SANDALLS: She never saw him though?
MERAL: No. No, she didn’t. But the odd thing . . .
ZUI: Yes?
MERAL: Well, it seems there was a repetition very late that night: someone entering the apartment for a very brief time and the sound of drawer sliding open and shut and then the footsteps of the person leaving.
ZUI: One drawer only?
MERAL: Just one. But Temescu was dead by that time. So who was it?
SANDALLS: So once again she doesn’t see the person? Right?
MERAL: She’s in bed. And she also couldn’t swear it was a man.
ZUI: Is her bedroom so situated she could really tell for sure that the sounds were from Temescu’s apartment?
MERAL: No, her bedroom was a bit down the hall from there. She herself wasn’t positive, she said.
ZUI: Let’s go on. Now you made a passing reference [consults notes] to a woman, to a nurse who also lives in the neighborhood. A nurse named Samia. . . .
MERAL: Yes, Samia Maroon. We’re acquainted: friends of a friend sort of thing. She was walking up the street when she saw us going into the building, and when we came down from the apartment she was standing beside the patrol car. She gave us a “Hello,” and then asked what was going on. She’s a naturally inquisitive sort of person.
BELL: You mean a busybody, Sergeant?
MERAL: Oh, no! Not at all! She’s quite nice, in fact. I showed her the driver’s license with the photo of Temescu on it and I asked if she had seen him around. Well, she squinted at first, as if she couldn’t make it out. It’s in very soft focus and blurred. She kept staring and staring and she began to look troubled. She looked up at me, then, and had opened her mouth to give an answer, but she never got it out. She just stopped and very quickly closed her mouth. There was that worried look still on her face and her eyes seemed to study me, flicking back and forth and scanning mine. And then she asked me a question. She—
SANDALLS: Hold it, please. Sorry. This is one of the things that we want to be absolutely sure of. Okay? Please repeat word for word what she said, would you Sergeant? At least as you now recall it.
MERAL: What she said was, “Does this have anything to do with a murder or something? Some really really serious crime?”
ZUI: And that’s precisely what’s in your report. Please go on.
MERAL: I told her yes, and that a serious crime was a possibility, and then right away she gave me an answer. No, she told me, she’d never seen him. And then something about wanting to meet for a drink or a coffee that night. That’s not in my report.
ZUI: No it isn’t. Do you socialize with her?
MERAL: No. I never have. Though she sometimes asks me to meet in that way on some pretext or other.
ZUI: Did you do so that night?
MERAL: No, I didn’t. I gave her request no significance.
ZUI: And so what do you think was going on with her, Sergeant?
MERAL: I’m not sure. But I suspect that she actually had seen Temescu.
ZUI: Any reason she would lie about that?
MERAL: Oh, well, she could be one of those people who just doesn’t ever want to be involved.
ZUI: You think that’s it, then?
MERAL: Actually, I don’t. Assessing her manner, her behavior—as I said, I do know her a little—my instinct says she might be protecting someone.
ZUI: Right. Now it’s been mentioned to us that there’s a bit of a lapse in your written report.
MERAL: Is that so?
SANDALLS: Wouldn’t someone at the church remember seeing the dead man going into the Tomb? I mean, although it’s not entirely out of the question, it seems whacko to imagine someone carried in a corpse. There must be someone from the church who’s always posted by the entrance to the Tomb. Not so? Someone checking for crazies with a bomb or something and making sure not too many are going in there at once?
MERAL: Yes, there is such a person. There are three, in fact, working in eight-hour shifts.
SANDALLS: Don’t they need to be questioned? They can confirm that our man wasn’t carried in there, and they can tell us if he came into the church all alone or with someone else.
MERAL: You’re entirely correct. But as it happens I’ve already questioned two of them and neither one has any memory of Temescu entering the Tomb. Before drawing a conclusion, I was waiting to interrogate the third one, Tariq Maloof, but he was visiting family in Amman. He’s coming back today and he’ll be on duty tonight, which is when I’m going to question him, and if he saw something meaningful, why, certainly, I’ll give you an immediate further report.
ZUI: Yes, we’ll want you to refresh us from time to time anyway.
MERAL: Gladly.
ZUI: Bill? Charlie? Anything more? Alright, Deborah, that’s it. You can go. And you, too, Sergeant Meral. Thanks so much for your help. And your patience. We’ll be in touch.
MERAL: One more question, please. May I?
ZUI: Sure, go ahead.
MERAL: You said you were looking at “something else”as the cause of Temescu’s death. Something other than the cancer. Can you tell me what that is?
ZUI: No, not at this time.
MERAL: You don’t know yet?
ZUI: We know but we can’t quite believe it. Okay, Debbie, wrap it up for now.
[INTERVIEW ENDS 1106]
CHAPTER 14
Outside the inner chamber of the Tomb of Christ, quiet voices could be heard from within by the two policemen who were very slowly pacing back and forth in front of it, their heads low and hands clasped behind their backs, their measured footsteps reverberating softly on the diamond-shaped rose and black marble tiles that shimmered with the light from giant candles amid a smell of hot wax and incense and the lingering whispers of a million warm prayers. Leaving his hostel at ten-fifteen so that he wouldn’t interfere with the start of night services, Meral had walked quickly up a narrow street that once had shuddered with the clang of Roman armor and the terrifying stamp of marching feet. Only the quietest of sounds were to be heard now: the whirring of a turning TV antenna, the quiet rapping of knuckles on corrugated steel as municipal guards checked the shutters of shops, and, as Meral neared the church, the lilting, satisfied atonal singing of a baker who just before dinnertime had given to the poor, as he did each night, by baking their unbaked bread without charge.
“Was he here? Did he come into the Tomb?”
Meral was questioning Tariq, the third and previously unavailable checker of those who would enter the space where they were standing: a quadrangular chamber hewn out of rock and plated in marble. Six feet wide, seven long, and seven high, it was the burial chamber of Christ. The light of candles and forty-three lamps made of gold and silver danced faintly in Tariq’s dark eyes as his fingers cupped his stubbled chin and he studied Temescu’s driver’s license.
He handed it back to Meral.
“Yes, I think he was here. I think I saw him.”
“Was there anyone with him?”
“Yes, I think so. Absolutely. Maybe.”
“Which is it, Tariq?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“There was somebody with him.”
“A man or a woman?”
“A man.”
“And they were together, you say?”
“Yes, together. I had seen them come in and they were talking. Maybe arguing.”
“Arguing?”
“I think so. Maybe. I’m not sure. There were gestures, the one who was with him always leaning in close to him. Whispering. Excited.”
“And the dead man? The man in the photo?”
“He was calm.”
“Can you describe the other person?”
“Yes. He had a beard.”
“Tariq, look at me. Look me in the eye. How helpful a description is
that in Jerusalem?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I would like a full description.”
“I cannot remember.”
“You wouldn’t know him if you saw him again?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no.Very posssibly.”
“Was there anything distinctive about him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tariq, try.”
“Alright, one thing perhaps. He looked sad. I saw him crying.”
”Crying?”
“Yes, a little.”
“And what time was this, Tariq?”
“I don’t know that exactly. But the end of the day. The last people were going into the Tomb.”
“Did they enter the Tomb together?”
“It could be.”
“It could be?”
“I think maybe.”
“And the man with the beard. Did you see him coming out?”
“I don’t know. Someone called me to the entry door.”
“Who?”
“Someone selling falafel.”
Meral watched Tariq leave, and then crouching down to fit through the low arched access to the Tomb, he entered the chamber and then pensively looked down at the burial couch. Roughly two feet high from the floor, its primitive rock had been long ago covered by a mottled pink and ivory marble slab that was silken and slightly warm to the touch from the crowded profusion of candles and lamps overlooking the burial couch, softly flickering sentinels. Meral reimagined Temescu lying there, as he pondered the puzzling documents he had found in the dead man’s apartment. Among them was another postmarked envelope addressed to Temescu in an unknown hand this one, containing a letter that, in spite of the name on the envelope, was written to someone other than Temescu; or so its salutation seemed to indicate. And there were six other puzzling items. Five of them were passports: one Italian, one British, one Swedish, one Cambodian, and one American, all issued in different names, although none in the name of Temescu; and all bore the photo of a man who, while generally resembling Temescu, also differed from the photo on his driver’s license, just as each differed one from the other: length, style, and color of hair, as well as skin and eye color, in particular in the Cambodian passport photo. Even eyebrow thickness and the prominence of cheekbones differed. Beyond that the expression staring out from the photos was so different in each of them that they were able, at least for some moments, to create the impression of a totally separate and distinct personality. Meral found this especially true of the somehow affecting photo on yet a sixth document. It was a faded Albanian identity card of someone named Selca Decani.
CHAPTER 15
Zui lifted a dismal glance to Sandalls, who was sitting next to Bell on the camel leather sofa directly across from Zui’s desk.
“And so what was he doing here?” Zui demanded.
Sandalls threw up his hands and shook his head.
“We don’t know.”
“You don’t know? The deadliest assassin in your agency’s history and you’re telling me you haven’t got a clue why he was here?”
“Look, we haven’t been in touch with the guy for years.”
“Oh, please!”
“No, Moshe, really! He dropped out! He disappeared!”
“Come on! Spooks don’t retire. You know that. They just go from cover to cover. He came into the country on a phony passport. And the cowcatcher, Bill? What was that? He was planning to go work on a kibbutz? Quit the bullshit. He was here on a mission. Now what was it?”
“Moshe, I swear to you, we didn’t even know he was here!”
“Should I bring out the truth serum candies again? Better watch it. They could ruin your careers. They’re addictive.”
”Thanks for the coffee.”
That night, Zui went home to the small apartment, close to the shore in Tel Aviv, where he lived with two young children and a wife with some renown in the city for having cheated death at Auschwitz when the guard in charge of admitting a line of doomed prisoners into a gas chamber studied her face and then said to the guards who had brought her, “No, no, take her away from here! Take her! She looks just like my daughter!”
“Have an interesting day?” she asked Zui as he came into the kitchen. Zui shrugged and shook his head as he took off his jacket and loosely draped it over a breakfast table chair.
“Just the usual routine.”
“Same here. God, we need some excitement in our lives.”
Zui turned and appraised her ironic smile.
And then he went to her and hugged her soul.
“You are the excitement in my life,” he said to her.
Life was the excitement in hers.
There would soon be enough to go around.
CHAPTER 16
Mayo stood behind his desk with a phone at his ear.
He checked his watch. He was late for an appointment.
“Your housekeeper?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“What’s her age?”
“Does that matter?”
“Yes, it matters.”
“Early forties.”
“Any swelling of the legs and ankles? Nasal stuffiness?”
“Yes. I’ve noticed both. And there are these tiny pale spots on her face: does that sound like it, Mayo?”
“Any numbness? Loss of feeling in her fingers or toes?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to ask her. I’m here on the pay phone at the post office. I’m so worried, Mayo. The woman’s so miserable. She’s sick as a dog.”
“There’s no one local who could deal with this?”
“No. Not like you. I don’t trust them.”
“Can’t you bring her in here? We’d be able to run tests.”
“Oh, I would but she’s feeling so out of it, Mayo. She’s got it coming out of both ends. It would be such a mercy if you’d come. Will you come? Incidentally, if you do, you can’t say anything about this to anyone. I’ve heard it’s highly curable now and that’s fine, but then someone hears leprosy, even today, and you know what would happen to us here. Can you come right away? It won’t take that much time. You could take her blood or whatever you need and then run your tests back there. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“So you’re coming?”
“Oh, well, alright, then; I’m coming. Not today, though. Too late. Tomorrow morning.”
“Bless your heart. And by the way, I’ll have a treat for you to take back home. It’s something I know you like. The trees in our yard are in fruit and I swear they’re the best I’ve ever eaten.”
“The best what?”
“Never mind. It’s a surprise.”
“How very nice.”
“It’s the least that I can do for you. The least.”
CHAPTER 17
William Sandalls ushered Inspector Zui into a room on the second floor of the American Embassy in Tel Aviv and then led him to a chair at the end of a highly polished dark pine conference table, where he placed an untitled file folder in front of him stamped TOP SECRET.
“Of course we had to redact some,” said Sandalls. “Oh, well, a lot. But there it is. When you’re all done reading it, you’ll finally understand that we know nothing about any mission for him here, or for that matter, anyplace else, for at least the last three years. But no notes, Moshe. Okay? You won’t need them. Let me know when you’re done and we’ll talk.”
He pointed to a button on the side of the table. “Here’s the buzzer.”
“Where’s Bell?”
“Busy-busy. Might pop in on us later. By the way, we want the body flown back to D.C. We’d like to run another autopsy.”
“Fine. Yes, alright. Of course.”
Zui watched as Sandalls trod noiselessly on thickly piled brown wool carpeting, opened a door and then quietly closed it behind him. It had been four days since the autopsy’s final conclusion that the name on death’s calling card for the man found dead in Christ’s tomb was undoubtedly “pulmonary edema,” the result of the venom of an Omdurman Scorpion, abundantly found in the Israeli desert and known by the alt
ernate name “The Deathstalker.” Also discovered by the drug screen were massive amounts of chloral hydrate, the so-called “Mickey Finn,” which together with the venom would kill within less than ninety minutes. There were also residual traces of morphine tied to the multiple scars of injection sites on the dead man’s arms and legs that were likely related to his trauma from the burns, or the cancer, or both. Was it murder or suicide? No one could be absolutely certain.
What was clear was that the dead man’s name was not Joseph Temescu. The damage to his face from third-degree burns rendered photo comparisons of less than perfect use, and while due to the burning of his hand a complete set of fingerprints could not be had, this was actually irrelevant inasmuch as the agency the dead man had worked for didn’t have them on file, nor were any photos of him extant, this against the chance that a mole might one day copy them and compromise the life of their most valuable asset. But there were other things helping to establish his identity, beginning with a tracheotomy scar, and the multiple passports in his possession, as well as the Iron Curtain dentistry and the letter with its brief and innocuous content, discovered in the inside pocket of his jacket, that began with the words “Dear Paul.” But the proof that some would deem to be finally dispositive was the worn and faded identity card of a country where the dead man had performed two missions.
There was also something else to be added to the proof that, because of the burns on the dead man’s face, was not totally dispositive, but when taken together with all the other evidence seemed to be the turn of the screw on all doubt. To the morgue where the body was kept, Shin Bet agent Hyam Dov brought a one-time British Special Intelligence agent, who among his frequent alcoholic blathers had been heard to drop the name of the mysterious dead man, indiscreetly asserting he had worked with him once on “a frightfully dangerous mission, you see” in Nazi-occupied Poland.
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