Read Online The Labyrinth of Osiris by Paul Sussman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Sussman
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police tape and gesticulating. Priests, monks, rabbis, imams – they got it in the neck from all of them. One of the joys of policing the world’s holiest city.
‘The cathedral closes at ten as well?’ he asked.
‘Usually it’s only open for services. Six thirty to seven thirty in the morning and two forty-five to three forty-five in the afternoon.’
‘Usually?’
‘For the last month His Eminence Archbishop Petrossian has instructed that the doors should be left open until nine thirty.’
Ben-Roi frowned. ‘Why is that?’
The man shrugged. ‘So the faithful have more time for prayer.’
His tone was blank, displaying neither approval nor disapproval of the archbishop’s edict.
Ben-Roi stared at the screen, watching as another priest in a pointed hood came into shot and joined the argument in front of the cathedral door. More policemen moved in to support their man, and the confrontation looked set to escalate. He wondered if he should go back and help defuse the situation, but decided he had enough crap on his plate as it was. Asking Schwartz to get the footage over to Kishle as quickly as possible, he made his way out of the compound and headed back towards the station, leaving the uniforms to deal with things as best they could. It was what they were trained for, after all.
The traffic on Armenian Orthodox Patriarchate seemed to have thinned out now that the rain had stopped and he covered a hundred metres before a large Bezeq telecommunications van forced him off the road and into the doorway of the Armenian Tavern, where he had sheltered earlier. Its door had been closed then. Now it was open. The Bezeq van passed and he moved back on to the street, only to glance at his watch, turn and enter the tavern. Leah Shalev had called a unit meeting for 11.15, which gave him thirty minutes. He might as well make use of them.
Inside, a stairway led down into a vaulted basement restaurant just below street level. Its decor, like that of the cathedral, was cluttered and ornate, with a tiled floor, icon-covered walls and brass lamps dangling from the ceiling. There were glass cabinets full of dusty jewellery – necklaces, bracelets, earrings – a pair of fake elephant tusks and, at the bottom of the stairs, a small bar, its shelves stocked with the usual array of Metaxa, Campari, Dubonnet and Jack Daniel’s, as well as more exotic-looking bottles in the shape of elephants and horses and cats. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, a young man in jeans and an overly tight Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt emerged through the swing-doors of a kitchen area in the corner of the restaurant.
‘Hey, Arieh,’ he called.
‘ Shalom , George.’
They shook hands and the man showed Ben-Roi to a table beside the kitchen’s serving hatch.
‘Coffee?’
Ben-Roi nodded and the man relayed the order through the hatch. An elderly woman – George’s mother – gave a sour smile and set about boiling water. George sat astride a chair opposite Ben-Roi and lit an Imperial cigarette, ignoring the no-smoking sign on the wall behind him. His prerogative, since his family owned the place.
The tavern, and George Aslanian, had come to occupy a special place in Ben-Roi’s heart. In a past life it was where he and Galia had eaten on their first date. He’d been coming ever since, sometimes just for an Armenian coffee or a beer, sometimes for food as well – the soujuk and kubbeh were mouth-watering. He and Sarah had dined here often, which at first he had found unsettling, given the associations. After a few visits his unease had receded. Half of the Old City – half of Jerusalem – sparked memories of one sort or another and he couldn’t just ring-fence those places as out of bounds. In a curious way it was actually appropriate that he and Sarah should come here – she was, after all, the only woman he had ever loved quite as much as Galia. And the soujuk and kubbeh really were addictive.
‘You want something to eat?’ asked
‘The cathedral closes at ten as well?’ he asked.
‘Usually it’s only open for services. Six thirty to seven thirty in the morning and two forty-five to three forty-five in the afternoon.’
‘Usually?’
‘For the last month His Eminence Archbishop Petrossian has instructed that the doors should be left open until nine thirty.’
Ben-Roi frowned. ‘Why is that?’
The man shrugged. ‘So the faithful have more time for prayer.’
His tone was blank, displaying neither approval nor disapproval of the archbishop’s edict.
Ben-Roi stared at the screen, watching as another priest in a pointed hood came into shot and joined the argument in front of the cathedral door. More policemen moved in to support their man, and the confrontation looked set to escalate. He wondered if he should go back and help defuse the situation, but decided he had enough crap on his plate as it was. Asking Schwartz to get the footage over to Kishle as quickly as possible, he made his way out of the compound and headed back towards the station, leaving the uniforms to deal with things as best they could. It was what they were trained for, after all.
The traffic on Armenian Orthodox Patriarchate seemed to have thinned out now that the rain had stopped and he covered a hundred metres before a large Bezeq telecommunications van forced him off the road and into the doorway of the Armenian Tavern, where he had sheltered earlier. Its door had been closed then. Now it was open. The Bezeq van passed and he moved back on to the street, only to glance at his watch, turn and enter the tavern. Leah Shalev had called a unit meeting for 11.15, which gave him thirty minutes. He might as well make use of them.
Inside, a stairway led down into a vaulted basement restaurant just below street level. Its decor, like that of the cathedral, was cluttered and ornate, with a tiled floor, icon-covered walls and brass lamps dangling from the ceiling. There were glass cabinets full of dusty jewellery – necklaces, bracelets, earrings – a pair of fake elephant tusks and, at the bottom of the stairs, a small bar, its shelves stocked with the usual array of Metaxa, Campari, Dubonnet and Jack Daniel’s, as well as more exotic-looking bottles in the shape of elephants and horses and cats. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, a young man in jeans and an overly tight Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt emerged through the swing-doors of a kitchen area in the corner of the restaurant.
‘Hey, Arieh,’ he called.
‘ Shalom , George.’
They shook hands and the man showed Ben-Roi to a table beside the kitchen’s serving hatch.
‘Coffee?’
Ben-Roi nodded and the man relayed the order through the hatch. An elderly woman – George’s mother – gave a sour smile and set about boiling water. George sat astride a chair opposite Ben-Roi and lit an Imperial cigarette, ignoring the no-smoking sign on the wall behind him. His prerogative, since his family owned the place.
The tavern, and George Aslanian, had come to occupy a special place in Ben-Roi’s heart. In a past life it was where he and Galia had eaten on their first date. He’d been coming ever since, sometimes just for an Armenian coffee or a beer, sometimes for food as well – the soujuk and kubbeh were mouth-watering. He and Sarah had dined here often, which at first he had found unsettling, given the associations. After a few visits his unease had receded. Half of the Old City – half of Jerusalem – sparked memories of one sort or another and he couldn’t just ring-fence those places as out of bounds. In a curious way it was actually appropriate that he and Sarah should come here – she was, after all, the only woman he had ever loved quite as much as Galia. And the soujuk and kubbeh really were addictive.
‘You want something to eat?’ asked
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