"I understand," said Daniel, but to himself he thought: That's exactly the kind of thing I have to avoid. Devils and demons, religious symbolism-the city makes you think that way. It's a crime, no more, no less. Perpetrated by a human being. Someone sick and fallible
"What time will you be leaving?" Laura asked. "Seven. I have to walk down to the Katamonim. If I'm not back by twelve-thirty, start lunch without me."
"The Katamonim? I thought you said she was an Arab."
"Daoud thinks she is. We won't know until we ID her." She unpinned her hair, let it fall to her shoulders. "The brass wants it kept quiet," he said. "Which means meetings away from Headquarters. If we get any leads, we'll be meeting here, Sunday evening. Don't prepare anything. If we're out of soda, I'll pick some up."
"What time in the evening?"
"Between five and six."
"Do you want me to pick up Luanne and Gene?" Daniel slapped his forehead. "Oh, no, how could I forget. When are they corning in?"
"Seven P.M. if the flight's on schedule."
"Perfect timing. So much for grand hospitality."
"They'll be fine, Daniel. They'll probably be exhausted for the first day or so. I've arranged a walking tour of the Old City churches and Bethlehem on Tuesday, and I'll book them on an all-day trip to Galilee with an emphasis on Nazareth. That should keep them busy for a while."
"I wanted it to be personal, the way they treated us."
"There'll be plenty of time for that-they're here for four weeks. Besides, if anyone should be able to understand, it's them. Gene probably sees this kind of thing all the time."
"Yes," said Daniel, "I'm sure he does."
At four Laura fell back asleep and Daniel drifted into a somnolent state, neither slumber nor arousal, in which dream-images flitted in and out of consciousness with a randomness that was unsettling. At six he got up, sponged off in the bathroom, dressed in a white shirt, khaki trousers, and rubber-soled walking shoes, and forced himself to swallow a glass of orange juice and a cup of instant coffee with milk and sugar. He took his tallit out on the balcony, faced the Old City, and prayed. By seven he was out the door, beeper on his belt, the envelope containing pictures of the dead girl in hand.
As on every other Shabbat, two of the elevators in the building were shut down, the third set automatically, stopping at every floor, so that religiously observant tenants could ride without having to push buttons-the completion of electric circuits was a violation of the Sabbath. But religious convenience also meant agonizingly slow progress, and when he saw that the car had just reached the ground floor, he took the stairs and bounded down four flights.
A man was in the lobby, leaning against the mailboxes, smoking. Young, twenty-two or -three, well built and tan, with dark wavy hair and a full clipped beard highlighted with ginger, wearing a white polo shirt with a Fila logo, American designer jeans, brand-new blue-and-white Nike running shoes. On his left wrist was an expensive-looking watch with a gold band; around his neck, a gold Hai charm. An American, thought Daniel. Some kind of playboy, maybe a rich student, but he doesn't belong here-everyone in the building was religious, no one smoked like that on Shabbat.
The young man saw him and ground out his cigarette on the marble floor. Inconsiderate, thought Daniel. He was about to ask him what his business was, in English, when the young man began walking toward him, hand extended, saying, in fluent, native Hebrew: "Pakad Sharavi? I'm Avi Cohen. I've been assigned to your team. I got the message late last night and thought I'd come over and check in personally."
Sophisticated rich kid, thought Daniel, irritated that his intuition had been wrong. North Tel-Avivnik. Politician's son with plenty of travel experience. Which explained the foreign threads. He took the hand and let go of it quickly, surprised at how much instant dislike he'd built up for the new hire.
"The briefing was yesterday," he said.
"Yes, I know," said Cohen, matter-of-factly, without apology. "I was moving into a new flat. No phone. Tat Nitzav Laufer sent a messenger over but he got lost."
A smile, full of boyish charm. No doubt it had worked wonders with Asher Davidoff's blonde. A samal connected to the deputy commander-what was a rich kid like this doing as a policeman?
Daniel walked toward the door.
"I'm ready, now," said Cohen, tagging along.
"Ready for what?"
"My assignment. Tat Nitzav Laufer told me it's a heavy case."
"Did he?"
"Sex cutting, no motive, no suspect-"
"Do you and Tat Nitzav Laufer confer regularly?"
"No," said Cohen flustered. "He my father-"
"Never mind," said Daniel, then remembered that the kid's father had died recently, and softened his tone.
"I was sorry to hear about your father."
"Did you know him?" asked Cohen, surprised.
"Just by reputation."
"He was a tough guy, a real ball-breaker." Cohen uttered it automatically, without emotion, as if it were a psalm that he'd recited hundreds of times before. Daniel felt his hostility toward the new hire rise again. Pushing the door open, he let it swing back for Cohen to catch and stepped out into the sunlight. There was an unfamiliar car in the parking lot. A red BMW 330i.
"My assignment, Pakad?"
"Your assignment is to be present for all meetings at precisely the time they're called."
"I told you, my flat-"
"I'm not interested in excuses, only results."
Cohen's eyebrows lowered. His icy blue eyes clouded with anger.
"Is that understood, Samal Cohen?"
"Yes, Pakad." The right thing to say, but with a hint of arrogance in the tone. Daniel let it pass.
"You'll be assigned to Mefakeah Nahum Shmeltzer. Call him at eight tomorrow morning and do what he tells you to do. In the meantime, there are some files I want you to go through. At National Headquarters-the computer boys are getting them ready." He reached into the envelope, drew out a photo, and handed it to Cohen. "Go through each file and see if you can find a match with this one. Don't look only for exact matches-take into account that she may have changed her hair style or aged a bit since the file was opened. If there's any sort of resemblance, set it aside. Keep meticulous records, and when in doubt, ask questions. Got it?"
"Yes." Cohen looked at the picture and said, "Young."
"A very astute observation," said Daniel. Turning his back, he walked away.
He covered the three-kilometer walk quickly, with little regard for his surroundings, walking southwest, then west on Yehuda HaNasi, where he entered the Katamonim. The neighborhood started deteriorating when he came to Katamon Eight. Some evidence of renewal was visible: a newly painted building here, a freshly planted tree there. The government had been pushing it until the recession hit. But for the most part it was as he remembered it: curbless streets cracked and litter-strewn; what little grass there was, brown and dry. Laundry billowed from the rust-streaked balconies of decaying cinder-block buildings, the bunkerlike construction harking back to pre-'67 days, when south Jerusalem faced Jordanian guns, the sudden, murderous sniping attributed by the Arabs to a soldier "gone berserk."