DAVID'S DOGS

It was past midnight. Shoshana was posted on watch in the lobby at 28 Histadrut. Uri had the janitor and night watchman ensconced in a first floor office, while David, Micha and Dov set to work opening up room 304. The words "Holyland Arts Foundation" were stenciled in black on the frosted glass door. The lock was serious; Micha said he wouldn't be able to open it without leaving marks. But there was a transom, also made of frosted glass, which Dov felt certain he could breach, then fish through to catch and throw the bolt inside.

As Dov unscrewed the transom fixtures, Micha, who'd done preliminary research, filled David in.

"Very low-key type of operation. They buy up paintings and sculptures by Israeli artists, arrange shipment to the States, and then exhibit the works over there. They also make contributions to Israeli art schools, encourage exchange of art teachers, fund promising young Israeli artists, and occasionally commission a major work to be placed in a public location—a development town, say, or on an army base."

"So who's behind it?" David asked.

"Americans, some kind of Christian evangelist group. Been operating here close to three years. They pay their rent on time, never bother anybody and, according to their neighbors, seldom get visitors. The old mama-type who works in the front room is sweet and kind of dumb. She sits out there, smiles, and sorts the mail. Actually, since she's only here part-time, the place is mostly closed."

Once they were inside, however, David was disappointed: no hidden safe, no concealed tape recorders, no windows made of one-way glass. Just two small offices, both shabbily furnished—a waiting room with hard wooden chairs, a desk, a phone, and an answering machine, and an inner office with another desk, a metal filing cabinet, and on the walls photographs of various works of contemporary Israeli art.

He opened a drawer of the filing cabinet and started rifling through file folders. Most contained copies of letters between the Foundation's home office, in Dallas, and various Israeli galleries. He found one marked "Negev Earthwork: Circle in the Square." It was the only folder that was empty.

"Of course it's empty," Dov said. "It's the one we're interested in."

"Is this some kind of Shin Bet safe-house?" Micha asked.

"A good safe-house is a residence. Here, there's only access during business hours."

"Still it could be a front," Dov said. "Money gets sent in, art gets shipped out. It's looks like any one of a hundred little foreign religious charities. No one pays attention, because what they do is so ineffectual and nice."

"Maybe just a little too ineffectual," David said. "Question is: Is this a legitimate Shin Bet operation, or is it related somehow to our case? How's your English, Dov?"

"Damn good—you know that."

"Ever been to Dallas?"

Dov shook his head. Then suddenly he grinned. "Hey! You're kidding, David. You are, aren't you? Oh wow! Just turn me loose!"

Latsky bit into his lower lip. "Suppose it is a valid Shin Bet operation?"

"So what's the harm?" David asked. "All we want to do is check it out."

"Still . . ."

"Come on. What's bugging you? Is it the money?"

"I have a discretionary fund..."

"So what's the problem?"

"Too much of a long shot." Latsky squinted, then lit a cigarette. "You got some hearsay Cohen went in there. So what does that prove? Nothing." He squinted again, then exhaled. "You're floundering. Because you can't make head or tail out of this you want to dispatch twenty percent of your force to the goddam U.S.A."

"Give me five days. If Dov doesn't come up with anything I'll haul him back. He can hitch free on El Al far as New York, and from there—"

"Fine! Send him! Do whatever the hell you want. Since they found that executioner's' body you've been the minister's fair-haired boy." Latsky stubbed out his cigarette. "Just don't ask me for any written orders. As far as I'm concerned this meeting never happened. I never authorized anything. You're operating on your own."

David drove Dov Meltzer down to Ben-Gurion Airport, waited while he cleared customs, then escorted him onto the plane.

Dov looked nervous. "I've got reserve duty coming up, so maybe I won't come back. Maybe I'll join the traitors driving taxis around New York."

David leaned over the seat. "Find me something, Dov. Investigate the hell out of this. Because Latsky's right, I am floundering. I'm not sure what I'm doing anymore."

He and Micha drove out to the Negev to look at the earthwork. After half an hour of trudging around it, Micha gave his verdict: "I see why they call it 'Circle in the Square.' But you know something, David—it's a crock of shit."

"So why's everyone so concerned about it? What's Cohen's involvement? Why is Sokolov acting panicked? If Targov's right and Sokolov didn't design it, why pay him good money to sign the plans?"

Micha looked at him. "There's something going on."

"That's right, but what? I want to know. Use your contacts, Micha. Find out who authorized this thing. No one lives around here. There's no decent road in, and when you get here there's nothing to see. So if it's really just a crock of shit, then what the hell's the point?"

Liederman wanted to go down to Tel Aviv: "To try and find that Arab kid," he explained. "You know, the one Peretz picked up off the beach. If I could find him I could bring him up here and then try to sick him onto Cohen. Dangle him, you know. Maybe Cohen would bite."

"Forget it," David said. "He's too smart to bite an Arab."

But later he realized Moshe Liederman had begun to think like a detective. He was getting hunches, following them up, and he'd grasped the basic method of entrapment—finding the suspect's weak spot and then exploiting it by dangling bait.

He told Anna: "I'd like to have some photographs of Cohen together with a man. Then I'd haul him in, and, if he refused to cooperate, I'd threaten to show them to his wife."

"David! You wouldn't do that!"

"No, of course not," he said. "But I sure as hell wouldn't hesitate to make the threat."

Uri found the panel door through a garage in Netanya that specialized in Chevrolets. The foreman of the body shop remembered replacing the door, and directed Uri to a junkyard further down the coast. Here Uri made his way between carcasses of demolished Fords and torn-up Fiats, broken axels, shattered windshields, smashed-in radiators, and assorted burned-out truck engines crusted with grease and dirt. It took him two days but he finally found the panel door, and when David sent it over to the forensic lab at National Police H.Q., they were able to match paint marks in the dents with scrapings of paint taken from Schneiderman's truck.

"All of which proves," Rafi said, "that Schneiderman hit a van. But doesn't prove it was the van in Ein Kerem."

"Maybe not," David said, "but I never counted on establishing a solid chain of evidence."

"Then why did you go to so much trouble, David?"

"Confirmation. You see, Rafi—now I know I'm right."

Dov's first call came through in seventy-two hours: "Think it's hot in Jerusalem. You should see the way we're sweating here."

"What have you got?"

"First, and this wasn't hard, Holyland Arts is owned by a Texas corporation called Militants for Christ, Inc. It's a spin-off of an Oklahoma oil company. The sole owner is a certain Harrison Stone, a big-deal oil and gas multimillionaire. He's also a part-time TV preacher—cool, soft-spoken, and very very slick. Around here they call him 'The Wizard of Ooze.' Some kind of local joke—I don't get it, but what the hell. Anyway, though Stone's certainly a fundamentalist, he's not a fire-and-damnation type. Makes his TV sermons in a cool reasonable tone of voice from behind a corporate desk. Something interesting: There's no church—no staff, no building, no parishioners. It's a private philanthropy and strictly a one-man show. And according to people in the Jewish community, Stone's a very big fan of Israel."

"Has he been here?"

"Plenty of times. Trouble is I can't find out exactly when. But get this, David—he's also a close pal of Rabbi Katzer. Katzer was here last year soliciting funds, and not, I hear, just from local Jews. Stone supposedly arranged several very private meetings between Katzer and wealthy Texan Christian fundamentalists. Pledges of serious money are rumored to have been made in exchange for unspecified promises. It's all kind of vague, no one knows exactly what went on, but from the little I've been able to uncover I'd have to say your conspiracy theory is looking good."

David felt a rush of excitement; a little more of the concealed pattern had been revealed. "How did you dig all this up so fast?"

"I had help from a local lady reporter name of Gael Rubin. She wrote a series of articles on Stone, something very difficult to do because it's almost impossible to get near the guy. He's a take-over specialist who operates with a lot of secrecy."

"What do you think?"

"Don't know yet. But the operation here doesn't fit with those crummy offices we saw."

"You got pictures?"

"I shot some off the TV."

"Have the consulate wire them to me. So—what does your pretty reporter girl say?"

"Did I say she was pretty, David?"

"She is, isn't she?"

"Yeah, she is." Dov laughed. "And she says Stone is sinister. Says that except for the religious stuff he plays it quiet, stays in the background, always works through proxies. Then, when he's ready to gobble something up, he strikes out of nowhere like a shark."

He told her: "Here I am working on a murder case that in some tangential way involves my brother, my father, and myself. And now it seems to involve you too. Your old lover has somehow stumbled into some strange back room of it. At least I think he has. So many intersections..." He shook his head. "I think this could only happen here. Only here, Anna, in Jerusalem...."

Micha confirmed that Holyland Arts had funded the design of "Circle in the Square" and that Israeli military engineers had done the actual work, paid for out of an IDF cultural and recreational fund.

"Far as I can tell, no specific individual authorized it. The way it works with this fund is that once properly prepared papers are filed in the appropriate manner they get shuffled through the bureaucracy from desk to desk. Each officer adds his initials and several months later the project comes out the other end approved."

"If that's how it works then I pity Israel," David said. But still he wasn't satisfied. "Bring in Sokolov," he instructed Micha. "Time now to put him on the grill."

There was something about the old man that filled David with ambivalence. His face bore the stamp of vulnerability one saw often in the older generation of European-born Israelis. The look of internal disturbance, of having been deeply and indelibly wounded in the past, totally opposed to the famous "Sabra look"—the strong, set, committed features and direct unblinking gaze. A disturbed face but David knew he must distrust his sympathy. Often those who looked most disturbed had been deformed in sinister ways.

Was Sergei evil? Targov had told Anna that he was, but examining him now, across the small table in the tiny basement interrogation room, David could not be sure. There was pathos in the taut forehead, the terrible teeth, the bushes of white hair that sprang Ben-Gurion style from the sides of his shriveled head. His eyes, greatly magnified by his extra-thick spectacles, were frightened. No wonder—he had received an official summons; the man had spent fifteen years in Soviet camps.

Still, there was a hint of craftiness that belied the injured stare. David recognized the face of a man who could channel his hurt into a mercenary rage. He knew the type—the cheater, the stealer, the professional litigant, the man who behaves as if money can salve his wounds.

"Before I start asking questions, let me make several matters clear. We're investigating a case in which you may or may not be involved. As of now you're not a suspect, and we have no plan to bring any charges. However, if you lie to us you'll be charged with perjury, and, I warn you, the penalties for that can be severe. I say this because I want you to understand that there's nothing to be gained by concealing the truth."

Sergei nodded, his face alert and tense.

David flicked his finger at the pile of drawings which Micha had removed from the walls of Sokolov's bedroom and which now lay between them on the table. "We know you didn't make these. We know you were paid to sign them and claim authorship of 'Circle in the Square.' For us that's no crime. What we want to know is how you came to sign these drawings. Who approached you? What did they offer you? What deal did you strike? And, most important, why...why did they need you?"

Sergei hesitated. His hugely magnified eyes blinked and darted and finally came to rest. They were aimed at the place where David's forefinger touched his signature on the top drawing of the pile.

"This is your signature."

Sergei nodded.

"But you didn't make these drawings?"

Sergei shook his head.

"Who asked you to sign them?"

"I received a letter from the foundation."

"The Holyland Arts Foundation?"

"Yes."

"What did the letter say?"

Sergei coughed, then looked nervously away. "That my situation, as a new citizen and a sculptor, had come to their attention. That I was invited to come in and discuss the possibility of receiving a commission to create a public work."

"So you went to the foundation offices. Whom did you meet?"

"Mr. Hurwitz."

"Igal Hurwitz?"

Sergei nodded.

"So what did this Mr. Hurwitz have to say?"

"He was sympathetic when I told him about my loss of sight. He convinced me this would be no problem—that it would be possible for me to conceive a work and then leave its execution to someone else."

"Had you ever been involved in conceptual art?"

"I was a carver. My specialty was carved ballerinas."

"Did you tell this to Hurwitz?"

"He said it didn't make any difference."

"Did he then suggest a particular 'conception' to you?" Sergei hesitated. "Well?"

"Yes."

David tapped the pile of drawings. "And this is what he suggested?"

"Yes."

David sat back. "You're being truthful. I appreciate that you're not trying to mislead me or shade the truth. Let's go a little deeper now. Who brought up the matter of money?"

"Hurwitz did."

"What did he say?"

"He told me there would be a fee."

"Did he say how much?"

"Depending upon the size of the final work, it would range between five and ten thousand dollars."

"That's quite a lot of money just to sign some drawings."

"Apparently it was worth it to them." Sergei smiled. It was that smile that caused David to decide that he disliked him, but he kept his dislike to himself.

"Yes, I see that," he said. "Of course they wanted your signature. But didn't you think it a little strange to be offered foreign currency?"

"The foundation is American."

"But Hurwitz was Israeli."

"He was a foundation employee. He made that clear."

"And you didn't ask him any questions about why you'd been chosen, or why the fee would be so large, or what the 'Circle in the Square' was supposed to represent?" Sergei shook his head. David sat back again. "Yes," he said, "I understand. There you were being presented with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Here was this foundation representative offering you a substantial sum of money, and not only that—also legitimacy as an environmental sculptor. Who were you to question what was behind this fortuitous stroke of fortune?"

"Exactly!" Sergei smiled; his interrogator understood him. There was no danger for him here, no need to conceal the truth.

"So you signed the drawings?"

"I signed them, of course."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"Without asking any questions?"

Sergei smiled again. "I don't believe I said a single word."

"Of course not. Why should you speak? To ask questions then could have blown the deal. In fact the drawings were already prepared, weren't they? They were right there waiting for you in the office when you arrived. And the money was there too, wasn't it? A pile of it. Cash." David gazed at him. "The drawings were there, and the pile of cash right there beside them. That's how it was, wasn't it? Wasn't it?"

Sergei nodded eagerly. His interrogator was such an intelligent man. He seemed already to know the answers to everything he asked.

"And you never asked any questions, and you have no idea why you were chosen, and that's all you do know."

"Yes!" Sergei exclaimed. "Yes!"

David leaned forward. "So why is it that you went back and demanded additional money?"

Sergei shook his head. "I never did!"

"Several days ago you were seen returning to the foundation offices."

"I went back—yes! I saw Hurwitz—yes! But I never demanded anything."

"So why did you go back?"

"I needed a loan."

"You'd already spent the full ten thousand!"

"Life is expensive here, difficult for an immigrant. You must know that."

"Yes, I know," David said. "The foundation had helped you. Now you hoped that they might help you again."

"That's it!"

"Did Hurwitz agree to make the loan?"

"He said he'd have to consult the Dallas office."

"And now you're waiting to hear?"

"Yes, I'm waiting. I'm waiting…." Sergei's eyes glazed over as his voice drifted off.

Seeing that he was finally exhausted, David stood up and extended his hand. "Congratulations, Mr. Sokolov. You are now a legitimate Israeli artist. We appreciate your coming in. Sergeant Benyamani will return you to your home."

Later, with Micha, he examined the videotape of the interview. "He's slick. He could be lying, but I don't think he was," Micha said. "The setting was too intimidating."

"He lied about the loan."

Micha agreed. "But he's shrewd, shrewd enough not to ask questions when he sees a pile of cash."

"They were shrewd to pick him," David said. "He was perfect. He made a perfect schnook."

"The one thing I don't get is Hurwitz. We know he dealt with Ephraim Cohen. But we know Cohen wasn't the phony cop who took the names at the scene of the accident."

"Suppose 'Hurwitz' was a floating false identity. Shin Bet guys like tricks like that. Suppose everyone involved in this thing carried Hurwitz papers. Whenever one of them needed a false name, he simply called himself Igal Hurwitz. And if anyone asked any questions, he'd just reach into his pocket and pull out his Hurwitz ID."

"That's good, David. Sure. That makes sense." Micha hesitated. "Now what do we do?"

"You go down to Tel Aviv and check with Immigration. See if there's any record of a Harrison Stone entering Israel this past spring."

The following night he was staring out at the city while Anna struggled with her music. For a moment he thought he heard something promising, as if she were breaking through at last.

The telephone rang. He went into the kitchen to answer it. "It's me." He recognized Stephanie's voice. "I can hear her practicing. Works late, doesn't she?"

"She works," David said, "until she gets it right."

"Yeah—well, that's really great." Another pause. "Listen, about our last encounter, I know you're not too happy about some of the things I said."

"Forget it, Stephanie," David snapped. "Just say what's on your mind?"

"Strictly business. Okay. I called because for a while now I've been hearing various odds and ends. You may remember that we discussed your murder case."

"Way I remember it, you tried to warn me off."

"I was worried for you, David. Then I heard you were off of it. I forgot about it until this afternoon when I happened to pick up something new."

"What?"

"The ninth."

"The ninth what?"

"I don't know. But there was something emphatic about the way this source of mine—"

"Who?"

"Can't tell you that."

"What can you tell me?"

"Come on, David, give me a break. This man, whom I'm not at liberty to name, moves in what we call extremist circles. He keeps his ears open, and, for as long as I've known him, he's been a highly reliable source. Today, at our regular get-together, he mentioned he's heard that something big is due to happen soon. Then he muttered something about the ninth. Since today's August fifteenth, I figured he meant a month from now. But there was this sense of urgency, you know—of imminence. And since it was in the context of the killings, which he once told me meant a lot more than met the eye, I thought I should, though I have no idea what any of this is about, call you up and pass the information on."

"Tell me more."

"Can't. Can't jeopardize this relationship over an internal Israeli matter."

"How do you know it's just internal?" She was silent. "Have you any idea, Stephanie, how many times I've been deliberately misled on this? I hope you're not trying to do that now, because—"

"You're fucking impossible! I try to help you and you practically accuse me—oh! never mind! You know, David, I think that sometimes, really, you do expect too much. Anyway I'm running late. So, anyway," she paused, a little mournfully, he thought. "I hope we run into each other one of these days...." And, when he didn't respond to that: "Well, that's it, I guess. Good-bye."

When Dov's photographs came in, he showed them to Shoshana. "Piss-poor pictures, David."

"Show them to her anyway."

She glanced at her watch. "I'd better hurry then. School lets out in twenty minutes."

"Yeah, David, he was here all right." Micha was telephoning from Immigration Central Records. "Harrison Stone, U.S. citizen. I'm looking at his form."

"Date of entry?"

"One day before the accident."

"Departure?"

"The day after. Not too bad."

Another rush of excitement. "What else is on the form?"

"He gives tourism as the purpose of his trip and the Tel Aviv Hilton as his address. I just checked with them. He had reservations there, but then he canceled out."

"So where did he stay?"

"Hey, David, I only just got this a couple minutes ago."

"You're down there now, so you work Tel Aviv. Check everywhere. I'll have Uri call around up here."

"David—"

"I want to know where the hell he stayed. So stay on it till you find out. Good-bye."

Shoshana was pouting. "Amit doesn't remember him. For a second there I wanted—but then I remembered what you said about not trying to lead her on."

"Forget it, Shoshana. She's just a kid. And now we're getting close. I want you to work now with Uri. Help him find out where Stone spent his nights."

Dov called again: "Big roaches here. Between them and the heat you nearly die. Okay, with Gael Rubin's help, I finally got in to see Peter Crownshield. He's Stone's public relations representative, whose job, according to Gael, is to deflect all queries and protect Stone from the press. This Crownshield's a real smoothie. He wanted to be sure to set me straight. Mr. Stone's a firm supporter of Israel, rumors notwithstanding that his support is based on Biblical prophecy. 'What prophecy's that?' I asked, playing the not-too-bright Israeli journalist. 'That the Second Coming of Jesus Christ,' he said, 'cannot occur until Israel is destroyed.' He's talking about the prophecy of a war of Armageddon. And he wanted it clear that Stone doesn't think that way. 'Mr. Stone,' he said, 'sees no reason why Christ can't return to earth tomorrow. His support for Israel is unequivocal. Far as the foundation's concerned, Mr. Stone set it up to nurture art and beauty in the Holy Land.' "

"So that's it?"

"Pretty much."

"How's Miss Rubin?"

"She'd like to come over for a visit soon."

"American girls are nice."

"I know you're an expert, David—that's why you're living with a Russian. Seriously, I don't think there's much more for me to do over here. I've got reserve duty...."

"Come home, Dov. You've done a terrific job."

David had never been inside Mishkenot Sha'ananim, although he knew the "Peaceful Dwelling" well. One of the first buildings constructed outside the walls of the Old City, this nineteenth-century landmark had been converted, after the Six Day War, into a guesthouse for visiting writers, artists, and musicians.

He and Anna walked to it from Abu Tor. Anatole Rokovsky met them in the lobby. He embraced Anna, gravely shook David's hand, then escorted them down a flight of stairs to a corridor off which there were numbered doors, and a series of small perfectly kept internal sky-lit gardens.

This was the first time David had seen Rokovsky; he studied the Russian as he led them along the long stone corridor. Thin, stooped, his thick gray hair cut almost to his scalp, Rokovsky loped along gently on the balls of his feet. The way he moved reminded David of the surreptitious gait of a jailer who sneaks around the halls of a penitentiary trying to catch the prisoners breaking rules.

Targov's greeting was effusive, his handshake powerful. "Come in! Come in! We have tea prepared. And also we have vodka. I'm so glad to see you again. And Anna, too. I always love to see her." He grasped Anna in his arms.

When David mentioned he'd never been inside Mishkenot, Targov took him on a brief tour of the apartment. There was a master bedroom and bath, a kitchenette, a study, and, on the second floor, a second bedroom suite. When they returned to the living room, Anna was reclining on the sofa sipping tea from a tall glass and speaking Russian with Rokovsky.

"They treat us well here. No disturbances so we can work. And if we want to meet somebody—anybody, including the president. . ." Targov clicked his fingers. "...like that! It is instantly arranged!"

David sat beside Anna. "In the matter of Sokolov—"

"Yes, yes!" Targov leaned forward eagerly. "I'm dying to know: What did you think of him?"

"Not too much really. A complicated man. A man who knows not to ask questions when there's money on the table. A man who doesn't care about anything, except, of course, survival. No more ideologies, no more loyalties or principles for him. In short, a man who in a situation like this, offers himself as the perfect shnook."

Targov glanced quizzically at Anna.

"A Yiddish word, Sasha. David means he thought Sergei was more than willing to play the patsy."

"Yes, that seems right. He's a hard old zek. But don't forget—convicts become experts at concealment."

"Concealing or not, he claimed he didn't know anything. He'd been paid to sign the drawings and that was good enough for him."

"And the extra pay? What did he say about that?"

"He denies he asked for or received any extra pay."

"He's a liar! Rokovsky heard him."

"I know. That's why I'm here. I want to know why he lied about that. It must have had something to do with the photographs you gave him. If you still have some from the same series, I'd like to see them."

Targov snapped his fingers. Rokovsky jumped up and headed for the study. "When I handed them to him," Targov said, "I pointed out that there'd already been erosion. I wanted to be sure he saw how quickly his masterpiece was deteriorating, and that it couldn't possibly last."

Rokovsky returned with a sheaf of Polaroids.

While David examined them, Targov fumed on. "'Circle in the Square.' It's ludicrous. If that's what passes for sculpture these days, then maybe it's time for me to think about retirement."

"We thought it could be some sort of ideogram," Rokovsky said. "A symbol. Or writing. Ancient Hebrew perhaps."

David looked closely at the photographs. "It's no kind of writing I've ever seen."

"So—what is it?"

"Perhaps not a symbol. Not abstract at all. Perhaps something very concrete."

"Such as what?" Targov asked.

"Who knows?" David shrugged. "Perhaps some kind of replica. Perhaps even," he paused, "something that points to something ...some kind of chart or map."

Uri found the hotel: Stone had spent two nights at the King Solomon Sheraton in Jerusalem. The suite had been reserved a month in advance through a Dallas travel agent.

David spoke to the manager and informally requisitioned a copy of Stone's bill. No log, of course, of his incoming calls, but Stone had phoned out four times. The first call was to Dallas. David dispatched Shoshana to the telephone company to track the other three. Then he recalled Micha from Tel Aviv, suggesting he meet Dov's plane and bring him up as well.

Half an hour later Shoshana was back with names and addresses. The first local call, to TWA's Jerusalem office, was made to confirm Stone's departure the following night. The second was to the Histadrut Street office of the Holyland Arts Foundation, and the third, made at precisely 11 A.M. the day of the accident, was to a public phone booth in front of the Alba pharmacy on Jaffa Road.

"That was the contact point," David was. "The meeting was prearranged."

"So that's it," Uri said.

"Not quite. It's still a theory."

"Come on! He makes two sets of hotel reservations, then puts the one he cancels on his immigration form."

"Pretty suspicious," Shoshana said.

"Forget suspicious. We need something solid."

Uri and Shoshana looked at one another. David wondered: Was Stone going to be another dead end like the van?

"Somehow they got him back to the Sheraton," Shoshana said. "Found a taxi or took a bus. Trouble is, no one would remember now."

"But suppose they didn't get him back so quick. Remember: He was injured. Suppose they took him to a hospital first?" He could feel their excitement. "Well," he said, "what are you waiting for?"

They called hospitals, spoke to registrars, checked the records of emergency treatment rooms for the day of the accident. Then, when nothing came of that, they started calling every private physician in Jerusalem. When Micha turned up with Dov, who was jet-lagged and blinking and longed for sleep, David put them on the phones too. At four o'clock Uri stood up.

"Okay, I got him nailed."

Dr. Shmuel Mendler, interviewed in his Balfour Street consulting room, remembered his American visitor well.

"Oh yes," said the middle-aged orthopedist when David showed him the TV-set photographs, "this is the gentleman, Mr. Gerald Morris. No doubt of that. He came to me that day on an emergency basis, referred here by a friend. He'd been in a little automobile accident, he said, and he was in a good deal of pain."

Dr. Mendler reviewed the patient's chart. "It was his knee that was injured. I X-rayed it. Nothing shattered, nothing serious. I gave him a shot of Demerol and taped him up. He was flying out to the States that night. I advised him to see his own physician immediately on his return."

"And who was this friend who had referred Mr. Morris?"

"A neighbor of mine actually. We live in the same building around the corner."

"On Arlosoroff?" David asked.

"Yes, that's right."

"A man named Ephraim Cohen?"

"How extraordinary," Dr. Mendler said. "How absolutely extraordinary that you should know."

David entered Stone's name in the middle circle on the blackboard, then stood back and shook his head. "Gati. Stone. Katzer."

"So what does it add up to? You told us the middle guy would be the link."

"They don't belong together, that's for sure," Uri said."

"Why not?"

"Two Jews and a Christian. That's some weird kind of match."

"Yeah, but what kind of Jews are we talking about? And what kind of a Christian? Two Israelis, one a fundamentalist rabbi. And the Christian's a fundamentalist preacher too."

"So what's Gati doing there?"

David thought about it. "Maybe we've been looking at this wrong. Maybe Gati's the real link." Silence. "...Three very different guys and all three claim great devotion to Israel. We've got right-wing Jewish politics and fundamentalist foreign money and in between we've got a military mind. Enough there, seems to me, for one hell of a conversation. And then we've got a half-blind old Russian paid off by Ephraim Cohen, fronting for Stone's Holyland Arts Foundation. He signs drawings of an environmental sculpture that no one authorized, no one cares about, and that's practically impossible to find. Whatever the hell's been going on, we ought to have enough now to put it together. So let's sleep on it, meet here tomorrow at seven, lock the doors, and brainstorm until we figure it out."

That night he told Anna: "I keep coming back to this:  Ephraim Cohen was a flight commander in Gideon's squadron, and later he was detached to Gati's headquarters as a special aide.  You see how it links up.  This is just a guess, but suppose Ephraim wanted Gideon to perform some sort of unofficial military mission, the order coming down from the general.  When Gideon killed himself, his flight group was out on a practice exercise, each plane fully armed.  Then, when Gideon peeled off, no one chased after him or tried to call him back.  Gideon was an expert in precision bombing.  He'd been one of the sixteen pilots on the Iraqi reactor raid.  Gati himself told me Gideon was one of the most talented pilots he'd ever had in his command.  Suppose Ephraim told him to fly somewhere and use all those deadly armaments.  Suppose that was the mission Gideon refused to perform – to fly someplace and drop his bombs."

After she fell asleep, David thought about Gideon flying the reactor mission. Enough had been published about Operation Babylon for him to replay the mission in his mind. The planes had taken off mid-afternoon from the Etzion base, descended to less than a hundred feet off the desert floor, then had crossed the Saudi Arabian frontier, and flown for two monotonous hours barely skimming the sand. As they'd crossed into Iraqi territory and approached the reactor, the pilots had suddenly turned up into the sky. Focusing on the great dome of the Tammuz reactor, they dove for it, one plane at a time, each attacking from a different angle and direction. They unloaded their bombs, and screaming up again, flew very high in pairs until they reached Israel and home.

The dome, the great dome of the reactor—it was so thick, so strongly reinforced, that it required direct hits from every plane...

At five o'clock that morning he woke up in a sweat. At last the design was clear: The craters!

There had been no craters in the original drawings, or in the photographs taken just after "Circle in the Square" had been completed. But craters were clearly visible in Rokovsky's Polaroids. They were what had excited Sokolov and sent him rushing to the foundation to try and extort extra money.

Craters meant bombs. Bombs meant a bombing target. The pilots who'd flown against the Iraqi reactor had practiced for months against a target carved out in the sand.

"Circle in the Square" was a practice target for bombers. And this time too the target was a dome.

He shook Anna awake.

Now I know," he said. "I know what they're going to do." The Ninth! He reached for the phone.

"Rafi?"

He shook his head. "Today's the Ninth of Av, anniversary of the destruction of our ancient temple. No time now to go through channels. I have to go directly to the minister."