Laufer stepped back, looking sad, almost sympathetic. ''Wait," he said, and went back into the interrogation room. Daniel waited while the minutes flowed slowly as honey, drowning in inertia, chafing to be doing something. Despite the frigid air-conditioning, the sweat was pouring out of him in cold rivulets; he caught a whiff of his body odor. Acrid. Toxic with rage.
The D.C. came back shaking his head.
"Not yet. Mossad wants no attention drawn to the hospital-no tip-offs-until all the members of Al Biyadi's terrorist cell are in custody. Most are local assholes-they're being round-up right now. But the big boss-the one directing Al Biyadi-left for Paris through Damascus, last week. We're waiting for confirmation that our French operatives have him."
"What about my operative, damn you! What about Cohen laid out on some table for dissection!"
The D.C. ignored the insubordination, talked softly and rhythmically, with the exaggerated patience reserved for mental defectives and hostage-takers. "We're not talking about a long delay, Sharavi. A few hours until the local busts are accomplished. The Paris data could arrive any minute-a day at the longest."
"A day!" Daniel spat on the floor, pointed toward the closed door of the interrogation room. "Let me go in there and talk to them. Let me show them pictures of what this monster does."
"Pictures won't impress them, Sharavi. They have a nice scrapbook of their own: the Japs mowing down pilgrims at Ben Gurion, the Ma'alot school bus, Qiryat Shemona, Nahariya. That house was a fucking arsenal-pistols, Kalash-nikovs, fragmentation grenades, a fucking rocket launched. They had plans to shoot up the Western Wall during Shab-bat shaharit services-preferably during a big tourist Bar Mitzvah. Schematics of the best places to place bombs at the Rabinovitz Playground, the Tiferet Shlomo Orphans' Home, the zoo, Liberty Bell Park-think of the pictures that would create, Sharavi. Hundreds of dead kids! Cassidy says there are two other arms storehouses-in Beit Jalla and Gaza. Cleaning up a mess of that magnitude is more important than one maniac." He stopped, hesitated. "More important, even, than one detective, who's probably dead already."
Daniel turned to go.
Laufer grabbed his arm.
"You're not being fucked over totally. As of this moment, finding Carter is top departmental priority-as a covert. The hospital is being watched-asshole shows his face, he's in custody before his heart takes another beat. You want men, you've got them, the entire goddamned Latam, the Border Patrol, airplanes, whatever. Every cruise car will have a picture of Carter-"
"Six cars," said Daniel. "One's in the shop."
"Not just Jerusalem," said Laufer. "Every city. You're worried five cars can't cover our streets-take my goddamned Volvo. I'll put my goddamned driver out on patrol, okay? You want an address on Carter? Check housing records, utility bills, the goddamned phone bills-every clerk and computer in the goddamned city is at your disposal. The slightest whiff of bullshit, call me immediately. The moment the cell's been busted, the hospital's open territory."
"I want access to U.N. records."
"You'll have to wait on that," said Laufer. "One of Al Bayadi's terrorist chums is a secretary at U.N. headquarters on the Hill of Evil Counsel. No surprise, eh?"
Laufer's fingers were moist on his arm. Daniel pried them loose.
"I've got work to do."
"Don't fuck up," said Laufer. "This is serious."
"See me smiling?" Daniel turned and began walking away.
"You and Shmeltzer will get credit for the armory bust," Laufer called after him. "Service medals."
"Terrific," said Daniel, over his shoulder. "I'll give them to Cohen's mother."
He reached the Chinaman by radio at three o'clock, Daoud five minutes later. Both had been cruising the city for signs of Avi or the Volkswagen. He called them in, convened a meeting with his three remaining detectives and Amos Harel.
"Goddamned kid," said the Chinaman. "God damn him. Probably pulled some John Wayne stunt before he got hit."
"Everything indicates he was playing by the rules," said Daniel. But Laufer's question had come back to haunt him: The kid was less than dependable. Had he been ready?
"Whatever," said the Chinaman. "What now, pictures of the bastard in all the papers?"
"No." He informed them of the Mossad restriction, felt the anger in the room harden into something dark and menacing.
Daoud expelled breath, closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, as if in great pain. Shmeltzer got up and circled the room like and old jackal. Harel took out a Gauloise and crushed it, unlit, between his fingers.
"Goddamned cloak-and-dagger mothercunts!" exploded the Chinaman. "I tell you-"
"No time for that, Yossi." Daniel cut him off. "Let's get organized, make sure he doesn't get away this time. Amos is giving us every man we need-he'll be coordinating lookouts along the Jerusalem to Tel Aviv Road and up the coastal road, train stations, bus stations, Ben Gurion, every harbor including the freighter docks at Eilat. When I'm through, he'll give you the details.
"The army's on alert in the territories-Marciano's in charge in Judea; Yinon in Samaria, Barbash in Gaza. The Border Patrol's conducting individual searches at the Allenby Bridge and Metulla, tightening things up along all perimeters and within the Old City. They're also staking out forested areas and are stationed near the murder cave. Telescopic surveillance of the Amelia Catherine has been expanded to another infrared from the desert aimed at the rear of the compound."
He unfolded several sheets of paper. "These are the home numbers of records clerks and their bosses at the phone company, the Licensing Office, the Ministry of Construction and Housing, the Ministry of Energy, all the banks. We'll divide them up, start waking people, try and find the home away from home. Look for Carters and Terrifs-include all spelling variations. Now that we know who he is, he won't be able to get far."
But to himself he thought: Why should catching a madman be easier than finding my own dog.
He worked until six, setting up and monitoring the search for Richard Carter, before allowing himself a cup of coffee which his dry throat and aching stomach rejected. At six-ten he went back to his office and pulled out the notes he'd taken during his first and only meeting with Carter. Read them for the twentieth time and watched Carter's face materialize before his mind's eye.
An unremarkable face, no monster, no devil. In the end it was always like that. Eichmanns, Landrus, Kurtens, and Barbies. Disappointingly human, depressingly mundane.
Amira Nasser had supposedly talked about mad eyes, empty eyes. A killer's grin. All he remembered about Carter's eyes were that they were narrow and gray. Gray eyes behind old-fashioned round eyeglasses. A full ginger beard. The shambling, careless carriage of a backpacker.
Former hippie. A dreamer.
Some dreams: a nightmare machine.
He forced coffee down his throat and recalled something else-incongruous chuckling in response to his questions.
Something amusing. Dr. Carter?