“Too you-know-what,” said the Belgian. Obnoxious by nature, anti-Semitic by choice, he was ready to display his biases the moment the Israeli security guy’s head was turned. Smirks, grimaces, tugs at the nose. Sotto voce comments about Arabs and Jews all being sand-jockeys, why not just let them blow each other to smithereens.
This was the guy Brussels had sent to work on international security cooperation. Back home, he’d been a police bureaucrat, before that an Army officer.
Belgian Army officer, when was the last time the Belgians had fought anyone? Probably back in the fifties when they were slaughtering Congolese.
Yesterday, when the Belgian and Eric were alone, both of them urinating in a men’s room at police headquarters on French Hill in Jerusalem, the Belgian aimed his wienie away from the urinal and began spraying the floor. Laughing and saying, “I piss on all of them.”
When the first bomber showed up, the Israeli officer was still off ordering refills. Eric would forever swear he’d smelled the asshole before he actually saw him. Felt his fear, an instant flick of some primeval nerve filament.
Whatever the reason, he’d been the first to catch on.
Turning and watching the guy wend his way through the tables. Young, pudgy, hair spiked up and blond-tipped to look like an Israeli beach bum.
But wrong. The long, black coat in ninety-degree weather. The sweating, the warp-speed eyes.
Eric said, “We’ve got trouble,” and cocked his head and prepared to move.
The Belgian said, “This whole fucking country is troub- ”
Eric got up. Slowly, casually. Taking his empty glass in hand, as if ready for replenishment.
The asshole in the coat got closer.
The Australian and the Belgian were oblivious but the Englishman followed Eric’s sidelong glance and caught on right away. He started to rise, the unspoken message: flank him, take him down together.
Alcohol had dulled his responses and his foot caught in the leg of his chair and he lurched forward.
The Belgian laughed, said something in French.
Eric swiveled slowly, careful not to make eye contact with the bomber.
Ten feet between them, five. Eric knew what the bastard was doing: positioning himself in the middle of the crowd, wanting to maximize the slaughter.
Now they were brushing elbows. Now he really could smell the guy, putrid with anticipation.
Wild eyes. Lips moving, some sort of silent prayer.
Acne on his forehead and chin, dirt creases in his neck. A kid, twenty, tops.
The Belgian said something else. Louder. Eric knew enough French to make it out. “Hot as hell and the idiots dress like Polish refugees.”
The guy in the coat might’ve caught the disdain in the comment because he stopped. Glared at the Belgian. Reached inside his coat.
The Belgian started to catch on. Turned white. Blinked and stared and peed his pants.
Eric sprang, hit Black Coat hard in the throat with his right hand, used his left to twist the asshole’s arm. Up and back. Way back, hard. He heard bones snap. The guy’s eyes bugged and he screamed.
Fell.
His coat flapped open. Big, thick, black vest around his torso. Tug-wire at the bottom.
Trying to reach it, Eric ripped the asshole’s shoulder joint, stomped on the free hand and broke it. Stomped on the guy’s chest, too, hearing ribs snap.
The bomber’s eyes rolled back.
Someone said, “What’s going on?”
The tail end of the question was drowned out by screaming.
Scattering, upending chairs and tables. Glass shattered. Plates of food slid to the ground as people bolted in panic.
The bomber wasn’t moving.
Thank God it was over.
Then the Englishman said “Shit,” and this time it was Eric’s turn to follow his eyes.
To the periphery of the fleeing crowd. Another long-coated figure, same approximate age, smaller, thinner, dark-haired. Olive-drab coat, Israeli Army surplus.
Too many people between them to do anything.
Number Two shouted and reached into his coat.
Eric threw himself to the ground.
Hell arrived.
CHAPTER 29
Eric had told the story quickly, in the flat voice that Petra had once considered weird.
He got out of bed, went to the kitchen, came back with two glasses of water, handed her one.
Her head was still full of horror. “Sorry if I pushed you- ”
“As far as the department knows I’m on my way to Morocco. The whole thing was a fraud- security cooperation. The Europeans were clowns, it was just a p.r. exercise. After the bombing, we were all called into the U.S. embassy. A bunch of envoys, each of our countries, wearing expensive suits and shit-eating grins, presenting us with citations. The American was an Ivy League twerp who informed us the take-down was going to be spun as a collaborative effort. The smoothly oiled international team working in concert.”
“Including the Belgian,” said Petra.
“The Belgian was already wearing a medal his envoy had given him. Velvet box and all. They must keep them in stock.”
He rolled toward Petra. “I left before they got to me. Packed up and found a flight and here I am.”
“When will you tell the department?”
“Don’t know if I need to.”
She stared at him.
He said, “I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while. Except for you, I’m not happy. For a long time I figured I never would be happy but now I’m thinking there’s a chance.”
He kissed her lips very lightly.
She swung her arm over his shoulder, pressed his head down onto her breasts.
“There’s more than a chance,” she said.
“My quitting,” he said. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Why would I mind? Who better than me to know what you mean about the job?”
He thought about that.
She said, “Any idea what you want to do?”
“Maybe private work.”
“Security?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “Maybe basic p.i. stuff. I’ve had enough of politics.”
“Don’t blame you.”
“Think I’m crazy?”
“Of course not,” she said, but she was still reeling. The contingencies. No more partnering. Not seeing him every day at work.
Was there more to his discontent than the job?
He said, “If I made a living at it, I could buy a house.”
“That would be cool,” she said.
“More space wouldn’t be bad.”
“Not bad at all.”
“The Valley’s probably all I could afford,” he said. “But maybe I could find a place with good natural light. I could set up a room for you. To paint?”
“I’d love that.”
“You’ve got major talent- have I ever told you that?”
He hadn’t.
She said, “Many times, my dear.”
She pressed down gently and he nuzzled between her jaw and her collarbone. Her nightstand clock said 3:18 A.M. She’d feel dead tomorrow.
“Maybe it’s stupid,” he said.
“Do what makes you happy, Eric.”
“I want to.”
“Good night, sweetie,” she said.
He was already asleep.
When the phone rang, she bolted up and was surprised to find Eric in her bed. Oh, yeah, the airport, bringing him here, the horror…
The damn thing continued to blare and Eric’s eyes opened and he propped himself on his elbows.
Wide awake; his training. Petra was still woozy.
5:15 A.M.
She snatched up the receiver. “What!”
“Oh, man, I woke you, sorry. It’s Gil, Petra.”
Gilberto Morales, one of the night detectives, a guy she liked. She didn’t like him now.
He said, “I figured I’d get a machine.”
She grunted.
Gil said, “I feel shitty, Petra. Normally I wouldn’t even bug you to leave a message but the desk guy was all hyped up. He came up here expecting to find you- you’re still on nights, right?”