'Or maybe turn it into something,' David said.
Dov looked at him. 'What do you mean?'
'Suppose we call ourselves the Rabies Squad and take on every stinking job Latsky's got. Suppose we start acting like we've got a case of rabies-guys you don't fuck around with, guys who bite.'
He could see they liked that; he liked it too. More than anything he wanted to show Latsky that he wasn't going to be humbled or beaten down.
'See that kid. Looks like he's cruising. He's munching something too.' Uri nodded toward an alley that converged upon the square. An Arab boy, spooning ice cream from a cup, was moving toward them at a leisurely pace.
'Remember, if he spills on her, wait till his buddies cluster around.'
Uri smiled. 'Then kick ass, right?'
David nodded. 'Okay, let's spread out.'
Actually, they all agreed afterward, it was Shoshana who kicked ass the best. Even before they reached her, she had unleashed a series of ferocious chops and kicks. The Arab kids were devastated; no rich tourist woman had ever come at them like this. She badly bloodied two of them, and smashed her foot into the crotch of the third. He fell to the pavement, curled up, held himself, and whimpered. Fascinated passersby pressed forward while frightened tourists fled the scene.
When it was over Shoshana's fine silk blouse, which she'd bought at an expensive boutique in Yemen Moshe, was split straight down the back. But she didn't care. She loved to fight. Studying her afterward David thought: Today a decoy has been born.
When they delivered their prisoners to the booking room at the Russian Compound, Dov introduced the beaten-up Arab youngsters as the harvest of a brilliant trap.
'We're the Rabies Squad,' he announced to the astonished guards. 'We skim scum off the streets.'
He remembered an incident between Gideon and his mother. Gideonwas still in high school; David was on leave from the army. He'd spent two years as an intelligence officer compiling psychological profiles of the Egyptian General Staff.
In those days he was courting Judith Weitz; the incident occurred one night after they'd gone out. David had returned late to the house on Disraeli Street, was mounting the stairs to his old bedroom on the third floor, when he heard voices coming from the closed upstairs sitting room, and paused on the steps to listen.
His mother was speaking. There was something fierce and unfamiliar in her tone. She was berating Gideon, mercilessly, David thought, all the while punctuating her speech with what seemed to him to be inappropriate endearments.
'Darling, darling…absolutely not acceptable. You must never do such a thing!…vile and cowardly…selfish… horrid. No, sweetheart! No son of mine…!'
What were they talking about? David retreated two steps, to bring himself closer to the sitting room. Just then the door opened and Gideon appeared, wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else, his upper torso bare, gleaming with perspiration.
'…disgusting…vile… Don't you dare walk out on me!' Their mother's voice continued to cut through the house as Gideon raised his head, saw David, and they locked eyes. Gideon's, David saw, were streaming tears.
'…come back in here, darling! I insist! Immediately!'
But Gideon just stood there, eyes still locked with David's, his chest heaving as he wept. Finally unable to bear this vision of anguish and vulnerability, David broke contact and continued up the stairs.
'Okay,' said Micha, reading from his notes, 'we got ourselves a pretty fancy boy. Ephraim Cohen: thirty-two years old, born on Kibbutz Giv'at Haim. Graduate of Balliol College, Oxford. Did two years' graduate work in Arab studies at Harvard. Distinguished military record: fighter pilot, later detached to General Yigal Gati as a special aide. Served in Air Force intelligence. Six years ago he transferred to General Security Services. Married to Dr. Shira Aloni, another kibbutznik, now associate professor of botany, Hebrew University. The Cohens have two children, a boy and a girl. They live in a handsome flat on Arlosoroff just across from the Van Leer Foundation. Cohen is known as an Anglophile; he favors fine English tailoring and speaks the language like an upper class Brit. He's also fluent in Arabic. Far as his politics go, I couldn't pick up much. He's not religious, nor, so far as I can tell, associated with any particular faction within Shin Bet. Basically, David, what you've got here is a typical young, elite, secular Israeli, well-off, probably Labor Party liberal, ambitious, hardworking, superbly educated, and very well connected. If there's a blot I can't find it. In a funny way he seems…'
'What?'
Micha squinted. 'A little too perfect, know what I mean? Maybe just too good to be true.'
'So, Rafi,' David asked, 'has Latsky found us another dirty little job?'
Rafi laughed. 'Latsky's shitting in his pants.'
The last time Rafi had described Latsky's anxiety, he'd told David the superintendent was pissing blood.
'Why? All we did-'
'No, not that. A male body turned up, hidden pretty well in a gully near Kafr Aqab. It could have lain there for years if some Bedouin hadn't stumbled by. The vultures made a pretty good meal of the guy, but the forensic team managed to get some prints. He checks out as a bully-sadist from the Haifa waterfront. Military records show he was sentenced to five years in prison for assault on an officer. Then suddenly he was released.'
'One of Peretz's boys. The 'Executioner.' How was he killed?'
'Hard and slow.'
'He was marked, of course.' David didn't bother to conceal his sense of vindication.
'Since Peretz's story to you finally checks out, the minister's changed his mind. Congratulations, David.' Rafi grinned. As of now you're back on the case.'
Anna described 'toska' to him-a melancholy longing that struck her sometimes when she played, a sad and anguished yearning for her motherland.
She smiled when she told him that toska was a feeling no expatriate Russian could avoid.
'Targov feels it very strongly,' she said. 'I think he could die of it if he allowed himself.' Then, after a pause: 'Sometimes, David, I think that's why he came.'
'To die?'
She nodded. 'To die here in Jerusalem.'
On a golden Sabbath they went together to The Shrine of the Book to see the Dead Sea Scrolls. 'They are like title deeds to us,' David explained. 'Proof of our ownership of this land.'
Later, facing the black wall outside, the wall that symbolized the forces of darkness that prevailed before the revelations of the Book, he said: 'The case involves my entire life. I keep looking for an elegant solution. There're all these different paths leading off in different directions, and I don't know which one to follow to get me through the maze.'
She placed her hand against his cheek, then arched up on her toes and kissed him between his eyes. 'The same problem with my sonata,' she said softly. 'A thicket of ideas. Lots of different ways to play different sections. But no clean clear line leading to the finish.'
Sometimes, after they made love, early in the morning or late in the afternoon before the sky turned dark, he would turn to her, look directly into her eyes, and then would see all the colors of the sun spreading out from her pupils in a wheel of fire.
A fine private house in the German Colony. An old lady in a green housedress, her white hair arranged in chaotic wisps, greeted David at the door.
'Moshe Liederman? Yes, he's here, young man. Up three flights, then follow the corridor.'
Old wood steps creaked beneath his feet. He smelled dead flowers, and then, on the third floor, the dark aroma of rooms closed up and rarely aired. Down the corridor past old black-framed schoolroom etchings of classical Roman scenes. At the end an open door revealed a narrow attic room.
Liederman, wearing a worn gray sweater, sat crouched over a wooden desk. He was reading clippings, a cigarette in his hand. When he heard David's steps he looked up, surprised.
'Captain Bar-Lev!' He started to rise.
'Stay still, Moshe.' David peered about. The room was lined with shelves packed with folders containing old newspapers and books. 'So this is your archive. Okay if I sit down?'
