Daoud continued to examine the picture, holding the edges with both hands, concentrating, grim.
'I can't place her,' he said finally. 'But there's something familiar about the face.'
'What?' asked Daniel.
Daoud stared at the photo again. 'I don't know why, but one of the villages keeps coming to mind. Silwan, perhaps. Or Abu Tor.'
'Not Bethlehem?'
'No, sir,' said Daoud. 'If she were from Bethlehem, I'd know her.'
'What about the other villages?' asked Shmeltzer. 'Sur Bahir, Isawiya.'
'Maybe,' said Daoud. 'For some reason Abu Tor and Silwan come to mind.'
'Perhaps you've seen her in passing,' said Daniel. 'A brief glimpse through the car window.'
Daoud thought for a while. 'Perhaps.'
He's worried, thought Daniel. About having spoken too soon with nothing to back it up.
'So you're saying she's an Arab,' said Shmeltzer.
'That was my first impression,' said Daoud. He tugged at his mustache.
'I've got a requisition in for all the missing-kid files,' said Daniel. 'Sixteen hundred of them. In the meantime, we'll be knocking on doors. The villages are as good a place to start as any. Take Silwan first, Elias. Show the picture around. If nothing clicks, go on to Abu Tor.'
Daoud nodded and put the photo in his jacket pocket.
A shout came from across the room:
'All recruits at attention!'
A striking-looking man swaggered toward the table. Well over six feet, bulging and knotted with the heavy musculature of a weight lifter, he wore white shorts, rubber beach sandals, and a red sleeveless mesh shirt that exposed lots of hard saffron skin. His hair was blue-black, straight, parted in the middle and styled with a blow- dryer, his face wholly Asian, broad and flat like that of a Mongolian warrior. Eyes resting on high shelflike cheekbones were twin slits in rice paper. A blue shadow of beard darkened his chin. About thirty years old, with five years latitude on either side of the estimate.
'Shalom, Dani. Nahum.' The man's voice was deep and harsh.
'Chinaman.' Shmeltzer nodded. 'Day off?'
'Till now,' said the big man. He looked at Daoud apprais-ingly, then sat down next to him.
'Yossi Lee,' he said, extending his hand. 'You're Daoud, right? The ace of Kishle.'
Daoud took the hand tentatively, as if assessing the greeting for sarcasm. Lee's shake was energetic, his smile an equine flash of long, curving white teeth. Releasing the Arab's hand, he yawned and stretched.
'What do they have to eat in this dump? I'm starved.'
'Better this dump than somewhere else,' said Shmeltzer.
'Somewhere else would be free,' said Lee. 'Free always tastes terrific.'
'Next time, Chinaman,' promised Daniel. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes late and the new man hadn't arrived.
Emil came in with menus.
'A beer,' said the Chinaman.
'Goldstar or Maccabee?' asked Emil.
'Goldstar.'
The waiter started to leave.
'Stick around,' said Daniel. 'We'll order now.'
Shmeltzer and the Chinaman ordered stuffed marrow appetizers and a double mixed grill each. Daniel noticed Daoud examine the menu, shift his eyes to the price column, and hesitate. Wondering, no doubt, how far a brand- new sergeant's salary would carry him. Daniel had visited Daoud's home in Bethlehem shortly after the bust of the Number Two Gang, bringing news of the promotion and a gift of dried fruit. The poverty had surprised him, though it shouldn't have-most cops had serious money problems. The papers had just run a story about a bunch of new hires applying for welfare. And before joining the force Daoud had worked as a box boy in a souvenir shop, one of those cramped, musty places that sold olive-wood crucifixes and straw mockups of the Nativity to Christian tourists. Earning what-a thousand a year?
Now, watching the Arab scan the menu, the memory of that poverty returned: the Daoud household-three closet-sized rooms in an ancient building, mattresses on the floor, a charcoal stove for heat, prints of Jesus in agony on whitewashed walls. Children everywhere-at least half a dozen, toddling and tripping, in various stages of undress. A shy young wife gone to fat, a crippled mother-in-law knitting silently. Cooking smells and baby squalls.
Putting his own menu down, he said: 'I'll have a mint salad.'
'Mint salad.' said Emil the Waiter, copying. 'What else, Pakad?'
'That's it.'
The waiter's eyebrows rose.
