She began heading north on Salah E-Din, duplicating the Latam couple's route.
Shmeltzer could see she was a bit flatfooted, could hear her shuffle. When her footsteps had died, he moved forward, looked at her, then back at the Ali Baba.
The restaurant's front lights had been turned off. The waiter was folding up tablecloths, extinguishing candles, collapsing tables.
Al Biyadi and Cassidy began walking north, too, following the scrubwoman.
They passed within two meters of him, keeping up a good pace, not talking. Shmeltzer radioed the Latam couple. The woman answered.
'Wife, here.'
'They just left, followed a short woman in a dark dress, shoulder-length dark hair, early twenties. Ali three of them coming your way on Salah E-Din. Where are you?'
'Just past Az-Zahara, near the Joulani Travel Agency.'
'Stay there. I'll take up the rear.'
He put the radio under his beggar's robes, back in the pocket of his windbreaker, cursed the heat and all those layers of clothes, and followed a block behind.
Goddamned caravan.
Sheikh and girlfriend kept walking fast. A few stragglers were still out on the streets-lowlife, porters and kitchen help from the Arab hotels going off-shift-but he found it easy to keep an eye on his quarry: Look for a female head bobbing next to a male. You didn't see many men and women walking together in East Jerusalem.
They passed Az-Zahara Street, walked right by the Joulani Agency where the Latam couple was waiting, invisibly, and the American School for Oriental Research, and continued toward the Anglican Cathedral of Saint George and its four-steepled Gothic tower.
Just above the cathedral they reunited with the scrubwoman, exchanged words that Shmeltzer couldn't hear, and made their way-a strange threesome-east, then south, down Ibn Haldoun. The street was narrow and short, dead-ending at Ibn Batuta and the front facade of the Ritz Hotel.
But they stopped short of the dead end, walked through a wrought-iron gate into the courtyard of an elegant old walled Arab house, and disappeared.
Shmeltzer waited across the street for the Latam couple to arrive, saw them enter the mouth of Ibn Haldoun and trotted up the street to greet them. The three of them retreated twenty yards up Ibn Haldoun, away from the glare of street lamps.
'All three of them in there?' asked the man.
Shmeltzer nodded. 'They entered just a minute ago. Do you know anything about the building?'
'Not on any list I've seen,' said the woman. 'Nice, for a street scrubber.'
'She resembles the first three Butcher victims,' said Shmeltzer. 'Small, dark, not bad-looking. We've been thinking they plucked their pigeons right out of the hospital, but maybe not. Maybe they make contact during medical visits, arrange to meet them later-money for sex.' He paused, looked back at the house. Two stories, fancy, carved stone trim. 'Be nice to know who owns the palace.'
'I'll call in, put in for a Ministry of Housing ID,' said the woman, removing her radio from her purse.
'No time for that,' said Shmeltzer. 'They could be doping her up right now, laying her out for surgery. Call French Hill, tell them the situation and that we're going in. And ask for backup-have an ambulance ready.'
He looked at the man. 'Come on.'
They sprinted to the house, opened the gates, which were fuzzy with rust, entered the courtyard, Berettas drawn.
A front-door back-door approach was called for but access to the rear of the house was blocked on both sides by Italian cypress growing together in dense green walls. Returning their attention to the front, they took in details: a single door, at the center; grated windows, most of them shuttered. Two front balconies, the courtyard planted nicely with flower beds. Maybe a subdivision into flats-most of the big houses in Jerusalem had been partitioned-but with only one door there was no way to know for certain.
Shmeltzer waved his gun toward the door. The Latam man followed him.
Locked. The Latam guy took out picks. This one was fast; he had it open in two minutes. He looked at Shmeltzer, waiting for the signal to push the door open.
Shmeltzer knew what he was thinking. A place this fancy could have an alarm; if it were the kill spot, maybe even a booby trap.
Too old to be doing this, he thought. And to save an Arab, yet. But what could you do-the job was the job.
He gave the door a push, walked into the house, the Latam man at his heels. No ringing bells, no flurry of movement. And no shrapnel tearing through his chest. Good. Saved for another day of blessed existence.
A square entry hall, round Persian rug, two more doors at the end. Shmeltzer and the Latam man pressed themselves against opposite walls, took one door each, jiggled the handles.
The Latam guy's was open. Inside it was a spiral staircase, uncarpeted stone.
Shmeltzer walked up it, found the landing at the top boarded up, the air dust-laden and smelling of musty neglect. He tried the boards. Nailed tight, no loose ones. No one had come up here tonight.
Back down to the ground floor, signal to the Latam guy to try the second door. Locked. Two locks, one on top of the other. The first one yielded quickly to the pick; the second was stubborn.
The minutes ticked away, Shmeltzer imagined drops of blood falling in synchrony with each one. His hands
