The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

No invitation to sit was offered Daniel and he remained standing. Three faces stared up at him. He needed to speak to each individually, and breaking up their klatch made him feel intrusive. He took Catherine Hauser first, drawing her to a table at the far end of the room, carrying her coffee cup for her and setting it down in front of her.

She thanked him and smiled, a plump, elderly woman dressed in a shapeless, colourless smock. Gray-haired and blue-eyed, with the same kind of parchment skin he'd seen on the older nuns at the Convent of Notre Dame de Sion. As he looked at her, coins of color rose on each cheek. She seemed friendly and cooperative but was sure she'd heard or seen nothing. What had happened? she wanted to know. A crime, he said, smiled, and ushered her back to her table.

The Canadian, Carter, he would have pegged for one of the Scandinavian backpackers who traipsed through the city each summer-big-framed and heavy-featured, with curly blond hair, narrow gray eyes, and a full ginger beard. He was in his early thirties and wore old-fashioned round gold-framed glasses. His hair was shaggy and longish and, like the rest of him, seemed carelessly assembled. His white coat was wrinkled and he wore it over a blue work shirt and faded jeans. Slow-talking and deliberate, he appeared to be lost in his own world, though he did express normal curiosity about the crime.

Daniel answered his questions with vague generalities and asked, "You attended the seminar with Dr. Darousha?"

"Sure did."

"Did you see patients afterwards?"

"No," said Carter. "Wally went back by himself. I was off-shift, so I took a cab into East Jerusalem and had dinner. At the Dallas Restaurant." He chuckled and added: "Fillet steak, chips, three bottles of Heineken." Another chuckle.

"Something amusing, Dr. Carter?"

Carter shook his head, ran his fingers through his beard, and smiled.

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

"I suppose it does," said Daniel, writing. "What time did you arrive back at the hospital?"

"Must have been close to ten-thirty."

"What did you do when you arrived?"

"Went to my room, read medical journals until they put me to sleep, and popped off."

"What time was that?"

"I really couldn't tell you. This was fairly boring stuff so it could have been as early as eleven. When was this crime committed?"

"That hasn't been established yet. Did you hear or see anything at all that was out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing. Sorry."

Daniel dismissed him and he shambled back to his table. A former hippie, Daniel guessed. The kind who might blunt life's edges with a hit of hashish now and then. A dreamer.

Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi, by contrast, was all points and angles, formal, dapper, and delicate-almost willowy-with skin as dark as Daniel's, short black hair, well-oiled, and a pencil-line mustache that had been trimmed to architectural precision. He looked too young to be a doctor, and his white coat and elegant clothes only served to enhance the image of a child playing dress-up.

"By any chance," Daniel asked him, "are you related to Mohammed Al Biyadi, the grocer?"

"He is my father," said Al Biyadi, suspiciously.

"Many years ago, when I was a uniformed officer, thieves broke into your father's warehouse and stole a new shipment of melons and squash. I was assigned to the case." One of the first triumphs, the criminals quickly apprehended, the merchandise returned. He'd swelled with pride for days.

As an attempt to gain rapport, it failed.

"I know nothing of melons," said the young physician coldly. "Ten years ago I lived in America."

"Where in America?"

"Detroit, Michigan."

"The automobile city."

Al Biyadi folded his arms across his chest. "What do you want of me?"

"Did you study medicine in Detroit, Michigan?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Wayne State University."

"When did you return to Israel?"

"I returned to Palestine two years ago."

"Have you worked at the Amelia Catherine all that time?"

"Yes."

"What is your specialty?"

"Family medicine."

"Did you attend the seminar at Hadassah?"

Al Biyadi's face contracted, almost shriveling with anger. "You know the answer to that, policeman. Why play games?"

Daniel looked at him calmly and said nothing.

"The same thing over and over," said Al Biyadi. "Something happens and you harass us."

"Have you been harassed by the police before, Dr. Al Biyadi?"

"You know what I mean," snapped the young Arab. He looked at his watch, drummed his fingers on the table. "I have things to do, patients to see."

"Speaking of seeing, did you see anything unusual last night?"

"No, nothing, and that's likely to be my answer to all of your questions."

"What about during the early morning hours?"

"No."

"No shouts or cries?"

"No."

"Do you own a car?" asked Daniel, knowing he was prolonging the interview in response to Al Biyadi's hostility. But it was more than a petty reaction: The young doctor's response was out of proportion. Was his anger politically rooted or something more-the edginess of the guilty? He wanted a bit more time to study Hassan Al Biyadi.

"Yes."

"What kind?"

"A Mercedes."

"What color?"

"Green."

"Diesel or petrol?"

"Diesel." From between clenched jaws.

"Where do you park it?"

"In the back. With everyone else's."

"Did you drive it last night?"

"I didn't go out last night."

"You were here all night."

"Correct."

"Doing what?"

"Studying, going about my business."

"Studying for what?"

Al Biyadi tossed him a patronizing look. "Unlike the less educated occupations, the field of medicine is complex, always changing. One needs constantly to study."

A woman in her late twenties came into the dining room. She saw Al Biyadi, walked over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Good morning, Hassan," she said brightly, in heavily accented Arabic.

Al Biyadi mumbled a reply.

"Any more questions?" he asked Daniel.

The woman looked puzzled. She was plain, with a flat, pleasant face, snub-featured and freckled, devoid of makeup. She wore a sleeveless white stretch top over blue jeans, and low-heeled sandals. Her hair was thin, straight, medium-brown. It hung to her shoulders and was pulled back behind her ears with white barrettes. Her eyes were large and round and matched her hair in hue. They glided inquisitively over Daniel's face, then clouded in confusion at the sight of his kipah.

"Police," said Al Biyadi. "There's been some sort of crime and I'm being interrogated like a common criminal."

The woman absorbed his hostility, as if by osmosis. Imitated his crossed-arms posture and glared at Daniel as if to say Now you've upset him. I hope you're happy.

"Miss Cassidy?"

"That's right."

"I'm Chief Inspector Sharavi. Please sit down. You, Doctor, are free to go."

Being dismissed so quickly seemed to anger Al Biyadi as much as had being detained. He bounded out of his chair and stamped out of the room.

"You people," said Peggy Cassidy. "You think you can push everyone around."

"By people, you mean…?"

The young woman smiled enigmatically.

"Please sit," Daniel repeated.

She stared at him, then lowered herself into the chair.

"Would you like some coffee, Miss Cassidy?"

"No, and can we get on with whatever it is you want?"

"What I want," said Daniel, "is to know if you heard or saw anything unusual last night, or during the early hours of the morning."

"No. Should I have?"

"A crime was committed just up the road. I'm searching for witnesses."

"Or scapegoats."

"Oh?"

"We know how you feel about us, about those who want to help the Palestinian people."

"This isn't a political matter," said Daniel.

Peggy Cassidy laughed. "Everything's political."

Daniel took a few moments to write in his pad.

"Where in the States are you from, Miss Cassidy?"

"Huntington Beach, California."

"How long have you lived in Israel?"

"A year."

"And how long in Detroit?"

The question surprised her, but only for a moment. The look she gave Daniel bore the scorn reserved for a magician whose illusions have failed. "Three years; And yes, that's where I met Hassan."

"At Wayne State University?"

"At Harper Hospital, which is affiliated with Wayne State University. If you must know."

"When did the two of you meet?"

"Four years ago."

"Have you been… have you had a relationship since that time?"

"I don't see that that's any of your business."

"If I presumed too much, I apologize," said Daniel.

She studied him, searching for sarcasm.

"Hassan's a wonderful man," she said. "He didn't deserve what you did to him."

"And what was that?"

"Oh, come on."

Daniel sighed, rested his chin on one hand, and looked at her.

"Miss Cassidy, as I told you, a crime was committed in the vicinity of this hospital. A serious crime. My interest in you or Dr. Al Biyadi is limited to what either of you can tell me about that crime."

"Fine," she said, rising. "Then you have no interest in us at all. Can I go now?"

He left the Amelia Catherine at nine. Several blue-and-whites were parked near the eastern slope-the grid search of the hillside had begun-and he drove the Escort near the cliff and asked the uniforms if anything had turned up in Schlesinger's trunk.

"Just a spare tire, Pakad."

"What about on the slope?"

"A Coke bottle with no fingerprints-nothing else yet."

Daniel spun the car around, descended Shmuel Ben Adayah and, when he reached the northeast tip of the Old City, turned left on Derekh Yericho, driving along the walls until he came to the parking lot just outside the Dung Gate. Swinging the Escort into a free space, he turned off the engine, got out, and opened the trunk. Inside were two black velvet bags that he removed and tucked under his left arm, next to his heart. The larger, about a foot square, was embroidered with gold and silver almond blossoms encircling a good filigree Magen David. Half its size, the smaller bag was encrusted with a busy motif of gold curlicues and teardrops and studded with sequins.

Locking the trunk, he began walking toward the guard post just inside the Dung Gate, to his back the peaceful southern valley that had served as ancient Jerusalem's refuse dump. He passed the guards, walked under the graceful, scalloped arch, and stepped into the flow of people headed toward HaKotel Hama'aravi-the Western Wall.

The skies were a canopy of spring blue, cloudless and pure as only Jerusalem skies could be, so free from blemish that staring up at them could cause one to lose perspective. A cool, serene blue that belied the blanket of heat that had descended upon the city. By the time he reached the Wall, he was sticky with sweat.

The prayer plaza fronting the Kotel was uncrowded, the women's section occupied by only a few hunched figures in dark clothing-righteous grandmothers praying on behalf of barren women, scrawling messages to the Almighty on scraps of paper and slipping them in the cracks between the stones. It was late, nearing the end of the shaharit period and the last of the Yemenite minyanim had ended, though he did see Mori Zadok reciting psalms. He stood facing the Wall, a tiny, white-bearded, ear-locked wisp, rocking back and forth in a slow cadence, one hand over his eyes, the other touching the golden stone. Other elders-Yemenite, Ashkenazi, Sephardi-had taken their customary places of meditation in the shadow of the Wall; their solitary devotions merged in a low moan of entreaty that reverberated through the plaza.