by Nick Carter
Harlow Wilts: Cottage Motels. The Southwest's chain of one-night stands. Motel business also runs on gas, and folks think twice about taking a vacation when hamburger hits a dollar fifty a pound. And Wilts was already overextended with his plans to buy the Italian Hotel.
Harrison Stol: what they used to call a "crusading editor." Postage and printing had gone so high, he was keeping the Public Report alive by soliciting extra contributions.
So there had been a pattern so far. They were all in money trouble. What did that mean? It meant banks wouldn't make hundred-million-dollar loans. It meant that the companies would have to sell out, that they'd go bankrupt. What did all that mean? Nothing. Why should Al Shaitan care who goes bankrupt?
And there was still the case of Thurgood Miles to complicate the pattern. Miles, of Doggie Bag Dog Food plus boarding schools, beauty shops, clothes shops, gift shops, hospitals, hotels and funeral chapels — all for dogs. And all making profits that could stagger the mind. Thurgood Miles: pattern buster.
And there wasn't any reason for a pattern to exist.
The phone rang. I answered the extension out on the balcony. It was David Benyamin returning my call.
I asked him if he'd check some telephone numbers. Find out who it was Robey had been calling in Beirut and Damascus the week before he died.
He took down the numbers. "Did you find out anything else of importance?" He sounded cagey. Like he knew I knew something.
"Nothing worth telling."
"Hmmp. Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure." I was watching the beach, or more exactly, a particular red bikini on the beach.
"So what are your plans? Are you staying in town?"
I ripped my eyes away from the bikini. "No," I told him. "I'm leaving for Jerusalem."
"Well, if you're planning to rent a car, try Kopel on Hayarkon Street. You can get yourself a Fiat 124 and you can change it in Jerusalem for a Jeep… if you need one."
I paused. "Why would I need a Jeep in Jerusalem?"
"You wouldn't need a Jeep," he said, "in Jerusalem."
"Have any other useful suggestions?"
"Eat leafy vegetables and get a lot of rest"
I suggested a thing or two he could do, too.
I rented a Fiat 124 at Kopel Rent-A-Car on Hayarkon Street. Nine bucks a day plus a dime a kilometer. They said I could exchange it for a Jeep in Jerusalem.
I headed southeast down the four-lane highways that span the seventy-kilometer distance. About forty-four miles. I turned on the radio. American rock A panel discussion on fertilizer. I turned off the radio.
I hadn't exactly lied to Benyamin when I told him I'd found out nothing important In fact it was probably painfully true. Five hundred dollars had bought me the name of a corpse's brother in Beit Nama. That was all, and it was probably nothing.
And on the subject of the five hundred dollars, if that was all Robey had paid to Yousef, there was twenty-five hundred left to account for. Somewhere down the line he'd made a bigger payoff.
Who had he paid?
Without his list of contacts, I didn't have a clue.
And without any clues, five guys stood to lose five hundred million. And maybe their lives.
Which brings me to the question, Who had the clues? Who took Robey's things? That one was easy. Jehns. But he was in Arizona tied to a bed. Back to square one. "An American" took them. An agent? A spy? A friend? A foe?
I switched on the radio again, and reached for a cigarette, when I remembered.
The matchbook. The one from Robey's jacket.
The Shanda Baths
78 Omar Street
Jerusalem
And written in hand on the inside cover, the name Chaim.
And then again, maybe that meant nothing.
Eight
The map of Israel reads like an index to the Bible. You can start with Genesis and work your way up through Solomon's Mines and David's Tomb and Bethlehem and Nazareth and end in Armageddon. If you want the short version, come to Jerusalem.
The city knocks your breath out with every step. Because you're standing where Solomon kept his horses, and-now you're walking down the Via Dolorosa, the street Christ walked carrying the cross. And there's where Mohammed rose to heaven. And Absalom's tomb. And Mary's tomb. The Western Wall. The golden dome of the Mosque of Omar; the stained-glass room of the Last Supper. It's all there. And it all looks pretty much the way it did then.
There are 200,000 Jews in Jerusalem, 75,000 Moslems and 15,000 Christians; there are also tensions, but no more now than when the city was divided and the Arabs used to live, under Arab rule, without running water or sanitation.
The part of the city called "East Jerusalem" belonged to Jordan till the war of '67. So did Mount Scopus and the Mount of Olives. East Jerusalem, then, is Arab in character.
"Arab in character" can be misunderstood. Because the Arab character is misunderstood, at least by most of us in the West Arabs remain in the western mind as The Last True Barbarian Exotics. Four-wived sheiks with legal hash, dubious morals, and bad teeth. Speedy-eyed merchants who'll sell you a "genuine antique rug" and throw in their daughter for two piasters more. The bad guys who torture the good guys in the movies and haven't been up to anything good since the day that Rudolph Valentino died. The terrorists haven't helped the image. In fact, they've even become the image. And that's pretty dumb.
All Arabs aren't violent terrorists any more than all Arabs are sheiks. If I have to generalize about the Arabs — and in general, I loathe generalizations — I'd say they've got exquisite turns of mind, broad humor, magnificent manners, and a friendliness that often borders on excessive.
The American Colony is in East Jerusalem. Once upon a time it was a pasha's palace. A gilded, tiled pleasure dome. Now the rooms go for twenty dollars a day. Huge rooms, with beamed ceilings and oriental traceries around the walls.
I checked myself in, MacKenzie of World, and went out to the sunlit courtyard for lunch. The food is French as well as Middle Eastern. I ordered French food and Israeli wine. It was late for lunch, and most of the tile tables were empty. Across a bed of blooming geraniums, four local businessmen were getting stoned. Next to me, a tanned, expensive-looking couple was staring at a silver espresso pot, waiting for the coffee to blacken to their liking. The man sighed. He didn't like to be kept waiting.
My wine came and the man craned his neck to see the label. I let him crane. I figured if I told him, we'd be doing wine bits for the next half hour. Then he'd want to talk about restaurants in France and the best shirt maker on Saville Row. So I let him crane.
He cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said. American. Hearty. "I was just wondering…"
"Mikveh Israel."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The wine." I spun the bottle. "Mikveh Israel."
"Oh." He read the label. "Mikveh Israel."
He was dressed in six hundred dollars worth of suit — tan suit, tan shirt, tan skin, tan hair. What you might call a tangible success. The lady at his side completed the image. A Grace Kelly blonde in pale blue silk.
"I was thinking before that you look familiar." She spoke in melodies. The accent, French. "But now I know of who you remind me." The look was flirting. Cool but hot. She turned to the living suntan lotion ad. "Who you think, Bob?"
Bob drew a blank. My food arrived. She leaned over the waiter and put a hand on my arm. "Omar Sharif!" The waiter winked at me and went away. She leaned forward. "You aren't… are you?"
"Omar Sharif. Uh uh. Sorry." I put out my cigarette and turned to my lunch. Bob was eyeing my cigarettes now. In a minute he'd ask to see the pack. He cleared his throat.
"I'm Bob Lamott. And this is Jacqueline Reine."
I gave up. "MacKenzie." We all shook hands.
"You here on vacation?" Bob asked.
I said I was working for World Magazine. I'd said it so often, I was starting to believe it.
He told me he worked for Fresco Oil. I said "Oh," and went o
n eating. Not, "Oh?" Just "Oh." He was not to be daunted.
"How's the quiche?"
"Hmm?"
He pointed at my plate. "The quiche. How is it?"
"Fine."
"Not as good as Madame Dit's, I bet. You ever been to Madame Dit's in Paris? Best quiche in the world, bar none."
"I'll remember that"
"You here alone?"
"Mmm. Yeh."
"Well," said Jacqueline. "In that case, perhaps…" The look she gave Bob read like teleprompter cards. Bob took his cue.
"Oh… yes. Perhaps you'd like a ticket to the concert tonight? I have a meeting, a business meeting and, well, Jacqueline here wants to go, but it's, well, rather awkward for her to go alone. So uh…"
Jacqueline was giving me a long slow look. A whye-me-cat's-away-what-he-doesn't-know-won't-hurt-him look. Her eyes were green and flecked with gold.
I said, "Gosh, I'm sorry but I've made other plans."
People like Lamott make me say things like "gosh." And women like Jacqueline are bad for the soul. You can hear their wheels click as they plan to hook you, but the subtle perfume, the silky hair, the hand on yours lightly, then flitting away… and next thing you know, you've jumped on the hook. And next thing you know after that, you're back in the ocean.
"Perhaps some other time?" They said it together and then they both laughed.
"Perhaps," I said while they laughed.
I called for the check, paid up, and left.
* * *
There are Turkish baths and there are Turkish baths.
And then there's the Shanda.
Authentic Turkish and authentic baths. No nonsense. Take your pick — steam heat or dry heat, hot pool, cold pool, or medium-warm. The Shanda is housed in another ex-palace. Stained glass windows, mosaic floors, and high, gilded, domed ceilings.
And who in the name of Allah was Chaim? Chaim could work here or just hang around. Chaim could have come just once to meet Robey. Chaim could have never been here at all. Or Robey either. Maybe he'd simply found the matchbook. Pardon me, Miss, have you got a light? Sure. Here. It's okay. Keep them.
I went up to the desk. A battered 1910 office-style desk sitting in the middle of this pasha-style lobby. The sign said Admission IL 5. $1.15. I paid the cashier. He looked like my memories of S.Z. Sakell — a butterball turkey with glasses.
I folded my change and thought for a minute.
"So?" he said in English, "so what's the matter?"
I said, "Do I look like something's the matter?"
"You ever see someone got nothing the matter? Everybody got something the matter. So why are you different?"
I smiled. "I'm not."
He shrugged. "So?"
So why not. I said: "Is Chaim here?"
He said: "Chaim who?"
"I don't know. Who have you got?"
He shook his chins. "No Chaims here." He tilted his head. "So why you're asking?"
"Somebody told me to ask for Chaim."
He shook his chins again. "No Chaims here."
"Okay. Fine. Where's the locker?"
"If you said Chaim sent you, that's something else."
"What something else?"
"If you said Chaim sent you, I'm calling the boss. If I'm calling the boss, you get special treatment."
I scratched my head. "Could you call the boss?"
"To call the boss I'd be happy and delighted. There's just one problem. Chaim didn't send you."
"Look, suppose we start over again. Hello. Nice day. Chaim sent me."
He smiled. "Yes?"
I smiled. "Yes. Will you call the boss?"
"To call the boss I'd be happy and delighted. There's just one problem. The boss isn't here"
I closed my eyes.
He said: Tell you what You go to the steam room. I send the boss later."
* * *
The steam room set was out of Fellini. Round and high like a small coliseum, ringed with circular white stone slabs that rose like bleachers to a high, domed, stained-glass ceiling. With the steam, it was like a surrealist's dream of Pompeii Bodies sprawled on the stone steps came into view through the floating air, but just in time to prevent a collision. The visibility was almost zero.
I'd found the locker and rented a large Persian-printed towel and a stringy scrubber they call a loofah. How the boss would ever find me, I didn't know. I couldn't even find my own feet.
I climbed to a slab about twenty feet up. Steam rises. It was good and hot I thought I could bake out the dents from the previous night Relax the sore muscles. I closed my eyes. Maybe Jackson Robey just came here to relax Maybe he'd come for the steam and the pool and the Chaim-sent-me special treatment.
I had to admit the treatment was special From somewhere out of the Pompeian mists, a pair of arms came fast-flying down. They grabbed me in a hammerlock and Jerked me off balance. It was so damned steamy I couldn't see him. But I know how to buck a hammerlock hold. I can do it as they say, with my hands behind my back.
I countered with a lock-busting piece of Judo and the guy flew off me and over and down and disappeared in a puff of steam.
Not for long.
He came in low with a butt to my ribs (you needed radar to fight in there) and I slip-slid backward against die stone. The towel went flying and there I was naked and then he was coming at me again, a big faceless blob, starting to dive-bomb in for the kill.
I waited until the second his foot left the ground and flip! I rolled down to the step below, and his body slammed into the empty stone. I was on him before he had time to say oof! I went for his throat with the side of my hand but he blocked me with an arm as thick as a tree trunk. He was built like King Kong's under study and a look at his face didn't change my mind. We were practically Indian wrestling until he grunted and bucked and heaved and we both rolled over and over again, and suddenly I was flat down on the step, and be was starting to bang my head on the stone.
Right about then I could have used the help of Wilhelmina. But of course, I hadn't taken my Luger into the steam room — but I had taken Hugo, my trusty stiletto. Unfortunately, I'd concealed it in the waistband of the towel, and it had gone flying when the towel went flying, and I'd lost it somewhere in all that steam.
But as somebody said, seek and you'll find. I felt something pointy prickling my back. That blockbuster had me pinned like a fly and was trying to make chopped liver out of my head, and my own knife was starting to stab me in the back.
I gained enough leverage to make a move. I got my hand on the step above me and pushed away, and we both rolled over and over and down — and now I had the stiletto. But now he had my knife hand and again we rolled over, push-pulling the knife, only now he was on top and pinning my arms. I brought a knee up and his eyes started to bulge, and again we went over. I heard something crack and his breath went whoosh, and his hand went slack. I was closing in and I realized I was pushing a knife at a corpse.
I got up slowly, looking at my assailant. His neck had snapped on the corner of the step and his head was dangling over the edge. I stood up panting. His body collapsed He started to roll. Over and down through the bleachers of white stone steps, down through the rising hell clouds of steam.
I circled the rotunda and went down the steps. I was half out the door when I heard someone saying, "What do you think that noise was about?"
His companion answered: "What noise?"
I decided to pay a visit to the boss. I got dressed and headed for the door marked Director. His secretary told me he wasn't in. I brushed past her desk and her protestations and opened the door to the boss's office. He wasn't in. The secretary was at my elbow; a plump, cross-looking, middle-aged woman, her arms folded fatly across her breast. "Is there any message?" she said. Sarcastic.
"Yeah," I said. "Tell him Chaim was here. And it's the last time I'm recommending his place."
I stopped off at the admissions desk.
"Has Chaim been sending a lot of friends?"
"N
uh-uh," he said. "First one is you. Boss only told me two days ago. 'Be on the look-sharp for someone says Chaim.'"
Two days ago. It started to make its own land of sense.
Maybe.
"So?" he asked me. "Something's the matter?"
"No," I said slowly. "It's fine. Just fine."
Nine
Kopel Rent-A-Car couldn't help me. Neither could Avis. I got lucky at Hertz. Yes, a Mr. Robey had rented a car. On the twenty-fifth. At seven A.M. He'd special-ordered a Land Rover. Called in the day before to reserve it.
"And when did he return it?"
She ran her fingers down the filed receipt. A not-gorgeous girl with a bad complexion. She gave me what looked like a rented smile. "On the twenty-seventh. At eleven-thirty."
Twenty minutes later, he'd cabled AXE. An hour after that he was dead in an alley.
She'd started to close the file drawer.
"Can you tell me one more thing?"
The sign on the counter said her name was Miss Mangel.
"Can you tell me the mileage he put on the Rover?"
She flitted her plum-colored spear-shaped nails back through the R's till she came to Robey. "Five hundred forty kilometers, sir."
I put a fifty-pound note on the counter. "What's that for?" she asked, suspicious.
"That's for you never heard of Mr. Robey and no one was in here asking about him."
"About who?" she said, and picked up the note.
I picked up a map from the counter and left.
It was sunset and I just drove around for a while, trying to get my mind unwound and ready for the next big bout of thinking. The city was the color of pink gold, like a giant bracelet thrown between the hills. Church bells tolled, and from gilded minarets, the voice of the muezzin was heard in the land. La ilaha illa Allah. The Moslem call to prayer.
The city itself was like a kind of prayer. Arab women, exotic in veils, balancing baskets on top of their beads, blending with tourists in cut-off Jeans and Eastern Orthodox priests with their long black robes and their long black hair, and men in kafiyas on their way to a mosque and Hasidic Jews on their way to the Wall. I wondered if the city's three-named God would ever flash a mirror down from the sky and say, "Look, folks, this is how it should be. Everybody living together in peace." Shalom Aleichem, Salaam Aleikum. Peace be with you.