by Timothy Zahn
Unless Ari was already ahead of him. In that case, doubling back would lose Razz the trail entirely. Snarling under his breath, he picked up his pace, wondering how fast a man could run carrying a heavy clay jar.
And then, from behind him came a soft whistle. Skidding to a halt, he turned and reversed direction. Half a block ahead, just starting to round the curve of the street, he could see Cutter sprinting for all he was worth.
Grinning tightly, Razz took off after his partner. Once Cutter had a target in his sights, that target was as good as got.
Cutter rounded the curve and disappeared from view. Razz put on another burst of speed, reaching the corner just in time to spot his partner again before he disappeared around the next curve. Ari apparently had the stamina of a moose, or maybe he thought that if he pushed Cutter too far the other would give up and go away.
Fat chance of that. Razz cleared the next curve, again just in time to see Cutter make a sharp right turn into a cross street. Maybe he’d found a way to cut off the fugitive. Putting his thumb on his .45’s hammer, ready to cock it again, Razz ran to the corner and charged full-speed into the street.
And came to a clumsy, stutter-step halt that put him beside an equally unmoving Cutter.
Ari had come this way, all right. He was standing ten yards in front of them, breathing hard, the jar once again held up like a shield in front of him.
Flanking him on both sides, not panting in the slightest, were six other dark-clad men. All of them armed with Tommy guns.
“Easy,” Razz wheezed, the longest sentence he could manage with his breath coming in painful gasps. His .45 was still in his hand; raising both arms, he pointed the weapon at the sky. “Easy,” he repeated. “We can…deal.”
“I think not,” Ari said. He started to turn away.
“That jar’s worth…a lot of money,” Razz managed. “More than…you think.”
Ari smiled thinly. Here, away from the gloom of the shop and out in the relative brightness of a partial moon, Razz could see that the man was younger than he’d thought. Mid-twenties, maybe, no older. “It’s worth far more than money to us,” he said.
“That’s fine,” Razz said. “What if I show…showed you how you…could have both? The jar and…a lot of money?”
One of the armed men muttered something. “Perhaps,” Ari said. “But I’ll hear them out.” He gestured. “Guns on the ground. Now.”
Razz nodded and carefully set his .45 on the street. Cutter hesitated, then did likewise.“Search them,” Ari ordered.
Two of the men handed their guns to their fellows and stepped forward. Razz raised his hands again, scowling as one of the two casually kicked both .45sbehind him through the dirt toward Ari. The man continued to Razz, his eyes hard as he watched for trouble, and ran his hands quickly over Razz’s torso, arms, and legs. He, too, was younger than Razz would have guessed. A local burglary gang, maybe?
The man stepped away again and pulled a short length of rope from his pocket. “Hands behind your back,” he ordered.
Razz obeyed. The man circled behind him and tied his wrists securely together. “Ready,” he called.
“Watch them,” Ari ordered. Turning, he strode off down the street, two of the Tommy gunners falling into step beside him. The other four took a moment to once again shuffle their guns among themselves, then formed a box around Razz and Cutter. “Move,” one of them said curtly.
They set off down the street. Casually, Razz looked sideways at Cutter.
One glimpse at the wolfish twist at the corner of his partner’s mouth was all he needed. Razz’s frisker had missed the switchblade hidden in Razz’s hat. Apparently, the other frisker had also missed Cutter’s sleeve knife.
The upcoming negotiations, Razz decided, had suddenly become interesting.
#
Marching openly through the streets with fully-automatic weapons, even in a town as quiet as nighttime Bethlehem, was an invitation to trouble. Ari hadn’t struck Razz as stupid, which suggested that wherever they were going was probably close at hand.
He was right. They’d gone barely a block when one of Ari’s men broke ranks and hurried forward to a darkened shop labeled with more of the curly Arabic letters. He opened the door and the group filed in.
The place turned out to be a restaurant, with small round tables and chairs laid neatly in rows. Razz spotted two more shadowy figures sitting quietly in opposite corners as Ari led the group to a serving bar in the back, went around behind it, and stamped his foot in a two-two-three pattern. A moment later the room filled with muted light as a trap door swung open to reveal a narrow staircase.
“Send the prisoners down behind me,” Ari ordered the group. “Then you can all pack up and go home.” With a thoughtful look at Razz, he headed down.
He reached the bottom and moved away from the stairs. “Go,” Razz’s guard ordered, underlining the word with a nudge from the muzzle of his Tommy gun.
Razz grimaced. The stairway was pretty steep, and his hands were still tied behind his back. Still, if Ari could make it down with his own hands full of two-thousand-year old clay jar, Razz could do it, too. Keeping careful tabs on his balance, he headed down.
The basement room was bigger than Razz had expected. Bigger, in fact, than the restaurant building above it. Either Ari had found a ready-made bandits’ hideout, or else he had an army of moles on his payroll.
Moles who were also apparently preparing for war. The only illumination was provided by a single bulb screwed into a ceiling fixture three feet in front of the bottom of the stairs, but it gave off enough light to show that one end of the room was loaded nearly to the ceiling with rifle cases, ammo boxes, crates of field rations, and racks of grenades. Four men were loitering in the shadows in front of the cache, their casual Arab-style robes in sharp contrast to the military-style ammo belts and holstered .45s around their waists.
And with a sinking feeling, Razz realized just what it was he and Cutter had stumbled into.
Still, if he played this one right, they might be able to pull it off. “Nice place,” he commented, moving a few feet to his left as Cutter stumbled down the last two steps behind him. “All hail the New Israel, eh?”
One of the guards stiffened, and Razz could feel a sudden sharpening of the tension in the room. “Not that I disapprove,” he continued smoothly. “Those Arabs have been a pain ever since the Ottoman Empire.”
“The Ottomans were Turks, not Arabs,” Ari corrected evenly, setting the jar down on the floor beside the stairway.
“Whatever,” Razz said as Cutter came over to stand beside him. “So what’s your deal with the jar?”
Ari snorted. “Please. I know this was what you were going for in Mukhtaar’s shop—your eyes went straight to it as soon as you entered. You know what’s hidden inside.”
“Of course we do,” Razz agreed, feeling a flicker of grudging admiration for the young man. Quick and observant, an uncommon combination. “I’ll rephrase the question. I know what the deal is for us. The question is what it is for you.”
“Don’t tell them,” a woman’s voice came from the side.
Razz frowned, craning his neck to peer that direction. A woman had stepped away from a table loaded with clothing and was walking toward them, her face cold as she stared at Razz.
“Why not?” Ari asked.
“Because you can’t trust them,” the woman said.
And as she moved further into the light, her face abruptly clicked. “Monique?” Razz said disbelievingly. “Well, well. It’s a long way from Paris. What brings you to Palestine?”
“They’re black marketeers,” Monique bit out, ignoring the question. “We had to deal with them sometimes during the war.”
“Dealings that worked out well, as I recall,” Razz said, thinking fast. If he could snap her cap hard enough, she might give him the opening he needed.
“Maybe you were happy with them,” Monique shot back. “For us, it boiled down to who would bleed us to
death first. You, or the Nazis.”
“Prevailing market value,” Razz said coolly. “If you didn’t want to pay, there were others who would.”
“And isn’t it interesting how often the Nazis did?” Monique countered.
Razz shrugged. “What can I say? They had more money than you did.”
“That was all that really mattered to you, wasn’t it?” she bit out, coming to a halt right in front of him. “Their filthy, blood-stained money.”
One more nudge, Razz decided, ought to do it. “Hey, you could have outbid them if you’d really wanted to,” he said with a sly smile. “You know—the special payment a share-crop gal like you can always—”
Even knowing the blow was coming he nearly didn’t see it. One instant she was glaring at him, the next her open palm was slapping hard across his cheek, sending his hat flying and spinning him halfway around.
He staggered with the blow, pretending to be on the edge of losing his balance as he looked to see where his hat had landed. There it was, three feet behind and to his right. He wobbled a step that direction and fell heavily onto the ground, rolling to put the small of his back right on top of the hat.“Hey!” he protested, waving one foot at her as if trying to keep her back.
And as he did so, his fingers dug into the inside of his hat and pulled his switchblade from its hidden compartment.
“Don’t you dare talk to me that way,” Monique spat, the heat in her voice turned to ice. “We bled and died to get our country back. People like you made us bleed and die a little more.”
“You’re in luck,” Razz told her. “Because bleeding and dying sound like the order of the day around here.” He looked at Ari. “I see she’s found herself a new home with you Zionist revolutionaries.”
Monique took a step toward Razz, her hands balling into fists—
“Enough,” Ari said quietly.
Reluctantly, Razz thought, Monique stopped. Even more reluctantly, she stepped back.
“Yes, she’s found a home,” Ari said. “But not the kind you mean. We are, as you say, revolutionaries. But her task is purely humanitarian: to help smuggle in refugees from Hitler’s cursed Holocaust.”
“Ah,” Razz said, working his way back to his feet, his switchblade hidden from view behind his wrists. That sounded like Monique, all right. Heart on her sleeve, the whole way. “And you’re helping her because you want a few extra bodies to stand between you and the other side’s machineguns?”
“We don’t need her to bring in recruits,” Ari said. “Very soon now, we’ll have all the soldiers we could ever hope for.”
“I doubt it,” Razz said. Easing open the blade, he began stealthily slicing through the ropes tying his wrists. “Soldiers cost money, and I don’t think the scroll in there is going to bring in that much cash.”
“Again, you misunderstand,” Ari said. “This particular scroll isn’t simply a copy of Biblical texts, as are most of those that were found in that cave. This scroll is a list of the secret places where the treasures of the Temple were hidden in advance of the Babylonian invasion in the sixth century B.C.”
“Really,” Razz murmured. No wonder the Collector wanted the thing. With his obsession for ancient artifacts, a treasure map like that could keep him going for years.
Or rather, keep Razz and Cutter going. They were the ones who he would send to sniff out the damn things. “Gold and jewels; that sort of thing?” he suggested.
“Or better,” Ari said, a sudden gleam in his eye. “My hope is that one of those secret places will contain the Ark of the Covenant.”
Razz felt a sudden chill run through him. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all,” Ari assured him. “The Ark’s here in Palestine—I can feel it. And once we have it—” He took a deep breath, his gaze stretching out toward infinity. “Imagine our army marching with the very symbol of God’s presence being carried before us. You speak of recruits? Nothing so ordinary. I envision the entire body of world Jewry arising and flocking to us. And when they do, Israel will once again stand strong and tall among the nations.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Razz said. There was a sudden loss of pressure against his wrists as his blade cut through the last of the ropes. “But however that works out, a hero of the people can always do with a little extra cash. That’s where we come in.”
“Ari—” Monique began.
Ari lifted a hand, and she fell silent. “I’m listening,” he said.
“You need the information on that scroll,” Razz said. “We need the scroll itself. The solution is obvious: you make a copy, we buy the original from you, and we all go our separate ways.”
“And then you and your fellow vultures swoop in and loot as much of the treasure as you can find before we can get there?” Monique scoffed.
“She’s right,” Ari agreed. “Given that we have the scroll, I don’t see how any deal you can offer can possibly work to our advantage.”
“The advantage is the ten thousand American dollars we could pay you,” Razz said. What in hell was keeping Cutter? He should have freed himself by now. “That kind of money would buy a lot of guns for all these troops you’re expecting to flock to your side.”
Beside him, Cutter quietly cleared his throat. Finally. “Unless you were planning to keep them in their barracks the old-fashioned way,” Razz added. He gave Monique a leering smile. “I’ll bet Monique could keep a whole company happy all by herself.”
Monique snarled under her breath and took a step toward him, her hand raised to deliver another slap. “Monique,” Ari warned.
But he was too late. Taking a quick step to close the remaining distance between them, Razz whipped his newly freed hands from behind his back and grabbed her upstretched wrist. Yanking her to him, he shifted his grip to her hair, pulling her back to slam hard against his chest. “Don’t,” he warned, bringing the blade of his knife up to rest against her throat.
Ari froze. So did three of the four men sitting by the weapons dump. The fourth, apparently more serious than the others about dying for his cause, clawed for his holster. Out of the corner of his eye Razz saw Cutter shift his sleeve knife into throwing position—
“Stop!” Ari snapped.
The impetuous Zionist froze. So did Cutter, and for two seconds the whole thing hung in the balance. Then, the other man slowly lifted his hand—empty—from his holster.
“Smart,” Razz said. “Okay, hands on your heads, all of you.” He leaned closer to Monique’s ear. “Not you, honey.”
“Go to hell,” she bit out. “Ari, shoot him. Just shoot him.”
“Sorry, honey, but Ari’s got more sense than that,” Razz said. “He’s done the count. Except he’s done it wrong, ‘cause he thinks we can take out just two of you before the rest get us.” He tightened his grip on her hair. “Tell him how it would work. Go ahead—you saw it that one time in Brest.”
Monique exhaled a ragged breath. “He can cut my throat and then throw his knife at someone else before any of you have time to draw,” she said reluctantly.
“And you’d be that second target,” Razz assured Ari. “I don’t think you want to die down here in the dirt. Certainly not before you have a chance to raise Israel’s new flag over Jerusalem.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You will have your own flag, I assume?”
“What do you want?” Ari said, his voice cold but calm.
“We just want to leave,” Razz assured him. “No fuss, no muss—everyone gets to walk out of here alive, and we call it square.”
Ari’s eyes flicked to the jar. “And the scroll?”
“Like I said, we call it square,” Razz said. “Our boss will just have to find some other country to plunder.”
“What about Monique?”
“We’ll let her go as soon as we’re clear,” Razz promised. “Agreed?”
“Don’t believe him,” Monique said tightly.
“Agreed?” Razz repeated.
Ari measured him with his eyes. “Agreed.”
Ari’s lips puckered, but he nodded. “Very well.”
Razz nodded back. “Cutter, when you’ve checked the path flicker the lights up there.”
Silently, his knife held at the ready, Cutter circled behind Razz and headed up the stairs. “This should only take a minute,” Razz added as Cutter pushed open the trap door and disappeared into the restaurant. A dim glow came from the opening; apparently, the group Ari had sent home had left a light on before they left. “While we’re waiting, maybe you’d like to tell me how this new Israel of yours is going to be better than what’s here now.”
Ari snorted gently. “Do you really care?”
“They don’t care about anything,” Monique said before Razz could answer. “The only thing about suffering that interests them is how they can make money from it.”
“Perhaps you misjudge him,” Ari suggested.
“No, she doesn’t,” Razz said easily. “And wars are especially good for bringing in the profits. I’ll look forward to the one you’re about to start.”
“If a war starts, it won’t be because of us.”
“Maybe,” Razz said. “I don’t really care.”
The room fell silent. Razz kept his knife against Monique’s throat, watching for any signs of trouble among the scowling men.
Fortunately, whatever else they might be, they were good soldiers. Ari had given an order, and they were carrying it out without argument, just like that Ephraim kid who’d abandoned Ari back at the shop. There was a lot of scowling going on back there, and probably even more simmering hatred, but no action.
Razz could live with that.