considering what he and Eva had established between them.
When the goddamned nurse said nothing, he repeated: "Her brother-she'll want to speak with me."
"She's in no condition to speak with anyone. I'll tell her you called, Adon Schnitzer."
"Shmeltzer." Idiot.
Click.
He'd wanted to call the bitch back, scream: Don't you know me? I'm the shmuck always with her, every free moment I've got. The one waiting out in the hall while she kisses a cold cheek, wipes a cold brow.
But the nurse was just another pencil pusher, wouldn't give a damn. Rules!
He hung up the phone and cursed the injustice of it all. Since the first time they'd met, he'd stuck with Eva like paste on paper, absorbing her pain like some kind of human poultice. Holding, patting, drinking it in. So much crying on his shoulders, his bones felt permanently wet.
Faithful Nahum, playing big strong man. Rehearsing for the inevitable.
And now, now that it had finally happened, he was cut off. They were cut off from each other. Prisoners. She, chained to the goddamned deathbed. He, shackled to his assignment.
Keep an eye on the fucking sheikh and his fucking dog-faced girlfriend. Down from the hospital in his big green fucking Mercedes, a shopping trip at the best stores in East Jerusalem. Then watch them enjoy a late supper at their fucking sidewalk table at Chez Ali Baba.
Stuffing their bellies along with all the rich Arabs and tourists, ordering the waiters around as if they were a couple of monarchs.
Two tables away, the Latam couple got to eat too. Charcoal-broiled kebab and shishlik, baked lamb and stuffed lamb, platters of salads, pitchers of iced tea. A flower corsage for the lady
Meanwhile, Faithful Shmuck Nahum dresses as a beggar, wears false sores, and sits on the sidewalk just out of sniffing range from the restaurant. Sniffing garbage fumes from the restaurant's refuse bins, absorbing curses in Arabic, an occasional kick in the shins, a rare donation-but even the few goddamned coins he'd earned by looking pathetic would be returned to the department, cost him a half hour of paperwork logging the money.
Any other case, he'd say fuck it, time to retire. Run to Eva.
Not this one. These bastards were going to pay. For everything.
He turned his attention back to the restaurant.
Al Biyadi snapped his fingers at the waiter, barked an order when the man approached. When the waiter left, he looked at his watch. Big gold watch, same one as at the hospital-even from here Shmeltzer could see the gold. Bastard had been checking the time a lot during the last half hour. Something up?
The Latam couple ate on, didn't seem to notice, but that was their job, noticing without being noticed. Both were young, blond, good-looking, wearing high-priced imported clothes. Looking like a rich honeymoon couple absorbed in each other.
Would he and Eva ever have a honeymoon?
Would she have anything to do with him after being abandoned at the Crucial Moment? Or maybe he was sunk anyway-abandonment had nothing to do with it. She'd suffered with an old guy through terminal illness. Now that he was dead she'd be ready to put her life together-last thing she'd want was another old guy.
She was a fine-looking woman; those breasts were magnets designed to pull men in. Younger men, virile.
No need for bony wet shoulders.
The waiter brought some sort of iced drink to Al Bayadi's table. Big, oversized brandy snifter filled with something green and frothy. Pistachio milk, probably.
Al Biyadi lifted the snifter, Cassidy hooked her arm around his, they laughed, drank, nuzzled like high school kids. Drank again and kissed.
He could have killed them both, right then and there.
At eleven P.M., Gabi Weinroth completed his shift at the top of the Law Building and was replaced by a short, gray-haired undercover man named Shimshon Katz. Katz had just been pulled off a three-month foot surveillance of the Mahane Yehuda market and sported a full Hassid's beard. Twelve weeks of playing rabbi and looking for suspicious parcels-he felt pleased that nothing had turned up but was drained by the boredom.