She stopped speaking.
“And?” asked Hanrahan.
“And,” she said. “I do not hate Jews. A Jew saved my life. Saved my brother’s life. For me it is politics.”
“And for your brother?”
“He blames all Jews,” she said, looking at Lieberman again. “Just as Jews hate Arabs.”
“Temple Mir Shavot,” Lieberman said. “The temple you and your friends defiled. Most of the members, almost all of the members don’t hate Arabs. But there are a few, a few can’t be changed. Jews who you don’t hate suffered.”
“In politics and terror people suffer.”
“You said you don’t believe in killing,” said Hanrahan. “How about your brother?”
She didn’t answer. Lieberman considered calling the waitress over for some more coffee. But the coffee was awful and his stomach was upset.
“Help us find him,” said Lieberman. “Before he kills someone. Before someone kills him. Both sides have had enough martyrs. We need families.”
Jara looked at the old Jew. He meant it. What he hadn’t said was there was a very good chance that Massad Mohammed had already killed, ironically it had not been Jews but Howard Ramu and two innocent Arabs.
“Monday,” she said. “Afternoon. Night. He has something planned … something, but Massad said he would play no more Halloween pranks, that he had allies who would fire shots heard all the way to Syria and Israel.”
“Where can we find him?” Lieberman asked.
“Mustafa Quadri was close to him,” she said.
Quadri, Lieberman remembered, was the thin Arab with glasses who had been stripped of his bullhorn at the rally. Jara gave the policemen Mustafa’s address. It made no difference. They could have obtained it from the university directory.
“I don’t want my brother hurt,” she said, sitting up with dignity.
“We don’t want anybody hurt,” said Hanrahan.
Jara thought about this for a moment and looked around the room. Her eyes fixed on a thin, young boy with a recent home haircut and a pair of glasses on his nose.
“That boy,” she said. “He’s a Jew. He reminds me of the soldier who carried me and my brother, saved our lives. The soldier was just a boy.” She stood up and left without another word.
“So?” asked Hanrahan.
“We see this Quadri,” said Lieberman, fishing in his pocket for his wallet for three dollars, which he laid on the table. The wallet was open to a photograph, a year out of date, of Barry and Melisa. Lieberman looked at the photograph for an instant and put the wallet away.
“Berk?” asked Hanrahan.
“Let’s call the Pig Sticker,” Lieberman suggested.
Hanrahan agreed, moved to a phone near the men’s room with a bile green door, took out his notebook, and dialed a number.
Leary answered.
“What the fuck you callin’ me here for?” Pig Sticker said with a hiss. “I room with a Monger. You’re goddamn lucky he’s out. We have a deal. I call you, you don’t call me.”
“Consider me chastised, Charles,” said Hanrahan. “But you’ve taken a long time to get back.”
“Nothing much is new,” said Pig Sticker, nervous and angry.
“Nothing much?” asked the detective. “I’ve got another source that says something’s going down on Monday for sure. You got something to add?”
The pause was long. Fallon might come back any second. Berk might even have the phone line tapped.
“Monday afternoon,” said Pig Sticker. “Just the word. Nothing definite.”
“You’ll let me know when everything’s definite,” said Hanrahan.
“I’ll let you know,” said Pig Sticker, hanging up the phone with a bang.
“Monday p.m. confirmed, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan. “We pick up the Monger, Berk?”
“Last resort. We won’t get anything out of him. Might make him put off what he’s planning for Monday. But it’ll be another Monday or Tuesday. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Hanrahan. “But the question is what kind of deal can this Arab kid Massad have with a guy like Berk who goes around saying Arabs should have their heads cut off and hung on schoolyard fences.”
“We’ll see,” said Lieberman.
“Better we don’t see, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan. “Better we stop it before we see. Give me another second.”
Hanrahan made another call. The phone rang nine times. Michael didn’t answer. It wasn’t even noon.
On the way out, past the tables and booths of earnest children and the bustling of teenage waitresses, Lieberman moved ahead to the door to give his partner something approaching privacy.
“It’s a miracle,” said Rabbi Wass.
In some things, Rabbi Wass was ideal. He worked hard, far beyond what was required of him, attending almost every interdenominational lunch and breakfast to which he was invited, meeting with other rabbis, priests, ministers. He knew Torah. He had a likable helplessness about him. But he didn’t have his father’s intellect. Rabbi Wass’s sermons were not really disasters. They were tributes to a tradition that had become, for Congregation Mir Shavot, almost as much of a ritual as the Shabbat services.
“It’s not a miracle,” said Bess.
They were sitting around the table in the rabbi’s office with Ida Katzman and Irving Hamel, who had announced at this very table moments ago that he was definitely running for state representative for his district, which included the land on which Temple Mir Shavot rested. This announcement came after three weary days of cleanup, mounting bills, and an outpouring of sympathy, indignation, and money from Jews and Gentiles alike. It was a good time for Hamel to throw his kepuh in the ring and run on a platform of community harmony and unity against hatred.
“Not a miracle,” said Ida Katzman.
“This is the biggest campaign we’ve ever had,” Rabbi Wass exclaimed, looking down at the computer printout in front of him. “Money came in from every suburb, all over the United States, some of it divided between the vandalized temples, some of it earmarked directly to us, over one hundred thousand dollars just for us, to redeem our Torah.”
“One hundred thousand thirty-seven dollars and some change,” said Hamel with a smile that showed his vital position on the temple board might be a very visible asset in his campaign, which would include a sturdy plank on tolerance and the need for anti-hate legislation throughout the state.
“In Florida,” said Bess Lieberman, morning elegant, her silver hair set fashionably in place, her thoughts on many things, “a Jewish radio show on a small alternative station was having its annual campaign for a few thousand dollars. A foulmouthed anti-Semite called and said the Holocaust was a fraud and said that any decent American would cut his throat rather than give a penny to a Jewish radio show, a show, by the way, that made community announcements and played American and Israeli Jewish music. As soon as the anti-Semite hung up, the phones went wild, pledges rolled in. The host pointed out the irony of the caller’s making the campaign a success.”
“So?” said Rabbi Wass. “It’s like what happened to us. Almost half is from non-Jews.”
“About twenty-six percent,” Hamel corrected. “Some from Christian organizations, some from individuals who definitely do not have Jewish names.”
“Each donor will have to be sent a letter of thanks and a reminder that their gift is tax deductible,” said Bess.
“Of course,” said Rabbi Wass.
“I’ll do the letters,” said Bess. “They should have my name and Rabbi Wass’s at the bottom. I can use the computer.”
“We can ask some of the Sisterhood to help,” said Rabbi Wass.
“If we get more than enough for the Torah, then some of that money that’s pouring in should be spent on another computer, one from this century,” said Bess.
It was Lieberman’s opinion, confirmed by Said, that the vandals had no intention of returning the Torah. Money was not the issue.
As they moved down the agenda a
nd Ida Katzman looked as if she were about to doze off, Bess came to the last item, New Business.
“We should continue to have volunteers here at night,” said Bess.
“For how long?” asked Rabbi Wass.
“I don’t know,” said Bess. She hesitated and then went on wondering how she was not going to cross the line of Abe’s confidence. “Another few weeks, maybe more. And Monday, Monday I think we should have people at the doors during services.”
“Monday?” asked Rabbi Wass. “Why Monday?”
“Intuition,” said Bess.
“Intuition is usually borne of subtle signs picked up by an alert but not necessarily logical individual,” said Hamel, playing with his law school class ring. Unsaid was that the subtle signs had probably come from Detective Abraham Lieberman.
“People on the doors,” said Ida Katzman, who wasn’t sleeping. “Extra men all night Monday.”
Rabbi Wass shrugged. When Ida Katzman spoke, it was law.
The man who Berk knew as Mr. Grits stood inside a public phone booth, the doors closed to traffic and possible intruders. He had a huge stack of quarters piled on the metal ledge. He looked at his watch and when the hour hand hit eleven he placed his call.
After two rings, the person on the other end, who was standing in a phone booth in Bedford, Montana, picked up the phone and said nothing.
“Monday afternoon or night,” said Mr. Grits. “Everything set. I’ll be out of here within one hour of the event, unidentified, on the means of transportation arranged. Be watchin’ CNN.”
The other person didn’t answer. The other person in Bedford, Montana, tapped the phone twice, the signal to go ahead with the plan. And then the person in Bedford hung up the phone.
Mr. Grits was excited and ready. He had been through one military action in Panama. He hadn’t been called up for Desert Storm and he didn’t volunteer. By then, he didn’t want an FBI check on his activities since his release from the service. He didn’t want to be turned down for a chance to legally shoot down crazy Arabs, but he didn’t want government computers humming about him. They probably had enough on him already, even as careful as he had been.
He hung up the phone, pocketed the remaining coins, and stepped out of the phone booth. He did his usual check, scanned the street and sidewalk and nearby cars with eyes hidden by tinted glasses. No one. Nothing.
He would spend an hour in the mall across the boulevard, making sure he was not being followed. They were close now. He had to be very careful. He had to play Berk like a steel guitar. Mr. Grits’s favorite song was Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising.” He hummed it as he waited for a break in the traffic.
Mustafa Quadri was home. He was really in no condition to be anywhere but home or in a hospital. His skull, he explained to the two policemen who had come only seconds before, was cracked like a coconut. Walking to the door to open it had made him dizzy. Sitting on the straight-back chair made him dizzy.
“Were I to sit in one of the more comfortable chairs,” Quadri explained, “It would be a major event for me to rise. I take little yellow pills, Meclazine, but I remain dizzy. The price to be paid for one’s principles.”
Neither policeman had done anything so far but identify himself and take a seat in the chairs Mustafa Quadri had described as comfortable. The studio apartment was little more than the size of Lieberman’s living room. There was a small round table with three chairs in one corner near the alcove that served as a kitchen. Bookshelves, simple wooden planks held up by concrete bricks, lined the walls. Books were everywhere. There was, however, no bed. Lieberman was certain one of the comfortable chairs opened into a single bed or there was a futon in the closet.
Quadri’s head was heavily bandaged, the bridge of his glasses held together with Scotch tape.
“So,” said Quadri folding his hands. “You wish me to identify the man who you have arrested, the Jew who hit me.”
“You filed charges?” asked Hanrahan.
“Of course, is that not why you are here?” asked Quadri.
“No,” said Lieberman. “My guess is the Hyde Park police are following up on that. We’ll be happy to check with them to see what progress they’ve made.”
Quadri shifted uneasily and winced from the pain. He folded his hands in front of him and looked from policeman to policeman.
“Then what do you want?”
“Who do we want,” Hanrahan amended.
“Massad Mohammed,” said Lieberman.
“I do not wish to discuss him,” said Quadri. “I am deeply upset with him. The Arab Student Response Committee has been almost destroyed by his defection.”
“Defection?” asked Hanrahan.
“He quit. Walked out.”
“Why?” asked Lieberman.
“My head hurts,” said the young man, closing his eyes.
Neither policeman thought Quadri was lying about the pain. So, they waited.
“I am considered something of a genius,” Quadri said, eyes still closed. “I have read every book in this room and much more. But I cannot read now. It makes me dizzy. The words dance. The one who did this to me should be given the full punishment of the law.”,
“I agree,” said Lieberman.
“I know everything in these books,” said Quadri. “They are my life. Almost all are in English. Some are Arabic. Some German. Some French.”
“Deuteronomy, chapter 13, verse 2,” said Lieberman, vaguely remembering the passage from Rabbi Wass’s last sermon.
Quadri smiled and opened his eyes saying, “If there arise in the midst of thee a prophet or a dreamer of dreams—and he give thee a sign or a wonder, and the sign or the wonder come to pass, whereof he spoke unto thee—saying: Let us go after other gods, which thou hast not known, and let us serve them; thou shalt not hearken unto the words of that prophet, or unto that dreamer of dreams. Enough?”
“Enough,” said Lieberman. “Anything like that in the Koran?”
“Very much like that,” said Quadri. “Would you like …?”
“No,” said Lieberman. “Are you a devout man?”
“Yes,” said Quadri.
“May I suggest to you that Massad Mohammed is a false prophet, a dreamer of nightmares,” said Lieberman. “He has given a false sign and follows one of the false gods.”
“Yes,” said Quadri with a sigh and a squint to keep his glasses from falling.
“We think he killed Howard Ramu and his two roommates, all Arabs, all Moslems,” said Lieberman. “And he tried to blame it on a Jew by leaving a bloody yarmulke in the room. He is following a false prophet following a false dream, making alliances with enemies. Do you know where he is?”
“No,” said Quadri, putting a hand to his aching, bandaged head. “He moved. He hides such information from us all now.”
“What is going to happen Monday?”
“I do not know,” said Quadri. “Massad did say something about Monday when last we met, but it was without detail or substance. But I fear it will be violent. I fear that it will create even more contempt for our movement. Our leader …”
“Jara Mohammed,” said Lieberman.
Quadri nodded and said, “She was angry after the rally. Had a moment of such anger that she suggested great violence, but she quickly changed her mind. Massad, however …”
“When did you last see Massad?” asked Hanrahan.
“Several days,” said Quadri. “I cannot recall. My head, you see. It …”
“Well, thanks for your cooperation,” said Lieberman, getting up. Hanrahan joined him.
“Please forgive me if I do not walk you to the door and forgive the fact that I’ve offered you no refreshment,” said Quadri.
“We understand,” said Lieberman.
“You are a Jew, are you not?” asked Quadri.
“Yes,” said Lieberman. “And a member of Congregation Mir Shavot where you, Jara Mohammed, and Howard Ramu desecrated our temple.”
Quadri looked away. “
Does he have the Torah?” Lieberman asked.
“I will deny saying this in public. I will say that you coerced me, but it is my understanding that Howard Ramu was in possession of the Torah when he was murdered. I do not know who murdered Howard. I do know you should catch Massad. Stop him. He does follow a false god of vengeance.”
“We plan to,” said Hanrahan. “Get some rest.”
In the hall, with the door closed behind them, Hanrahan said, “You were good in there, Rabbi.”
“I liked him,” said Lieberman.
“Yeah,” said Hanrahan, looking at the door. “Yeah, and you liked the girl. They tear up your church, crap on your prayer shawls, and you like them.”
“A paradox,” said Lieberman.
“World’s full of ’em,” said Hanrahan. “You think Massad has your Torah, killed three Arabs to get it?”
“I don’t know,” said Lieberman. They walked down the stairs and out the front door of the musty apartment building.
“You don’t know but you’ve got an idea,” said Hanrahan, moving to the car.
“Maybe,” Lieberman agreed, getting into the passenger side of the car.
Hanrahan got behind the wheel and closed the door. He looked at his partner’s beagle of a face and said, “Well?”
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