The Jerusalem File

by Nick Carter

  I went back to my room and ordered a vodka, then ran a hot bath and took the vodka with me into the tub. Except for the place on the back of my head where it was going to hurt me to comb my hair, my body was forgetting the afternoon. Not forgiving, Just forgetting.

  The phone rang. I groaned. In my kind of work, there's no such thing as the possum luxury of letting phones ring or doorbells buzz. It's either someone who needs to get you or else it's someone who's out to get you. And you never know which until you answer.

  I cursed and got out of the tub, dripping all the way to the phone, leaving foot marks on the oriental carpet.

  "MacKenzie?"

  Benyamin. I told him to hold. I said I had some vanilla ice cream. I wanted to get it. I thought it was melting. The comic-strip code: Maybe we're bugged. I'd checked out the room as a matter of course, but a switchboard phone can be monitored from anywhere. And someone in Jerusalem was after me. So I put down the phone and counted twenty and when I picked it up, he said he had to go; his doorbell was ringing. I said I'd call him back. He said to call at ten.

  I considered getting back in the tub, but that's like trying to reheat toast — more work than its worth. I grabbed a towel, my drink, and the map, and sprawled myself out on the big double bed.

  Robey traveled 540 kilometers, round trip. Two hundred and seventy, one way. Starting at Jerusalem. I checked the scale at the bottom of the map. Forty kilometers to the inch. I measured out 6% inches and drew a circle around Jerusalem; 270 kilometers in each direction. Just about 168 miles.

  The circle went north and covered most of Lebanon; east-northeast, it drove into Syria; moving southeast, it took in most of Jordan and a fifty-mile pie-wedge of Saudi Arabia. Due south, it covered half of the Sinai and southwest, it landed on the porch of Port Said.

  Somewhere in that circle, Robey found Shaitan.

  Somewhere in that circle, I'd find Shaitan.

  Somewhere on a plain with orange dust.

  First things first. Jordan is enemy turf to commandos, and Egypt is rapidly turning iffy. The Sinai Peninsula is a good place to hide, but it's full of Israelis and U.N. observers and Sadat's Egyptians who are getting pretty cozy with the United States. Mark it a maybe, but not a first choice. Neither was Arabia Which left part of Syria and most of Lebanon, countries with large Palestinian contingents. Syria, whose army was still fighting Israel still hoping to gain ground despite peace talks. Lebanon, a well-known base for commandos.

  So figure Shaitan was in Lebanon or Syria.

  But were they still where they had been when Robey had found them? Or had they figured they were safe enough to just stay put after killing him?

  Lebanon or Syria. Robey made calls to Damascus and Beirut Syria and Lebanon.

  Then the maybes started going through my head.

  Maybe Benyamin had traced the calls.

  Maybe he had some terrific information.

  Maybe I ought to get dressed and go to dinner.

  * * *

  The restaurant was called The Arabian Knights and the walls and ceiling were covered with fabric; purple and red and yellow and dizzying. A giant birdcage filled the center of the room, and a purple and red and yellow bird glowered from its perch at the candlelit diners.

  I got a table and ordered a vodka and a dish made of mutton, nuts, chick peas and rice and spice and sesame seeds. I said, I want open sesame seeds." The waiter bowed graciously and backed away.

  A few minutes later he came back with a drink, and a few minutes later he came back with Jacqueline Reine.

  "I thought it was you over here in the corner. You want to be alone, or…

  We settled for the "or" and she sat down. She was dressed in Paris and she smelled of Paris and the blonde hair was piled up on her head and falling in little tendrils on her neck. Diamonds glittered slyly on her ears and something else glittered slyly in her eyes.

  She lowered them and said, "You don't like me, do you?"

  I said, "I don't know you."

  She laughed a little harshly. "Is there the expression 'to beg the question? I think you have just begged the question. I put it again. Why don't you like me?"

  "Why do you want me to?"

  She pursed red lips and tilted her head. "For a man so attractive, that is rather naive,"

  "For a woman so attractive" — I was trying to read those glints in her eyes — "you shouldn't have to chase the men who don't like you."

  She nodded once, and smiled. "Touché. Now — will you buy me a drink, or do you send me home to bed without any supper?"

  I motioned the waiter and ordered her a drink. She was watching the bird. "I was hoping we could be rather nice to each other. I was hoping…" her voice trailed off and stopped.

  "You were hoping?"

  She showed me her green-gold eyes. "I was hoping you'd take me with you when you go. Away from here."

  "From whatsisname?"

  She formed a pout and then traced it with her finger. "I do not like what he does to me." I looked at the diamonds glowing on her ears and figured he liked what she was doing to him. She'd charted my glance. "Oh, yes. There is money. There is much much money. But money, I find, is not really all. There is tenderness and bravery… and…" she gave me a long, melting look. "And much, much more." She parted her lips.

  Take, and print. It was a bad scene from a bad movie. She had class but she couldn't act And while I admit to being brave and tender and looking like Omar Sharif and all, whatever was shining in her eyes wasn't love. It wasn't even good, clean lust. It was something else, but I couldn't read it.

  I shook my head. "Wrong patsy. But don't give up. How about that tall guy over there?" I pointed at a handsome Arab waiter. "Not much money, but I bet he's got a lot of that 'much much more.'"

  She put down her glass and got up abruptly. There were tears in her eyes. Real tears. "I'm sorry," she said. "I have made myself a fool. I thought — it doesn't matter what I thought." The real tears were really running down her face and she wiped them away with shaking fingers. "It's just that I… I'm so desperate, I-oh!" She shivered. "Goodnight, Mr. Carter."

  She turned and half ran out of the room. I sat there perplexed. I hadn't expected that kind of an ending.

  I also hadn't told her my name was Carter.

  I nursed my coffee until ten o'clock and went to the phonebooth and called Benyamin.

  "Someone's putting the heat on, huh?"

  For an answer, I told him the steam room story.

  "Interesting."

  "Isn't it. D'you think you've got the time to check the place out? Especially the boss? Chaim, I figure, was just a tip word."

  "Chaim means life."

  "Yes, I know. My life sends me off to a lot of strange places."

  A pause. I could hear him striking a match and inhaling on a cigarette. "What do you think Robey was doing with the matchbook?"

  I said, "Come on, David. What is this? A freshman year intelligence test? The matchbook was a plant For my eyes only. Someone put it into Robey's luggage knowing that someone like me would find it. And follow it. What I don't like most about that idea is that anything I find now could be a plant."

  He laughed. "Very good."

  "Huh?"

  "On the test. Or at least I come up with the same answer. Anything else you'd like to share?"

  "Not at the moment. But you called me."

  "Robey's phone calls. I traced the numbers."

  I got out my book and a pencil. "Shoot."

  "The Beirut number is a Foxx Hotel. The call Robey made was station-to-station, so there's no record of who he was calling."

  "How about Damascus?"

  "Yes. Got it. An unlisted phone. Private residence. Theodore Jehns. Mean anything?"

  Uh oh. I had Sarah's phone bill with me. I checked out the dates of Robey's calls. I'd been playing poker with Jehns in Arizona while he and Robey were supposedly talking.

  Which meant what?

  That the accident that put Jehns into Aun
t Tillie's had been arranged. That Robey had been talking to Jehns's imposter. That some outsider had infiltrated AXE. And the same outsider might have fingered Robey. Unless…

  "No," I said. "Means nothing to me."

  "Want me to check it?"

  "I'll let you know."

  Another pause. "You'd make a rotten kibbutznik, you know?"

  "Meaning?"

  "No cooperative spirit — just like Robey."

  "Yeah. You're right. At school I ran track instead of playing football. And the only thing I ever regretted about it is you don't get cheerleaders for track. All those neat little breasts bouncing up and down are strictly for the teammates."

  "Speaking of which, I have sent you a teammate."

  "You have sent me a what?"

  "Don't get excited. It wasn't my idea. I was, as the saying goes, under orders."

  "Vadim?"

  "Hawk. From your boss to my boss. From me to you."

  "What the hell for?"

  "For going to Syria — or Lebanon — or wherever else you're going that you're not about to tell me."

  "What makes you think I'm going?"

  "Come on, Carter. I just traced those numbers to Damascus and Beirut. And besides, if Shaitan is hiding five Americans, they haven't got them in the middle of Israel. Suddenly you think I'm a dummy?"

  "Suddenly I need a buddy? What the hell is this?"

  "Hey, hold your mouth on. Orders are orders. This 'buddy' I sent you is Arab. Not exactly an agent, but someone who's been helpful. And before you turn your nose, I think you'll need help. And Arab papers. I sent you those too. Try to get across those borders as a Johnny-come-lately American journalist and you might as well just tell them you're a spy."

  I sighed. "Okay. I'm a graceful loser."

  "Like hell you are. I can hear you smarting."

  "So?"

  "So it's your move."

  "Okay. I'll call you in a day or two. From wherever I am. To see what you've learned about the Shanda Baths." I paused. "I trust your trusty not-exactly agent will keep you well informed about me."

  He laughed. "And you said you were a graceful loser."

  * * *

  I paid my check, got a lot of change, and drove to the Intercontinental Hotel. I found a phone booth and settled in.

  First things first. Carefully. I should have done this the other night, but I hadn't wanted to set off alarms.

  "Hello?" Another bossa nova in the background.

  "Sarah? It's MacKenzie."

  "MacKenzie!" she said. "I've been dunking about you."

  "You have?"

  "I have."

  She paused for a two bar rest. "I think I've been stupid."

  Two more bars of the bossa nova.

  "The other night, when you left, I went over to the window and watched you go. Never mind why. A bad habit Anyway, after your cab pulled away, a car across the street pulled out of the driveway. A black Renault, And suddenly, I realized that that car had been parked there for two days, and always with someone in it. For two days — do you hear me, MacKenzie?"

  "I hear you, Sarah."

  "The car went away after you left. And it hasn't been back."

  Whoever they were, they weren't dumb. They knew someone from AXE would follow Robey and they staked out his place to find out who. That meant they didn't know who I was until after I'd gone to visit Sarah. So they didn't know that I'd met Yousef or seen Benyamin.

  Maybe.

  "Did you get a look at the guy inside?" I asked.

  "There were two. I only saw the driver. A Jack Armstrong type. All-American boy."

  "You mean big and blond?"

  "Is there any other kind?"

  "So now tell me why all this makes you stupid."

  She paused again. "I suppose it was all this that made me smart. Stupid is what I've been all along. I know now, MacKenzie. About Jack's Job. And… and yours, I guess. I've always known, really. I knew and I just didn't want to know. It was too frightening to really know. If I'd known, I'd have to worry every time he left the house." Her voice was angry with self-recrimination. "Do you understand, MacKenzie? It was easier to worry about 'other women' or about myself. Nice little, safe little, little-girl worries."

  "Easy, Sarah."

  She took my words and spun them. "It wasn't easy. It was harder on both of us." Her voice was bitter. "Oh, sure. I never bugged him. I never asked him questions. I just made myself a heroine. 'See how I'm not asking you questions?' And sometimes I'd Just pull myself back. Dive into silence. Oh, that must have made him very happy." My voice was even. "I'm sure you did make him very happy. As for the rest, he understood. He had to. You think he didn't know what you were going through? We know, Sarah. And the way you played it is just about the only way the thing can be played."

  She was quiet for a while. An expensive, long, long-distance quiet.

  I broke the silence. "I called to ask a question."

  She came out of her trance, enough to laugh at herself. "You mean you didn't call to listen to my troubles?"

  "Don't worry about that. I'm glad you talked to me. Now I'd like to talk about Ted Jehns."

  "The man from World?"

  I didn't answer. She said slowly, dawningly, painfully: "Ooooh."

  "What did he look like?"

  "My God, did I…"

  "How could you know? Come on. Tell me. What did he look like."

  "Well, sandy hair, blue eyes. He had quite a tan."

  "Height?"

  "Medium, Medium build."

  So far, she was describing Ted Jehns.

  "Anything else?"

  "Mmm… handsome, I'd say. And well-dressed."

  "Did he show you any kind of identification?"

  "Yes. A press card from World Magazine."

  World Magazine wasn't even Jehns's cover.

  I sighed. "Did he ask you any questions? And did you give him any answers?"

  "Well, he asked the same things you did. In a different way. But basically he wanted to know what I knew about Jack's work and Jack's friends. And I told him the truth. What I told you. That I didn't know anything."

  I told her to be careful, but not to lose sleep. I doubted they'd be bothering her any more. She'd served her function — the link to me.

  I was running out of change and I still had another call to make.

  I said goodnight to Sarah Lavie.

  I fed the machine a few more coins and dialed Jacques Kelly at home in Beirut "Jacques Kelly" describes Jacques Kelly. A wild French-Irishman. Belmondo imitating Errol Flynn. Kelly was also our man in Beirut.

  He was also in bed when I called. And by the slur in his voice, I wasn't interrupting either a good night's sleep or the Lebanon Late Show.

  I said I'd make it fast and I tried my best. I asked him to check out the Foxx Beirut to get the guest list for the days Robey called. I also told him Ted Jehns had a double. I told him to code-cable that news to Hawk and to make sure that someone nosed around Damascus. AXE would have sent a replacement for Jehns, but I wasn't taking chances trusting a replacement. Not unless I knew who he was, which I didn't.

  "How about Jehns himself?" he suggested. "Maybe we ought to do a background on him. Find out bow his boat sprung a leak."

  "Yeah. That's next. And tell Hawk I suggest that he use Millie Barnes."

  "Who?"

  "Millie Barnes. A girl in a position to question Jehns."

  Kelly made a pun that isn't worth repeating.

  I hung up the phone and sat there in the booth. I realized I was angry. I lit a cigarette and puffed on it angry. All of a sudden I started to laugh. In two days I'd been tricked, trapped, beaten up twice, followed, more than likely bugged, and in general served as a railroad station for incoming and outgoing bad news. But what was it that finally made me mad?

  A sex-pun Kelly made about Millie.

  Try to figure that out.

  Ten

  ISLAMIC CULTUHE; WHITHER GOEST?

  2 p.m. tomorrow in
the ballroom

  Guest lecturer: Dr. Jamil Raad

  "Your change?"

  I looked down from the sign and back to the girl at the cigarette counter. She handed me a fifty-agorot coin and my pack of eccentric cigarettes. Only in the Middle East and parts of Paris do they carry my crazy gold-tipped brand at regular hotel tobacco counters. I could do without the gold tip. Not only am I accosted by middle-aged matrons in designer clothes, and hippie young girls with green-painted nails ("Where did you get those dear/groovy cigarettes?") but I've got to watch what I do with the butts. They read like a sign that says Carter Was Here.

  I stopped at the desk to check for messages. The clerk was having a giggling fit. He kept giving me coy, knowing looks. When I asked to be wakened at seven A.M., "to get an early start," you'd have thought I was Robert Benchley, perhaps, ripping off one of the better bons mots. I scratched my head and rang for the lift.

  The elevator man was in high spirits too. I yawned and said "I can't wait to get to bed," and the giggle-meter registered a fat 1000.

  I checked my door before I used the key and — ho-ho — the door had been opened while I was away. Someone had tripped my own special door-bait and paid me a visit behind my back.

  Was my visitor still paying me a visit?

  I drew my gun, clicked off the safety, and threw the door open with enough force to pancake anyone hiding behind it.

  She let out a gasp and rose up from the bed.

  I switched on the light.

  The belly dancer?

  Yes, the belly dancer.

  "If you don't close the door, I catch a cold." She was grinning. No, laughing. At me. Her black hair tumbled all over the place. I was still standing in the doorway with the gun. I closed the door. I looked at the gun, then at the girl. She wasn't armed. Except for that body. And that hair. And those eyes.