The Jerusalem File

by Nick Carter

"Now the point is," I went on smoothly, "my friends know the few facts I've gathered so far. Including," I looked at him, "the fact of you. If you kill me, you're dead. If you let me live, they'll let you live, on the chance you'll slip up and lead us to Shaitan."

  His eyes narrowed, trying to read me. The gun stayed steady, now aimed at my chest A certain part of me wanted to laugh. The gun was a .25 caliber Beretta. The James Bond gun. But then, of course Lamott would have the James Bond gun.

  He was shaking his head. "I don't think I believe you."

  "Then why don't you kill me?"

  "I fully intend to."

  "But not until… what? If all you had in your mind was murder, you would have shot me before I woke up."

  He was getting angry. "I don't like to be patronized." He sounded huffy. "Least of all, by incipient corpses. I want you to tell me how much you know. And who, if anybody, you've told."

  Me: And you'll kill me if I don't, is that it?

  Lamott: That's it.

  Me: And you'll let me live if I do? I hardly believe that, Mr. Lamott.

  Lamott: Snicker.

  Me (my hand crashing forward in a mighty chop that knocks the Beretta out of his hand, my feet pumping forward and onto the floor and my knee coming up to say hello to his belly, and my hand, like a cleaver on the back of his neck while he's still slumped forward from the belly blow): Now — what did you say you wanted to know?

  Lamott (going down, but then taking me with him, on top of me now, his hands on my neck and his belt buckle drilling a hole in my stomach): Ugh! Argh!

  Me: Bang!

  The dumb bastard had taken my gun from under the pillow and jammed it into his jacket pocket. All I did was pick his pocket.

  Blood was coming out of his mouth and a stain was forming on the side of his jacket If he were alive he'd be madder than hell. A good suit like that ruined.

  I pushed his body over, frisked his pockets and found his keys. Nothing else on him had any meaning. His I.D. read as I thought it would. "Robert Lamott of Fresco Oil." Home address was a street in Damascus.

  I started to get dressed.

  The door opened.

  Leila in a cotton skirt and blouse. Her hair in pigtails. A little spot of sticky strawberry jam resting happily at the side of her mouth. "You're up," she said. "I didn't want to wake you so I went down to break…"

  "What's the matter?" I said. "You've never seen a body?"

  She closed the door and leaned back against it I could tell she was sorry she'd eaten break…

  "Who is he?" she said.

  "The man who should have stayed in bed. We'll go into it later. Meanwhile, I want you to do me a favor."

  I told her the favor. She went to do it.

  I put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and went up to rifle Lamott's room.

  Two thousand dollars American cash Fourteen suits, three dozen shirts, and as many ties. A pound and a half of high-grade heroin and a little leather Gucci case with all the shoot-em-up paraphernalia. Not exactly what Gucci had in mind.

  Nothing else. No checks. No letters. No little black book with telephone numbers. I went to his phone.

  "Yes sir?" The operator sounded cheery.

  This is Mr. Lamott in 628. I'd like to know, please, do I have any messages?"

  "No sir," she said "Only the one you got this morning."

  "The one from Mr. Pierson?"

  "No sir," she said, "The one from Mr. el-Yamaroon."

  "Oh yes. That one. I did get that one. Operator, what I'd like to know is — I may be checking out tonight and I have to write an expense account — do I have many long-distance calls outstanding?"

  She told me I'd have to talk to someone else. So Just a second, sir. Click, click, ring.

  There was only that call I'd made to Geneva. I took down the number.

  I asked to be connected to an outside operator and made a reverse-charge call to Kelly.

  I told him what I'd learned from Jacqueline. Kelly whistled. "It's almost enough to make me sleep alone." He paused and added "Almost, I said."

  "Have you had a chance to check the hotel?"

  "Yes and no. The place is in an uproar. Some oil sheik from Abu Dhabi is taking up a floor and everybody's time. Guy's got four wives, a dozen yes-men, and a staff of his own personal servants. Even got his own chef."

  "So what's that got to do with us?"

  "Just thought you'd like to know why your gas and electric bill's so high. Don't be so impatient, Carter. What it has to do with us is that they've got security all over the place on account of the sheik's dough in their vault. And since I can't seem to beg or buy the information, I've got to try to steal it, understand? And the way things are stacked, stealing the guest list for the week Robey called is as tricky as pulling off a million-dollar heist All I can tell you, from asking around, is an oil convention was on that week. The hotel was jammed with American types and a lot of Gulf Coast Arab sheiks."

  "How about the hotel employees?"

  "Nothing instantly interesting. But a full rundown will take a few days. And by the way — what am I looking for? A friend or a foe? Did Robey call a pal to get information or did he call a suspect to put on the screws?"

  "Yeah. Exactly."

  "Yeah, exactly what?"

  "That's exactly the question."

  "You're adorable, Carter, you know that?"

  "So I'm told, Kelly. So I'm told."

  I hung up and went to Lamott's closet. I'd seen a large Vuitton trunk. Two thousand dollars worth of luggage. You couldn't buy yourself a tonier coffin. Within twenty minutes, Lamott was inside it. The funeral service was simple but tasteful. I said "Bon voyage," and added, "Amen."

  Leila came back from her shopping trip. She was carrying a large Druse basket.

  "You have any trouble?"

  She shook her head.

  I looked at my watch. It was one-thirty. "Good," I said. "Then we'd better get going."

  Thirteen

  Over two hundred people had gathered in the ballroom for Dr. Raad's lecture on Islamic culture, filling the rows of folding chairs that faced the draped and microphoned dais, filling the air with polite coughs and the bland odor of polite perfume.

  The audience was made up mostly of tourists, mostly American, and mostly women. The lecture must have been part of a package, along with the free transportation from the airport, the bus tour of town, and the special nighttime sightseeing junket. There was also a class of high-school students and a scattering of about twenty Arabs, some wearing suits and white kafiyas, the typical male Arab's headcloth. The others were hidden in flowing robes and fuller headcloths and dark glasses.

  And then there were the MacKenzies — Leila and me. Only Leila didn't need dark glasses for disguise. With the gray-black veil and the tent-like cloak, she was practically disguised as a bolt of fabric.

  It was the best I could think of and it wasn't bad. I'd remembered the lecture sign in the lobby and sent Leila out to buy us the get-ups and recruit a gang of full-dress Arabs for cover.

  A way to leave town without being tailed.

  Dr. Jamil Raad was taking questions from the floor. Raad was a small sour-looking man with sunken cheeks and near-sighted eyes. The hafiya that framed his squinting face made him seem to be peering through a curtained window.

  Was Islamic culture being Westernized?

  No. It was being modernized. The answer droned on. The ladies started creaking around in their chairs. It was four o'clock.

  Waiters appeared at the back of the room, bringing in trays of coffee and cakes, setting them up on a buffet table.

  A student stood up. Did Raad have a comment on today's kidnappings?

  Rumbles in the room. I turned to Leila. She shrugged behind the folds of her veil.

  "You refer, I suppose, to the five Americans. Deplorable," said Raad. "Deplorable. Next?"

  Rumble-buzz. Most people don't get the news till the evening. The crowd hadn't heard of the kidnappings either.
r />   "What Americans?" a woman yelled out.

  "Quiet! Please!" Raad hit the dais. "This is a subject we are not here to cover. Now — let us return to cultural questions." He scanned the audience looking for culture. It hadn't, for the most part, been there to begin with.

  The high-school student was still standing. Having clearly lost his battle with acne, he wasn't about to take other defeats. "The Americans," he said, "are five more American millionaires. They were on some kind of annual hunting trip. Alone in some private cabin in the woods. And Al Shaitan got them." He looked at Raad. "Or should I say Al Shaitan liberated' them."

  Rumble-buzz.

  The kid went on. "They're asking a hundred million dollars again. A hundred million dollars for each man. And this time the deadline is ten days."

  Rumble. Gasp. Bang of gavel.

  "They've still got those four other men, too, don't they?" It was the voice of a middle-aged woman in the crowd. She was suddenly scared.

  So was I. Nine Americans were under the gun and the bottom line was now nine-hundred million. Correction. It was now a fat one billion. Nine zeros with a one at the head. They already had Foxx's money.

  And I had ten days.

  The high school kid had started to answer.

  Raad hit the dais with the flat of his palm, as though he were trying to squash the emotions that were crawling and buzzing around the room. "I think now our meeting here comes to an end. Ladies. Gentlemen. I invite you to stay and partake of refreshments." Raad walked abruptly away from the stage.

  I wanted to get the hell out of there. Fast. I grabbed Leila's arm and eyed one of our Arabs. He started, like the rest of us, heading for the door. Like the rest of us, he didn't get very far.

  The American women swarmed around us. We were, after all, real Arabs. The real exotic-barbarian thing. Also, currently, the villains of the piece. A woman with a cap of curly white hair and a plastic Hello, I'm Irma sign pinned on her sweater, gave me a look that warned of invasion. Raad was also heading our way. I whispered to Leila to try to divert him. I couldn't cope with playing Arab for Raad. The doors to the lobby were wide open and both known shadows were peering in. Leila managed to bump into Raad. By the time she'd begged him a thousand pardons — one at a time — Raad had been swallowed by a circle of tourists.

  Hello, I'm… was working her way up to me. Her full name, it seemed, was Hello, I'm Martha.

  The talk around the room was of violence and terror. I got ready for some kind of tight-lipped attack.

  "I want you," she began, "to tell me something." She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a pamphlet — Great Works Of Islam, Courtesy of Liberty Budget Tours. "That poem, the one about the ruby yacht…?"

  "The Rubaiyat," I said.

  "The ruby yacht. What I wanted to know is — who's the writer?"

  I nodded and smiled politely: "Khayyam."

  "You are!" she blushed. "My goodness! Francis — you'll never guess who I've got here!" Francis smiled and started toward us. Francis was bringing Madge and Ada.

  "Ni gonhala mezoot," I said to Martha. "Not speak English." I backed away.

  "Oh!" Martha seemed a little confused. "Well in that case, say something Arab for us."

  Leila had gathered our exit party. They were waiting for me in a group by the door.

  "Ni gonhala mezoot." I repeated the gibberish. Martha readied out and grabbed my arm.

  "Nee gon-holler mezoo. Now what does it mean?"

  "Ah salood," I smiled. "Ah salood bul zheet."

  I broke away and got to the door.

  We walked through the lobby, right past the stake-outs; seven Arabs, curtained in cloth, having a loud and heated discussion. "Ni gonhala mezoot," I was saying as we passed them, and we all piled into the dusty Rover that was waiting for us in front of the door.

  We got out of town without the hint of a tail.

  I felt very clever for a while.

  * * *

  "Where we go now?"

  Leila and I were alone in the Rover. We were still dressed as Arabs. We were traveling north. I turned on the radio and found some strumming Middle Eastern music.

  "You'll see soon enough."

  The answer didn't please her. She tightened her lips and looked straight ahead.

  I turned and watched her sitting beside me. She'd thrown back the veil that had covered her face. Her profile was perfect. Straight and regal. I looked too long and she started to blush. "You kill us if you don't watch the road," she admonished.

  I smiled and turned back to watch the road. I reached out to change the radio station and she said, "No, I do it. What do you like?"

  I told her anything that didn't jangle. She found some piano music. I said it was fine.

  We were driving past miles of orange groves, heading up north through occupied Jordan, the area known as the West Bank. Palestinians live here. And Jordanians. And Israelis. Who owns the land and who ought to own it are the questions they've been asking for twenty-five years in conference rooms, barrooms, and sometimes in war rooms, but the land just goes on producing fruit as it has for a couple of thousand years, knowing perhaps, as land always does, that it's going to outlive all its contestors. That in the end, the land will own them.

  She reached up and turned the radio off. "Perhaps we talk?"

  "Sure. What's on your mind?"

  "No. I mean perhaps we talk in Arabic."

  "Mmm," I said, "I'm a little rusty."

  "Ni gonhala mezoot," she smiled. "No kidding."

  "Come on. Be fair. That was just a put-on. In fact, I speak Arabic just like a native." I looked at her and smiled. "A native American."

  So we drilled in Arabic for the next half hour and then we stopped at a café for dinner.

  The place was Arab café — that's a qahwa — and I ordered the akel from the soufragi in perfectly plausible Arabic, I thought. If my accent was off, it could pass for a dialect. Like a southern drawl might sound to a Yankee. Leila was reaching for the same conclusion. "It's good," she said when the waiter had left. "And you look, I believe, quite… authentic." She was studying my face.

  I studied hers, too, across the small candlelit table. Eyes like chunks of smoky topaz, large and round, fawn's eyes; skin like some kind of living satin, and lips you wanted to trace with your fingers to make sure you hadn't just imagined their curves.

  And later she'd have to hide it all again under the folds of that black veil.

  'Your color," she was saying, "it is also quite good. And goad, also, that it goes all over." She gestured to indicate the length of my body.

  I said; "Virgins shouldn't notice things like that."

  Her face flushed. "But agents should."

  The waiter brought the wine, a good pungent white. I started thinking about the Fates. I wondered if it wasn't all part of their plan. Me, lying naked in the Arizona sun. Had they been getting me ready to pass for an Arab? Even while I'd been thinking of quitting and — what had Millie said — turning philosophical, quoting Omar Khayyam?

  I raised my glass to Leila. " 'Drink-for you know not whence you came, nor why; drink — for you know cot why you go, nor where." I emptied my glass.

  She smiled politely. "You like to quote Khayyam?"

  "Well it's classier than singing 'Old Black Magic' in your ear." She didn't understand. I said, "Never mind." I poured more wine. " There was a door of which I found no key; there was a veil through which I might not see; some little talk a while of Me and Thee there was — and then no more of Thee and Me.'" I put down the bottle. "Yes. I like Khayyam. That's kind of beautiful."'

  She pursed her lips. "It's also a very good idea. No more talk of Thee and Me." She sipped her wine.

  I lit a cigarette. "That was meant as a reflection on mortality, Leila. My propositions are more direct. Anyway, I'd like to talk about Thee. Where do you come from? How did you get here?"

  She smiled. "All right. I come from Riyadh."

  "Arabia."

  "Yes. My father i
s a merchant. He has much money."

  "Go on."

  She shrugged. "I go to university at Jidda. Then I win a scholarship to study in Paris and after much trouble, my father lets me go. Only six months later, he calls me back home. Back to Arabia." She paused.

  "And?"

  "And I am stilled expected to wear the veil. It is still unlawful I drive a car. I cannot have permission to take a fob." She lowered her eyes. "I am given to marry a middle-aged merchant. The man has already three other wives."

  We were both silent. She looked up and I looked in her eyes and we were both silent.

  Finally I said, "And Shin Bet. How did you get involved with them?"

  Eyes down again. Small shrug. "I run away from home. I go back.to Paris. But this time it's different. I have no school and no friends really. I try to be Western but I am only lonely. Then I meet the Suleimons. An Israeli family. They are wonderful to me. They say, come with us. Come back to Jerusalem. We'll help you get settled." She paused and her eyes got an unhappy shine. "You must understand. They were like my family. Or like the family I always dreamed. They were warm and kind and close to each other. They laugh a lot. I tell them I come. They are flying home and I say I will join them the next week. Only they are killed at Lod Airport."

  "The guerrilla attack."

  "Yes."

  Another silence.

  "So I come anyway. I go to the government and offer my service."

  "And they make you a belly dancer?"

  She smiled slightly. "No. I do many other things. The belly dancing — that was my idea, though."

  That was something to think about.

  The food came and she turned to her plate, lapsed into silence, blushed when I looked at her. Strange lady. Funny girl. Half East and half West and caught on the cusp of the contradiction.

  * * *

  A full moon was out. A lover's moon or a bombadier's moon, depending on how you look at things. We drove the final miles in silence and stopped at a moshav, a collective farm, called Ein Gedan. The place had changed in ten years, but I found the right road and the right piece of land and the wooden farmhouse with the sign that said "Lampeck."