“And you?” Quirk said.
“I guess I might know too much about the organization.”
“What?” Quirk said.
“Several former Israeli commandos work for the foundation.”
“How many?”
“Don’t know,” Lloyd said. “I just know that a couple of them often accompany Ariel. I think they are armed.”
“See any tattoos?” Quirk said.
“Yes, some of them, those where I could see it, have a number tattooed on their forearm. Ariel has it, too.”
“Know any names?” Quirk said.
“No,” Lloyd said. “I don’t think so.”
“Joost?” Quirk said. “Or Van Meer?”
“No, I . . . Joost,” he said. “There was a baseball player. . . .”
“Eddie Joost,” I said.
“Yes. I don’t remember him, but my father was a big fan of his,” Lloyd said. “I think he liked the name, mostly.”
“And this other guy Joost worked for the Herzberg Foundation?”
“Yes,” Lloyd said. “Is it important?”
“I think it might be,” Quirk said.
He looked at Belson.
“Frank,” he said, “I’ll look after Mr. Lloyd. Why don’t you take some people and go get Mr. Herzberg.”
Belson nodded. He stood and glanced at me.
“Want to ride along?” he said.
“I’d be a fool not to,” I said.
62
An apprehension team, wearing vests and helmets with face masks and sitting in an unmarked van, met us in the parking lot at District 14 Station on Washington Street. They were under the command of a sergeant who looked as though he might floss with a crowbar.
The sergeant looked at me and said, “Who’s this?”
“My bodyguard,” Belson said. “You’ve looked at the site?”
“Yeah.”
“I want the building covered on all four,” Belson said. “I want the guys at each corner of the property in visual contact with the guy at the corners on each side of him. You’ve done this before.”
“Sure,” the sergeant said. “One question. Your buddy here a cop, or we gotta take care of him?”
“He’ll take care of himself,” Belson said. “Let’s get to it.”
The apprehension team went first, and we followed. They pulled up in front of the Herzberg Foundation and poured out of the car. In thirty seconds they had the place surrounded. Two guys with a short ram stood by the front door. The sergeant looked at Belson and nodded.
Frank and I went up the stairs and tried the door. It was open. Frank and I both took out our guns and went in. Nothing. The place throbbed with emptiness. No people. No papers. No coffeepots. No water bottles. Neat, clean, and deserted.
“Balls,” Belson said.
“Exactly,” I said.
Belson looked at the command sergeant.
“Make sure,” Belson said.
The sergeant nodded, and the team searched the house. It was as empty as it felt.
“They been a step ahead of us pretty much all along,” Belson said. “How’d they know.”
“Might be my fault,” I said.
“They decided to bail after you told them how much you knew?” Belson said.
“I was trying to bait him, get him to do something hasty,” I said.
Belson nodded.
“Case like this,” Belson said, “there’s not that much choice. You poke and push and see what happens. Better than doing nothing.”
