The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

Laufer was three meters away. Daniel looked him in the eye, readied himself for the assault.

To his surprise, the D.C. merely said "Good morning, Sharavi," and walked on.

When he got to the office, he saw the reason why.

A man was sitting opposite his desk, slumped low in the chair, chin on knuckles, dozing. A half-consumed cigar lay smoldering in the ashtray, letting off wisps of strong, bitter smoke.

The man's chest heaved; his face rolled. A familiar, ruddy face above a corpulent, short-limbed body that filled the chair, ample thighs stuffed into trousers like sausages in casing, spilling over the seat. The cleft chin capped by a tiny white goatee.

Daniel knew the man was seventy-five but he looked ten years younger-good skin tone and an incongruously boyish thatch of yellow-gray hair. The collar points of an open-necked white shirt spread over the lapels of a rumpled gunmetal-gray sport coat, revealing a semicircle of hairless pink flesh.

The tightly packed trousers were dove-gray and in need of pressing; the shoes below them, inexpensive ripple-soled walkers. A maroon silk handkerchief flourished from the breast pocket of the sport coat-a dandyish touch at odds with the rest of the ensemble. Another incongruity, but the man was known for surprises.

Daniel closed the door. The corpulent man continued to sleep-a familiar pose. Newspaper photographers delighted in catching him napping at official functions-slumping, dead to the world, next to some stiff-backed visiting dignitary.

Narcolepsy, his detractors suggested; the man was braindamaged, not fit for his job. Others suggested it was an affection. Part of the stylized image he'd wrought for himself over twenty years.

Daniel edged past the pudgy gray knees, went behind his desk, and sat down.

As Shmeltzer had promised, a file labeled TOUR data was right there in front of him. He picked it up. The sleeping man opened pale-gray eyes, grunted, and stared at him.

Daniel put the tour file aside. "Good morning, Mr. Mayor."

"Good morning, Pakad Sharavi. We've met-the Concert Hall dedication. You had a mustache then."

"Yes." Three years ago-Daniel barely remembered it. He had served on the security detail, hadn't exchanged a word with the man.

Having done away with pleasantries, the mayor sat up and frowned.

"I've been waiting for you for an hour," he said, totally alert. Before Daniel could reply, he went on: "These murders, all this nonsense about butchers and sacrifices and revenge, it's creating problems for me. Already the tourist figures have dropped. What are you doing about it?"

Daniel began summarizing the investigation.

"I know all that," the mayor interrupted. "I meant what's new."

"Nothing."

The mayor picked up the now-cold cigar, lit it, and inhaled.

"An honest man-Diogenes would be happy. Meanwhile, the city is threatening to boil over. The last thing we need is a tourist slump on top of the recession. That note, with the Bible passages-any validity to it?"

"Possibly."

"No evasions, please. Are we dealing with a Jew2 One of the black-coats?"

"There's no evidence of any particular group at work."

"What about Kagan's bunch?"

"No evidence. Personally, I doubt it."

"Why's that?"

"We've checked them out thoroughly."

"Avigdor Laufer thinks they're a suspicious lot."

'Avigdor Laufer thinks lots of things."

The mayor laughed. "Yes, he is a jackass." The laughter died abruptly, making it seem false.

"The note," said Daniel, "may be someone trying to blame it on religious Jews."

"Is that a professional opinion, or just your kipah speaking?'

"The Bible quotes were out of sequence, out of context. There was a manufactured quality to the note."

"Fine, fine," said the mayor with seeming uninterest.

!nt is, what are we doing about it?"

"Our procedures are sound. The only choice is to continue."

The mayor narrowed his eyes'. "No excuses, eh?"

Daniel shook his head.

"How long before progress?"

"I can't promise you anything. Serial killers are notoriously hard to catch."

"Serial killers," said the mayor, as if hearing the term for the first time. Then he mutterd something that sounded like "killer ants."

"Pardon me?"

"This Wilbur, when are you releasing him?"

"He has yet to be arraigned on the obstruction charge. The paperwork is in progress."

"You're not actually expecting to take him to trial?"

"He's being treated like any other-"

"Come now, Pakad, we're not two Kurdis in some fertilizer factory, so stop shoveling shit."

"He withheld material evidence."

"Is he a murderer?"

"It's possible."

"Probable?"

"No."

"Then let him go. I don't need extra headaches on top of your… serial butcher."

"He may prove useful-"

"In what way?"

"If the killer contacts him again-"

"He won't be contacted in prison, Pakad."

"He can be released pending trial and kept under surveillance."

"And if he chooses to leave the country?"

"That can be prevented."

"You want to hold him hostage to use him? What is this-Beirut?"

"We have sufficient-"

"Let him go," said the mayor. Suddenly his tone was waspish, his face hard as granite. He leaned forward and jabbed his cigar. Like a bayonet. A coin of ash fell on Daniel's desk.

"With all due respect-"

"If you respect me, stop arguing and let the idiot go. I've talked to his boss in New York, chairman of the corporation that owns the wire service. They know his conduct was unprofessional, promise to keep his arrest under wraps, transfer him somewhere he can't do any damage-not immediately, within a month or two. The appearance of capitulation must be avoided. But the deal's only good if we release him immediately."

"In the meantime he writes."

"He writes, but his articles-all articles concerning the Butcher case-will be reviewed by the security censor."

"No one-not the locals or the foreigners-takes the censor seriously," said Daniel. "They know we pride ourselves on being more democratic than the Americans. Everything gets through."

"His won't. One month, then the bastard's gone," said the mayor. "We're tolerated worse." Another layer of ash dropped. "Come on, Pakad, I need your pledge of cooperation, immediately. Wilbur's boss-this chairman-is visiting Jerusalem next month. Prides himself on being some kind of amateur archaeologist. I'm meeting him at the airport with the official bread and salt, have arranged a tour of the Allbright Institute, the Rockefeller, some of the local digs. I'd appreciate it, Pakad, if everything goes smoothly"

"Please pass the ashtray," said Daniel. He took it from the mayor's padded hand, brushed the fallen ash into it, and wiped the desk with a tissue.

"One hand washes the other, Pakad. All the little ants are happy. To you it probably smacks of immorality; to a realist, it's mama's milk."

"I'll need permission from the prosecutor's office to dismiss the charges," said Daniel. "But I suppose that's been taken care of."

"Such a detective." The mayor smiled. He waved the cigar like a baton. "Stop looking so offended. That kind of self-righteousness is reserved for soldiers and pilgrims. And all soldiers and pilgrims ever did for this city was leave it in ruins."

"Sender Malkovsky," said Daniel. "What kind of hand-washing led to that?"

The mayor was unruffled. "One needs to take the long view, Pakad Sharavi. This city is a collection of little anthills, different color ants, little ant armies, each one thinking God or Allah or Jesus ordered it to devour the others. Think of it: all that potential for bloodshed. And for two thousand years that's what we've had. Now we've got another chance, and the only way to keep things from spilling over is to maintain a balance. Pluralism. Every ant an emperor in his little hole. A balance your Butcher is threatening to upset."

"Malkovsky is no ant. He rapes children."

The mayor inhaled his cigar, brushed away the comment and the smoke. "From that perspective, Malkovsky can be viewed as a mistake. But in the larger scheme of things, it was no mistake at all. Let me tell you something, Pakad: The big conflict in Jerusalem isn't going to be between Arab and Jew. We'll he in charge for a long time. They'll continue to kveteh, but it's all for show. Down deep they enjoy everything we give them: the schools, the medical care. The Jordanians never did it for them; they know they never would. Arafat's a paper hero, a member of the Husseini clan-the Arabs remember how the Husseinis confiscated their land and sold it cheap. So they'll adapt, we'll adapt-a status quo that will never be kissy-kissy, but we'll get by.

"The big problem is going to be between Jew and Jew-the black-coats and everyone else. They're fanatics, don't recognize the state, want to tear down everything we've fought for, turn it into another Iran run by Jewish ayatollahs. Think of it: no cinema, no cafes, no museums or concert halls, fanatics telling us to hang mezuzahs on every door and daven three times a day or be flogged in Zion Square. And they're breeding heavily-nine, ten kids a family. Thousands of them emigrating from ghettos in America in order to build ghettos here. They huddle in their yeshivas all day, live off the dole-not one of them does a day of army service. Thousands of enemies of the state and future enemies-and dangerous because they're repressed-sexually, emotionally. You know how violent they can get, the bus burnings we had every Saturday night in Mea She'arim. Even the soccer field we built them didn't drain off all the aggression."

The mayor relit his cigar.

"Violent," he repeated. "Which is why the religious implications of the note didn't sound all that implausible to me-those blackies are capable of doing violence to anyone who offends them. However, you inform me there's no evidence of any particular group at work."

"Malkovsky," Daniel reminded him.

The mayor's expression said the whole issue was trivial.

"Malkovsky's'rebbe-the Prostnitzer-is a potential asset, someone definitely to be reckoned with. He's a cousin of the Satmar rebbe, broke off from the Satmar three years ago because of some dispute about the line of succession. That, of course, is no big deal-they're always fighting with each other. But as part of establishing his own identity, the Prostnitzer adopted a pro-state stance. Think of it: your basic ultrafanatic type-black hat, side curls, fur hats, leggings-and he's coming out saying righteous Jews should support the state."

"Agudah's been doing that for years."

"Agudah's of no importance. All they want to do is build kosher hotels and get rich. This Prostnitzer is a man with stature. Charisma. When he tells his Hassidim the '67 victory is a sign from Messiah, it carries weight."

"I never heard him say that," said Daniel.

"He's said it in private, to me. He's waiting for the right time to go public. The Malkovsky thing has pushed the date up a bit, but he's made a commitment, requested only a few favors in return. Small favors, which I'm more happy to grant him because the stakes are high. Exposing one of his followers as a pervert would only be destructive. Think of it: an inroad to the fanatics, a first wedge driven into their intransigent ranks. They're followers by nature. Conformists. One begins; other follow suit; pretty soon you've introduced ambiguity into their belief system-creative tension. Lack of absolutes weakens fanaticism. The battle lines become obscured, strengthening the vitality of our pluralism."

"Ants crawling from hole to hole?" asked Daniel.

The mayor looked at his watch and stood.

"It's late. I've spent too much time on theoreticals. I expect Mark Wilbur to be released immediately, with no further harassment. You're obviously an intelligent fellow. If you wish to discuss ant holes further, feel free to call me at the office or at home-both numbers are listed. We'll set up an evening, break out the schnapps, open a few philosophy books. But not yet. After you clear up this Butcher nonsense."