"I've never taken count."

Before Daniel could pursue the point, a shiny black Lancia Beta drove up to the entrance. The sports car let out a belch, then shuddered as its engine died. The driver's door opened and out climbed a tall fair-haired man dressed in a khaki safari jacket over brown corduroy trousers. Under the jacket was a white shirt and green-and-red striped tie. The man was of indeterminate age-one of those smooth-faced types who could be anywhere from thirty to forty, wide-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with a heavy build and long arms that dangled loosely. His light hair was waxy and straight, thinning to outright baldness at the crown; his face, narrow and sunburned, topped by a high, freckled brow. His lips were chapped; his nose, uptilted, pink, and peeling. Mirrored sunglasses concealed his eyes. He faced Daniel, then Hajab. "Zia?" he said.

"Police, Mr. Baldwin," said Hajab, in English. "Questions."

The man turned back to Daniel, smiled faintly, then grew serious. "I'm Sorrel Baldwin, administrator of the hospital. What seems to be the trouble, Officer?"

His accent was American, tinctured by the kind of drawl Daniel had heard in cowboy movies. Ah'm for I'm.

"A routine investigation," said Daniel, offering his badge. Baldwin took it.

"An incident," said Hajab, growing bold.

"Uh hmm," said Baldwin, lifting his sunglasses and peering at the badge. His eyes were small, blue, shot through with red. Drinker's eyes? "And you're… an inspector."

"Chief inspector."

Baldwin handed back the badge.

"Any police dealings I've had have always been with Deputy Commander Gavrieli."

Buddies with boss. Letting Daniel know that he was outclassed. But the fact that he thought Gavrieli's name still carried weight gave lie to his words. Daniel ignored the snub, got down to business.

"Mr. Baldwin, during the early hours of the morning a crime was committed-crucial- evidence was found in that gully, just down the road. I'd like to talk to your staff, to find out if anyone saw something that could help us in our investigation."

Baldwin put his sunglasses back on.

"If anyone had noticed anything," he said, "they would have reported it, I assure you."

"I'm sure they would have. But sometimes people see things-small things-and are unaware of their significance."

"What kind of crime are we talking about?" asked Baldwin.

"A major one. I'm not at liberty to say more."

"Security censorship, eh?"

Daniel smiled. "May I talk to your staff?"

Baldwin kneaded his chin with one hand. "You realize, Officer…"

"Sharavi."

"…Officer Sharavi, that we are an arm of the United Nations Relief and Works Agency and, as such, are entitled to diplomatic privilege with regard to police procedure."

"Of course, Mr. Baldwin."

"Understand also that involvement in local political matters is something we make a concerted effort to avoid."

"This is a criminal matter, sir. Not a political one."

"In this city," said Baldwin, "that's a fine distinction. One, I'm sorry to say, that the police don't often seem able to make." He paused, looked down at Daniel. "No, I'm sorry, Officer Sharavi, I just can't see my way clear to letting you disrupt our procedures."

As Daniel listened to the American, the image of the murdered girl intruded on his consciousness and he surrendered to a fantasy etched in anger: He, the policeman, takes hold of the bureaucrat's arm and leads him to the gully, over the edge, right into the butchery. Presses his face close to the corpse, forces him to inhale the stench of evil. Breathe that, experience it. Viscerally. Is it criminal or political, pencil pusher?

"I agree," he heard himself saying. "It is a very fine distinction. But one that we're getting better at recognizing. You remember, of course, the case of Corporal Takumbai?"

"Vaguely." Baldwin shifted his weight, looked uncomfortable. "Somewhere up north, wasn't it?"

"Yes it was. In Tiberias. Corporal Takumbai was part of a Fijian contingent assigned to the UNIFIL patrol in Southern Lebanon. He had a history of mental imbalance that no one thought was important. One night, during a holiday on the Sea of Galilee, he left his comrades, broke into an apartment, and raped two old women. Someone heard screams and called the police. When they tried to capture him, Takumbai wounded one officer and-"

"I really don't see what this has to do with-"

"-came close to killing another. Despite all that, we let him go, Mr. Baldwin. Back to Fiji, without prosecution. He was protected by his position with the United Nations and we respected that. We were able to separate the political from the criminal. There have been others, of course-a Frenchman, Grimaud, who was a compulsive shoplifter; a Finn named Kokkonen, who enjoyed getting drunk and beating up women. Even as we speak, the file of another Frenchman is being processed. This one was caught smuggling hashish resin out of the Beach Refugee Camp in Gaza. Like all the others, he'll be expelled without trial. Without public exposure. So you see, Mr. Baldwin, you have nothing to fear. We continue to protect the good name of the United Nations. We are able to make fine distinctions."

Baldwin glanced over his shoulder at Hajab, who'd listened to the exchange raptly, moving his head back and forth like a soccer fan. Reaching into his pocket, the American pulled out a set of car keys and tossed them to the watchman.

"Park the car, Zia."

Though clearly disappointed, the watchman complied. When the Lancia had driven off, Baldwin said to Daniel: "In any organization, there are going to be a few bad apples. That has nothing to do with the staff of this hospital. They're handpicked. Altruists. Good solid folk."

"I don't doubt that for a moment, Mr. Baldwin. As altruists they should be pleased to help."

The American peeled a papery shred of skin from his nose and looked toward the scene of the crime. A flock of crows rose from the gully. From somewhere behind the hospital came the bray of a donkey.

"I could," said Daniel, "go through channels. Which would mean a delay of the investigation-meetings, memoranda. We are a small country, Mr. Baldwin. News travels quickly. The longer something stretches out, the more difficult it is to keep it out of the public eye. People would want to know why so many criminals are avoiding punishment. One would hate to see the public image of the U.N. suffer needlessly."