A Walk in the Darkness - [Kamal & Barnea 03]

by Jon Land

  “As he will about yours, after I’ve had the opportunity to fully brief him.”

  Danielle gazed one last time at J. P. Wynn, whatever secrets he’d been keeping gone for good. “You haven’t asked what Wynn and I were working on,” she repeated to Shoshanna Tavi suddenly.

  “Why should I bother?”

  “You haven’t asked, because you must already know.”

  The muscles of Tavi’s jaw flexed. “Watch your back, Pakad.”

  Danielle was already thinking of how she might learn what J. P. Wynn had kept from her. “Likewise, Captain.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 38

  I

  ’m looking for the doctor who would have been on duty Monday afternoon,” Ben said to Dr. Henri Devereaux, a French physician on loan to the clinic in Jericho from the United Nations Medical Corps.

  “I was here Monday afternoon,” Devereaux said disinterestedly as he sorted through some charts.

  “In the emergency room?”

  Devereaux looked up impatiently. “It is where I work, Inspector.”

  Late last night, a pair of Palestinian police officers had finally checked out the alley where Ben had reported the incident that had left two men slain inside a car. Not surprisingly, the officers had found nothing. The bodies, and the car, had been removed.

  But the tattoo of an upside-down red cross on the driver’s arm had brought Ben to the hospital to check out the bizarre claims made by the madman he’d arrested in Baladiya Square two days ago. Until last night, he had given those rantings no credence at all. Seeing that red cross, though, had changed everything, especially now that someone had gone to great lengths to eliminate all traces of what had happened.

  “A woman would have been brought in with a wound suffered in an attack in the marketplace, Baladiya Square. A sword wound,” Ben said. The madman had insisted the woman had meant to attackhim, claimed she had a knife in her possession.

  The same madman had told Ben that he too had seen men with the upside-down red cross on their forearms. He had called them disciples of the devil.

  Dr. Devereaux found the chart he was looking for and started down the hall, Ben trailing alongside. “Yes, I treated her myself. A flesh wound. She was lucky.”

  “Did you notice any . . . distinguishing marks?”

  “Like what?”

  “A tattoo of some kind.”

  The doctor shook his head. “Not that I recall.”

  “You saw both her arms?”

  “Saw both. Worked closely on only one. But I don’t remember seeing a tattoo on the other either. The patient had suffered fairly substantial blood loss, though, and I was concerned about some residual atrophy in the belly of the muscle. I stitched her up, ordered some tests.”

  “And?”

  Devereaux shrugged, slowing as he approached one of the trauma rooms. “And nothing. She left, walked straight out before she was discharged. I came back to have her admitted and she was gone. Even left her belongings behind.”

  “Do you still have these belongings?”

  Devereaux drew back the curtain. “Ask at the front desk. We’d be happy to get rid of them.”

  * * * *

  T

  he belongings the wounded woman had left behind were stored in a single plastic bag. Ben peeled it open and turned it upside down atop the counter.

  A cigarette lighter and small makeup case dropped out. Then a knife clinked to the counter between them. Ben laid the storage bag down and examined the knife. It was a smaller version of the Jambiyah, the Arab knife of legend. This one could easily be concealed in a hand, a woman’s hand, when held low near the hip. Show the knife only long enough to lash out or swipe its razor-sharp blade, and then be on your way. At any size, including this customized one, a knife like this had only one purpose: to kill.

  Ben didn’t expect to find any blood on the blade; the madman in the square, after all, had told him he had struck the woman with his pilfered Kilij sword before she had a chance to get him. Nor did he expect to find any fingerprints on the hilt because a professional would never leave any.

  The madman claimed he had grabbed the sword from the sidewalk stand display and acted out of self-defense, attacking only when the woman was poised to kill him. That made no sense at all Monday morning.

  It made only a little more now.

  The madman told Ben the woman had been sent by the devil, after he witnessed the return of the devil’s disciples to Palestine. Except the woman did not have the mark of the cross on her arm; at least Dr. Devereaux didn’t recall it being there.

  Perhaps the madman could tell him more about that tattoo, and who might be behind the attempt on both their lives.

  There was only one way to find out.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 39

  M

  urdered,” Hershel Giott repeated after Danielle had finished relating her experience at the King David Hotel.

  “And Shin Bet was first on the scene.”

  “This Captain Tavi was in charge, you say.”

  “Shoshanna Tavi,” Danielle affirmed. “Why? Is that important?”

  “No,” Giott said evasively, avoiding her gaze.

  “What is it?”

  He looked at her again. “Captain Tavi is one of those being mentioned prominently for one of the positions that should be yours.”

  Danielle swallowed hard, felt something like cold static dance across her flesh. “Shin Bet knows more than they’re saying, Rav Nitzav. I’m sure of it.”

  “Something to do with the murdered Americans being geologists, you think?” he asked her, then continued before Danielle had a chance to respond. “What would geologists be looking for in the West Bank, Pakad, and what could it have to do with rocks?”

  She checked her watch. “The forensics technician Raskin is due in shortly. I’ll know then.”

  “But you think Wynn knew.”

  “Right from the start and it had nothing to do with that cover story he made up about the lost gold of Exodus.”

  Giott’s empty gaze was somewhere else. He looked ghost-white to Danielle today. ‘‘The Americans could not possibly have brought in all that equipment without our government knowing, yes?”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Then the government must have been complicit in this from the beginning.”

  Danielle nodded. “Through Shoshanna Tavi, Rav Nitzav. And Commander Baruch.”

  “Who was directly responsible for the Americans’ security. That is not something he would take on without very good reason. The stakes must be truly high.” Giott nodded and his yarmulke slid forward on his scalp, no longer a good fit. He moved it back into place and Danielle felt a hollow pang of sorrow at the degree to which he was wasting away. “This is a most embarrassing situation for the commander, and we can use that to our favor by disgracing him, by revealing how badly he botched this matter.”

  “You believe he did?”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no, but what’s the difference? The integrity of National Police is at stake, along with your future.” In that instant he looked like the man who had mentored her in earlier years as a detective, time wound backward. “I am committed to preserving that future before my retirement, whatever it takes, so long as we can live with ourselves. And I can live with myself for destroying Moshe Baruch. I cannot live with myself for letting his people take over this office.”

  Danielle thought briefly. “Destroying him means exposing the truth behind what brought the Americans to the West Bank.”

  Giott nodded. “I’d say avoiding such exposure was one of the prime directives he was given in this matter. He may survive the ridicule and embarrassment, but he will suffer for it. We will find the commander appreciably weakened, certainly enough to forestall the power play he and others like him are attempting.” The commissioner of the National Police balled his hands into two weak fists he held before him. “You will have your new office, Danielle. We will make it so.�
�� He leaned forward, a look of optimism lighting up his face. “Find the truth, Pakad, whatever it takes.”

  * * * *

  F

  rom Giott’s office, Danielle drove the short distance to her father’s grave in a crowded Jerusalem cemetery where the rows between grave markers were barely wide enough to accommodate a single visitor. She knelt over his grave and deposited the customary single rose she had purchased just outside the gates.

  “I have news, Father, wonderful news. I’m pregnant again! Remember how I lost the last baby? I know you must, just as I know you’ll want to hear about the father. Did he serve the army and his country proudly? Is he a sabra? Does he have relatives who were here at the beginning?

  “He is none of those things, Father, but he is a wonderful man all the same. A wonderful Palestinian man. Would you give me your blessing if you were still alive?”

  Danielle felt the hot tide of tears forming and tried to fight them back.

  “But you’re gone, and Mother’s gone, and my brothers are gone. All of you left me alone to make these decisions and choices totally by myself. You all died for your country, our country, a country that was always more important than our family or ourselves. So how can I marry this man or raise my child with him, whether I love him or not, when I would be betraying the legacy you died to create?”

  The tears came and this time Danielle could do nothing to stop them.

  “Tell me it’s okay to be weak. Tell me just this once it’s okay to let my emotions control my reason. Tell me I can love this man and still be loved by this country you died for.”

  A hand touched her shoulder and Danielle swung round breathlessly to find nothing. Just a trick of the same wind that was already tugging at the petals of the rose she had laid upon the marble grave marker. A man’s life summarized in a set of years etched below the Star of David.

  “I won’t let you down,” Danielle said, touching it. “I won’t let you down.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 40

  T

  he jailer looked at Ben strangely. “We don’t get many police down here.”

  “Then you should be glad to see me.”

  The jailer’s pockmarked face grew tentative. “I don’t know if I can let you in.”

  “I arrested him. He’s my prisoner.”

  “After they’re dropped off here, they become ours.”

  Ben sighed in concession, slapped his palms lightly on the jailer’s desk. “I see. I’ll go inform Colonel al-Asi. . . .”

  “Wait,” the jailer called before Ben could turn around, “I thought you were with the police.”

  “I am,” Ben said. “But I’m pursuing this inquiry on behalf of the Protective Security Service.”

  The jailer fumbled for the keys. “You will not report this confusion to the colonel.”

  Ben watched the man finally snare them and slide out from behind his desk. “I see no need.”

  * * * *

  T

  he jailer led Ben down the long, colorless hall past cell after cell. The district of Jericho’s jail had once been a small hospital, rendered obsolete when the Palestinian Authority built the new clinic near the town center. In the Authority’s rush to convert the former hospital to a jail, though, they neglected to include proper facilities for mentally ill criminals who would be served better as patients than prisoners. But there were simply not enough funds available in the budget to pay for the kind of care such individuals required.

  Ben tried to ignore the odors of urine and sweat that permeated the hall, then gave up the attempt in the hope that his nose would simply get accustomed to them. A few of the prisoners watched him as he passed. Others cowered in their cells, clinging to the corners of the cold concrete.

  “What’s the man’s name?” Ben asked as they neared the last cells on the hall.

  “We don’t know,” said the jailer. “He hasn’t told us yet.”

  “Have you asked?”

  “He hasn’t said much of anything, whether we ask him or not.”

  The jailer stopped at the last cell on the right-hand side. “Here he is.”

  Inside, the man Ben recognized from Baladiya Square two days ago sat in a corner on the floor, head down and arms cradled around his knees, rocking himself slightly. His stringy hair was wet with sweat and oil, the bald patches of his scalp plainly visible. A mattress lay across from him, but no bed. The water in the sink dripped. A stench rose from the chemical toilet. The arm Ben had wounded in subduing him had been placed in a makeshift cloth sling that was now stained with dirt.

  The jailer rattled his keys against the bars to get the man’s attention. “Hey! Hey, I’m talking to you!”

  Ben grabbed his hand and stopped the jangling. “Open it up and let me go in there with him.”

  The jailer narrowed his gaze. “You’re sure you want to do that?”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  The jailer shrugged, inserted a thick key from his ring into the lock, and pulled open the cell door. “I’ll have to lock it behind you,” he warned as Ben slid past him.

  “Be my guest.”

  Ben moved deeper into the cell and sat down on the floor across from the man, who seemed oblivious to his presence, still rocking himself.

  “Do you remember me?”

  The man rocked himself harder.

  “We met at the marketplace the other day.” Ben twisted back toward the bars and saw the jailer standing there, just within earshot. “Everything is under control here,” he called. “You can return to your post.”

  “Yes, sir,” the jailer said and walked stiffly off.

  “I am Inspector Bayan Kamal of the Palestinian police,” he said to the man before him. “I would like to help you, if you let me.”

  The man started humming, staring at the floor.

  “I didn’t believe what you told me about the devil, until I saw a man last night with a tattoo of an upside-down red cross across his forearm.”

  The man looked up just enough to meet Ben’s eyes.

  “He tried to kill me,” Ben told him. “And now I need you to tell me what else you know before someone else tries again.”

  The man turned a little, looking away.

  “While you are here,” Ben started, “who is feeding your cat?”

  The man’s eyes widened in confusion, then sadness. His features suddenly perked up. He gazed around as if unsure what to do, back-crawling to put more distance between himself and Ben.

  “How did you know I had a cat?” he asked, his voice a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

  “The scratches on your arms. The cat must have had a bad day.”

  “She has a lot of bad days.”

  “What if you could be released so you can feed her?”

  The man’s eyes lightened a little. “They think I’m crazy.”

  “I don’t. What’s your name?”

  The prisoner eyed Ben intently and seemed to relax a bit. “Abid Rahman. And it’s not so bad.”

  “What?”

  “You asked me about my arm. It doesn’t hurt much anymore.”

  “I’d like to show you something,” Ben said, and removed the Jambiyah knife, encased in a Ziploc bag, from his pocket. “Do you recognize it?”

  Rahman’s entire body tensed and he pushed himself back almost to the concrete wall. “Where did you get that?”

  “Tell me where you’ve seen it before.”

  “In Baladiya Square! The woman was holding it in her hand when I attacked her.” Rahman’s eyes bulged. “Did you get it from her? Where is she?”

  “The woman you wounded left the clinic on Monday before they were finished treating her.” Ben paused to make sure he had all of Rahman’s attention. “She left the knife behind.”

  Rahman’s eyes sharpened, tried not to meet Ben’s. “She’ll come for me again.”

  “Not if you are under my protection.”

  “You would do that for me?”

 
Ben nodded. “Yes, in exchange for your help.”

  “Me? How could I possibly help you?”

  “I would like to hear more about the day all those years ago you first saw the devil.”