sported a raised wooden stage at the far end and accommodated two dozen tables, all but one of them bare and unoccupied. A tablecloth of burgundy linen had been spread across a round table next to the stage. At it sat a nondescript man reading
Ha'aretz. The sounds of footsteps caused him to glance up briefly from his paper before resuming his perusal.
'The fish is good today,' said Kohavi, stopping midway. 'So are the filet steal and the shishlik. I'll send the others back as they arrive.'
'One of them's never been here,' said Daniel. 'Elias Daoud.' He described Daoud physically.
'Daoud,' said Kohavi. 'The Arab involved in breaking up the Number Two Gang?'
'That's him.'
'Nice piece of work. I'll see to it he doesn't get lost.'
'Thanks.'
The restaurateur left and Daniel walked to the newspaper reader and sat opposite him, propping the envelope of photos against one leg of his chair.
'Shalom, Nahum.'
The paper lowered and the man gave a brief nod. 'Dani.'
He was in his mid-fifties, bald and thin, with features that had been cast with an eye toward anonymity: the nose slightly aquiline but unmemorable, the mouth a tentative hyphen of intermediate width, the eyes twin beads of neutral brown, their lack of luster suggesting sleepiness. A forgettable face that had settled into repose-the serenity of one who'd vanquished ambition by retreating from it. He wore reading glasses, a cheap digital watch on one hairless forearm, and a pale-blue sport shirt with a faint windowpane check, its pocket sagging with ballpoint pens. A navy-blue windbreaker had been folded neatly over the chair next to him. Over it was slung a shoulder holster bearing a 9 mm Beretta.
'Mice in the Golan are committing suicide,' he said, tapping the newspaper and putting it down. 'Jumping off cliffs, hundreds at a time. An instinctive reaction to overpopulation, according to the scientists.'
'Noble,' said Daniel.
'Not really,' said the thin man. 'Without a sufficient supply of mice, the owls who prey on them will die.' He smiled. 'If the owls complain to the U.N., we'll be brought up on cruelty-to-animal charges.'
The door to the kitchen swung open and Emil the Waiter came to the table with a platter of salads-hummus, tehina, two kinds of eggplant, pickled cucumbers, bitter Greek olives-and a stack of pita for dipping. He set down a plate next to each of them and bowed formally.
'Something to drink, Pakad Sharavi?'
'Soda water, please.'
'For you, Mefakeah Shmeltzer?'
'Another cola, no lime this time.'
When he was gone, Daniel said, 'Speaking of the U.N., I was up at the Amelia Catherine this morning. It relates to our new one.'
'So I've heard,' said Shmeltzer, rolling an olive between his fingers. 'Bloody cutting on Scopus.'
'Are tongues flapping that energetically?' asked Daniel.
The edge in his voice made Shmeltzer look up.
'Just the usual grapevine stuff from the uniforms. You called for an extra car to search the hillside-people wanted to know why. What's the big deal?'
'No big deal. Laufer wants it kept quiet.'
'I want world peace and harmony,' said Shmeltzer. 'Care to take bets on either?'
'What did you hear, exactly, Nahum?'
'Maniac homicide, maybe a whore, maybe another Gray Man. Does it match?'
Daniel shook his head. 'Doubtful.' He related what he'd learned about the case. The account seemed to subdue Shmeltzer.
'Insane,' he said quietly. 'We never used to see that kind of thing.'
Emil returned with the drinks and, eyeing the untouched food, asked if everything was all right.
'Everything's fine,' said Daniel. Rising, he went to a sink across the room and used a copper cup to wash both hands. Upon returning, he sat down, said the blessing over bread, broke off a piece of pita, salted it, and ate it. Dipping another piece into the hummus, he put it in his mouth, the pungency of-cumin and garlic a pleasant shock upon his tongue. Emil nodded approvingly and turned on his heel.
'Get anything at the hospital?' asked Shmeltzer.
'Typical U.N. situation. Lip service and hostility.'
'What do you expect? They live like little princes, the assholes-duty-free Mercedes, villas, diplomatic immunity. What do they pay their pencil-pushers now-forty, fifty thousand a year?'
'Ninety.'
'Shekels or American dollars?'
'Dollars,' said Daniel. 'Tax-free.'
