“I will call you back. I cannot talk at this moment.”
He hung up and said to Virgil, “Football friend.” He tapped the soccer ball with a toe.
Virgil said, “Raj, I swear to God, if you run, I’ll have you arrested and shipped to Israel. Not Lebanon, but Israel, for complicity in this theft. You know what they do to Hezbollah agents in Israel? They string them up by their testicles.”
“Do not,” Yael said.
“So I’m going to give you my phone number, and you’ll give me yours,” Virgil continued. “If I call, you drop everything and come running. You understand?”
“Of course, but I did nothing,” Awad said. “I am not Hezbollah—I’m a Lebanese from birth, not a Palestinian.”
“Okay, I’ll accept that, at least at this point,” Virgil said. “Did you know that we found blood on the floor of Jones’s house?”
Awad’s eyebrows went up, and he said, “No,” and then, “The Turk,” and then, “Much blood?”
“Not much, but it wasn’t done shaving.”
Awad shook his head. “This is not good.”
—
V IRGIL AND Y AEL LEFT , after one more warning to Awad. Back in the truck, Virgil muttered, “Mossad.”
Yael said, “You cannot believe this Arab.”
“Shut up.”
He pulled out of the parking lot, drove onto a neighboring street, then around the block, and then around another block, and finally parked on a hillside two blocks from Awad’s apartment parking lot, with a view of Awad’s car.
Yael said, “We do this because he lied about the football call?”
Virgil said, “Yes.” He unsnapped his safety belt, got out, popped the back door on the truck, got a pair of image-stabilized Canon binoculars out of his equipment box, got back in the truck, and handed the glasses to Yael. “You watch. I’m going to close my eyes and think about this.”
He thought for thirty seconds, then sat up and called Davenport again. “I’ve got a cell phone number. I need to know where the calls are going, and where they’re coming from.”
“We can do that,” Lucas said. “Hope it’s a smartphone.”
“It’s an iPhone,” Virgil said. He gave Davenport Awad’s cell phone number.
“Piece of cake.”
—
V IRGIL CLOSED HIS EYES AGAIN , then asked, “Will you guys have a file on this Turk?”
“Somebody might,” she said.
“Get it.”
“I will ask,” Yael said.
No mention of the handicap of working for the antiquities authority, Virgil noted.
A minute later, Yael said, “Here he is.”
Virgil sat up: “That didn’t take long.”
“Just long enough to call back to his football friend,” Yael said.
—
A WAD WAS NOT ELUSIVE . He drove a half-mile into the downtown area, with Virgil a few cars back all the way. Once downtown, Awad dumped the car in a parking space, got out, looked at his watch, and hurried down the street. Virgil pulled into a space at a fire hydrant, and they watched as Awad crossed the next street, looked at his watch again, and disappeared into the Pigwhistle bar and grill.
Virgil drove a half-block down the street, found a parking space, and put the truck in it. “C’mon,” he said to Yael.
“Surveillance?” she asked, as they got out of the truck.
“If the guy he’s meeting came out of the bar first, would we know which one he was?”
“Maybe,” she said, “if it’s another Palestinian.”
“And maybe not,” Virgil said. “You want to do surveillance, do it on your own.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna go see if it’s the Turk in there,” Virgil said.
“How?”
“I’m gonna ask him.”
“This is a most unusual technique,” Yael said. “I shall enjoy watching it, but I have little hope for its success.”
6
T he Pigwhistle bar and grill had a painting of a woodchuck—a groundhog—in the front window under a flickering neon Blatz Beer sign, because that’s what a pigwhistle is.
In this case, the pigwhistle had been painted by a refugee from the Mankato State fine arts program, and
He hung up and said to Virgil, “Football friend.” He tapped the soccer ball with a toe.
Virgil said, “Raj, I swear to God, if you run, I’ll have you arrested and shipped to Israel. Not Lebanon, but Israel, for complicity in this theft. You know what they do to Hezbollah agents in Israel? They string them up by their testicles.”
“Do not,” Yael said.
“So I’m going to give you my phone number, and you’ll give me yours,” Virgil continued. “If I call, you drop everything and come running. You understand?”
“Of course, but I did nothing,” Awad said. “I am not Hezbollah—I’m a Lebanese from birth, not a Palestinian.”
“Okay, I’ll accept that, at least at this point,” Virgil said. “Did you know that we found blood on the floor of Jones’s house?”
Awad’s eyebrows went up, and he said, “No,” and then, “The Turk,” and then, “Much blood?”
“Not much, but it wasn’t done shaving.”
Awad shook his head. “This is not good.”
—
V IRGIL AND Y AEL LEFT , after one more warning to Awad. Back in the truck, Virgil muttered, “Mossad.”
Yael said, “You cannot believe this Arab.”
“Shut up.”
He pulled out of the parking lot, drove onto a neighboring street, then around the block, and then around another block, and finally parked on a hillside two blocks from Awad’s apartment parking lot, with a view of Awad’s car.
Yael said, “We do this because he lied about the football call?”
Virgil said, “Yes.” He unsnapped his safety belt, got out, popped the back door on the truck, got a pair of image-stabilized Canon binoculars out of his equipment box, got back in the truck, and handed the glasses to Yael. “You watch. I’m going to close my eyes and think about this.”
He thought for thirty seconds, then sat up and called Davenport again. “I’ve got a cell phone number. I need to know where the calls are going, and where they’re coming from.”
“We can do that,” Lucas said. “Hope it’s a smartphone.”
“It’s an iPhone,” Virgil said. He gave Davenport Awad’s cell phone number.
“Piece of cake.”
—
V IRGIL CLOSED HIS EYES AGAIN , then asked, “Will you guys have a file on this Turk?”
“Somebody might,” she said.
“Get it.”
“I will ask,” Yael said.
No mention of the handicap of working for the antiquities authority, Virgil noted.
A minute later, Yael said, “Here he is.”
Virgil sat up: “That didn’t take long.”
“Just long enough to call back to his football friend,” Yael said.
—
A WAD WAS NOT ELUSIVE . He drove a half-mile into the downtown area, with Virgil a few cars back all the way. Once downtown, Awad dumped the car in a parking space, got out, looked at his watch, and hurried down the street. Virgil pulled into a space at a fire hydrant, and they watched as Awad crossed the next street, looked at his watch again, and disappeared into the Pigwhistle bar and grill.
Virgil drove a half-block down the street, found a parking space, and put the truck in it. “C’mon,” he said to Yael.
“Surveillance?” she asked, as they got out of the truck.
“If the guy he’s meeting came out of the bar first, would we know which one he was?”
“Maybe,” she said, “if it’s another Palestinian.”
“And maybe not,” Virgil said. “You want to do surveillance, do it on your own.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna go see if it’s the Turk in there,” Virgil said.
“How?”
“I’m gonna ask him.”
“This is a most unusual technique,” Yael said. “I shall enjoy watching it, but I have little hope for its success.”
6
T he Pigwhistle bar and grill had a painting of a woodchuck—a groundhog—in the front window under a flickering neon Blatz Beer sign, because that’s what a pigwhistle is.
In this case, the pigwhistle had been painted by a refugee from the Mankato State fine arts program, and
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