They left the restaurant. Daoud walked to a tiny old gray Citroen that appeared to be held together with rope and baling wire. A blue Occupied Territories plate dangled crookedly from the battered front fender, embossed with the letter bet for Bethlehem, and an iron crucifix hung from the rearview mirror. Despite the police ID on top of the dash it looked like a perfect bomb crib, and Daniel wasn't surprised to see Wiesel, the undercover man, observing the car from a table at an adjacent cafe. When he saw Daniel he called for his check.
Friday, four P.M., Daniel exited the central bus station having learned nothing. No one had seen the girl. No one had looked at her photograph with even a hint of recognition.
A blind beggar was huddled on the sidewalk just outside the entrance to the depot, begrimed and toothless, his dry, sunken eyeholes raised to the sun. When Daniel passed, he held out a quaking clawlike hand and started to chant, a rhythmic keen not unlike prayer. Kind sir, kind sir, the good deed of charity takes on special value as the Sabbath approaches, a good deed, kind sir, kind sir, amen, amen
Daniel reached into his pocket, drew out a handful of coins, and dropped them into the filthy palm without counting. The beggar began blessing him in a high-pitched wail. The bony hand continued to shake, sifting the money as if it were grain, probing, hefting, decoding its value. A mental total was reached; the beggar's mouth twisted into a gaping, black-gummed smile. The blessings increased in volume and vigor: Daniel and his offspring for ten generations would be graced with good health and riches for time immemorial
Suddenly a group of six other paupers appeared from nowhere. Hunched, lame, snaggletoothed, and twisted, they shuffled and limped toward the detective, proclaiming individual litanies of despair that merged to a toneless, mournful dirge. Before he could get to the Escort, they'd reached him. Forming a circle around him, they began chanting louder, beseeching the kind sir. Emptying his pockets, he gave something to each of them, compressing his nostrils to avoid their stench.
Finally he got away and into the Escort. The Middle Ages, he thought, driving off to the accompaniment of their phlegmy benedictions. For years the government had offered the beggars jobs, welfare, anything to rid the station of their presence. But they were the descendants of generations of beggars who regarded themselves as trained specialists, plying an honorable family trade. Many of them, it was said, made an excellent living-more than that of a policeman-so perhaps he was a fool to have donated. Still, one needed any blessings one could get.
A stop back at Headquarters produced meager rewards: the information on Schlesinger hadn't come in. The troubled watchman, Hajab, had no criminal record, nor had he been treated at any mental institution. Of the other Amelia Catherine people, only Dr. Al Biyadi was known to Records. That knowledge was summed up in four typewritten pages marked official access only and placed on his desk in a sealed envelope. The data within were uninspiring.
It had been, as he'd suspected, a case of immigration complications. After seven years in Detroit, Al Biyadi had applied for and been granted American citizenship. After becoming an American, he'd attended two pro-PLO demonstrations at Wayne State and gotten his name in the FBI computer. The FBI had informed Mossad, and when Al Biyadi had applied for permission to reenter Israel and for a work permit to practice medicine, the computer had spat his name back out. Both requests had been refused pending a background investigation.
The usual paper storm had followed-an exchange of stiffly worded consular letters, U.N. protests, letters of support from Al Biyadi's congressman, and endorsements from medical school professors with Jewish surnames, all assuring the government that Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi was a man of sterling character. Some local newspaper coverage, as well, Daniel noted-personality pieces portraying the young physician as an idealist and a victim of discrimination.
In the end, the summary concluded, Al Biyadi had been determined to be 'relatively apolitical,' his involvement in PLO affairs confined to attendance at rallies, his primary life interests listed as 'expensive sports cars and haberdashery; expensive stereo equipment and electronic gadgetry; amorous relationships with a series of young American women, all of them nurses.' Hardly a firebrand. Four months after applying, he'd been granted his papers.
Not bad, thought Daniel. Getting a phone installed in Jerusalem could take twice as long.
He put the envelope in the file he'd begun on the murder, left the office, and tried to put himself in a Sabbath frame of mind.
Five minutes after five and the shops were closing.
It was his custom every Friday to buy the wine, bread, and sweetmeats for Shabbat, and he hadn't called Laura to tell her this Friday would be any different. He sped down Rehov Sokolov toward Lieberman's grocery, got caught in traffic, and sat frustrated, hoping the store would still be open. The other drivers shared his frustration and reacted predictably: The air filled with a storm of curses and klaxon bursts before the jam cleared.
When he pulled to the curb, Lieberman was locking up, a shopping bag at his feet. The grocer saw him, pointed at his watch reproachfully, then smiled, brought the bag to the passenger side, and handed it to Daniel before the detective could get out of the car.
Daniel thanked him and put the groceries on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Lieberman rubbed his paunch and stuck his face into the car.
'I just called your wife and told her you hadn't come by. One of your kids is on the way over here to get it.'
'Which one?'
'She didn't say.' Laughing: 'I could call and ask her.'
'Not necessary, Mr. Lieberman. Thank you for saving it for us.'
The grocer winked conspiratorially. 'Caught up with work?'
'Yes.'
'Hot case, eh?'
'The hottest.' A longstanding routine. Daniel started the engine, looked down the street for sign of one of his children.
'Anything you want me to look out for, you tell me. Shady characters, saboteurs, anything.'
'Thanks for the offer, Mr. Lieberman. If something comes up, I'll let you know.'
'Always happy to help,' said Lieberman, saluting. 'I see a lot sitting behind the counter. The human parade, if you know what I mean.'
