he refused to cooperate, I'd threaten to show them to his wife.'
'David! You wouldn't do that!'
'No, of course not,' he said. 'But I sure as hell wouldn't hesitate to make the threat.'
Uri found the panel door through a garage in Netanya that specialized in Chevrolets. The foreman of the body shop remembered replacing the door, and directed Uri to a junkyard further down the coast. Here Uri made his way between carcasses of demolished Fords and torn-up Fiats, broken axels, shattered windshields, smashed-in radiators, and assorted burned-out truck engines crusted with grease and dirt. It took him two days but he finally found the panel door, and when David sent it over to the forensic lab at National Police H.Q., they were able to match paint marks in the dents with scrapings of paint taken from Schneiderman's truck.
'All of which proves,' Rafi said, 'that Schneiderman hit a van. But doesn't prove it was the van in Ein Kerem.'
'Maybe not,' David said, 'but I never counted on establishing a solid chain of evidence.'
'Then why did you go to so much trouble, David?'
'Confirmation. You see, Rafi-now I know I'm right.'
Dov's first call came through in seventy-two hours: 'Think it's hot in Jerusalem. You should see the way we're sweating here.'
'What have you got?'
'First, and this wasn't hard, Holyland Arts is owned by a Texas corporation called Militants for Christ, Inc. It's a spin-off of an Oklahoma oil company. The sole owner is a certain Harrison Stone, a big-deal oil and gas multimillionaire. He's also a part-time TV preacher-cool, soft-spoken, and very very slick. Around here they call him 'The Wizard of Ooze.' Some kind of local joke-I don't get it, but what the hell. Anyway, though Stone's certainly a fundamentalist, he's not a fire-and-damnation type. Makes his TV sermons in a cool reasonable tone of voice from behind a corporate desk. Something interesting: There's no church-no staff, no building, no parishioners. It's a private philanthropy and strictly a one-man show. And according to people in the Jewish community, Stone's a very big fan of Israel.'
'Has he been here?'
'Plenty of times. Trouble is I can't find out exactly when. But get this, David-he's also a close pal of Rabbi Katzer. Katzer was here last year soliciting funds, and not, I hear, just from local Jews. Stone supposedly arranged several very private meetings between Katzer and wealthy Texan Christian fundamentalists. Pledges of serious money are rumored to have been made in exchange for unspecified promises. It's all kind of vague, no one knows exactly what went on, but from the little I've been able to uncover I'd have to say your conspiracy theory is looking good.'
David felt a rush of excitement; a little more of the concealed pattern had been revealed. 'How did you dig all this up so fast?'
'I had help from a local lady reporter name of Gael Rubin. She wrote a series of articles on Stone, something very difficult to do because it's almost impossible to get near the guy. He's a take-over specialist who operates with a lot of secrecy.'
'What do you think?'
'Don't know yet. But the operation here doesn't fit with those crummy offices we saw.'
'You got pictures?'
'I shot some off the TV.'
'Have the consulate wire them to me. So-what does your pretty reporter girl say?'
'Did I say she was pretty, David?'
'She is, isn't she?'
'Yeah, she is.' Dov laughed. 'And she says Stone is sinister. Says that except for the religious stuff he plays it quiet, stays in the background, always works through proxies. Then, when he's ready to gobble something up, he strikes out of nowhere like a shark.'
He told her: 'Here I am working on a murder case that in some tangential way involves my brother, my father, and myself. And now it seems to involve you too. Your old lover has somehow stumbled into some strange back room of it. At least I think he has. So many intersections…' He shook his head. 'I think this could only happen here. Only here, Anna, in Jerusalem…'
Micha confirmed that Holyland Arts had funded the design of 'Circle in the Square' and that Israeli military engineers had done the actual work, paid for out of an IDF cultural and recreational fund.
'Far as I can tell, no specific individual authorized it. The way it works with this fund is that once properly prepared papers are filed in the appropriate manner they get shuffled through the bureaucracy from desk to desk. Each officer adds his initials and several months later the project comes out the other end approved.'
'If that's how it works then I pity Israel,' David said. But still he wasn't satisfied. 'Bring in Sokolov,' he instructed Micha. 'Time now to put him on the grill.'
There was something about the old man that filled David with ambivalence. His face bore the stamp of vulnerability one saw often in the older generation of European-born Israelis. The look of internal disturbance, of having been deeply and indelibly wounded in the past, totally opposed to the famous 'Sabra look'-the strong, set, committed features and direct unblinking gaze. A disturbed face but David knew he must distrust his sympathy. Often those who looked most disturbed had been deformed in sinister ways.
Was Sergei evil? Targov had told Anna that he was, but examining him now, across the small table in the tiny basement interrogation room, David could not be sure. There was pathos in the taut forehead, the terrible teeth, the bushes of white hair that sprang Ben-Gurion style from the sides of his shriveled head. His eyes, greatly magnified by his extra-thick spectacles, were frightened. No wonder-he had received an official summons; the man had spent fifteen years in Soviet camps.
Still, there was a hint of craftiness that belied the injured stare. David recognized the face of a man who could channel his hurt into a mercenary rage. He knew the type-the cheater, the stealer, the professional litigant, the man who behaves as if money can salve his wounds.
'Before I start asking questions, let me make several matters clear. We're investigating a case in which you may or may not be involved. As of now you're not a suspect, and we have no plan to bring any charges. However, if you lie to us you'll be charged with perjury, and, I warn you, the penalties for that can be severe. I say this because I want you to understand that there's nothing to be gained by concealing the truth.'
Sergei nodded, his face alert and tense.
David flicked his finger at the pile of drawings which Micha had removed from the walls of Sokolov's bedroom and which now lay between them on the table. 'We know you didn't make these. We know you were paid to sign them and claim authorship of 'Circle in the Square.' For us that's no crime. What we want to know is how you came to sign these drawings. Who approached you? What did they offer you? What deal did you strike? And, most important, why… why did they need you?'
Sergei hesitated. His hugely magnified eyes blinked and darted and finally came to rest. They were aimed at the place where David's forefinger touched his signature on the top drawing of the pile.
'This is your signature.'
Sergei nodded.
'But you didn't make these drawings?'
Sergei shook his head.
'Who asked you to sign them?'
'I received a letter from the foundation.'
'The Holyland Arts Foundation?'
'Yes.'
'What did the letter say?'
Sergei coughed, then looked nervously away. 'That my situation, as a new citizen and a sculptor, had come to their attention. That I was invited to come in and discuss the possibility of receiving a commission to create a public work.'
'So you went to the foundation offices. Whom did you meet?'
'Mr. Hurwitz.'
'Igal Hurwitz?'
Sergei nodded.
