leash.”
Now and then Friedman would glance in the rearview. Our eyes would meet. We’d both smile.
Between rounds of collegiality, I tried taking in the landscape. I knew from Winston’s book that the route from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem was taking us from the coastal plain, through the Shephelah, or lowlands, into the Judean hill country, and up into the mountains.
Night had fallen. I couldn’t see much.
We rounded curve after curve, then suddenly Jerusalem was twinkling before us. A vanilla-wafer moon grazed the top of the Temple Mount, lighting the Old City with an amber glow.
I’ve observed few scenes that triggered a physical reaction. Haleakala volcano at dawn. The Taj Mahal at sunset. The Masai Mara during wildebeest migration.
Moonlit Jerusalem stopped my breath. Friedman picked up on it, and our eyes met again.
“Awesome, isn’t it?”
I nodded in the dark.
“Lived here fifteen years. I still get goose bumps.”
I wasn’t listening. My mind was shanking up images. Suicide bombers. Christmas pageants. West Bank settlements. Catechism classes at my old parish church. Newsreel scenes of angry young men.
Israel is a place where the wonder of the past slams daily into the bitter reality of the present. Driving through the night, I couldn’t take my eyes from the ancient settlement forever and always at the center of it all.
A quarter hour after first seeing Jerusalem, we were in the city. Cars lined the curbs, bumper sniffing bumper, like dogs in some frozen canine parade. Vehicles crammed the streets. Pedestrians thronged the walks, women inhijab or full burka, men in black hats, teens in Levi 501’s.
How like Quebec, I thought, with its constant clash of religion, language, and culture. French and English. The two solitudes. In Jerusalem the ante was upped to three. Muslim beside Christian beside Jew, all separate.
I lowered my window.
The air was packed with smells. Cement. Exhaust. Whiffs of flowers, spices, garbage, cooking grease.
I listened to the familiar city-night jazz. Car horns. Traffic humming on an overpass. The sound of a piano slipping from an open door. It was the melody of a thousand urban centers.
Ryan had booked us into the American Colony, a Turkish-style manse-turned-hotel in East Jerusalem. His thinking: Arab sector, no bombs.
Friedman turned from the Nablus Road into a circle drive bordered by flowers and palms. Passing a small antiquities shop, he looped around and stopped under a vine-draped portico.
Friedman alighted and retrieved our suitcases.
“Hungry?”
Two nods.
“I’ll be in the bar.” Friedman slammed the trunk. “Lower level.”
Ryan’s choice was a good one. The American Colony was all antiques, chandeliers, hanging tapestries, and hammered bronze. The floors were polished stone. The windows and doorways were arched, and the floor plan centered on a flower-filled courtyard.
Everything but the pasha himself.
We were expected. Check-in was quick.
As Ryan asked a few questions, I scanned names engraved on small marble wall plaques. Saul Bellow. John Steinbeck. Jimmy Carter. Winston Churchill. Jane Fonda. Giorgio Armani.
My room was everything the lobby promised. Mirrored armoire. Carved writing desk. Persian carpet. Bathroom aglow with gold gilt mirrors and black-and-white tile.
I wanted to shower and crawl into the four-poster. Instead, I brushed teeth and hair, changed, and hurried downstairs.
Ryan and Friedman were already seated at a low table in one of the alcoves. Each had a bottle of Taybeh beer.
Friedman signaled a waiter.
I ordered Perrier and an Arabic salad. Ryan went with spaghetti.
“This hotel is beautiful,” I said.
“The place was built by some fat-cat Arab around 1860. Forget his name. Room one was his. The other downstairs rooms were his wives’ summer digs, and in the winter, the ladies moved up a floor. The guy was hot for a son, but no one obliged, so he married a fourth time, and built two more rooms. The new bride disappointed him, too, so he died.”
Friedman sipped his beer.
“In 1873, a big-bucks Chicago attorney named Horatio Spafford sent his wife and four daughters off on a European vacation. The ship sank and only Mama survived.” Another sip.
“Couple years, couple more daughters. Then the Spaffords lost a son. They were real religious, members of some church organization, so they decided to seek consolation in the Holy Land. In 1881 they came and settled with friends in the Old City. The group became known as the American Colony, and developed quite a reputation for helping the poor.
“Long story short, others joined and the group outgrew its digs. The Spaffords rented, then eventually bought this place. Ever hear of Peter Ustinov?”
Ryan and I nodded.
“In 1902 Peter’s granddaddy started sending visitors here from a hotel he owned up in Jaffa. Became the American Colony Hostel, later Hotel. The place has survived four wars and four regimes.”
“The Turks, the Brits, the Jordanians, and the Israelis,” I guessed.
“Bingo. But you’re not here for a history lesson. Why’s this toad Kaplan such a hot property in Canada?”
Ryan filled Friedman in on the Ferris investigation.
“Big leap from bad paper to homicide,” Friedman said.
“Jumbo,” Ryan agreed. “But the widow’s got a history with Kaplan.”
“Which she failed to mention,” Friedman said.
“She did,” Ryan said.
“And Kaplan fled the country.”
“He did.”
“Widow stands to collect four million,” Friedman said.
“She does.”
“Four million’s a lot of motivation.”
“Nothing gets by you,” Ryan said.
“You’d like to chat with Mr. Kaplan?”
“At his earliest convenience.”
“First thing in the morning?”
“Nah, let him brush his teeth.”
Friedman turned to me. “My fault, I’m sure, but I didn’t get your connection to the case.”
I explained how I’d obtained the photo from Kaplan and the skeleton from Morissonneau, and mentioned my call to the IAA.
“Who’d you talk to?”
“Tovya Blotnik and Ruth Anne Bloom.”
“Bloom’s the bone lady?”
I hid a smile. I’d been given the same tag.
“Yes.”
“They mention that bone box?” Friedman asked.
“The James ossuary?”
Friedman nodded.
“Blotnik mentioned it. Why?”
Friedman ignored my question. “This Drum suggest you keep a low profile once you got here?”
“Jake advised me not to contact anyone in Israel before meeting with him.”
Friedman drained his beer. When he spoke again his voice sounded flat, as though he was sealing his real
