Roselli kept walking, approaching the market intersection. Daoud stayed out of sight, flush with the buildings, prepared to duck into a doorway when the monk reversed himself.
Roselli passed the Abyssinian monastery, stopped, turned right onto Souq El Attarin, and disappeared.
It took a moment for the fact to register. Caught by surprise, Daoud ran to catch up, his boredom suddenly replaced by anxiety.
Thinking: What if I lose him?
To the east, the souq was ribbed with dozens of narrow roads and arched alleyways leading to the Jewish Quarter. Tiny courtyards and ancient clay-domed homes restored by the Jews, orphanages and one-room schools and synagogues* If someone wanted to lose himself at night, no section of the city was more suitable.
Just his luck, he lamented, sprinting silently in the darkness. All those stagnant nights followed by split- second failure.
A Thursday night, too. If Roselli was the Butcher, he might very well be prepared to strike.
Constricted with tension, Daoud sped toward the souq, thinking: Back in uniform for sure. Please, God, don't let me lose him.
He turned on El Attarin, entered the souq, caught his breath, pressed himself against a cold stone wall, and looked around.
Prayers answered: Roselli's outline, clearly visible in the moonlight streaming between the arches. Walking quickly and deliberately down stone steps, through the deserted market street.
Daoud followed. The souq was deserted and shuttered. Rancid-sweet-produce smells still clung to the night air, seasoned intermittently by other fragrances: freshly tanned leather, spices, peanuts, coffee.
Roselli kept going to the end of the souq, to where Attarin merged with Habad Street.
Pure Jewish territory now. What business could the monk have here? Unless he was planning to head west, into the Armenian Quarter. But a Franciscan would have little more to do with the Pointed Hats than he would with the Jews.
Daoud maintained his distance, ducking and weaving and maintaining a keen eye on Roselli, who kept bearing south. Past the Cardo colonnade, up through the top plaza of the
Jewish Quarter, the fancy shops that Jews had built there. Across the large parking lot, now empty.
Two border guards stood watch on the walls, turned at the sound of Roselli's sandals and stared at him, then at Daoud following moments later. A moment of analysis; then, just as quickly, the guards turned away.
Two brown-robes, nothing unusual.
Roselli passed under the arch that, during the day, served as an outdoor office for the Armenian moneylenders, showing no interest in either the Cathedral of Saint James or the Armenian Orthodox monastery. Daoud followed him toward the Zion Gate, mentally reviewing the Roman Catholic sites that graced that area: the Church of Saint Peter of the Cock-Crowing? Or perhaps the monk was headed outside the Old City walls, to the Crypt of Mary's Sleep-the Franciscans were entrusted with the tomb of Jesus' mother
But neither shrine proved to be Roselli's destination.
Just inside the Zion Gate was a cluster of Jewish schools- yeshivas. Newly built structures constructed on the sites of the old yeshivas Hussein had reduced to rubble in '48, Arab homes built by the Jordanians confiscated in '67 to make way for the rebuilding of the schools.
The typical Jerusalem seesaw.
Noisy places, yeshivas-the Jews liked to chant their studies for the world to hear. Black-coated longbeards and kids with skimpy whiskers hunched behind wooden lecterns, poring over their Old Testaments and their Talmuds. Reciting and debating without letup-even at this hour there was activity: brightly lit windows checkering the darkness; Daoud could hear a low sing-song drone of voices as he walked past.
Heretics, for sure, but one thing you had to give them: They had great powers of concentration.
Roselli walked past the larger yeshivas, approached a small one set back from the road and nearly obscured by its neighbors.
Ohavei Torah Talmudic Academy-domed building with a plain facade. Meager dirt yard in the front; to one side a big pine tree, the boughs casting spidery shadows over four parked cars.
The monk ducked behind the tree. Daoud closed the distance between them, saw that beyond the tree was a high stone wall separating the yeshiva from a three-story building with sheer stone walls. Nowhere to go. What was the monk up to?
A moment later, the monk emerged from the tree, a monk no longer.
The robes gone, just a shirt and pants.
One of those Jewish skullcaps on his head!
Daoud watched in astonishment as this new, Jewish-looking Roselli walked to the front door of Ohavei Torah Taimudic Academy and knocked.
A kid of about sixteen opened the door. He looked at Roselli with clear recognition. The two of them exchanged words, shook hands; the kid nodded and disappeared, leaving Roselli standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
Daoud was suddenly afraid: What was this, some Jewish plot, some cult? Had the Bible-quote letter sent to the American journalist been truthful? All the talk of Jewish blood sacrifices more than the idle rumors he'd taken them for?
Just what he needed: Arab detective unearths Jewish murder plot.
They'd be as likely to accept that as elect Arafat Prime Minister.
