She smiled, folded her hands in front of her, and Shmeltzer imagined the kind of assignments she was pulling now: society matron nibbling canapes at consulate parties. Doting grandma on a park bench, feeding sweets to her aineklach, diapers sharing space with the 9 mm in her purse. Rich tourist lady lounging in the hotel suite adjoining that of a certain visiting dignitary, stethoscope to the wall, fancy machines whirling and humming. No paperwork-or garbage-bin stakeouts for her.
Too rich for his blood. Eilat had been a fluke, post-assignment tension release.
He looked around the restaurant. Across the room sat a group of American college kids. Three females, two males. Hebrew U., probably. Escaping dormitory cooking for a night out on the town. Nine-dollar hamburgers and Coca-Cola.
A young couple with two small children sat at the far end. The husband looked like a professor, bearded, with glasses; the wife, small, ginger-haired, a real looker. The kids were boys, one about six, the other younger. They drank milk, laughed, punched each other. He picked up scraps of conversation. American-accented English. All of them in brightly colored shorts and polo shirts. Probably exactly what they looked to be, though you could never be sure.
Otherwise, the place was dead-most of the tourists religious, taking their Shabbat meals at the King David or the Plaza where the setup was more traditional.
"Not much business," he said.
"Past the dinner hour," said the woman.
The waiter brought his tea and asked if they were ready.
She ordered a minute steak and scrambled eggs with chips-calling them french fries-and more coffee. Still full from the mixed grill at Kohavi's, he settled for a basket of rolls, margarine, and jelly.
They made small talk as they ate and she had apple pie for dessert. After the waiter removed the dishes, she put her purse on the table, took out a compact, and opened it. Looking into the mirror, she smoothed back nonexistent strands of hair. As she freshened up, Shmeltzer noticed that she'd left the purse open so that he could see the tape recorder within-a miniaturized Japanese model, voice-activated, the size of a cigarette pack. High-tech. Her people loved it.
"I'm going shopping tomorrow, dear," she said, touching his hand. The touch brought back memories, soft white skin under black silk. "Is there anything you need?"
Enunciating clearly, he told her.
As the sun began to sink, Elias Daoud crossed himself and prayed for progress.
The village suburb of Silwan was a dense honeycomb of flat-roofed, porridge-colored dwellings notched into the hillside just southeast of the Old City, segregated from the city walls by the Valley of Kidron. Just north of the village, at the foot of the eastern wall, ran the Gihon Spring that fed the Pool of Siloam-the water supply for ancient Jerusalem. Women still went there to wash their laundry, and on his way up, Daoud saw a group of them-laughing and joking as they dipped sodden garments into the still, green water. Telling tales no man would ever hear.
And then he knew. That was where he'd seen her, during the course of his Number Two Gang investigation, when he'd assumed the identity of a dusty-faced punk with a hunger for dope.
He'd shuffled past the pools on his way to meet a dealer near the city walls, had seen her with a group of other, older women. Squatting, washing, laughing. The pretty face marred by the missing tooth.
Or had it been another? Was his mind playing tricks on him? His drive to succeed distorting his memory?
No, he was sure. The girl had been one of the washers. Her origins were here.
He trudged forward.
A spiraling, single-lane road provided access to the lowest level of the village. Narrow, jerry-built pathways and dirty alleys led to some of the upper houses; others could be reached only by donkey or on foot. He found it easiest to park the Citroen in an empty lot and walk most of the way.
It had been the same at Abu Tor, except that the Jews were starting to take over there, buying the biggest houses, renovating, settling in.
He'd concentrated on the poorer houses. Spent hours hiking and climbing, his thin-soled shoes steadily corroded by gravel and rock. The beige suit he'd worn to look good at the meeting, wilted and stained.
You couldn't talk to everyone, so his strategy had been to seek out the central meeting places, which, in a village, meant a cubbyhole cafe or soda stand on wheels. But Friday was Muslim Sabbath and everything was closed. The men were at the mosque or napping; in either event he couldn't interrupt and hope to get cooperation. And the women wouldn't speak to him without their husbands' permission. So he contented himself with stopping the occasional pedestrian, showing the girl's picture, asking his questions.
For the most part he encountered children or young men, walking in pairs and trios, aimless, with hungry eyes. The children giggled and scampered away. The young men responded to his greetings with curiosity and distrust, refused to believe he was a policeman until he showed his credentials; once they'd seen the badge, read his name, disbelief turned to instant hostility.
In and of itself, hostility was tolerable-he'd grown up in a Muslim neighborhood and throughout his childhood had been labeled an infidel. Joining the police force had brought forth further accusations of infidelity from some of those he'd considered friends. Yet his faith in Christ the Savior and his ambition remained unshaken and he truly believed that he'd grown inured.
But hostility led to silence, and silence, to a detective, meant failure. Which was something he refused to tolerate. The case was important and he was determined to push himself. To prove himself to the Jews. Working under Sharavi was a stroke of good luck. The Yemenite had a reputation as a fair one, basing his decisions on merit, not religion. If a guy produced, it would be worth something. But there would be obstacles-the old guy, Shmeltzer, who'd be dogging him, waiting for a chance to show he was inferior. No way would Daoud give him anything to work with.
And the hostility of the Muslims.
Walking the tightrope, as usual.
As evening approached he was sour with impatience, bathed in his own sweat, marching forward on swollen feet, but remembering the girl's face as she washed clothes, then the death photo, knowing he had to continue.
An hour into Silwan he received his first smile of the day.
He'd just spent a fruitless five minutes with a gang of youths loitering near a disabled tractor and had climbed to the middle level of the village, walking along a dirt path barely wide enough for two people to pass. All the houses he passed were locked and quiet, the only sound the clucks of chickens and brays of goats. But at the end of the path he saw human movement on the steps of a tiny box of a building with turquoise shutters. A man sitting, swaying back and forth.