Europe.
Steak and fried potatoes and chopped salad. Along with a bottle of Bordeaux and half a chocolate cake. After all that. Avi had felt fuzzy around the edges but still able to oblige. thank you, madame.
She'd taken hold of him, pulled him to the bed, giggling. Then forty-four minutes (he'd timed it) of straightaway pump-ing with the girl holding on to him as if he were a preserver, Avi feeling himself sweat, the wine popping out of him in fermented droplets.
After that one, he'd been tired too. Listening to the rhythm of the girl's breathing, then sinking into deep, dreamless sleep.
No balcony, for the first time since he'd been on the Wolfson surveillance.
Then screams-he didn't know how many of them he'd missed. But loud enough to yank him awake, shuddering. The girl awoke, too, sat up holding the sheet to her body, just like in the movies-what the hell was she hiding?
Another scream. Avi swung his legs out of bed, shook his head to make sure it was really happening.
'Avraham,' the girl croaked. 'What's going on?' Avi was up now. The girl reached out for him.
'Avraham!'
The grogginess had made her look ugly, thought Avi. Damaged. And he knew that it was the way she'd look in five years. All the time. While running to the balcony he decided he'd break it off with her, soon. 'What is it, Avraham?' 'Shh.'
Malkovsky was in the courtyard, barefoot and wearing a white robe that made him look like a polar bear. Lumbering in circles, chasing a child-a girl of about twelve.
One of the daughters, second to the oldest. Avi remem-bered her because she always looked so serious, walked separately from the others. Sheindel-that was her name.
Sheindel was in pajamas. Her blond hair, usually braided, fanned around her shoulders as she ran from the polar bear. Screaming: 'No, no, no! No more!'
'Come here, Sheindeleh! Come here. I'm sorry!'
'No! Get away! I hate you!'
'Shah shtill! Quiet!' Malkovsky reached out to grab her, moving sluggishly because of his weight. Avi ran back into the bedroom. Throwing on trousers and a shirt that he didn't bother to button, he kept his ears attuned to the cries from below.
'No! Get away from me! I hate you! Aahh!'
'Stop running, I order you!'
'I hate you! I hate you! Aaahhh!'
Avi put the light on. The South African honey yelped and threw herself under the covers. He fumbled as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Where were his handcuffs, dammit! Always prepared and now look at him? the wine
. Ah, there on the nightstand. He pocketed them. Now the gun.
'Help!' Sheindel was screaming. 'Shut your mouth, stupid girl!' 'No. no, get away! Help!'
Avi's eyes were clear now. He found the 9 mm hanging in its holster over the chair, pulled the gun out, stuck it under his waistband, and ran for the door.
'Is it terrorists?' asked the girl, still under the covers.
'No. Back to sleep.' Avi flung open the door, thinking: There are different types of terrorism.
He sprinted for the stairwell, leaped down the stairs four at a time, pumped up and strangely elated. When he got to the courtyard, lights were switching on throughout the nearby apartments, checkering the complex.
Malkovsky's back was to him. Sheindel was nowhere in sight. Then Avi heard sucking sobs and hyperventilation and realized that she was hidden behind her father, concealed by his mass. She'd backed herself into a corner. Malkovsky was advancing toward her, huffing, arms spread wide.
'Sheindel,' he cajoled. 'I'm your tateh.'
'No!' Sob, breath. 'You'rea'-sob, breath-' rashaf' Evil man.
'Don't touch her,' said Avi.
Malkovsky jerked around, saw the Beretta pointed at him. His eyes were agitated, his face moonlight-pale and greasy with perspiration.
'What?' he said.
'I'm a police detective. Get away from her, Malkovsky. Lie on the ground.'
Malkovsky hesitated. Avi walked up to him, keeping the gun aimed. Malkovsky stepped backward. Avi grabbed the lapel of the white robe with one hand, put one foot around Malkovsky's ankle, and tripped him with a judo move he'd learned in basic training.
The bigger they were, the easier they fell, he thought, watching Malkovsky collapse facedown. Something to do with leverage, according to the self-defence instructor, but until now Avi had never really believed it.
Working swiftly, enjoying his competence, he yanked Malkovsky's arms behind his back. The man's corpulence made it hard to stretch the limbs far enough to cuff them, but he tugged hard and finally clamped the cuffs over soft. hairy wrists.
'Oy, you're hurting me,' said Malkovsky. His breathing was labored and rapid. He turned his head to the side and Avi saw blood seeping into his mustache and beard; the fall had bruised him.
