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Authors: Paul Sussman
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climbing in and adjusting the mirror so he could look back at the family still standing in the doorway.
‘Would what?’
‘Do whatever I had to to protect my family. Even if it broke the law. Those poor kids.’
‘It’s a hard life,’ acknowledged Khalifa.
Sariya re-angled the mirror and started the engine.
‘I left a few pounds in the field,’ he said. ‘Underneath a rock. Hopefully one of the kids will find it.’
Khalifa looked over at him. ‘You did?’
‘Maybe they’ll think it was left by a genie.’
Khalifa smiled. ‘You make the world a better place, Mohammed.’
Sariya shrugged and put the car in gear.
‘Someone’s got to,’ he said as they bumped off down the track. Beside him Khalifa rifled the glove compartment in search of a spare pack of cigarettes.
J ERUSALEM
Once Schmelling had finished his preliminary examination of the body, it was bagged up and loaded into a Hashfela ambulance for the ride down to the National Centre for Forensic Medicine in Tel-Aviv – Abu Kabir as it was popularly known. Leah Shalev and Bibi Kletzmann headed back to the station. Ben-Roi hung around for another twenty minutes going through the woman’s clothes and bag before he too got on his way, leaving the CITs to continue their fingertip examination of the chapel, a task that would most likely keep them occupied for the rest of the day.
‘You want me to get some beers sent in?’ he asked as he left the room.
‘For God’s sake, man, this is a crime scene!’
Ben-Roi smiled The CITs were renowned for two things: their obsessive attention to detail, and their complete lack of anything remotely approaching a sense of humour.
‘ Blintzes? ’ he called. ‘ Falafel? ’
‘Piss off!’
Chuckling, he made his way back through the cathedral and out into the cloister, where he picked up his Jericho and slotted it into its holster. The rain had stopped and the sky was starting to clear, scattered streaks of blue now breaking up the cloud cover like sea-channels through Arctic ice. He stared up, breathing in the fresh air. Then, with a glance at his watch, returned to the glass-fronted office at the entrance to the compound. The three men in flat-caps were still sitting inside, grouped around their CCTV monitor. Nava Schwartz was still leaning over behind them. He put his head through the door.
‘How’s the footage coming?’
‘Still running it off,’ said Schwartz. ‘They’ve got over thirty cameras around the compound so it could take another couple of hours.’
Ben-Roi stepped into the office and looked at the screen. A dozen images were displayed of various parts of the compound: courtyards, alleys, doors, staircases, tunnels – a city within a city, a world within a world. In one shot a group of young men in black robes were moving across the cobbles of a huge square. They disappeared from view, then reappeared in the shot of the vaulted passage in front of the office. Ben-Roi looked up as they trooped towards him and out of the gate, presumably heading for the seminary further down Armenian Orthodox Patriarchate.
‘How many people live here?’ he asked once they were gone.
‘Within the compound itself, three or four hundred,’ replied one of the flat-caps – a large man with a stubbled chin and nicotine-stained fingertips. ‘Another few hundred in the streets around.’
‘And this is the only way in and out?’
The man shook his head. ‘There are five gates, although we only ever use two of them. One down there –’ he waved a hand towards the south-west – ‘for the schoolchildren. That’s open between seven and four. And this one.’
‘Which closes . . . ?’
‘Ten p.m. sharp. After that no one can go in or out till morning.’
Ben-Roi looked at the heavy, iron-studded wooden door, then back at the screen. In the cathedral entrance one of the uniforms was talking to a priest in a black robe and pointed hood. They seemed to be arguing, the priest tugging at the line of
‘Would what?’
‘Do whatever I had to to protect my family. Even if it broke the law. Those poor kids.’
‘It’s a hard life,’ acknowledged Khalifa.
Sariya re-angled the mirror and started the engine.
‘I left a few pounds in the field,’ he said. ‘Underneath a rock. Hopefully one of the kids will find it.’
Khalifa looked over at him. ‘You did?’
‘Maybe they’ll think it was left by a genie.’
Khalifa smiled. ‘You make the world a better place, Mohammed.’
Sariya shrugged and put the car in gear.
‘Someone’s got to,’ he said as they bumped off down the track. Beside him Khalifa rifled the glove compartment in search of a spare pack of cigarettes.
J ERUSALEM
Once Schmelling had finished his preliminary examination of the body, it was bagged up and loaded into a Hashfela ambulance for the ride down to the National Centre for Forensic Medicine in Tel-Aviv – Abu Kabir as it was popularly known. Leah Shalev and Bibi Kletzmann headed back to the station. Ben-Roi hung around for another twenty minutes going through the woman’s clothes and bag before he too got on his way, leaving the CITs to continue their fingertip examination of the chapel, a task that would most likely keep them occupied for the rest of the day.
‘You want me to get some beers sent in?’ he asked as he left the room.
‘For God’s sake, man, this is a crime scene!’
Ben-Roi smiled The CITs were renowned for two things: their obsessive attention to detail, and their complete lack of anything remotely approaching a sense of humour.
‘ Blintzes? ’ he called. ‘ Falafel? ’
‘Piss off!’
Chuckling, he made his way back through the cathedral and out into the cloister, where he picked up his Jericho and slotted it into its holster. The rain had stopped and the sky was starting to clear, scattered streaks of blue now breaking up the cloud cover like sea-channels through Arctic ice. He stared up, breathing in the fresh air. Then, with a glance at his watch, returned to the glass-fronted office at the entrance to the compound. The three men in flat-caps were still sitting inside, grouped around their CCTV monitor. Nava Schwartz was still leaning over behind them. He put his head through the door.
‘How’s the footage coming?’
‘Still running it off,’ said Schwartz. ‘They’ve got over thirty cameras around the compound so it could take another couple of hours.’
Ben-Roi stepped into the office and looked at the screen. A dozen images were displayed of various parts of the compound: courtyards, alleys, doors, staircases, tunnels – a city within a city, a world within a world. In one shot a group of young men in black robes were moving across the cobbles of a huge square. They disappeared from view, then reappeared in the shot of the vaulted passage in front of the office. Ben-Roi looked up as they trooped towards him and out of the gate, presumably heading for the seminary further down Armenian Orthodox Patriarchate.
‘How many people live here?’ he asked once they were gone.
‘Within the compound itself, three or four hundred,’ replied one of the flat-caps – a large man with a stubbled chin and nicotine-stained fingertips. ‘Another few hundred in the streets around.’
‘And this is the only way in and out?’
The man shook his head. ‘There are five gates, although we only ever use two of them. One down there –’ he waved a hand towards the south-west – ‘for the schoolchildren. That’s open between seven and four. And this one.’
‘Which closes . . . ?’
‘Ten p.m. sharp. After that no one can go in or out till morning.’
Ben-Roi looked at the heavy, iron-studded wooden door, then back at the screen. In the cathedral entrance one of the uniforms was talking to a priest in a black robe and pointed hood. They seemed to be arguing, the priest tugging at the line of
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