The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

"It's late. I've spent too much time on theoreticals. I expect Mark Wilbur to be released immediately, with no further harassment. You're obviously an intelligent fellow. If you wish to discuss ant holes further, feel free to call me at the office or at home-both numbers are listed. We'll set up an evening, break out the schnapps, open a few philosophy books. But not yet. After you clear up this Butcher nonsense."

Alone, Daniel read the tour file. The university had provided lists of participants in nine field studies in the general vicinity of the murder cave, three expeditions a year for the past three years. Exploration had been going on since '67, but older lists hadn't turned up. ("D: You should see their files, what a mess," Shmeltzer had noted. "Professors.")

The most recent trip had taken place last summer, a surface dig one and a half kilometers north of the cave, sponsored by the Department of Archaeology. The others were a pair of water-retention surveys conducted by Geology. Participants were faculty members, students, and visiting scholars. Only the names of the professors were listed, the same half-dozen over and over. Two were out of the country; Shmeltzer had interviewed the other four, three of them women, coming up with no leads and an incomplete list of student names gleaned from cluttered academic memories. The students were all Israelis, with the exception of one Nigerian who'd returned to Africa six months before the first murder. They had yet to be questioned.

None of the private tour companies visited that part of the desert, which wasn't surprising-nothing flashy down there. When the tourists asked for desert, they were shown the camel market in Beersheva, Massada, Ein Gedi, the Dead Sea mud spas.

The Nature Conservancy had taken a single group of hikers into the area six months ago, a lecture tour on annual desert flora. The guide was a woman named Nurit Blau, now married to a member of Kibbutz Sa'ad. Shmeltzer had called her; she had a new baby, sounded fatigued, remembered nothing about the tour other than that a freak rain shower had ended it prematurely. No, none of the participants was memorable. Some of them might have been foreigners, she really didn't remember-how could one be expected to remember that far back?

A check at the Conservancy office turned up no names; reservation lists weren't kept past the day of the hike. The lists were incomplete, anyway. Most hikers never bothered to reserve, simply showed up at a designated location the morning of the hike, paid cash, and tagged along.

Sum total: skimpy. Besides, lists didn't prove anything; anyone could take a walk in the desert. Still, procedure was procedure. It wasn't as if they were deluged with leads. He'd have Cohen and the Chinaman interview the students, try to obtain the names of the missing ones, check them out too.

At eight twenty-five he went down the hall, made a couple of turns, and ended up at the unlabeled locked door of Amos Harel's office. He knocked, waited several moments for it to open, and found himself staring into the undercover man's gray eyes.

Harel held a smoldering Gauloise in one hand, a felt-tip pen in the other. He wore a T-shirt and jeans. The full white beard he'd worn on his last assignment was gone, revealing a pale, lean face, the jawline marred by shaving nicks.

"Morning, Dani."

"Morning."

Harel didn't invite him in, simply stood there waiting for him to speak. Though ten years Daniel's senior and a rav pakad, he never pulled rank, just concentrated on the job. The toughest of the tough guys, though to look at him you'd never know it-the narrow shoulders, the bent back that housed three splinters of shrapnel, courtesy Anwar Sadat. He had an emotional barometer that never seemed to register and a bloodhound's nose for subtle irregularities and suspicious parcels.

"Morning, Amos. Is your man still watching Wilbur's mailbox?"

"He checked in two hours ago-nothing happening."

"Wilbur's out of jail-string-pulling from way up. You may get a request to end the surveillance. Do me a favor and take your time about pulling out."

"String-pulling." Harel frowned. "How much time do you need?"

"A day or so, maybe a day and a half until I get one of my own men ready for it. Shouldn't be any problem for you to conceal the delay."

"No," said the Latam chief. "No problem at all."

Thanking him would have been superfluous; Daniel turned on his heel and walked away. Back in his own office, he phoned Shmeltzer at the Russian Compound jail, wanting to know the status of Mossad's search for Red Amira Nasser. The older detective wasn't at the lockup, and he considered contacting Mossad himself. But those guys were touchy about improvisation. Better to stick to the official liaison routine.

"Connect me with Subinspector Lee," he told the jail desk officer.

A minute later the Chinaman came on and Daniel told him about his morning visitor.

"Snoozy himself, huh? What's he like?"

"Charming. He sees the world in insect terms. Anyway, Yossi, if you have any more questions for Wilbur, ask them now. He'll be walking soon."

"He already walked. Two tight-assed guys just slow-waltzed him out. Can I help Avi finish the papers? Kid's sweating buckets."

"Sure. Get anything more from Wilbur?"

"Not a thing. We fed him, gave him coffee. The guy broke down-not much substance to him at all. But all he gave us was bullshit. The last hour or so he did nothing but talk about his childhood. Seems he had a mean daddy, big-shot lawyer, wanted him to be a lawyer, too, never thought much of scribblers." The Chinaman yawned into the phone.

"Where's Nahum?"

"After he'd called Wilbur shmuck for the hundredth time, he stomped out-said something about interviewing students."

"Names from the university desert tour list. Try to reach him and help him with those interviews. Tell him, also, that I want an update on the Amira Nasser search. Take Cohen with you to speed things up but let him off by two. He's replacing Latam on the mailbox watch. Tell him to go to Hamashbir, buy some new clothes-nothing fancy, something a kibbutznik would wear. Also, he has to shave off his beard, get a short haircut and nonprescription eyeglasses."

"Mistreatment of the troops," laughed the Chinaman. "I'll catch his tears in a bottle, save it as evidence for the Review Board. Listen, Aviva called-she's got a morning off. Okay with you if I go home and get some breakfast?"

Daniel thought about it. The student hikers could wait. "Get in touch with Nahum, first. Then all of you go have breakfast."

"Last-meal time for Cohen," said the Chinaman, still chuckling.

At eight-forty, Daniel called his own wife.

"I love you," he said. "Sorry I had to rush out. Guess who was waiting for me in my office?"

"The Prime Minister?"

"More powerful."

"You're serious."

"Very."

"Who, Daniel?"

"The mayor."

"In your office?"

"I opened the door, there he was, dozing away."

"I always thought that sleep stuff was for the benefit of the media."

"This morning it was for my benefit."

"What did he want?"

"To have the American reporter released and check me out in the process."

"I'm sure he was favorably impressed."

"He'd be more impressed if I could solve the murders, which he sees as a civic nuisance."

Laura said nothing for a moment, then: "Pressure."

"Nothing unexpected."

"Listen, before I forget, Gene called about fifteen minutes ago, said he tried phoning you at the office but had trouble getting through."

"Is he at the Laromme?"

"I think so. You know they're due to leave this Sunday for Rome."

"Already?"

"It's been four weeks, honey."

Daniel sighed.

"There'll be other opportunities," said Laura. "Luanne's already talking about coming back next year. Anyway, they're coming over for Shabbat dinner, tonight. Will you be able to make it home by three?"