'No one suspects you of anything, adoni,' he soothed. 'I was merely succumbing to curiosity-an occupational hazard.'
Schlesinger scowled and asked if he could go.
'Certainly, and thank you for your time. I'll have the officers take you back to your car.'
'I can walk just fine.'
'I'm sure you can, but regulations dictate otherwise.'
He called the uniforms over while the old man muttered about bureaucrats and red tape, had one of them walk him to the blue-and-white, and drew the other aside.
'Take a look at his car, Amnon. Nothing detailed, just a casual glance. Inform him that the carbine must be kept in the trunk and put it there yourself. When you do, check the trunk.'
'Anything in particular to look for?'
'Anything out of the ordinary. Be sure to keep it casual-don't let on what you're doing.'
The officer looked at Schlesinger's retreating form.
'Is he a suspect?'
'We're being thorough. He lives on French Hill. Escort him to the towers, and radio for two more men. Have them bring a metal detector and the four of you climb down there and do a grid search of the slope on the desert side. Concentrate on the immediate vicinity beyond the ridge-a two-kilometer radius should be sufficient. Look for footprints, blood, human waste, food wrappers.'
'Anything out of the ordinary.'
'Exactly. And no loose lips. The brass wants this kept quiet.'
The officer nodded and left, talked to Schlesinger, and ushered him to the car. The blue-and-white drove off, fol-lowed shortly by the technical van. The transport drivers disappeared into the gully with a stretcher and a folded black plastic body bag and reappeared shortly with the bag filled. They slid it into the Abu Kabir van, climbed in, slammed the doors, and sped away. Daniel walked over to Afif and together they removed the barriers and loaded them into the jeep.
'Salman, what's the chance of someone sneaking in from the desert in the early morning hours?'
'Everything's been quiet,' the Druze said stoically. 'Well under control.'
'What about from Isawiya?'
'Silent. We've got infrared scopes at our stations in the Rift. On the tenders and some of the jeeps as well. All we've been picking up are snakes and rabbits. Small band of Bedouins up north of the Ramot, they won't come down until summer.'
'What about Ramallah?'
'Local unrest, but nothing beyond talk.'
'The Bethlehem sector?'
'Patrol's been beefed up since the girl's funeral. No suspi-cius movement.'
The girl. Najwa Sa'id Mussa. Fourteen years old and on her way to market when she'd been caught in the cross fire between a mob of stone-throwing Arabs and two nineteen-year-old soldiers who'd fired back in defense. A bullet to the head had turned her into a heroine, posters emblazoned with her picture slapped to the trunks of the fig trees that grew along the Hebron Road, the graffiti of vengeance marring walls and boulders. A near-riot of a funeral, and then things had gotten quiet again.
Or had they?
He thought about another dead girl and wondered.
By seven forty-five, students had begun drifting toward campus and the hum of traffic filtered down the road. Daniel crossed over and walked down toward the Amelia Catherine Hospital. He'd passed the place numerous times but had never been inside. During the Gray Man investigation, Gavrieli had taken the task of handling the U.N. people on his own. A good boss. Too bad he'd been careless.
As Daniel neared the compound he was struck by how out of place it seemed, perched atop Scopus, with its pink stone facade, obelisk bell tower, yawning gargoyles, and steeply pitched tile roofs. An overdressed Victorian dowager camped out in the desert.
An arched, ivied entry fronted the main building. Embedded in the limestone at the apex was a rectangle of gray granite, carved with a legend in English: Amelia Catherine PILGRIMS' HOSPICE AND INFIRMARY, ERECTED BY HERMANN brauner, AUGUST 15,1898. An enameled plaque, white with blue letters, had been nailed just below: UNITED NATIONS RELIEF AND WORKS ASSOCIATION. CO-ADMINISTERED BY THE world ASSEMBLY OF CHURCHES. English and Arabic, not a trace of Hebrew. Climbing white roses, their petals heat-browned, embraced the fluted columns that flanked the arch. The entry led to a large dusty courtyard, shaded at the hub by a spreading live oak as old as the edifice. Circling the trunk of the big tree were spokelike beds of flowers: tulips, poppies, irises, more roses. A high, carved fountain sat in one corner, dry and silent, its marble basin striated with dirt.
Just inside the entry sat a portly middle-aged Arab watchman on a flimsy plastic chair, sleepy-eyed and inert except for fingers that danced nimbly over a string of amber worry beads. The man wore gray work pants and a gray shirt. Under his armpits were black crescents of sweat. A glass of iced tamarindy rested on the ground, next to one leg of the chair, the ice cubes rounding to slush.
Daniel's footsteps raised the watchman's eyelids, and the Arab's face became a stew of emotions: curiosity, distrust, the muddled torpor of one whose dreams have been rudely curtailed.
Daniel greeted him in Arabic and showed him his badge. The watchman frowned, pulled his bulk upright, and reached into his pocket for identification.
'Not necessary,' said Daniel. 'Just your name, please.'
