The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

"What about my operative, damn you! What about Cohen laid out on some table for dissection!"

The D.C. ignored the insubordination, talked softly and rhythmically, with the exaggerated patience reserved for mental defectives and hostage-takers. "We're not talking about a long delay, Sharavi. A few hours until the local busts are accomplished. The Paris data could arrive any minute-a day at the longest."

"A day!" Daniel spat on the floor, pointed toward the closed door of the interrogation room. "Let me go in there and talk to them. Let me show them pictures of what this monster does."

"Pictures won't impress them, Sharavi. They have a nice scrapbook of their own: the Japs mowing down pilgrims at Ben Gurion, the Ma'alot school bus, Qiryat Shemona, Nahariya. That house was a fucking arsenal-pistols, Kalash-nikovs, fragmentation grenades, a fucking rocket launched. They had plans to shoot up the Western Wall during Shab-bat shaharit services-preferably during a big tourist Bar Mitzvah. Schematics of the best places to place bombs at the Rabinovitz Playground, the Tiferet Shlomo Orphans' Home, the zoo, Liberty Bell Park-think of the pictures that would create, Sharavi. Hundreds of dead kids! Cassidy says there are two other arms storehouses-in Beit Jalla and Gaza. Cleaning up a mess of that magnitude is more important than one maniac." He stopped, hesitated. "More important, even, than one detective, who's probably dead already."

Daniel turned to go.

Laufer grabbed his arm.

"You're not being fucked over totally. As of this moment, finding Carter is top departmental priority-as a covert. The hospital is being watched-asshole shows his face, he's in custody before his heart takes another beat. You want men, you've got them, the entire goddamned Latam, the Border Patrol, airplanes, whatever. Every cruise car will have a picture of Carter-"

"Six cars," said Daniel. "One's in the shop."

"Not just Jerusalem," said Laufer. "Every city. You're worried five cars can't cover our streets-take my goddamned Volvo. I'll put my goddamned driver out on patrol, okay? You want an address on Carter? Check housing records, utility bills, the goddamned phone bills-every clerk and computer in the goddamned city is at your disposal. The slightest whiff of bullshit, call me immediately. The moment the cell's been busted, the hospital's open territory."

"I want access to U.N. records."

"You'll have to wait on that," said Laufer. "One of Al Bayadi's terrorist chums is a secretary at U.N. headquarters on the Hill of Evil Counsel. No surprise, eh?"

Laufer's fingers were moist on his arm. Daniel pried them loose.

"I've got work to do."

"Don't fuck up," said Laufer. "This is serious."

"See me smiling?" Daniel turned and began walking away.

"You and Shmeltzer will get credit for the armory bust," Laufer called after him. "Service medals."

"Terrific," said Daniel, over his shoulder. "I'll give them to Cohen's mother."

He reached the Chinaman by radio at three o'clock, Daoud five minutes later. Both had been cruising the city for signs of Avi or the Volkswagen. He called them in, convened a meeting with his three remaining detectives and Amos Harel.

"Goddamned kid," said the Chinaman. "God damn him. Probably pulled some John Wayne stunt before he got hit."

"Everything indicates he was playing by the rules," said Daniel. But Laufer's question had come back to haunt him: The kid was less than dependable. Had he been ready?

"Whatever," said the Chinaman. "What now, pictures of the bastard in all the papers?"

"No." He informed them of the Mossad restriction, felt the anger in the room harden into something dark and menacing.

Daoud expelled breath, closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, as if in great pain. Shmeltzer got up and circled the room like and old jackal. Harel took out a Gauloise and crushed it, unlit, between his fingers.

"Goddamned cloak-and-dagger mothercunts!" exploded the Chinaman. "I tell you-"

"No time for that, Yossi." Daniel cut him off. "Let's get organized, make sure he doesn't get away this time. Amos is giving us every man we need-he'll be coordinating lookouts along the Jerusalem to Tel Aviv Road and up the coastal road, train stations, bus stations, Ben Gurion, every harbor including the freighter docks at Eilat. When I'm through, he'll give you the details.

"The army's on alert in the territories-Marciano's in charge in Judea; Yinon in Samaria, Barbash in Gaza. The Border Patrol's conducting individual searches at the Allenby Bridge and Metulla, tightening things up along all perimeters and within the Old City. They're also staking out forested areas and are stationed near the murder cave. Telescopic surveillance of the Amelia Catherine has been expanded to another infrared from the desert aimed at the rear of the compound."

He unfolded several sheets of paper. "These are the home numbers of records clerks and their bosses at the phone company, the Licensing Office, the Ministry of Construction and Housing, the Ministry of Energy, all the banks. We'll divide them up, start waking people, try and find the home away from home. Look for Carters and Terrifs-include all spelling variations. Now that we know who he is, he won't be able to get far."

But to himself he thought: Why should catching a madman be easier than finding my own dog.

He worked until six, setting up and monitoring the search for Richard Carter, before allowing himself a cup of coffee which his dry throat and aching stomach rejected. At six-ten he went back to his office and pulled out the notes he'd taken during his first and only meeting with Carter. Read them for the twentieth time and watched Carter's face materialize before his mind's eye.

An unremarkable face, no monster, no devil. In the end it was always like that. Eichmanns, Landrus, Kurtens, and Barbies. Disappointingly human, depressingly mundane.

Amira Nasser had supposedly talked about mad eyes, empty eyes. A killer's grin. All he remembered about Carter's eyes were that they were narrow and gray. Gray eyes behind old-fashioned round eyeglasses. A full ginger beard. The shambling, careless carriage of a backpacker.

Former hippie. A dreamer.

Some dreams: a nightmare machine.

He forced coffee down his throat and recalled something else-incongruous chuckling in response to his questions.

Something amusing. Dr. Carter?

Big fingers running through the beard. A smile-if there had been something evil about the smile, it had eluded him.

Not really. Just that this sounds like one of those cop shows back home-where were you on the night and all that.

The bastard had seemed so casual, so relaxed.

Daniel punished himself with self-scrutiny. Had he been careless, missed something? A psychopathic glint in the gray eyes? Some near-microscopic evidence of evil that he, as a detective, was expected to pick up on?

He replayed the mental movie of the interview. Reviewed his notes again. Questions, answers, the smiles.

Where were you on the night and all that.

And where are you tonight, Richard Carter, you murderous scum?

At seven A.M. Shmeltzer brought him a list of names gleaned from phone books, utility bills, and housing files. Two Carters in Jerusalem, five in Tel Aviv, including a senior officer at the American Embassy. One in Haifa, three more scattered throughout the Galilee. No Richards. Three Trifs, four Trif-uses, none of them Richards or initial D's. No Tarrifs or Terrifs. All old listings. He dispatched men to check out the local ones anyway, had the other divisions do the same with the people in their bailiwicks.

At seven-twenty he called home. Laura answered. He heard the boys hollering in the background, music from the radio.

"Good morning, Detective."

"Hello, Laura."

"That bad?"

"Yes."

"Want to talk about it?"

"No."

Pause. "Okay."

He felt impatient with her, intolerant of any problem short of life and death. Still, she was his lover, his best friend, deserved better than to be dismissed like a subordinate. He tried to soften his voice, said, "I'm sorry. I really can't get into it."

"I understand," she said. Automatically.

"I don't know when I'll be home."

"Don't worry. Do what you have to do. I'll be busy all morning with straightening up and finishing the painting for Lu and Gene. After school, Lu and I are taking the boys to the zoo, then to dinner. Shoshi didn't want to go. She's sleeping over at Dorit Shamgar's house-the number's on the refrigerator."

Daniel thought of Mikey and Benny frolicking at the zoo, remembered what Laufer had said about the schematics found in the house on Ibn Haldoun. Horrific bomb-blast visions filled his head. He chased them away-a steady diet of those kinds of thoughts could drive a man crazy.

"Why didn't she want to go to the zoo?" he asked.

"It's for babies; she and Dorit have more important things to do-she wants to be on her own, Daniel. Part of establishing her identity."

"It's not because she's still upset over the dog?"

"Maybe a little of that too. But she'll work it through- Here's Gene. He worked most of the night, refuses to go home and get some rest."

"Okay, put him on. Bye."

"Bye."

"Danny," said Gene. "I've been following up this Terrif thing and-"

"Terrifs a name used by Richard Carter," said Daniel. He filled Gene in on the night's events. Talking to a fellow policeman after excluding his wife.

Gene listened, said, "What a mess. Terrible about your man." Silence. "Carter, huh? Sonofagun. Everything I've got on him spells clean. The records from McGill check out-the med school transcripts clerk said the guy was an honor student there, did very good research on tropical diseases. The Peace Corps said he continued that research with them, saved plenty of lives. With the exception of a bust for marijuana when he was in high school, no one has a bad word to say about him."

"I do," said Daniel. "The records are probably falsified. It would be the least of his sins."

"True. I've got more info for you. Got a minute?"

"Sure."

"I started thinking about the American murder sites-your point about nice weather, vacation spots. Vacation cities are also popular with organizations when it comes to locating their conventions-as in medical conventions. I've managed to get through to the chambers of commerce in New Orleans and Miami, convinced them to go through their '73 and '78 convention records, respectively, and found one common thread: The Society for Surgical Pathology held conventions in both. It's a relatively small group of hotshot doctors, but the conventions are attended by lots of people-scientists, technicians, students. I called their headquarters in Washington, D.C. The 73 roster had been tossed out, but they still had the one from August 78. Sure enough, a D. Terrif attended the Miami convention, registered as a student. The convention began two days prior to the murder and ended five days after. My info on Richard Carter is that he was still a student in 78-got his M.D. in 79. But he was doing his first Peace Corps bit in Ecuador that summer."

"How do we know he didn't leave Ecuador and fly to Miami for a week? Used the Terrif name to conceal his identity, then returned to doing good deeds as Carter."

"Dr. Carter, Mr. Terrif. Split personality?"

"Or just a clever psychopath."

"Yeah, it would fit with something else I came up with. After we found that D. Terrif reference in the Shehadeh file, I called one of my buddies at Parker Center, asked him to check all the files for someone by that name. He came up empty, even in the social security files. No such person ever received a card-which is just about every adult who pays taxes in America. Now, Carter's a Canadian, so it wouldn't apply to him, but my buddy said something interesting: that Terrif didn't even look like a bona fide name, that the first thing he thought of was that it was an abbreviation for Terrific."