If they sat here long enough the guys in the BMW w ould come up looking, assuming they wanted t o kill Rosen and they knew he was upstairs.
Davis realized he was getting excited. It was a good feeling. Not being aware of it as a feeling, bu t thinking, figuring out a way to gain control and either neutralize the situation or kick ass.
One option--call the police.
There's a suspicious-looking white car down in the parking lot. Then what? An Israeli cop comes i n his white car. But if they were serious and it wa s their business--the guys in the BMW--they wer e liable to shoot the cop. Davis tried to imagine calling the police and explaining it in English over the phone, telling a long story.
Or call the embassy. Get somebody there, after he explained it, to call the cops and explain it again , second-hand, in Hebrew. How long would it take?
The black guy was opening the door of the Camaro now, getting his bag out, looking up at the building.
They'd be armed. They could be impatient--
"What'd he shoot at you with?" Davis said.
"The colored guy."
"I don't know. Some kind of a pistol."
Davis went into the room and picked up the Beretta. "This fully loaded?"
"I checked it," Rosen said.
"You got more cartridges?"
"In the briefcase. With an extra clip."
The Beretta had a three-and-five-eighths-inch barrel that barely extended past Davis' knuckl e when his finger was wrapped around the trigge r guard. "Are you any good with it?"
"I've had it since I came here," Rosen said.
"Can you put the rounds where you want is what I'm asking," Davis said.
"I've fired it a few times, in the desert."
He probably couldn't hit the wall but would never admit it. "Makes a noise for a little thing , doesn't it? Well," Davis said, "I think, instead of u s standing around scratching our asses, we might a s well be doing something."
"Like what?" Rosen said.
He was nervous but controlling it. That was good. "You want to get out of here," Davis said.
"How about if we get the police?"
"The pol ice? What do I say, these guys are annoying me? We're standing there looking at each other? Listen, these people, you put them in a position, they'd shoot the cops cold, no fucking around. I don't think you understand who thes e people are."
"I said get the cops. I didn't say call them and get into something we can't explain," Davis said. "No , we give your friends a little time to get out. Work i t so you don't get mixed up in it and have to answe r questions."
"How?"
"Take your money, whatever you're gonna take, go downstairs by the door, and wait. You see thei r car leave, watch which way it turns going out. Yo u take off and head the other way."
"Where will you be?"
"Don't worry about it. Then, once you're clear, where do you think you'll go?"
"Jesus Christ, I'm standing here--I don't see how I'm going anywhere, for Christ's sake, three , four of them waiting down there--"
"Mr. Rosen, come on. You got it pretty much together," Davis said. "You don't want to lose it now.
Tell me where you're likely to go."
"I guess Jerusalem"--calm again--"the King David."
"Okay, later on I'll give you a call, see how you made it."
Rosen was frowning at him again, trying to figure something out. "Whatever you're doing, this is still part of the grand Mel gave you?"
"You worry too much about money," Davis said.
He waited on the balcony with the Beretta, the extra clip, and the box of cartridges, giving Rosen two minutes to get downstairs--seeing the blac k guy with his bag over by the BMW again; the drive r with long hair out of the car on the other side, th e black guy moving away then, starting across th e lawn toward the side of the apartment building.
Davis planned his shots and when he began firing the Beretta--the sound coming suddenly, echoing in the afternoon, in the shadow of the building--h e knew where he wanted to place the rounds an d fired methodically, steadily, running the black gu y back to the car first, then creasing one off the roo f of the car and seeing the guy with long hair duc k out of sight. Four, three, two, one more. He pulle d out the clip and pushed the spare one into the gri p with the flat of his hand and began firing at th e open space of blacktop close to the car--hopin g someone was phoning the police by now--puttin g a couple of rounds into the doors, but being carefu l to keep away from the engine and windows. He didn't want to disable the car and he didn't want t o hit any of them on purpose. He had fired on an d killed people he didn't know before, but it wasn't his purpose now to kill. He was throwing rocks a t crows in a planted field, getting them out of there; h e wasn't at Khe San or Da Nang or Hill 881. He reloaded a clip and fired three rounds, then reloaded the second clip before he emptied the first one and reloaded it again. He heard the sirens, th e irritating wail becoming gradually louder. He waited, giving the guys in the car time to hear it an d think about it, then poured five rounds hard int o the flank of the white car. The car was backing out.
He was tempted to glance one off the windshield, but it could fuck things up, delay them. The sire n wail was doing the job, the sounds coming fro m different directions now. He fired two more shots , changed clips, fired three times as the BMW backe d up, cutting hard, and emptied the clip at the taillight as the car shot out the drive and turned right.
Rosen was outside . . . getting in his car.
Come on, get the fucker out of there! Quick!
Rosen made it. He was out the drive and on the street, then taking his time--good--as three Israel i police cars, sirens flashing, came screaming up Bil u toward the apartment building.
Davis used his shirt tail to wipe the grip of the Beretta. He dropped the gun and the extra clip an d the box of cartridges over the side, down five floor s into thick bushes.
A squad car sealed him off before he got the door of the Camaro open. He asked them what the hell wa s going on, man. They patted him down and looke d inside the Marine bag and asked to see his I . D . w hile squad cars came wailing in and police bega n swarming around the building. Davis gave them a n anxious, bewildered look. They asked him if h e lived here. He said no, he'd been visiting somebody.
The shooting had started and he hadn't known if it was another war or her husband coming in th e fucking door. Either way he was getting out of here.
He'd have told them more if they'd wanted to wait and listen.
THE MAN SEEMED TO SPEND half his life in the bathroom. When Tali came back with his cigarettes---a fter looking around the lobby and then lookin g outside for Mati or the car, not knowing where h e had parked it yesterday--Mr. Bandy was still in th e bathroom, the one in 823. The only time he'd use d the one in 824 was when he'd say to her, "Hold it, I g ot to piss," or, "I got to take a leak," telling he r what he was going to do.
She thought about the Marine. Mr. Rosen had said yes, he was there, everything was fine. But sh e knew it wasn't fine, at least not everything, becaus e Mati hadn't come back.
She thought of a friend of hers named Omri who worked for El Al as a flight security officer. He ha d shot a terrorist and arrested another during an attempted skyjack. It had been more than three years ago. She didn't know what Omri was doing now o r why she thought of him. Maybe she wanted to se e him again. Maybe the Marine reminded her of him , though they looked nothing alike.
Mr. Bandy confused her a little when he came into the room with the towel wrapped around hi s middle and carrying a magazine, which he thre w on the couch. She could not understand why a ma n with his body would like to walk around hal f naked. Even people at the beach would look a t him; he was so white. She had to pretend not to notice his nakedness.
"Your cigarettes are there on the table."
"I see them." He was making another drink, which he always did after bathing, before he go t dressed.
"Those men weren't in the lobby," Tali said.
"It wouldn't take him that long to go to Jaffa and return," Tali said. "Even if he walk there." Mat i was to go to the archeological excavation in th e center of the tourist area and, when it appeared tha t no one was watching, drop the package into the dig.
"He's cruising Dizengoff in the Mercedes," Mel said. "Lining up some ass."
"He was suppose to come right back." Tali walked to the windows and watched the cars o n Hayarkon. "Maybe they didn't follow him."
"Or maybe he took off," Mel said. "Rosie actually trusts him with a Mercedes?"
"Mr. Rosen bought a new one," Tali said. "He's going to sell the one we're using, when he tells m e to advertise it in the Post." From the window, al l the cars on the street looked the same. "Mat i should be back," Tali said.
"You sleeping with Mati?"
"No, I don't sleep with him. He's a friend."
"Don't you sleep with friends?"
"I know Mati a long time, when I am teaching at the ulpan in Jerusalem, the language school for immigrants. Do you know the ulpan? Like an absorption center."
"I hope you weren't teaching him English."
"No, I taught Hebrew. Mati is Yemenite, but he was living with his family in Bayt Lahm-Bethlehem. Well, one day when Mati was muc h younger . . . the people there, this day they are Jordanian, the next day they are Israeli. In the '67
War." Tali gave her little shrug. "So we have a place, the ulpan, where we teach them Hebrew.
Also people from Europe, from all over they come there. I did that when I moved from Beersheba an d was going to the university."
"You teach Rosie Hebrew?"
"No"--she shook her head in a relaxed sweep, with an innocent expression, thinking of what sh e was going to say--"after my army service I went t o work for El Al as an air hostess. That was where I m et Mr. Rosen." She smiled. "He talk to me all th e time from New York to Athens. Then I was wit h him again in a few days here at the Pal where h e was staying. We talk some more." She was smilin g again. "I laugh very much at the things he say.
Then, no, it was weeks later I saw him at Mandy's Drugstore having dinner. He came over by us an d asked me if I would work for him."
"To do what?"
"Be his secretary."
"You sleep with him?"
"No, I don't sleep with him." Irritated. "Why do you ask if I sleep with somebody? I sleep with wh o I want to."
"That's good," Mel said. "That's exactly the way it's supposed to be. You want to go to bed?"
"No, I don't want to go to bed."
"Don't you like to fuck?"
She said, "I enjoy to make love, but I do not like to simply, what you said, fuck. What is that? I t should be a natural thing."
"What's the difference?" Mel said. "You're with somebody who doesn't turn you on all the way , close your eyes, pretend it's somebody else. Yo u ever do that?" When she didn't answer he said , "Listen, I'm not talking about anything kinky. I d on't mind it straight once in a while."
"I'm here to do work," Tali said. "Different things, if you want me to call on the telephone o r write letters, or show you places in Tel Aviv. Mat i or I would be very happy to drive you." She wante d to be honest without offending him. "But what i s personal to me is not part of the work."
"Let's give it a little time," Mel said.
She didn't know what that meant. She wanted to tell him the man who came here yesterday wa s right. Mr. Bandy was like white dog shit. What di d he say. A pile of it. If white dog shit could be selfis h and never consider the feelings of others.
She wanted to be away from him and the sound of the air-conditioning and the room-service tray s of dirty dishes sitting in the hall. She remained because of Mr. Rosen. In case he needed her. Or to learn something Mr. Rosen would want to know.
She would do anything for Mr. Rosen.
"Well," Mel said. He got up and started across the room. "What's the Marine's name?"
"David."
"David. When David comes back tell him to wait."
"He's coming back here?"
"I may go downstairs for a while." He went into 823, unwrapping the towel.
The BMW looked like it had come over the border from Lebanon without stopping: bullet puncture s all over the body, lights shot out front and rear.
Only the glass had not been hit. In Valenzuela's mind, that made it the Marine who had been doin g the shooting. Ross would have broken window s trying to hit somebody. But why the Marine?
They were somewhere in the Tel Aviv area--
Ramat Gan, Rashad said--the BMW parked within the shell of a new building under construction, in semi-darkness, hidden from the street.
Teddy Cass had gone to the railway station, about half a mile west--they had passed it--to see abou t renting a car. Rashad was in the back seat of th e BMW with the Arab-looking kid, talking to him.
Valenzuela was out of the car looking at the cement forms and footings, like a building codes inspector.
When Teddy came with the car, they'd switch the guns and explosives from the trunk of the BMW t o the new one. It would be a temporary car, something to drive until they could pick up another car without numbers or a rental license plate. The ma n in the Hatikva Quarter who sold guns had said h e could get them a good car. Maybe even an American model. He had looked at the BMW early this morning when they'd gone to pick up the Uzis an d handguns and the C4. He had run his hand over th e front-end dents and red paint on the grille--befor e the bullet holes were added--and said, "But i t would cost you seven thousand lira a week." A g rand. Deal, Rashad had said.
They'd leave the BMW here. Rashad might call the man he'd gotten it from and was paying fiv e hundred a week to and tell him where to pick it up.
Or he might not.
Rashad, talking to the Arab-looking kid now, said, "For true? They called the Black Panthers?"
Mati nodded solemnly. "They not the same thing as your Black Panthers are, but they called tha t name. There was a place, on King George Street i n Jerusalem, we used to meet, go there and drin k something and talk. Everyone knew it was th e place of the Black Panthers."
"You ain't shitting me now, are you?" Rashad said.
"No, I'm not shitting you. We call ourselves that, the Sephardim, the dark-skin ones."
"Things the same all over," Rashad said.
"Giving you the shit," Mati said. "Throwing you in jail."
"Come on," Rashad said, "you done time?"
"Yes, in Jerusalem it was demonstrating. Last May."
"Just trying to make yourself heard, huh? Explain your beef?"
"We were in front of the Knesset to speak to Sapir, the minister of finance. The police come an d beat us with clubs. In jail they treat us like animals , don't give us to eat any good food. Also Haifa, I w ent there before. They arrest me for robbing a rich tourist, stealing his camera and watch. Nin e months, man, I was in Haifa."
Rashad said, "Hey, it's a kick, you know it?
Meet somebody waaay over here deep in the same shit. Same everywhere you go, have to take th e man's shit, huh? How about the man you work for?
Keep pushing your head in it?"
"Mr. Rosen?" Mati shrugged. "He don't give me trouble."
"I was thinking of the one at the hotel," Rashad said. "Don't you work for him?"
"That one, he's a fat pig. He sits on your face."
"Yeah--I wonder why this Mr. Rosen would work for a man like that."
"No, the other way," Mati said. "The fat one work for Mr. Rosen."
"Unh-unh." Rashad shook his head. "The fat one was paying this Rosen some money, wasn't he?"
"Yes."
"So this Rosen works for the fat one. We can't understand it. See that gentleman out there? He was a friend of Mr. Rosen in the States, see. Hasn't seen him in a while. He wants to ta
lk to Mr. Rosen , but the fat one don't want him to. You understan d what I'm saying?"
"He wants to kill Mr. Rosen," Mati said.
"No. Who told you that? No, the fat one is con trol ling Mr. Rosen. Got him by the nuts, as we say.
And that gentleman, he wants to talk to Mr. Rosen and tell him hey, nobody's mad at you, man. Com e on home. See, the fat one's been giving Mr. Rose n some shit, messing up his head. This gentleman , Mr. Valenzuela, just wants to get it straightene d out. But shit, now Mr. Rosen's got some craz y motherfucker wants to shoot and kill us."
"That Marine," Mati said.
"Yeah, you see any of us shoot back? No, we don't want to shoot Mr. Rosen. We want to talk t o the man. But we don't know where he is."
He watched the Arab-looking kid chew on his lip, the kid sitting there covered with snow.
Valenzuela came over to the car, looking out toward the street.
"Here comes Teddy. Get Ali Baba out, we'll have a talk with him."
"We already talked," Rashad said. "Mati here's my buddy."
A CHIMNEY MADE OF OIL DRUMS extended from the top floor of the Park Hotel to the ground: a chut e for debris as they cleared out the gutted structure.
Davis had read about the fire and forgotten it. He looked at the place now--it was strange--with a personal interest. He knew someone who had bee n in the hotel that night. A friend of his.
At six-fifteen Davis called the King David from a cafe on the square. They said they were sorry, ther e was no Mr. Rosen registered at the hotel. Davis sai d how about if he left his name and a phone number , in case Mr. Rosen checked in?
He sat at a sidewalk table with a Maccabee, watching the people who came out into the evenin g dusk, beginning to relax as he drank the beer, debriefing himself. The waiter came over and said there was a telephone call that must be for him.
"Hello."
"I couldn't believe it," Rosen said. "Jesus, how many shots did you fire?"
"Twenty-eight," Davis said. "Four clips. You made it all right, huh?"
"Looking back all the way," Rosen said. "Jesus, you don't fool around, do you? Where are you?"
"Netanya. I thought I'd stay here tonight and head north in the morning. What're you going t o do now?"
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