P. Deutermann - The Last Man

Now Hall was missing, in so many words, and Yehudit was being, what — evasive? No, not that, but something. Did they have an affair going, maybe? She was embarrassed to tell him? Hall was there, at her apartment?

No, he didn’t think so. Something else.

The incident at Caesarea — a total mystery. The news reports said only that a German tourist had been shot and killed with some kind of spear gun at the undersea museum. No immediate suspects, but terrorism was suspected. A random killing at a burgeoning tourist attraction. Except: David Hall had witnessed it.

Masada. Hall. A senseless murder at Caesarea. Yehudit under pressure.

He swung back around and dialed Gulder’s number. He got voice mail. Shit, he thought. Shabbat. He hung up and rose to stare out the window. He needed instructions, and now would be nice. He redialed Gulder’s number and this time waited for the robot voice mail to take his message. “I think the American is up to something. It involves Masada. There’s something going on, and Ressner is involved. Please call at once. There’s something going on.”

He hung up as suspicions were solidifying in his mind. Now he needed to wait by the phone. What in the world was the damned American up to? Was this why Skuratov was so damned sensitive about Masada? He fixed a whisky and went into his study. The phone rang five minutes later.

“Tell me,” Gulder’s voice ordered without preamble.

Ellerstein reviewed the whole matter and concluded with his growing suspicions that Judith Ressner and the American were up to something, something that had to do with Masada.

Gulder was silent for a long minute. Then he sighed. “Tell it to me again,” he said. “Slower.”

Ellerstein went over everything he had again. This time he remembered to mention the dive shop manager’s comment about the tanks. Gulder interrupted him when he mentioned the tanks.

“ Scuba tanks?”

“Yes, of course. They had been diving together. At Caesarea Maritima. On a scuba tour. Where Hall witnessed a possible terrorist attack on a tourist. Underwater.”

The line hissed for almost a half minute as Gulder absorbed that. Then he surprised Ellerstein.

“I appreciate the call, Yossi,” he said finally. “Upon reflection, however, I think it’s nothing. I think you may have been right with your original theory — only I think they’re seeing each other, and Ressner doesn’t want you to know.”

“Well, that’s possible, of course,” Ellerstein said doubtfully, “but—”

“No, I think it is nothing,” Gulder insisted.

“Well, if that’s what you think…”

“It is. The American was caught once messing about at Metsadá. He knows if he went back there, we would deport him. Or maybe even charge him and jail him right here, no matter who he thinks he is. No.” He sighed, a weary sound. “No: This is romance. This is beneath our attention, Yossi.”

“You said to keep tabs on Ressner.”

“So we did, Yossi, but now — well, now I think you can back off.”

“Very well,” Ellerstein said, somewhat baffled by Gulder’s nonreaction. “You almost sound disappointed.”

“In a way, I am, but not with you. It was a precaution, that’s all. Now, well…”

“All right, then, I suppose that’s it,” Ellerstein said.

Gulder gave a grim laugh. “What, Yossi, you’re not going to wish me to have a nice day?”

Ellerstein smiled. They both hated that trite American expression with a passion.

“Shalom, “ he said dutifully, hung up, and finished his Scotch, still wondering what the hell was going on. Had been going on. There was absolutely nothing going on now, it seemed.

He scratched his head. Still, he thought.

It took her just over two hours to drive down to the Dead Sea rendezvous with the American. With the start of the Sabbath, there was hardly any traffic, but always the checkpoints. She passed the tourist site at Masada, rounded the headland, and slowed to look for the turn-in to the geothermal plant. She saw the building, with its halo of amber security lights, but could not see the turn-in road. Following his instructions, she drove past the complex for a mile, doused her lights, and then made a U-turn to come back to it. This time she saw the entrance, no more than a sandy lane, and turned in. She drove nervously into the lighted zone and right past his Land Rover. He flicked on his parking lights when she was abeam of him. She stopped and backed in alongside him.

All the way down she had been arguing with herself. Her official responsibility was clear: Notify the authorities at the institute and let them take it from there. The damned American was loose again, and this time, he needed to be picked up. I can tell you right where to find him. He’s been digging for treasure at Masada — that would do it. The ministry police would have been all over him. Then what, though? Would he tell them what he had found? Or would he simply say, sorry, don’t know what you’re talking about, and leave the country? If he didn’t tell them, she would have to. There was the rub: She wasn’t sure she would tell them. She would much rather come back on her own, or with a proper expedition, and make the great discovery herself. Which presented a further rub: Who would believe such a story, that she found something like this on her own? Did she really want to tell it and then get shoved aside by the luminaries of Israeli archaeology in their rush to the site?

At the end of the day, she told herself, it’s better to rationalize. First, check it out. If the story was true, then she would tell the official world. Right. This isn’t rationalization at all, she thought, as she got out of her car. This is madness, and you’re going to pay for it. As he came around the back and she saw the big grin on his face, she fought back the urge to slap him.

“What have you done?” she hissed. “Tell me why I should not call the authorities.”

“You can and should,” he answered, his tall frame silhouetted in the glare of the security lights, “but not until you’ve seen it. After that, we do it any way you want.”

She turned her back on him, staring angrily into the darkness. “I can’t believe you went in there, alone like that. I can’t believe you even came back down here, after all the trouble you caused the last time. Do you have any—”

“If I had told you my theory about an undiscovered cistern, would you have even listened?” he interrupted. He came around to stand in front of her, shielding his eyes now against the lights. “Would anyone in the Israeli archaeology establishment have given me the time of day? You know they wouldn’t.”

“You lied to me, to everyone, about what you were doing here,” she said. “You pretended to know a cursory history of Metsadá, and yet you name the scroll holders in Greek. Everything you’ve done here has been a lie.”

“Not everything, Judith,” he said. He didn’t come any closer, but his tone of voice had changed, softened. She tossed her head in exasperation.

“Look,” he said, “we’re wasting time. Get your stuff and come with me in my Land Rover. If we get stopped by a patrol, we are lovers who lost track of time. Leave your car right here — I checked the locks on the gate to this place. No one’s been here in weeks.”

“How in the world did you get up there with diving equipment?” she asked.

“The hard way. By way of the Roman ramp. There’s an old military road that leads up to Silva’s main camp. There’s a place to hide the Land Rover up there. The entrance to the cistern is in a cave above the Serpent Path, about a hundred feet down from the east gate. I already have air tanks up there. We go in, make the dive, you see what’s there, and then we back out. After that, it’s your show.”