C H A P T E R 1
"WHAT DO YOU know about the murders, Inspector!"
Ben Kamal shifted stiffly in the chair set before the desk of Ghazi Sumaya,
mayor of the ancient city of Jericho. "The same thing everyone else does," he
said, still wondering what he was doing here.
"And what is that?" Sumaya asked him.
"Seven in the part year in the West Bank: three prior to the Israeli pullout,
four after. The latest occurred here in Jericho ten days ago."
The mayor leaned forward, the massive desk dwarfing his small frame. "You
would agree that we're facing a serial killer, then. Al-Diib, they call him."
"The Wolf. Because his victims have been savaged, mutilated beyond
all recognition."
"The one you caught in America, they had a name for him, too. didn't
they?"
"The Sandman," Ben nodded.
"Why?"
Ben lowered his gaze. "He killed entire families while they slept."
"Until you stopped him."
"Yes."
"That makes you something of an expert."
Ben raised his head again. Shafts of the early morning sun streamed through
the open blinds, making him squint. Above him, a ceiling fan spun lady,
catching some of the stubborn light and splashing it across the portrait of Yasir
Arafat that hung directly behind Sumaya's chair.
"I have experience, that's all," he said.
The mayor's deep-set eyes sought out Ben's compassionately. "Experience,
Inspector, is exactly what we need. I spoke to President Arafat last night. He
has been contacted by the Israelis. They want to assist us in the investigation."
Ben's eyes widened. "Assist us?"
"Their offer is genuine. I assure you. I've already conferred with a representative
of their National Police this morning."
"Did you ask him what they have to gain?"
"Perhaps they have the same thing to lose: peace. And toward that end the
Israelis want to send an offer to liaise with a Palestinian counterpart. Are you
interested?"
"No, sir."
His response took the mayor off guard. "Perhaps you didn't understand my
question. I was asking if you want to officially take over this investigation."
"I understood what you meant. I don't. I'm sorry."
"Perhaps it is I who should be sorry," Sumaya said, sounding genuinely
hurt. "Sorry for standing behind you when everyone else was calling for your
head."
"Put me in charge of this investigation and they'll be calling for yours as
well."
"Some already are," Sumaya lamented, "more with each day."
He rose and moved out from behind his desk. The mayor wore a suit in
an olive shade only slightly lighter than Ben's green police uniform. He was
a small man, but carried himself in a way that made him seem taller. Sumaya
bad been part of the Palestinian delegation that had forged the original Gaza-Jericho
First option. He had gained a master's degree in France years before
and returned to the West Bank to chronicle the times he instead found himself
a part of. His dark, graying hair had begun to recede, adding to the air of
authority that hung over him.
"We have a credibility problem here, Ben," he continued. "These murders
have become a symbol for our inefficiency. They are giving the growing pains
we are experiencing a worldwide forum that the enemies of peace are seizing
upon."
Sumaya walked to the window and drew the blinds shut, trapping the sun
outside where it shone off the chiseled white stone structure of the Palestinian
Authority headquarters on the outskirts of Jericho. His formal office was located
downtown in Jericho's Municipal Building, but as a member of the Palestinian
Council as well, he preferred using this one.
"The peace talks are scheduled to reconvene next week." the mayor
explained. "Six months without dialogue and finally the New Israeli prime
minister seems ready to negotiate the final stages of withdrawal from the West
Bank." Sumaya tightened his stance, almost to attention. "Almost a year we've .
gone without an 'aamaliyya, an operation, carried out against Israel, and to a
great extent your work is the reason. You have helped teach us how to arrest
our own, Inspector. Hamas is running scared. We've infiltrated their ranks,
preempted their strikes, jailed their militants. So they have seized upon these
murders to destroy the credibility with the people we have worked so hard at
building!"
Sumaya stopped to settle himself down, but the agitation remained in his
voice when he resumed. "You understand what I'm getting at here? There
can be no peace without the support of the people, and these murders have taken
that support from us. The talks will collapse, if they ever get started now."
"Which is where this Israeli liaison comes in."
"Let's face facts here. The Israelis don't trust us any more than we trust
them. What we have between us is a mutual nonunderstanding. Now, I have
spoken to the President and we are of one mind on utilizing your skills and
expertise."
"I'm hardly the proper representative for our people, sidi," Ben offered.
"I understand your bitterness over the treatment you have received in recent
weeks. The behavior of your fellow officers has been inexcusable, and I wish
I could have done more to change it."
"But I'll need their cooperation, along with that of witnesses, families of
the victims too. If they read the newspapers, it is safe to assume that such
cooperation will nor be forthcoming, certainly not in the ten days we have
left before the start of the peace talks."
"But we must sty. Make an effort, a point."
"And if that effort fails, what point have we made? That we are just as
inefficient working with the Israelis as we are working alone? Incompetent as
well as weak? You're taking a very big risk here."
"The bigger risk lies in doing nothing, Inspector. If al-Diib is still at large
one week from Wednesday, there may be no peace talks, and everything the
authority has tried to accomplish will collapse. We have nothing to lose."
"And, of course, at this point neither do I."
"I wouldn't have put it that way." Sumaya cleared his throat uneasily. "You
will have my complete cooperation, Ben."
"And will I have Commander Shaath's, too?"
"I know you have had a problem with him, since the incident."
"The two of us had problems before. That only worsened things."
"He resents foreigners, that's all."
"I'm not a foreigner. I was born here just as he was."
"But Shaath did not emigrate to America as a child."
"That was my parents' choice. I made the decision to return."
"As your father did before you. Did I ever tell you I knew him?"
"You mentioned it once."
"He was a hero," Sumaya reflected softly. "I remember meeting him in
1967, not long after he returned in the wake of the Six-Day War. He said I
was too young to help, told me to wait for another time." His voice drifted.
"I suppose he knew even then it would come."
"I was seven years old when he left. He never told me."
"I wept the day he was killed. We all did. He was given a hero's funeral."
"My family didn't learn of it until weeks later. They wouldn't ship his body
to America."
"And how do you think he'd feel about you returning too, following in
his footsteps?"
"I think he'd tell me I made a mistake."
"Why?"
"Because he had something to return to."
"And you ."
"I thought I did."
The focus returned to Sumaya's expression, as if his point had been made.
"But don't you see? You have now. This is your opportunity."
"I'd prefer not to take it."
Sumaya seemed miffed. "You understand I'm under considerable pressure
here."
"Because of the murders :'
"The murders and your own peculiar status. I went out on a limb for you,
Inspector. 1 kept you from being transferred." His deep-set eyes blazed into
Ben's. "Or worse."
"I appreciate that."
"Then help me now," Sumaya implored. "The Israeli police liaison will be
here at three o'clock this afternoon. What should I tell him ?"
"That I need more time to think about it."
"There is no more time." The mayor started to shuffle back to his chair.
"You see, Inspector, the body of another victim was found in Jericho this
morning."
C H A P T E R 2
" Danielle !" THE VOICE repeated. "Danielle, can you hear me?"
So as not to attract attention, Danielle Barnea waited until she was far enough
from the crowd in Haganah Square to respond quietly to Shin Bet commander
Dov Levy's edgy call. "I'm tight here. Still in position."
"What happened? Where were you?"
"Trying not to stand out."
"The truck just turned into the market, approaching the warehouse."
Danielle gazed across the street at the man beneath the Ottoman Clock
Tower she'd been watching for an hour now.
"Atturi's standing still, checking the time I think," she reported. "Wait a
minute. he's moving."
"Which way?"
"East. Yefet Street."
"Yes!" the commander's voice beamed. "We're finally going to nail this
bastard!"
Danielle waited until Atturi had walked a safe distance ahead before following.
He had done nothing thus far to indicate he suspected any surveillance, but
she wasn't taking any chances.
She had been promoted to Shin Bet, the Israeli equivalent of the FBI, after
becoming the youngest woman ever to attain the rank of chief inspector in
Israel's National Police. Quite a bit of fanfare accompanied the promotion, not
only because it represented another incredible stroke of career forture, but also
because of the event that had sparked it.
She had actually been off duty when she recognized Ahmed Fatuk, wanted
for more than a decade for acts of terrorism, walking into a bakery shop in
Jerusalem. Knowing Fatuk would be long gone by the time she could summon
backup, Danielle made her move on him alone when he emerged from the
bakery. Pretending to retrieve the contents of a spilled purse from the sidewalk,
she had stuck a gun in the back of his head when he passed by. Since Fatuk's
arms were loaded down with bags, there was nothing he could do but give
up. A week later he was interned in the Ansar 3 detention camp, awaiting a
trial the Israeli justice system would take their time in scheduling. That same
week found her transferred to Shin Bet.
In the years since Prime Minister Rabin's assassination, the agency had
undergone wholesale changes and been forced to endure a purge through its
ranks. As a result, high-level field positions that almost never opened up were
suddenly available, and Shin Bet officials scoured the army and National Police,
culling the best from their ranks.
They never bothered to ask Danielle if she wanted the job; no one ever
turned down such a prestigious position, a career maker that could provide the
ticket to anywhere she wanted to go. Career, though, was the problem. They
hadn't asked Danielle if she wanted the job, and they hadn't asked her what
had brought her to Jerusalem on the day she had arrested Ahmed Fatuk. Events
had conspired to make her a hero, rendering it impossible for her to follow
the new path she had finally decided to embark upon. Now that path would
have to wait. Again.
The investigation Ismail Attwi, an Israeli Arab-suspected of being involved
in smuggling goods into the West Bank and Gaze, was well underway by the
time of Danielle's promotion to Shin Bet, though with little to show for it.
Neither Shin Bet nor the National Police had been able to directly link Atturi
to the operation. Thanks to an informant, though, they had learned of a
shipment going out this day from a storehouse located in the famed flea market
in the old city of Jaffa.
"The truck has backed up against one of the sidewalk stalls," Commander
Levy reported. "I'll keep you advised."
Danielle followed Atturi, easy to spot in his cream-colored baggy linen pants
and shirt, down Yefet Street and then left on Oley Tsiyon toward the center
of the market. To blend with the many tourists in this part of town, she herself
was dressed in casual clothes: a pair of lightweight slacks and an oversized blouse
baggy enough to conceal the holster clipped to the inside of her pants. The
nature of this assignment dictated that she carry her Beretta in that fashion, but
the holster's designer must have cared little about the painful bite it made into
the hip, to say nothing of the unsightly bulge she hoped her blouse was hiding.
She listened to the shouts of various salesmen pitching their wares from
sands on the sidewalk, moving cam, or open-front shops adjacent to the flea
market. The peddlers and shopkeepers strained their voices to have their boasts
of bargains heard and heeded. Everyone other than tourists knew the quality
of the merchandise was generally low, but the spirit of the merchants who
battled for street space and customers was keen.
"I'm just entering the market," Danielle reported. "Suspect still in sight,"
she added, catching a strong whiff of freshly caught fish, the official welcome
to Old Jaffa's flea market.
"Agent Tice should be coming into view any moment," Levy, told her.
"Fall back once he takes up pursuit."
Joshua Tice was a top Shin Bet field agent she had been lucky enough to
be paired with in her first months with the organization. A no-nonsense,
generally humorless man, he worked as many hours as they would let him and
longed for nothing else. Was that what lay ahead for her ten years down the
mad? Considering that possibility always set Danielle trembling.
Up ahead, Atturi moved past an array of Oriental rugs draped over car roofs
and hoods, ignoring the pleas of merchants to come over and admire the tine
silk and wool. Following in his wake, Danielle gave the endless row of stalls
no more than 2 fleeting glance, despite the boisterous salesmen hawking flashy,
cheap jewelry. One attempted to loop a garish necklace over her neck when
she passed, and it was all she could do to fend him off without causing a ruckus.
By then, Atturi was crossing the street toward the line of miniature warehouse-
like buildings that specialized in ancient, rusted appliances. The incredibly
high duties levied by the Israeli government on such merchandise when it was
new created an extraordinary demand for recycled items such as televisions and
refrigerators, often regardless of their condition.
The buildings housing them were no different. Old Jaffa was a city mired
in its storied past. the ancient structures virtually untouched by redevelopment or
renewal. Tom and tattered awnings flapped in the faint breeze above merchants
negotiating every deal down to the last shekel. Windows peeked out from
behind shutters mote broken than whole. Most of the buildings were constructed
of stone, smoked gray or black through the years and laced with a dusty, heated
stench Danielle had never forgotten ever since her father had brought her to
Old Jaffa for the first time as a child.
Danielle shifted her eyes from Atturi long enough to register a truck backed
up through one of warehouse fronts that looked as old as the merchandise
around it. If their informant's information was correct, though, that truck was
in the process of being loaded with stolen goods Atturi would be transporting
into the West Bank. One of the strange dividends peace had brought. She
noted the yellow Israeli license plates, undoubtedly forged, that allowed passage
through the West Bank checkpoints without fear of detainment and potential
seizure.
When Danielle glanced back at Atturi, she saw that Tice had cut in behind
him sixty feet in front of her.
"All right, Agent Barnea," Commander Levy instructed her, his voice calmer,
"back off and stay alert. Don't move until I give the order for the other teams
to do the same."
"Roger," Danielle replied, keeping her eyes on Atturi as he cut a diagonal
path across the busy street toward the warehouse in question. Tice lingered
well behind him.
Tice had to stop when several cars snarled in the endless grind through the
market refused to give ground, leaving him no room to cross the street. Danielle
kept her pace steady, eyes sweeping the crowds until she locked on a group
of four figures slicing forward, wearing jackets in spite of the sweltering heat.
Too fast, too stiff, something clearly on their mind besides buying and bargains.
Joshua Tice never saw them; his attention was riveted on Atturi as the Arab
approached the truck. But it was not Tice the men were after. They too headed
for the truck, their eyes, Danielle was certain, fixed on Atturi. She felt her
pulse quicken and fought to remain calm.
"Go Red," she said into her nearly invisible microphone, using the signal
for imminent danger.
She couldn't see the other agents posted along the street, yet knew they
were in motion even now, heading toward her position as relayed by Commander
Levy.
Tice had brought a hand to his ear, slowing as he listened, eyes darting about
in befuddlement.
Danielle continued to push through the crowd toward him, straining to
maintain at least a partial glimpse of the jacketed figures. She caught three in
her field of vision again, hands ducked inside their coats now. Still in motion.
Taking their time.
Danielle shoved some bystanders aside and. drew her Beretta nine-millimeter
pistol. She caught sight of Tice holding a twin of her gun low by his hip forty
feet from her. The jacketed figures were hidden from his view by the knotted
crowd
A man jostled Danielle from the back. A soccer ball ricocheted off her leg,
bounced off a car fender, and rolled straight toward Atturi as a sliver of space
appeared briefly in the crowd. She saw two of the jacketed men raising their
own pistols. A third pulled a sawed-off shotgun from under his coat and leveled
it straight at Atturi's back.
Tice turned and took a step sideways to kick the soccer ball aside, placing
him directly between the shotgun's barrel and Atturi.
Danielle registered the boy chasing the ball about to cross that path as well.
At that instant her instincts took over. She had raised the pistol in her hand
and fired before she even knew her finger had moved. The sound reverberated
inside her head, as she pulled the trigger again and again.
One of her bullets struck the shoulder of the man wielding the shotgun and
spun him just as he fired, causing him to miss the boy, who had frozen in
place. She was dimly aware of Tice twisting violently and clutching for his
Gee, staggering-his gun useless. The next gunfire she heard belonged to two
of the other jacketed men. Their twin fusillades slammed Ismail Atturi into his
truck, spraying blood all over the hood and windshield, as Danielle launched
herself through the now-panicked crowd.
She chanced a fresh series of shots at the jacketed men through an opening.
angling herself to cover Tice, who was writhing on the pavement. She realized
the boy in the soccer uniform was still in the line of fire too, and shoved him
to the ground as she squeezed off fresh rounds toward Atturi's slayers.
The fourth man ! What happened to the fourth man ?
No sooner had Danielle realized she had lost track of him than the familiar
click-clack of submachine gun fire made her twist to the right, hearing screams
erupt on that side of her. The fourth man was trying to escape, firing wildly
on the run, his bullets felling a pair of pedestrians who had ended up between
Danielle and him. Before she could swing her Beretta on the assassin, three
more of the Shin Bet team charged into the street firing, one mounting the
hood of a car and another a merchant's cart to improve their aims. The fourth
man managed to turn away, then simply keeled over, riddled with bullets.
Danielle ejected her spent clip, reached into her pocket for a fresh one.
The roar of an engine made her whirl back toward the truck as she jammed
the new magazine home. One of the two final gunmen writhed in pain on
the pavement, while the other stumbled toward her. His left shoulder oozed
blood through his jacket; a pistol trembled in his right hand.
"Suka!" he screamed at her, trying his best to steady the gun and fire.
Danielle dove behind a pair of cars for cover and heard the windows of the
nearer one explode as she chambered a round. She peered cautiously over the
fender of one car in time to see the big truck screech Gem its berth in the
warehouse. A violent lurch carried it into the street, where it plowed through
stalled traffic and crashed into the final gunman, tossing him aside.
Danielle noted insanely that its ancient wipers were struggling to wipe the
contents of Ismail Atturi's skull from the windshield as the truck smashed
through another pair of cars and slammed them into the one she was perched
behind, pinning her in place.
The truck bore down on her like a dragon spewing hot, gasoline-scented
breath. Danielle could do nothing but angle her barrel upward and fire. Glass
spiderwebbed around the three neat holes she drilled on the driver's side of
the windshield, blood splattered on the inside now as well as the out. At the
last instant before it was upon her, the truck turned into a line of parked or
abandoned cars, coming to a halt with its ancient horn blaring.
Danielle climbed out from the twisted steel around her and sprinted over
to the truck behind four of the team members, led by Commander Levy.
Another pair had rushed to Joshua Tice, one pressing a handkerchief against
Tice's face, while the other fought to hold him still. Guns steadied on the
truck's covered rear from all angles. Levy nodded to the man closest, who
leaped up on the sill. In one swift motion he drew the burlap flap back and
the team braced, ready to shoot.
"Refrigerators," Danielle heard the first one say. "Fucking refrigerators."
"What the fuck?" another blared, climbing into the rear of the truck.
He grabbed hold of one of the refrigerator doors and pulled. The latch
resisted at first, then came free when he yanked harder.
A cache of automatic rifles, both American M16s and Israeli Galils, spilled
outward, clacking against each other as they tumbled to the pavement.
"Elloheem !" one of the Shin Bet agents exclaimed.
"Holy shit!"
The second agent's use of English made Danielle think of what the last
gunman had screamed at her, the word and the language:
He had called her a bitch. In Russian.
C H A P T E R 3
WHEN BEN STEPPED out of the Palestinian Authority building,
Commander Omar Shaath, the district of Jericho's chief of police, was waiting
behind the wheel of an ancient Peugeot. His thick fingers gripped the steering
wheel so tightly they seemed about to split the leather.
Ben had no doubt Shaath could do just that. He war a bear of a man with
thick black hair. a bushy mustache, and the trace of a beard where he had shaved
just hours before. A black patch strung around his head covered the socket of an
eye lost to an Israeli bullet years before during a protest. Unlike the vast majority
of high-ranking police officials in the West Bank and Gaze, Shaath had not been
recruited from the ranks of Palestinian guerrillas from other nations. Instead, he
was a native of the West Bank City of Hebron and former Fatah activist who
had been trained in Egypt specifically to take on this command position.
He didn't look over once as Ben got in and closed the door behind him.
"Good morning, Commander," Ben tried, after Shaath had lurched the
Peugeot into traffic.
A grunt was all he got in return, not another sound from Shaath until they
approached the Baladiya Square on Jaffa Street minutes later.
"The mayor is a fool for doing this."
"Reinstating me or agreeing to work with the Israelis?"
"Take your pick. He thinks you're better than the rest of us, thinks the
Israelis are better too."
"He thinks I've had more experience, just as he thinks they have, and he's
right."
"No one will work with you anymore. No one will talk to you or them.
You have no chance."
"Thank you for your confidence, Commander."
"You've earned it."
Ben had been out on a supervisory patrol four months before, when the
report of a man's body being found in a drainage ditch by children on their
way to school came over the radio. He went straight to the scene and didn't
need a medical examiner to tell him the victim had been tortured before being
killed. The killers had used a knife to carve a single word onto the victim's
forehead in his own dried blood:
Ameel . . . collaborator.
The victim turned out to be a cabdriver who drove the popular Jerusalem
route and as such would have known many Israeli soldiers and checkpoint
guards by name. It was often easy to confuse congeniality for collaboration.
With their presence dwindling in the West Bank, the rumor was that the Israelis
were going all out to recruit an army of informants to be their eyes and ears.
The cabdriver's killers had obviously wanted to make an example and a point,
whether justified or not.
As was often the case, Ben probably would never have found these killers
if a trio of Palestinian policemen hadn't gone around boasting about being
responsible. Taking a small detachment along, he arrested them himself, picked
them right off the street without consulting Shaath or the mayor. His investigation
had confirmed that the cabdriver was not a collaborator at all and, even
if he had been, the three policemen had violated every rule associated with
their uniform. Like them, Ben had wanted to make a point.
And his, too, backfired.
Officers already suspicious and resentful of him had the excuse they needed
to disregard his orders and training. Ben had come back to Palestine to help
modernize a force wholly lacking in investigative technique and procedure, to
help make detectives out of the best and the brightest the West Bank had to
offer. Unfortunately, his own zeal had rendered him incapable of fulfilling that
role.
Yielding to popular demand, and for what he insisted was Ben's own safety,
the mayor ordered that his recommendations be passed down strictly in writing.
All direct contact with the officers he had previously been charged with training
was forbidden without authorization. Committed to building a new life here
in Palestine, he had managed to convince himself it would all blow over, at
least improve.
It hadn't improved, would never blow over. Shaath had gloated and was
still gloating today as he snailed the car on, honking the horn to disperse the
mounting crowd that had gathered down from the Baladiya near the Hisbe,
or shopping district, where the smells of fresh produce would soon fill the air
as merchants opened up shop for the day. Ben knew he would have to work
fast, or risk having the entire crime scene compromised, if it hadn't been already.
At last the swell of people became too much to deal with and Shaath simply
brought the car to a halt half a block from the alley where the latest body had
been found.
"Go ahead, Inspector."
"You're not coming with me?"
"It's better I stay with the car. Besides, this is your case now, isn't it?"
Ben threw open the door and stepped out into the street, tightening his
beret. His green police uniform and gun belt allowed for swift passage through
the crowd. A few recognized him from the stories that had run in the newspapers.
Some of these lifted a finger his way.
"Kha'in !" he heard aimed at him by voices rough in their hate. Ben was
careful not to seek out their eyes for the confrontation it might provoke. He
thought he recognized a familiar figure among the pedestrian clutter, but when
he looked again it was gone. and he pushed on, making his way to the crime
scene.
Luckily for Ben, tie vast bulk of attention was riveted on the alley he was
approaching. The body lay at its edge, the blood reaching out like tentacles
toward the early morning sun striking Jaffa Street, visible as soon as he stepped
from the crowd into the cordoned-off area.
The three police officers standing guard over the scene went rigid when
they saw him, offering no greeting even though he was a superior. Ben could
tell from their attitudes that they had been forewarned of his coming, so he
simply nodded as he moved past them toward a bulbous shape hovering over
the corpse.
"Good morning, Duktur."
Bassim al-Shear, Jericho's medical examiner, stood half in and half out of
the alley, peering intently at the body. He looked up when Ben spoke with a
mixture of shock and disdain.
"What are you doing here?"
"I've been assigned to the case."
The fat man's eyes rolled upward. "Then I'd better hurry. I'd hate to get
hit by a bullet meant for you."
"It would take more than a bullet to make you hurry, Doctor."
Al-Shaer snickered and returned his attention to the corpse. He always
looked to Ben as if he was wearing yesterday's clothes. Today a wrinkled khaki
suit hung shapelessly over his huge frame. A thirty-five-millimeter camera
dangled from a strap round his neck.
"How long have you been here?"
"Long enough," al-Shaer replied tersely. He steadied the camera in his hands,
but made no effort to raise it.
"Long enough to determine the cause of death?"
The medical examiner spoke while resuming his mobile inspection of the
body. "Stabbed. Lots of times." He brought the viewfinder to his eye, focused,
and snapped off two shots.
"Al-Dib?"
The camera thumped against the fat man's chest. He tried to stifle a belch
born of bad tea or coffee, and failed. Then he backed off and angled himself
for a fresh series of shots.
"See for yourself."
Ben turned his attention to the corpse, which lay twisted on its left side,
one leg stretched out and the other folded up toward the buttocks. The tight
shoulder was propped up in the air, the right arm extended behind the dead
man's back as if to scratch it. The victim's head flopped heavily atop a neck
crimped enough to cast his dead stare upside down toward the other side of
the alley.
That and the shadows spared Ben sight of the face until he leaned further
over, closer to it. The sight made him suck in his breath. The victim's face
had been shredded, mangled. One eye had been ripped from its socket and
hung obscenely over the cheek. The other was covered by torn strips of flesh
and dried blood.
Just like the other seven. . .This made five in the West Bank now in as
many months, the most recent two in Jericho.
Ben straightened up.
"I'll want a detailed report on the condition of the face," he told al-Shaer.
The fat man chortled. "You can't see for yourself ?" His expression fell into
a scowl marked by slabs of excess flesh. "It's the Wolf all right."
"I want to be sure of that before proceeding. That means comparisons with
past victims to confirm we're dealing with the same killer here."
"Their faces were all shredded too. That's not proof enough for you? You
haven't learned yet, have you? Tell you the truth, I wouldn't give a shit whether
you ever do, but when it affects my job, I don't have a choice."
"You're right: you don't."
Al-Shaer squeezed the camera between flabby hands that almost swallowed
it. "What are you doing here?"
"I told you; my case."
"I meant still. I meant in Jericho, in Palestine."
Ben kept his eyes on the body and his voice steady. "How long has he been
dead?"
"Several hours. As many as eight, even nine, I would say. Since midnight,
would be a fair estimate."
"And you're certain death resulted from these stab wounds."
The medical examiner was shuffling around again, firing off shots with his
camera. "As certain as I need to be at this stage.
"You've called for the Cleaners, I assume" Ben said, referring to the van
used to transport bodies, called that since it bad originally been used by a pair
of brothers who cleaned rugs for a living. The van had been renovated into
an ambulance but was s6ll driven by the sane brothers.
"On their way." Al-Shaer pulled the camera from his eye. "This is my
second roll. You can never be too careful."
"No."
The medical examiner tilted his head toward the corpse. "He wasn't careful."
"Any identification?"
"None," the medical examiner raid, fighting off a cough. "As usual."
"Who reported the body?"
"Anonymous. Figures, doesn't it?"
Al-Shaer finished the roll and let the camera fall to his chest with a thump
of finality. He had started to back away when Ben fastened a powerful grip
on his elbow.
"You are not done yet, Doctor. There are samples that must be taken."
Al-Shaer looked down at the hand holding him in place and then up at the
cold stare of Ben's blue eyes. "Samples?"
Ben's gaze shifted toward the crowd which continued to swell. "Before the
scene is contaminated, starting with the gravel in this alley. Six different patches,
cataloged according to grid."
Al-Shaer just looked at him, too shocked to be enraged.
"I also want everything back five meters in the alley and forward five meters
into the street sifted."
"Sifted ?"
"For foreign material, anything anomalous to the scene."
Al-Shaer tapped his head dramatically. "Of course ! How could I have forgotten?
Very important to find out where our faceless victim was before he came
here to be killed."
"Not him necessarily."
"What? Who, then?"
"Al-Diib," Ben said.
C H A P T E R 4
BY THE TIME Ben walked back to the edge of the crowd, a jeep
carrying four more police officers had arrived, followed closely by the ambulance
driven by the brother, who used to clean rugs. The crowd booed the arrivals
and slapped the ambulance with their hands as it crept toward the alley.
Ben watched the scene, recalling the mayor's words about what the murders
were doing to the climate in the streets. Clearly the people were lashing out
at anything even remotely resembling authority. Ben had not been in Palestine
for the intifada, but had heard the atmosphere then had been similarly tense.
The prospects for violence always seemed strong now and that did bode well
for the prospects of a final peace being achieved.
The reinforcements had come none too soon, for the Hisbe's merchants
were starting to prop up the shutters draped over their storefront displays of
fruits and vegetables lining the street, the smells of fresh produce already drifting
into the air. Others were opening retail establishments that featured hand-woven
baskets, rugs, and a vast array of merchandise. A difficult situation was
about to become even more complicated. In addition to the normal complement
of shoppers, the curious would come, drawn by word of mouth toward a new
attraction amid the usual fare.
Ben waited for the four new officers to disperse along the front of the crowd
before addressing the three who'd already been here when he arrived. The yellow
crime scene tape, its DO NOT CROSS ! warning printed in English since it was
the only version Ben could obtain, flapped in the breeze behind him.
"Who was first on the scene?" he asked.
"Me," said the one in the center, bearded and gaunt, his uniform a poor
fit over his Game. "I was closest when the call came in."
"What' s your name?"
"Moussa Salam."
"Did you see anyone in the area upon your arrival?"
"No one, sir."
"What about lights burning in any of the windows of the apartments along
the street?"
"I . . . didn't notice."
"Think back. Try."
"I secured the alley. I didn't think to -"
"There were lights," the officer on Salam's right interrupted. He was a much
older man whose hair showed flecks of gray and whose beard was mixed evenly
between salt and pepper. "But I'm not sure from which buildings now."
"Why does it matter?" Salam challenged.
"If lights are on, then people are probably awake. One of them may have
seen something that can help us."
"A long shot," noted the third officer Ben knew as Fakhar. Dark with very
curly graying hair and a scruffy beard.
"A starting point," said Ben.
"At the time of the murder it would have been too dark for anyone gazing
down or across the street to have seen anything clearly in the alley," Fakhar
noted, a slight edge to his voice.
"You are correct, of course," Ben acknowledged. "But they may have seen
something else, someone passing by, for instance."
"At such an hour ? Why ?" challenged Salam.
"A late night walk. Perhaps returning from a friend's home."
Fakhar was busy making notes on a small memo pad pulled from his lapel
pocket. "Yes, Inspector," he said, and wedged the memo pad back in his
pocket.
"We are not merely looking for the person who reported the crime. We
are looking for anyone who might have seen anything. A car parked nearby. A
figure they can describe moving too fast or slow, standing out. Anything amiss
in the late night or early morning routine they have come to be used to."
A fourth officer sliced his way through the crowd toward them, an excited
expression lighting over his features. He gazed quickly at the trio standing rigid
in front of the alley and then looked at Ben, composing himself.
"I apologize for leaving my post, sir."
"And you are ."
"Officer Issa Tawil."
"And where were you?"
"Speaking with someone, sidi. A witness."
TAWIL WAS EASILY the youngest of the four officers, barely college age
if he'd been American, with a beard that failed to obscure his boyish face.
"You know who I am, Issa!" Ben asked him, after they had slipped through
the crowd and moved across Jaffa Street.
"I recognized you, sidi."
"You shouldn't address me in such a formal manner. It occurs to me that
your brother officers will certainly frown on your sharing information with
me, as it is. They would have wanted the opportunity to talk you out of it.
That could cause a young man of limited tenure some problems."
Tawil smiled. "But a man of such limited tenure could not be expected to
recognize you as anything but a superior officer."
Ben nodded, holding back a smile. He would have added Tawil's name to
the list of potential detectives instantly, had it still been his list to make. "Now
tell me about this witness."
"I was patrolling the back of the crowd just before you arrived when she
yelled for me from her window."
"She . . ."
"An old woman. Terrible eyesight. She thought I had come to remove her
garbage. Her apartment is just over here, off the street."
"Off the street?"
"Yes, sir. She could never have seen the alley, or anyone even close to it."
Ben stopped as they reached the other side of Jaffa Street. "Then what did
she see?"
"Another witness."
C H A P T E R 5
BEN WENT ALONE to the old woman's apartment, stopping at the
head of the alley to turn and look back. He was standing diagonally across from
the alley where the murder had taken place, between forty and forty-five yards
away. At this distance he thought it might be possible to catch a clear view of
a face caught in the moonlight. But the view deteriorated and then vanished
altogether the further he ventured down the alley to where the old woman
lived.
The entrance to Rula Middein's apartment was a rickety door lacking both
a knob and a lock. Leaking bags of garbage lay strewn in the alley beneath it.
Ben held his nose against the stench and cringed as his feet sloshed through
some of the loosed remnants. The stairs to the doorway were rotting and he
took them lightly, wishing for a railing. An inner stairway awaited him once
inside, another door at its top. Wide open, as if he were expected.
"Ya halla ! 'Ahlan wa sahlan !" a friendly voice called in welcome as his feet
thumped noisily upon the plank floor outside the apartment. "Come in! Come
in !"
Another few steps forward brought a luscious smell to his nose, a happy
contrast to the one from the alley. Passing inside the apartment, he could hear
a spoon clinking against the side of a bowl. A single wall and curtain separated
the kitchen from the rest of the shabby but good-sized apartment. A square
wooden table, ancient, rested directly before him. It looked to be too heavy
for the flimsy floor supporting it. A dozen places had been set around the table.
Beyond what passed for the dining area lay a neat assembly of patched
furniture. Ben ran his eyes over the pieces and could see how even the patches
had deteriorated, evidence of aging hands struggling with the inevitability of
decay. He saw a radio but no television. Another curtain separated this room
from the old woman's bedroom. The two curtains were the only things in the
apartment that matched.
The one leading to the kitchen parted and Rula Middein emerged balancing
a spoon before her, free hand cradled beneath it to catch any spilled excess.
"Taste," she ordered, jabbing the spoon Ben's way. "Il- kabab wilful."
He opened his mouth and sampled the kebab and beans.
"Ajib!" he complimented. "Ajib, haja. "
The old woman glistened at his use of such a reverent title. Her white hair
hung in poorly combed clumps. She pulled the spoon away with a frail hand
and sniffed the food herself, reveling in Ben's acceptance of her madafah,
hospitality.
"More spices, you think?"
"No. It's perfect as is. Leave it."
The old woman beamed. "You can stay and eat with us maybe? I have
many to feed," she said, gesturing to the already-set table. "But there is always
extra. I should set an extra place?"
"Not tonight."
"Of course. you must eat with your own family. Forgive me. Families are
good. You have children?"
"No," he told her, feeling a dull ache rise out of his stomach.
"A man like you should," she scolded. Rula Middein held the spoon like a
baton, conducting life as it should still be. "I have many children, children and
grandchildren." Again she gestured toward the table. "They will be here soon.
For dinner. We always eat together. A family."
The sun found an angle through the blindless windows and only then did
Ben notice the thick layer of dust coating all the plates. The silverware looked
rusted, destroyed by the humid Jericho air.
"You will stay?" the old woman asked hopefully.
"Another time."
"Promise!"
"I promise."
Satisfied, Rula Middein retreated to the kitchen to finish the meal no one
would be coming to eat. Ben trailed the old woman slowly, careful not to
alarm her.
"Other police were here before. They couldn't stay either."
"They sent me, so we could talk."
"They ask questions."
"I know."
"You ask some ones?"
"Some."
The woman's shoulders slumped. She looked sad for the first time since Ben
had entered the apartment. "Was bad thing happened last night."
"One of my men said you saw something, someone."
"I saw police at entrance to alley, shouted at them to come up. One did.
Nice boy named, Issa. 1 tell him to get rid of garbage. He says he'll try." -
"So will 1."
"You promise?"
"It will be gone by this afternoon."
The old woman went back to tending the ancient stove, seeming to lose
interest in him.
"The young officer told me you saw someone last night."
She replied without turning from her pots. "See him every night. Asked
officer to do something about that too."
"Who is it that you see?"
"Sleeps in alley."
"Tell me about him."
"Al-sabi, a beggar boy. Sometimes I see him during day at Baladiya. Stealing.
Running. I want to invite him to dinner but ." She shrugged her boney
shoulders. "He run away before I can. At night I don't go out."
"A wise decision. And this boy, he was in the alley last night?"
"Every night."
"Describe him."
"Dirty. Long hair hanging like pieces of rope. Don't see many with hair so
long."
"His clothes?"
"Pale. Used to be white maybe."
"Both shirt and pants?"
"Match," she said, and then looked up at him with what little hope her
eyes could still muster. "You help boy?"
"I'll be waiting for him tonight." Ben told Rula Middein. "When he comes
back."
HE MET OFFICER ISSA TAWIL back on Jaffa Street.
"Well?"
"You did good work. Issa."
"Thank you, sidi."
"The old woman told me about the boy who sleeps in her alley. A resident
of one of the refugee camps you think?"
"Almost certainly. The Einissultan camp would be my guess, based on the
old woman's description of his clothes."
"An excellent deduction."
"Drawn from experience this time, Inspector," Tawil said, features sobering.
"I grew up there."
"A difficult place for a child."
"Or an adult." The young officer's eyes met Ben's "But you are no stranger
to hardship either. Inspector." He hesitated, cleared his throat. "Commander
Shaath sent a message while you were upstairs with the woman. He has returned
to the office with another patrol and has left you the car."
"Very considerate of him . . ."
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing." Ben stopped, eager to change the subject. "Do you think the
boy will return?"
"I wouldn't if I were him, not if he saw anything, but you never know.
He has staked out the Hisbe as his territory. Finding another is not as simple
as it may seem. You will wait for him tonight?"
"Yes."
"I would like to join you."
Ben was about to resist, then changed his mind. He could treat it like a
training exercise, pretend like RuIa Middein that things were still the way they
belonged. "Say midnight, unless I find the boy before then."
"In the camp?"
"Yes."
"Let me, sidi. After all ." TawiI completed his thought with a shrug.
"This is something I must do, Issa."
"Even for the police the camps are not safe."
"Precisely why I must go there alone."
C H A P T E R 6
WE WOULD LIKE to go over it again," one of the men in suits
told the Shin Bet agents assembled in the center of Old Jaffa. "One more
time."
His remarks were aimed at all of them, but Danielle was uncomfortably
certain that his stare lingered on her the most. She, after all, had been the first
to draw and fire her weapon. In the suspicious minds of the three men who
had come to assess what had occurred hours earlier and make an account, that
made her the easiest target to pin blame on. One civilian had been killed and
two seriously wounded in the shoot-out. And the three men dispatched internally
started with the notion that Shin Bet had erred and worked from there -
another ramification of the Rabin assassination.
Danielle wasn't sure which branch of the government these men actually
worked for. They existed in a professional vacuum, summoned only when the
possibility of a mishap existed and disappearing once satisfied (though perhaps
disappointed) that it didn't. They had become the government's personal terrorists,
feared more than any enemy from outside the rate, the word they passed
down law even if the facts didn't always add up to that.
The Shin Bet agents stirred anxiously and returned to their original positions.
The area where the shoot-out had occurred had been cordoned off. The
bodies had all been removed, replaced by lines of chalk or tape to simulate
their positions. The Shin Bet team had already done its best to reenact the
events of the gun battle a number of times. Two soldiers had been recruited
to play the roles of Tice and Atturi. the only two involved here whose careers
did not hang in the balance.
"Agent Barnea," one of the mystery men called to her, "if you don't mind."
Danielle took her place in the street. She knew she had acted properly and
didn't care very much if the men found otherwise. In fact, she might welcome
that, because she had been looking for a way out for a long time now.
She had completed her mandatory tour in the army looking forward to
starting a family, becoming a wife and mother. But then her oldest brother
was killed and a new resolve filled her. It was the desire for vengeance at first
that helped her complete the rigorous training for the elite Sayaret at the top
of her class. Once she began serving in this new and dangerous capacity, though,
the desire for anything but cold precision vanished. The world of quick-strike
commandos has no room for emotion, and she quickly came to embrace that
as the therapy she needed most of all. There would be time for, a family later.
When her years with the Sayaret ended in distinction, she was overwhelmed
by the offers for her services. The National Police provided the best prospects,
at least the easiest to abandon once she met the tight man. But then her second
brother was killed and she was promoted to pakad, or chief inspector. Her
father had suffered a stroke around that same time, as much from sadness as
the aftereffects of taking a sniper's bullet while on routine patrol in the West
Bank. In a family rich in the tradition of service, she could not possibly give
up her position only to raise a family now. She was afraid it would steal what
little hope her father had left, having lost both his sons.
But he got worse instead of better, her decision to stay on with the police
having no bearing on his prognosis. So on the day she had arrested Ahmed
Fatuk she had actually come to Jerusalem to tell her father of her decision to
resign. She had no boyfriend, never mind a fiance, but longed for a life apart
from her career.
As soon as Danielle recognized Fatuk entering that bakery, she knew her
desires were going to be delayed yet again. She'd stay on at Shin Bet for six
months, a year at most. But it didn't take nearly that long for her father's
condition to worsen to the level of virtual incoherence. She could do whatever
she desired now, tell him whatever she wanted and he would accept her words
with a proud smile, never to be in position again to know any better.
Not only could Danielle not lie to him, though, she also could not stray
from the path she knew made him most proud. To do so seemed like the
ultimate disrespect. She would wait until his inevitable, and merciful, passing
came and then . . .
Then would she find herself feeling she must be faithful to his memory? Or
was this day, this shoot-out, the signal that it was time to live the life she had
been trying to retreat to for years now?
"What did you do at this point?' one of the suited men asked, breaking
her trance.
"I drew my gun."
"You said before you called an alert first,." another pointed out.
"Yes, that's right. I'm sorry."
"You drew your gun before you saw any of these men draw theirs."
"They were wearing jackets."
"And you determined they were armed instead of cold, is that right?" the
second resumed.
"I was right."
"We are not here to determine right and wrong," noted the first.
"We are here to determine if the course of action you precipitated was
proper in consideration of the numerous bystanders in the area," added the
second.
Danielle heard footsteps and saw Commander Dov Levy draw up even with
her. "The course of action we precipitated and I approved saved lives."
The leader of the suits took exception to that. "You were instructed to wait
aside until we are ready for you, Commander."
"I need to speak with Agent Barnea."
"When we are finished with her. Commander."
"Now," Levy insisted.
He dragged Danielle away without waiting for the suited leader to respond.
"Thank you," Danielle said, relieved.
"Don't thank me yet," Levy said somberly. "I've had a call from National
Headquarters. You're wanted there."
In spite of herself, Danielle felt her stomach sink at what that might mean.
"You think _"
"I don't think anything, and you shouldn't either. Wait until you hear what
they want."
They looked at each other for a long moment.
"Do you think 1 made a mistake today?" Danielle asked Levy finally.
"You saved Agent Tice's life and the lives of at least a dozen civilians."
"Not according to them," she said, gesturing toward the suits, who were
waiting impatiently to continue with yet another reenactment.
"You did your job. They are doing theirs."
Danielle wished she could feel glad, wished she could see this as an opportunity
to slide quietly into a life that would allow for a family of her own at last.
But not in disgrace. Not on the terms of three bureaucrats paid to find fault
where none existed.
"You'd better get going," Levy said, extracting a set of keys from his pocket
and tilting his gaze briefly on the three suited figures. "These are to one of
our friends' cars. I'm sure they'll understand the urgency."
Danielle smiled. "I'll bring it back when I'm done."
Levy frowned, gazed at the soldiers and sawhorses blocking off this section
of the street. "You know where to find us."
C H A P T E R 7
BEFORE HEADING TO Jericho's lone refugee camp, Ben edged the
Peugeot Shaath had left him along Jaffa Street, honking the horn to clear a
path to the alley where Rula Middein lived. He eased the transmission into
reverse and backed up over the sidewalk in a cautious series of starts and stops
while pedestrians did their best to ignore him. He continued backing as far
into the alley as possible, then climbed out and popped open the car's trunk.
It took twenty minutes to empty the alley of the greatest part of the garbage
littered beneath the old woman's window. Once out of the town center, he
would dump it at the first available opportunity.
"Perhaps you missed your true calling, " a voice called out, and Ben looked
up to see a man he recognized leaning on a cane just in front of the car.
He slammed the trunk and moved around to the driver's door. "I thought
I spotted you in the crowd, Jabral. I suppose I have you to thank for the chants
of kha' in."
"You are many things, Inspector, but a traitor is not one of them. Besides,
I like to keep a low profile."
"Then stay right there while I pull out; that should make you low enough
to please anyone."
The man smiled briefly and limped over to where Ben stood, his cane
clacking ahead of him. "I was hoping we could talk."
"You know the one thing the Palestinians have in common with the Americans,
Jabral ? The media is full of shit. Thanks for making me feel at home."
Ben climbed into the car and closed the door. Zaid Jabral moved to the
open window and rested a hand over the edge for support.
"Tell me something, Ben. Did I misstate any fact? Did I print anything
other than the truth?"
"The truth came from only one side."
"You wouldn't give me your side, so I was left with what I had heard. You
know what they say."
"What do they say ?"
"That you were only invited to return because you are the son of the great
Jafir Kamal. I did a story on him once."
"One of the few distinctions I share with my father. And I wasn't invited;
I came on my own."
"Perhaps you should have waited for a war, like your father." Jabral said
cynically.
"I did."
"You gave up your homeland and built a new life, only to abandon it so
you could return and live in his shadow." Jabral looked pleased with his own
revelation. "Would have made for an interesting angle, don't you think?"
"Perhaps, if you hadn't elected to devote so much space to branding me an
enemy of my own people."
"I have an obligation to inquire, to inform, to -"
"Teach ?" Ben interjected and watched Jabral stiffen at the word. "That
would be logical since you were a teacher long before you became the top
editor at Al-Quds. You were also one of the men I most admired. The great
Zaid Jabral, a true architect of change. I followed your efforts, from the States,
to make the West Bank curriculum more contemporary when independence
was still a dream."
"Because the independence, my dear Ben, can come only through education."
"Did you tell that to the shabab, the children of the intifada?"
"What hypocrites! There was so much complaining when the Israelis closed
our schools. Then we retaliate by closing them ourselves in order to protest!"
"For days, not years. And you continued your classes in spite of them," Ben
said, and Jabral shrugged.
It was here that the story of Zaid Jabral became a mixture of fact and legend.
What was known for sure was that he was giving a test to his twelfth graders
when a number of dissident students appeared to roust them out into the streets.
Jabral refused to let his students go until they completed their tests, much to
the displeasure of the shabob leaders, becoming the first teacher to make a stand
against them.
From this point the story grew murky; there were two totally disparate
versions of the beating that had left Jabral a cripple. Popular thought had it ,
that, upon exiting the building. he was attacked by the very shabab leaders he
had disdained. His hip was shattered and surgery came too late to give him
back his mobility. The second version, preferred from a propaganda standpoint,
claimed that the beating occurred when Jabral stood up to the Israelis in another
incident entirely, that he ended up as one of many held under the parameters
of "administrative detention": held for months without being charged, and
tortured in pursuit of a confession. Jabral hadn't confessed to anything, this
version went, and had paid for his stubbornness with his hip.
Ben had never asked him which version was correct. continuing to hold
the newspaper man in high esteem until two months earlier, when Al-Quds
had helped make Ben an outcast, branding him a traitor by breaking the story
of his arrest of the three Palestinian police officers.
"You know, Jabral," he said now, "something I never asked you: why did
you do it ?"
"Because that cabdriver was an ameel, a collaborator."
"Suspected collaborator, you mean, and only by the three police officers who
decided to practice their own brand of justice on a fellow Palestinian."
"He was a Palestinian only in name."
"The sane name shared by his wife and five children. Why don't you do
a story on them?"
"And the three officers, they did not have families who will miss them too?
Thanks to you, they were sentenced to life in prison by a tribunal of three high-ranking
offsets. A closed-door military proceeding. No appeals permitted."
"Should I feel sorry for them?"
Jabral shook his head. "Strange that an American should embrace such a
nondemocratic process."
"We are not ready for a wholly democratic process here yet."
"Nor are we ready for you, Inspector. You should have stuck to being a
detective, to showing the Authority's trainees how it is supposed to be done."
"Funny, that's what I thought I was doing."
"I'm talking about nuts and bolts, casework."
"Look the other way, then . . ."
"Or not look at all."
"Difficult not to see a man's balls stuck in his mouth. The cabdriver was
still alive when they cut them off, you know. I don't think I ever read anything
about that in your paper."
"Because I don't want my paper to go the way of your career in Palestine.
You made yourself a pariah."
"With a little assistance from you."
Jabral's features seemed to relax. "Maybe that's why I'm here now."
"To make amends? Extend an olive branch?"
"I'd take it if I were you. Now that you're in charge of the case, you can
use all the help you can get."
"Word travels fast."
"For one who knows how to listen."
"The mayor had his reasons. What are yours, Jabral?"
"There's a madman on the loose. Isn't that enough?"
"Only if you have a vested interest in the peace Process succeeding."
Jabral looked down. "We've all had enough of the alternative."
Ben regarded him curiously. "You never returned to the classroom."
"I elected to follow other pursuits."
"They wouldn't let you back in the schools, would they? You went too
far, even for your own people; you scared them. Too much risk, too much
liability. Much easier to cut their losses and rend you on your way." Ben
watched Jabral grit his teeth, not finished yet. "The same forces that oppose
peace ended your teaching career because you stood up to them, and you think
I might be able to bring them down for you. That's what your olive branch
is about."
Jabral didn't bother denying it. "I can't bring them down with my newspaper -
none of us who grew up here can bring them down."
"Because you're afraid of being labeled a collaborator, ending up with your
balls stuck in your mouth like the cabdriver?"
"No, because I'm afraid of the Palestinian police who will shut down our
offices and confiscate an entire day's printing if I say something that disturbs
Arafat or our" - he cleared his throat - "elected representatives."
"The Palestinian Protective Security Service has nothing to do with the
police, JabraI, and you know it."
"Of course. Your police wait until a crime has been committed before you
arrest the wrong man, while the Security Service arrests an innocent man before
he has done anything wrong." JabraI nodded, pleased with his own analysis.
"You would be wise to watch out for them too, Ben."
"Why would they bother with someone who's already been labeled a traitor?
Then again, that's why you suddenly want to work with me, isn't it, Jabral?
I'm the one with nothing to lose, and all of a sudden everyone has a use for
me."
"The Israelis included," JabraI said without missing a beat.
"Really?"
"According to my source, they requested you."
That remark caught Ben off guard, and Jabral pounced on his sudden uncertainty
like a hunter.
"You didn't suspect as much when Sumaya reinstated you? You really are
naïve, aren't you, Benny?"
"Why me?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to ask the Israelis. In the meantime, feel free to call
upon me if I can be of any assistance."
With that, Jabral turned and started off.
"The Israelis are your source, aren't they?"
Jabral kept walking.
"Aren't they, Jabral ?"
"Ask them. "
"I'm asking you. "
Jabral looked back over his shoulder at Kamal. "You're asking for trouble."
He had barely finished his sentence when a plate glass window just down
the street exploded. A chair flew through it, followed by a man, who hit the
sidewalk with a thud.
"And," the newspaper editor resumed. "it appears that you've got it."
C H A P T E R 8
BEN REACHED THE man who'd been thrown through the glass
just ahead of two fellow police officers running to the scene, their hands pressed
against the butts of their pistols . A fresh crowd began to cluster like ants, shifting
its attention from the alley where the corpse was just being hauled away by
the Cleaners. Ben helped the man to his feet and dragged him aside.
"Who are you!"
The man wore a white apron, splattered with grease. Fresh blood dotted
both his cheeks and stained his chin.
"The chef, that's all! I am the chef !"
"What's going on in there?"
"He's mad!"
"Who?"
"I don't know. He cats here a lot. Something went wrong. It wasn't the
food."
A table sailed through the window, taking another hefty chunk of glass with
it. The two police officers hovering nearby drew their guns and started for the
door.
Ben cut in front of them, holding them back. "Let me try first," he said.
His colleagues looked at each other. One snickered.
"Give me a few minutes. If he throws me through the window, take over."
Ben turned to the chef. "Is there a back door?"
"Locked."
"You have the key?'
The chef fished through his pockets. "Here."
Ben took the key and darted behind the building. Passing through the door,
he found himself in a storeroom neatly stacked with boxes and cans. He could
hear the sound of more plates and glasses exploding in the front of the restaurant
and quickly located the door leading that way. A short L-shaped hall lay ahead
and he crept down it into the kitchen, toward the smell of food burning and
the sizzling sound of something left too long on the grill.
"Who would like me to cook them breakfast? Come on, I'm only trying
to make friends!" a shrill voice boomed from the dining area beyond.
Ben slid past the serving counter and reached a curtain that led straight into
the dining room.
"Hey!"
He heard more glass breaking, followed by the sound of something being
slammed.
"I said, get away from that door! "
Ben slipped through the curtain and sat down at a table set back from the
others that rimmed the room in a semicircle. Between these tables and the
front door, a massive man lumbered across the floor, brandishing a club. He
was at least as big as Shaath, probably bigger, and had muscle where the
commander had long before gone to fat. His shirt was ripped, his hair uncombed,
and even from this distance Ben could smell the alcohol.
"Don't move!" the giant screamed at a gaunt man standing behind an ancient
cash register. "You had your chance to be fair."
Another man near the restaurant's front had risen from his chair when the
huge man's stare froze him.
"Sit the fuck back down!"
He did as he was told instantly, and the huge man's eyes continued to sweep
across the room. They passed right over Ben, then lurched back to his police
uniform, bulging.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Club raised overhead, a single lunge,
brought him within striking distance.
Ben made sure the big man could see his hands poised on the tabletop. "I
heard you offer to make breakfast. I thought I'd take you up on it."
"I don't like cops."
"Neither have I lately."
"Nothing but trouble."
"I'm living proof of that."
The big man didn't seem sure how to respond. "What's your problem?"
"I made the mistake of arresting some men because they were guilty."
"I'm not guilty."
"Do you have your identification with you!"
The big man shrugged and produced the card from his pocket. The regulation
was a holdover from the Israeli occupation, meant to facilitate matters for the
Palestinian police. But the huge task of replacing the IDS had yet to be undertaken,
leaving residents of the West Bank with the same cards carried under Israeli control.
Ben examined the card, saw the big man's name was Yousef Shifa. and
spotted the familiar triangles in each of the four corners, indicating he had
served time in an Israeli prison. Be" wondered how long the incarceration had
taken him from his family.
"What happened here, Yousef?" Ben asked. "The chef told me outside it
had nothing to do with food."
"Good food."
"Then why'd you throw him through the window!"
"They called him out when I didn't have any money. Wouldn't give me
credit. I promised I'd pay as soon as I was back on my feet, but they wouldn't
listen."
Ben looked to the man behind the cash register. "May I have Mr. Shifa's
bill please?"
The owner handed it across the counter and Ben counted out the proper
amount of dinars from his wallet, adding a hefty tip.
"There's also the damage he's done to consider," the owner said.
"Which he will pay you for, once he has a job. Now, I know you could
have him arrested and thrown in jail. But this man, I can tell you, has a family
that needs him, and he'll never be able to pay you back from inside a prison."
"And how are you so sure he's going to get a job?'
"Because I'm going to get him one."
"You're what ?"
"You are ?" Yousef Shifa beamed.
Ben looked up at him. "We are looking for someone at the National
Authority building. It doesn't pay much and the work is rather menial, but it's
a job, my friend, and it will allow you to walk out of here today with me."
"No jail?"
Ben rose and fixed his eyes on the owner. "Thanks to the kindness and
good grace of this man, no. I think I will recommend this place to my colleagues,
maybe post a few notices inside headquarters. What do you think, eh? Might
give business a little boost."
Ben moved toward Yousef Shifa. Even hunched dumbly over, he still
appeared huge. Ben took the club from Shifa's hand and let it clamor to the
floor. He put his arm on the big man's shoulder and steered him for the door.
"Now let's see about that job."
Shifa stiffened, not quite ready to go. "How did you know I had a family?"
"Because," Ben said, "it was obvious you had something to lose."
C H A P T E R 9
"COME IN, PAKAD," a voice called to Danielle from just inside an
office on the sixth floor of Israel's National Headquarters.
Danielle recognized the voice of Commissioner. or Rav Nitzav, Hershel
Giott, intrigued that he had used her former rank as a chief inspector from
when she had worked under him with the National Police.
The headquarters for Shin Bet was located at National Headquarters in
Jerusalem as well, in this inappropriately plain, six-story beige building fashioned
out of limestone and dominated by neat rows of utterly symmetrical windows.
A flag tower had been built directly in the center and the massive black macadam
parking lot seemed ever ready to swallow the entire structure because the lot
was never more than half full.
Although Danielle had been transferred to Shin Bet some months ago, it
was her former superior who had summoned her to National Headquarters in
the message relayed by Dov Levy. She could not account for this and, in view
of the morning's events, approached the meeting with extreme trepidation.
Entering Giott's office, Danielle instantly noticed that a prominent director
of Shin Bet was seated in a chair on the left side of Giott's desk. Though
Commander Moshe Baruch was in charge of her department, this was the first
time they had actually met, and she sensed the circumstances were not favorable.
Baruch was a gaunt rail of a man whose beard disguised, the rest of his thin
face. He had a reputation for chewing up any in his department who did not
measure up to his standards of performance and spitting them out when there
was nothing left but gristle. Some who were summoned to his office, it was
rumored, were never seen again, their careers ended, literally, at the door, and
Danielle couldn't help but wonder if hers too was about to end here in Giott's
office. That might have been what she wanted, though on her own terms; not
in a disgrace that would haunt her for years to come.
"Sit down, Pakad," the rav nitzav instructed.
Physically, he was the antithesis of Baruch: small and frail with an ever-
present frown and a yarmulke riding his crown whenever he was in the midst
of a difficult case, as if that were the only time he needed God. Strangely,
Danielle had never seen him without his yarmulke and that, she supposed, was
the essence of his work. Giott was as low-key as Baruch was hard-driving.
Amazing the two men coexisted at National Headquarters, managing their
interdependent organizations as well as they appeared to. In fact, the relationship
between Shin Bet and the National Police remained strong. Jurisdictional
disputes were rare and cooperative ventures commonplace.
"We have reviewed what transpired this morning," Giott said when she
was seated, "and have found the events to be most regrettable."
Danielle felt her stomach sink. Here it comes: dismissal, disgrace. She would
walk out this door having been stripped of the rank that had so long imprisoned
her, only to miss it desperately.
"That said," he continued, "while your performance cannot be considered
exemplary, your actions almost undoubtedly saved the life of at least one fellow
officer."
"Agent Tice's wounds were only superficial," Baruch reported in a voice
that seemed too deep for his thin frame. "He will encounter some vision
problems for a while but is expected to make a complete recovery."
Danielle breathed a sigh of relief.
"However," Giott picked up somberly, "this leaves us with a rather serious
dilemma."
Uh-oh, Danielle thought, here it comes . . .
"Agent Tice was about to start a new assignment for us." Giott exchanged
a quick glance with Baruch. "An assignment coordinated jointly through the
commander's and my offices. Agent Tice had volunteered for this assignment.
It was to start this afternoon and cannot be pushed back. So we find ourselves
in need of a replacement."
"We would like you to take Agent Tice's place," Baruch added flatly. "Your
record of commendations indicates you are more than capable of handling the
job."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank us yet, Pakad," Giott warned. "Tice was our only volunteer
for a reason: we have decided to other our assistance to the Palestinians in a
joint operation aimed at catching the serial killer who's been terrorizing the
West Bank for months."
Danielle looked from one man to the other. She wondered if she were being
tested, if they were waiting for a response.
"The Wolf," Baruch elaborated before she could make one, and Danielle
realized this wasn't a test at all. "He struck again last night for a second time
in Jericho. You can appreciate our dilemma under the circumstances, I'm sure."
"But I cannot appreciate offering to help the Palestinians."
"The offer has been extended in the name of peace, Pakad," Giott told her.
"The order to make it came from the Prime Minister himself If you have a
problem with your assignment. perhaps you should take it up with him."
Danielle tried to keep her expression blank. The chair seemed suddenly very
stiff, the buttons pressing into her flesh.
"I must respectfully decline," was all she said.
Her present and former superiors looked at each other before Baruch spoke.
"You misunderstand, Barnea. We were not offering you a choice."
"You must understand, sir. My brother. my father . . ."
Giott nodded. "All heroes to the State. How is your father, Pakad?"
"Failing."
"Unfortunate."
"My younger brother's death quickened the process. My father was just
recovering from his wounds when it happened. The stroke followed."
"We do understand." Giott told her.
"But that does nothing to solve our problem," Baruch said, rising. "We
need someone good, who can think on their feet without the advantage of
preparation Tice had. You certainly proved yourself capable of that this
morning."
Danielle accepted the compliment grudgingly, considering the entire matter
in the flea market hardly finished.
"What about the guns?" she asked.
"Guns?" Giott wondered.
"The rifles found hidden in the refrigerators."
"The contents of the late Ismail Atturi's truck are not your concern," Baruch
said firmly.
But Danielle couldn't dismiss the thought of Atturi delivering weapons
with such firepower into the West Bank to be distributed like newspapers.
Apparently, whoever dispatched the gunmen had found his intentions equally
problematic.
"The four gunmen," she continued, "have they been identified yet?"
"They carried no identification on their persons," Baruch informed her,
settling back in his seat.
"They were Russian."
The two men looked at each other again.
"Interesting conclusion, Pakad."
"One of them screamed something at me. In Russian."
"You're certain you heard correctly?" Baruch asked her.
"He called me suka, a bitch. It's a word I've come to know in many
languages."
"We will certainly add that to the report, Pakad." Giott promised nonchalantly,
and scribbled a quick note on a pad resting before him.
"I was just wondering why they would have attacked Atturi. Four well-armed
men sent to kill a single man who is known to travel unarmed?"
"It would be better, Barnea, if you -"
"It's just that I'm wondering if they were trying to make a point," Danielle
said, interrupting Baruch and regretting it instantly, though still not able to
stop herself. "I wonder if what happened this morning has deeper roots than
we think. It's an angle I've been considering. Perhaps I'd be of better service
to you following it up."
Now it was Giott who rose. "Pakad," he began, while Baruch finned quietly
over the disrespect shown him, 'we understand your reluctance to take on
this assignment. But you must understand the difficult position we are in.
Another, less compassionate eye might have seen and judged your actions this
morning differently. You are no longer in the army, no longer a member of
an elite force that does not have to account for its actions. On the contrary,
since the assassination our people have come under increasing scrutiny. We
must account for every shell fired and heroism can often be interpreted as
recklessness, which cannot be tolerated by either myself or Commander
Baruch."
"I understand," Danielle said, relenting as she grasped the intent in her
former superior's words.
"Very well," Giott nodded, satisfied, as he sat back down. "You are due
in Jericho at three o'clock. Let us move on to the briefing . . ."
C H A P T E R 1 0
THE GUARDS CLUSTERED along the front of the refugee camp
didn't look happy to see Ben. The captain in charge wasn't on the premises,
and his underlings claimed tempers were running too high within for them to
save as Ben's escort.
Jericho's Einissultan refugee camp was located on the outskirts of the town
itself, at the very edge of the oasis that sits amid the vast desert plain. To the
south lay a grove of orange trees, to the north rolling hills of desolation. An
abandoned Israeli military encampment could be seen from the camp's entrance
to the east. Ironically, the last time the encampment had been open, the refugee
camp had been closed. But even limited self-rule in the West Bank had brought
a flood of exiles back from Jordan and there was simply nowhere else to put
so many more of the displaced Palestinians, necessitating the reopening of this
and several other camps throughout the West Bank.
Ben had folly intended to proceed through the camp on his own in search of
the young witness, until a young woman latched onto him just beyond the gate.
"What you come here for, cop, eh?" she asked, appointing herself camp
spokesman. She slapped him on the am. "There been a crime committed?
Somebody file a report!" Another slap, harder. "Shit, I almost forgot. How
can we call in a report when the camp has no phones? We can't even walk
outside to use one since they're locking us in regular now-our own people,
not the Israelis."
Ben tried to get ahead of her and failed. She poked at his holster and he
swiveled his hip away.
"Why don't you tell me what you're doing here?" the young woman
continued. "Maybe I help you."
She couldn't have been more than twenty-five. Her clothes and face were
both clean. Her hair smelled of soap. In another place under different circumstances
she might have been considered quite beautiful. Here, though, there
was no beauty. Hate blanketed the premises as hopelessness choked it off a
little at a time.
Ben slowed his pace, not wanting to stop altogether because of the crowd
beginning to cluster along the dirt street's edges. "Why don't we start with
your name?"
"Why don't we start with what you're doing here? Investigating something,
I hope. Maybe the conditions. File a report. Believe me, cop, it's a crime."
She was right about that much. The squalor these displaced people lived in
turned Ben's stomach. The stench of unwashed bodies and raw sewage grew
stronger the further he advanced into the camp. These were the people who
had given birth to the intifada, the ones who celebrated the hardest when
autonomy came. Now they felt betrayed, and this sense made them even more
dangerous than before because they had no one left to turn to. In fact, conditions
in the camps had been better under Israeli control. The Israelis may have lacked
conscience and compassion, but they at least had resources.
"I'm looking for someone," Ben told the young woman.
She put her hands on her hips. "Aren't we all?"
"A boy."
"To question or to fuck?"
Ben swung toward her, but held his tongue.
"Why so surprised, cop? You think you'd be the first official to leave here
in the company of a kid or a woman? Who can we complain to? Maybe that's
why you bastards keep us locked up!"
"You ever leave here with such an official?"
"They never seem to choose me."
"I can't imagine why."
She stepped in front of him and halted. "What is it you want?'
"I want you to help me find this boy."
"What's he done? You gonna arrest him?"
"He hasn't done anything. He may have witnessed a murder."
"What's he look like?"
"Frail. Long hair hanging just past his shoulders. Standard-issue clothes,"
Ben finished, trying to recall all Rula Middein had said while she finished
cooking dinner for the family that never came to eat it.
The young woman's laugh was real this time. "Should be easy to spot a boy
looks like that. They're all playing soccer now in our wonderful field. We call
it Arafat Stadium, a testament to his devotion for his people."
She led the way to the right. They passed another grouping of the stained
canvas tents and ramshackle huts and shanties, some missing chunks of their
ceilings or walls. The dominant color was a faded, soiled oatmeal. There was
no order to the construction, homes squeezed in wherever they could be,
leaving narrow single-lane roads so vehicles could pass over the gravel and
grime.
"The boy I'm looking for has been sleeping in the streets around the Baladiya."
Ben told the young woman.
"Then he eats better than he would on the inside."
"Could he come and go as easily as that?"
"The sneaky ones get away with it. Sometimes they come back, sometimes
the don't. Sometimes they leave with men like you, sometimes they just leave."
They had reached the soccer field, a filthy, muddy, uneven patch of land.
Given the obvious lack of water, the mud confused Ben until the breeze blew
the stink toward him. This was the leaching field where all the raw sewage
ended up when the pumps were operating. In spite of that, the children had
appropriated it since it was the only open stretch of land in the camp.
He stopped where the ground turned to ooze and studied the boys gazing
at him suspiciously. There were literally dozens who fit the description of the
boy from Rula Middein's alley, all of them looking discomfited by his presence.
"You said a witness," the young woman said suddenly.
"Yes"
"Plenty of them here who could be a witness. Tell me what you want them
to say and I will arrange it."
Ben turned toward her. "It doesn't work that way."
"It does in here."
Ben swung on his heels and started to retrace his own filthy trail. He had
been foolish to come the camp, wasting time better spent on rehashing the
casework on the previous murders, at least the one in Jericho ten days before.
Two killings in a row in the same location. Al-Diib seemed to be deviating
from his own pattern.
He was glad for the thoughts since they distracted him from the squalor
around him. When he came in sight of the gate, he thought he might be able
to exit without further incident. Then, before he could reach it, the young
woman caught up with him again, planting herself in his path.
"This is our world, cop. What you expect when you walked in? You want
us to bow and kiss your feet? You figure you deserve that for all you've done
for us? Even God doesn't bother about the crime that goes on in here. It's a
good thing there's nothing to steal, eh!"
Crowds were milling on either ride of the main drag leading back to the
gate. Ben knew he had to pass through in order to leave. The mutters and
whispers grew from a hum to a buzz in his ear. He didn't stop, didn't hesitate,
just kept walking at a steady pace. The young woman continued to badger
him, feeding the ire of the crowd. Ben fought back the urge to shove her
aside, afraid the crowd was waiting for any reason at all to pounce on him.
"Come on, cop! Why you so quiet?" she taunted. Maybe she wanted him
to strike her, was disappointed that he hadn't.
The crowd turned ugly anyway.
The first stone grazed his temple, felt like a hard slap to his head.
Ben kept walking.
The second sane caught him in the back of his head and sent a brief flash
exploding before his eyes. Two in rapid succession struck his forehead and
cheek. Warm blood leaked from both wounds.
"Come on, cop!" the young woman taunted. "Use your gun. Shoot us!"
Ben kept his hand plainly away born his holster. The urge to launch a mad
dash for the gate rose in him, but he fought it down.
He kept walking, the young woman silent before him now, watching his face.
Some of the mutters, the whispers, had gained cadence and risen into chants.
The stones that connected were accompanied by applause and cheers now.
Ben's nose took a big one and he felt his eyes water. He stumbled slightly,
then quickly regained his footing.
The front gate was still a hundred feet away and Ben feared he wasn't going
to make it. He could see the guards poised unsurely just inside, frozen, afraid
for their own lives if they intervened. Or maybe they were just waiting for
Ben to summon them in a desperate cry that would bring the crowd down
upon him and leave him humiliated once the guards came to his rescue.
Ben knew enough not to do that. The refugees might take him anyway,
but at least they would be denied a certain satisfaction. Dirty, frustrated, and
angry bodies reached down for larger stones, the pelting a game turning very
serious. The next rock drew blood that trickled down his neck. A thud forced
him one way, a whack shook him the other.
Ben righted himself and kept walking. He fought against the temptation to
draw his gun and use it to clear a path for himself to the gate.
Instead, a strange calm came over him and he realized with detachment that
he didn't care if he died here. In that irrational moment, death seemed preferable
to both the past, which gave him a pain worse than the rocks, and the future,
which gave him nothing at all. He knew the stones were still hitting him, but
he didn't feel them anymore. The people lined up on either side of him were
disappearing, the tunnel between them all he could see.
Then, incredibly and inexplicably, the rocks and stones stopped pelting him.
Maybe the refugees had realized there was no sense in killing one whose lot
seemed as bad as their own. The gate, a moment before so impossibly far away,
was now before him. One of the guards was opening it with a trembling hand.
The young woman whirled in front of Ben as he started to pass through,
grasped him at both elbows, and spoke very quietly.
"You a fool, cop. Brave, but a fool. The boy you seek calls himself Radji.
He ran away after hitting one of the guards with a rock."
"How long ago?"
"A month. Maybe two. I haven't seen him since then."
"Where was he from, originally I mean?"
"Same place we all are, cop: nowhere."
Ben slipped through the gate and one of the guards slammed it closed,
leaving him and the young woman on opposite sides . She hung her hands
through the links.
"How do you know him?" Ben asked her. "How can you be sure the boy
I'm looking for is this Radji?"
"Because he's my brother."