'Really?' She sounded amused.
'Know what he wanted?'
'I can guess.'
'Well-'
'It wasn't my idea. Once Joe gets an idea, there's no stopping him. He just bulls his way right on through.'
'Guess that's why he's been so successful here.'
'So what are you so sore about?'
'Do I sound sore?'
'Yes. You do.'
'The guy's got dirty fingernails, Judith. He calls my daughter 'Haggi.' He calls me 'Dave.''
'I think that's cute.'
'I don't.'
'I don't much care if you do or not. To tell you the truth, David, I don't care at all.'
'What is he? Some kind of clown?'
'What?'
'Way he dresses. Half Ben-Gurion with that settler's yarmulke perched on top.'
'He's entitled to his political beliefs. Frankly, if we were all as soft on territory as you, I wonder if we'd still have a country here.'
So where was Joe Raskov when I was slogging through the Sinai?
'Sounds like you've changed your mind about some things.'
'You bet I have. I'm keeping kosher now.'
'What a splendid luxury. Arab servants help you out?'
'Look, if you're calling to express sour grapes about your lot…'
'I'm calling about my daughter! Adoption's out of the question. That he would even think! Must be out of his mind! So okay, he's a jerk. But I'm not standing by while he tries to turn her into some kind of intolerant small- minded mean-spirited self-righteous right-wing Arab-hating spoiled little bitch…'
A silence. When Judith finally spoke he could hear the new hardness in her voice. 'How long since you've seen her?'
'I called last week.'
'You think calling's enough?'
'We're on skeleton hours here. I'm on a major case.'
'That damn police lingo. Thought I'd heard the last of it. I'll tell you something, David. I never said this to you before, but since you seem to think it's okay to call me up and discuss the condition of my husband's fingernails, I gather all the old social taboos are down and I can let loose with what I really feel.'
'Go ahead.' She sounded enormously angry. He imagined the set of her mouth, remembered how tightly she could draw it, so tight it almost became a line.
'As far as I'm concerned, having Joe Raskov in her life is the best thing that could happen to Hagith right now. Want to know why? Because you, David Bar-Lev, are the worst, the absolutely worst father in all Israel. The worst!' She hung up.
Two nights later David transported Anna, her cello, and her accompanist, Yosef Barak, down through the hills to Ben-Gurion Airport on the plain. David had always liked Yosef, a tall, serious balding man in his middle forties who hunched over the piano keyboard when he played. Yosef was a superb musician but lacked the ego and ambition to become a star. He wanted, however, to serve a star and was pleased to play that role for Anna. She, in turn, thought of him as a kind and diligent older brother whose impeccable musicianship and precise technique were perfect foils to her temperament.
David waited with them in the transit lounge for the announcement of their flight, listening to their tense excited talk, envying them their adventure, wishing he could leave with them, go to Europe, forget his case. Over the next thirty days they would play in twenty cities, in Switzerland, Austria, Germany, Belgium, and France. Then they would return to Jerusalem to prepare for summer appearances at the European festivals, then Jerusalem again to work up another program for a winter series in the United States.
The flight had been announced and passengers were boarding, when David heard his name called over the public-address. A last embrace with Anna, a farewell shake of Yosef s hand, a final cry of 'Good luck! Great trip!' He watched them board, then rushed to the nearest telephone. Seconds later he was connected to Dov.
'Peretz. He's moving. He just got into a sharut for Tel Aviv. Almost filled now. Ought to be leaving any second. We'll follow him, of course. We got five cars. Since you're down that way, we can pick you up. Park by the side of the road just before the airport cutoff. When I see you I'll stop, Micha will take your car, and you can get in with me.'
This is it. I know it. I feel it. All the time I'm getting spooked by this guy, I know sooner or later he's got to make his move.'
Dov was pumped up. His Mickey Mouse T-shirt (a sure sign to David that he was prepared for war) showed wet beneath his arms. His eyes never wavered from the long maroon Mercedes taxi just ahead.
'Eight nights on a guy, you get sensitive. Those weird long walks of his, the tension building up. Last couple days I felt it, he was walking different, taking longer strides, twitching sometimes when he stopped. So tonight he does the usual, except when he hits Jaffa Gate he boards a number thirteen bus. At the bus station, when I saw him head for those sharuts, I called you because I knew it was tonight.'
'How are we covering him?'
'Two carloads, six guys, waiting at the other end. Two of us, plus three more cars including Micha and Shoshana, makes fifteen. No matter what he does, walks, runs, takes a bus, grabs a cab, we're on him. Figure first thing he'll do is try and steal a car.'
I'f he does we'll let him take it,' David said. 'If he goes for a victim we'll follow him as far as we can. Instruct the others: Don't go in unless I give the command. Only exception, if they're certain a life's at stake. But when we go in, we really move. I mean fast, Dov. Very fast.'
While Dov passed all this on, and the confirmations came back from the different teams, David loosened his collar and wondered if he was really close to ending this awful case. Then, as they entered the outskirts of Tel Aviv, he became conscious of the heat.
The city, normally so dry, was steeped in a heavy noxious fog. And as always, when he entered Tel Aviv, he found himself feeling oppressed. First great modern Hebrew city, city of Bialik, the Habima Theater, the brilliant street life and literary cafes of his father's time, it now seemed shabby, bedraggled, in need of a good coat of whitewash, smelling of automobile fumes and greasy falafel stands and seething with the anger of downtrodden oriental Jews.
'Okay, they're pulling in.' Dov steered through a street of low-cost shoe stores that led to the bus station, extremely busy this time of night. 'He just got out. He's paying. Uri's on him. See him? There!'
David caught a quick glimpse of Peretz pushing his way through the crowd, an El-Al flight bag slung over one shoulder, Uri right behind him flanked by two other detectives on his team.
Peretz paused just in front of the station, sniffing the air, looking this way and that. Dov muttered 'Here we go again,' but David sensed greater energy than before. When Peretz finally took off, they followed him down the maze of narrow streets, ten of them on foot, the other five in cars. He led them rapidly to a small cheap hotel on Allenby Road, The Zion.
You don't think this is weird?' asked Dov. They were parked across the street. Micha, who had a better view of the lobby, reported that Peretz was checking in. 'Guy with a beautiful apartment in Jerusalem checks into a fleabag hole like this. Kind of place you do a drug deal or maybe take a whore.'
'Soon as he's up in his room, I want Micha to identify himself at the desk. He's to find out if Peretz is using his real name and if they've ever seen him here before.'
Micha reported Peretz had checked in as Meir Shikun, that he had stayed in the Zion several times, and that not only did he have good ID, but a business card on which he was listed as a salesman for a Petah Tikva plastics firm.
'Okay,' David said. 'Get adjoining rooms. Either side of his and across the hall. Put three guys up there, and someone with the operator in case he uses the phone.'
