More slogans, more stones.
A soldier crumpled.
Megaphone orders. Stones. Soldiers with rifles fired rubber bullets directly into the mob. Several Arabs clutched arms and legs in agony and fell, writhing.
The mob was a thing of the past, now, the Arabs fanning out toward Hebron, each man for himself. Tripping over one another in a hasty sprint for safety.
Suddenly a long-haired, bearded man of about twenty materialized out of the human swirl, dashing wild-eyed toward the troops, a long knife in one hand, a jagged hunk of concrete in the other.
He raised the knife, threw himself at the soldiers, who closed ranks and fired. Lead bullets.
The long-haired man's body seemed to take off in flight, floating and gyrating, billowing some puffs, spouting ragged black holes. Then the holes filled with red and overflowed. Blood spurted out of him. Just as abruptly as he'd appeared, he collapsed, expelling his life-juices into the dirt.
Some of the dispersing Arabs had turned to watch him die. They stopped, frozen, mouths shaped into paralyzed ellipses.
The cordon advanced, walking around the dead man, pushing the remaining Arabs back. Moving forward inexorably until every rioter was in custody or fleeing.
The road was devoid of movement now, decorated with blood, prostrate forms, and spent cartridges.
Ambulance attendants rushed forward with stretchers, picking up wounded soldiers and Arabs, leaving for last the dead knife-wielder.
"Let him rot!" shouted a Gvura man. Other settlers took up the cry and turned it into a chant. They began moving forward. Colonel Marciano spoke into the megaphone; the rear row of the cordon reversed itself and faced the Gvura people.
"Go ahead," screamed one woman. "Shoot Jews! Damned Nazis!"
The soldiers remained impassive. Granite eyes in baby faces.
Daniel walked up to Marciano. The colonel was surrounded by subordinates but acknowledged him with a nod as he delivered order after order in a calm, even voice.
Marciano was a huge man-two meters tall-with an egg-shaped body that seemed to balance precariously on long, stilt-like legs. His head was egg-shaped, too-bald, brown, deeply seamed, with a large, fleshy nose and a chin that could have used some reinforcement. Soft-spoken without his megaphone, he was a career man, a hero of the '67 Sinai assault and Yom Kippur, in charge of Judean security for the past two years. An organized thinker and reader of philosophy and history who seemed to take it all in stride.
When the subordinates had left to carry out his orders, he gripped Daniel's hand and said, "It's over."
"The call I received said it had to do with my case."
"Could be. One second."
Two soldiers were carrying the dead Arab to the side of the road, holding him low to the ground so that his buttocks dragged in the dirt. Marciano picked up his megaphone, said, "Lift him," sharply. Startled, the soldiers complied.
Before the loudspeaker had been lowered, an army lieutenant came over and said, "What about them, Barukh?" Pointing to the Gvura people, who were still shouting and cursing.
"Inform Shimshon in Hebron that movement north of the city limits is restricted for twenty-four hours," said Marciano. "Maintain a line of troops one hundred meters to the south, and see to it that no one without legitimate business crosses it for the rest of the day. Once the line's established, leave them alone to blow it off."
The lieutenant wiped his brow and left.
"Come on," said Marciano. He loped to the back of the truck, climbed in, and Daniel followed. The two of them sat on the hot corrugated-steel floor of the truck bed. Marciano lit a cigarette and dragged deeply, then pulled a canteen off his belt, took a swig, and passed it to Daniel. The water inside was cool and sweet.
Marciano stretched out his long legs.
"This is what happened," he said. "About two hours ago, one of the Gvuranik women was standing out in front of the settlement, waiting for a lift to Jerusalem-a pregnant one. She had an appointment at Shaarei Zedek Hospital. One of Kagan's deputies-American named Arnon-was on transport duty, supposed to be coming back with a earful of schoolbooks, then making a return trip to pick up a Torah and take her to her appointment. He was late. She waited by herself for a while, knitting booties.
"Suddenly this car drives up." Marciano pointed to the mud-colored Fiat. "Three Arabs get out, two with butcher knives. The other's packing a pistol-one of those cheap
Czech jobs, as likely to blow up in your hand as fire. They start moving on the pregnant one. She's terrified, can't move. They're saying something about blood sacrifices and sin offerings, revenge for dead virgins. She starts to scream. They clamp a hand over her mouth, start pulling her into the car.
"Meanwhile Arnon pulls up, sees what's happening, and runs over to help. He's got a pistol, runs toward them waving it but is afraid of hitting the woman. The Arab with the gun starts shooting-misses three times even at close range but finally gets Arnon in the belly.
"Arnon's down. The pregnant woman manages to break free, starts running and screaming at the top of her lungs. The Arabs go after her. Mrs. Kagan happens to be taking a walk near the outskirts of the settlement, hears the gunshots and the screams and rushes over. She's packing an Uzi, pulls it into firing position. The Arab with the gun shoots at her, misses, then starts to run away. Mrs. Kagan goes after all three of them, opens up on the car, kills two of them right away, wounds the third. By now, Gvuraniks are streaming out. They pull the wounded Arab out of the car and beat him to death."
Marciano paused for a drag on his cigarette. "Pretty picture, eh, Dani? Wait, there's more. Seems the three Arabs were only part of the gang. There are four others waiting in a flat in Hebron-knives, shroud, looks like they had a revenge party in mind. When the Fiat doesn't show up, these guys drive up the road to investigate, see Gvura people standing over the dead bodies of their comrades, and pull out their Czechis. The Gvuraniks spot them, go after them-lots of shooting, no one hit. The Arabs step on the gas, speed back to Hebron telling everyone that the Jews are on a rampage, murdering Palestinian heroes. To make matters worse, some professor from Bir Zeit-asshole punk named El Said-is visiting an uncle, hears the news, and steps out in the middle of the souq with an impromptu speech that whips up a mob. The rest you saw."
Marciano smoked some more, took another swallow from the canteen. A chorus of ambulance sirens rose shrilly and diminished, backed by racing engines, the still-lusty epithets of the Gvura people.
"In terms of your case," said the colonel, "we found a newspaper article in the Fiat-you know the one I mean."
"I haven't read the paper today," said Daniel.
"In that case I'll get it for you." Marciano got on his knees, stuck his head out of the truck, and called an MP over.
"Get the bag labeled Number Nine out of the evidence case."
The MP trotted off.
"Where's Kagan?" asked Daniel.
"With his wife. Shooting those Arabs seemed to shake her up. She collapsed shortly afterward-they took her to Hadassah for observation."
Daniel remembered the woman's quiet grace, hoped she was all right.
"What's the casualty situation?" he asked.
"The three dead ones from the Fiat. The pregnant one received only a few scratches, but it wouldn't surprise me if she loses her baby. Arnon's belly wound looked serious, lots of blood loss-when they carried him off he was unconscious. You just saw the one with the knife-no doubt he'll be a hero by this evening. Stupid bastard didn't leave us much choice. Six of my boys received flesh creases. Bunch of Arabs with rubber bullet injuries. We took another ten in custody, including El Said and the four gangsters in the second car-we're taking them to Ramie. You can have a go at them by evening, though I doubt you'll learn anything-just another action-reaction."
The MP came back with a paper bag. Marciano took it, pulled out a folded newspaper and gave it to Daniel.
This morning's Al Quds. A front-page headline that read: SEW EVIDENCE IN BUTCHER MURDERS POINTS TO ZIONIST murder PLOT. An Arabic translation of a wire service story by Mark Wilbur, augmented by florid inserts authored by the local editor.
"It ran in our papers too," said Marciano. "Without the extra bullshit."
"I've been out in the field since sunrise," said Daniel, immediately regretting the apologetic sound of it. The field. Walking the desert near the murder cave, his beeper signal weakened by the surrounding hills. Walking in circles, like some Judean hermit. Hoping to find
what? New evidence? Cosmic insight? Cut off from reality, until he returned to his car, got the riot call from Shmeltzer.
He read the article, grew progressively angrier with each sentence.
Mark Wilbur claimed to have received a message from someone-an anonymous someone, who the reporter strongly implied was the Butcher himself. A blank piece of paper upon which had been pasted two paragraphs excised from a Hebrew-language Bible, the precise translation and references supplied by "biblical scholars."
The first, according to Wilbur, was "the traditional Old Testament justification for the Judaizing of Palestine":
AND BECAUSE HE LOVED THY FATHERS, AND CHOSE THEIR SEED AFTER THEM, AND BROUGHT THEE OUT WITH HIS PRESENCE, WITH HIS GREAT POWER, OUT OF EGYPT; TO DRIVE OUT NATIONS FROM BEFORE THEE GREATER AND MIGHTIER THAN THOU, TO BRING THEE IN, TO GIVE THEE THEIR LAND FOR AN INHERITANCE, AS IT IS THIS DAY. (DEUTERONOMY 4:37-38).
The second was termed "a collection of Mosaic sacrificial rituals taken from the Book of Leviticus":
AND IF HE BRING A LAMB AS HIS OFFERING FOR A SIN-OFFERING, HE SHALL BRING IT A FEMALE WITHOUT BLEMISH. (4:32)
BUT THE INWARDS AND THE LEGS SHALL HE WASH WITH WATER. (1:13)
WHATSOEVER SHALL TOUCH THE FLESH THEREOF SHALL BE HOLY; AND WHEN THERE IS SPRINKLED OF THE BLOOD THEREOF UPON ANY GARMENT, THOU SHALT WASH THAT WHEREON IT WAS SPRINKLED IN A HOLY PLACE. (6:20)
Shall he wash with water, thought Daniel. Except for those close to the investigation, no one knew about the washing of the bodies. Barring a leak, that meant the paragraphs might very well be the real thing. Material evidence that Wilbur had failed to turn over.
He tightened his jaw, read on:
"
cannot dismiss the possibility of religious-ethnic motivations behind the Butcher slayings. Both victims were young Arab women, and though police have refused to discuss the details of the case, rumors of sacrificial mutilation have persisted since the discovery, almost a month ago, of the first victim, Fatma Rashmawi, 15."
The article went on that way for several more paragraphs, discussing the conflicts between "right-wing religious settlers on the West Bank and the indigenous Palestinian population," noting that "although prayer has replaced animal sacrifice in Jewish worship, frequent references to sacrificial ritual remain an important part of the liturgy," quoting choice phrases from Moshe Kagan's most inflammatory speeches, sing the Gvura leader's use of the Bible to justify "coer-territorial expansion." Citing the growing anger among many Israelis toward "what are perceived as random terrorist acts on the part of disenfranchised Palestinians."
Reminding everyone of the tradition of revenge in the Middle East.
Coming as close as possible to blaming the Gvuraniks, or someone like them, for the murders, without actually spelling it out.
But doing it subtly-managing to come across as objective and truth-seeking. Wreaking more damage with nuance and implication than by direct accusation.
"Wonderful thing, freedom of the press." Marciano smiled.
Daniel put the newspaper back in the bag, said, "I'll keep this. What else do you have?"
"All the weapons, tagged and ready for fingerprinting. We've tried to keep the car clean, too, but Gvura people were all over it. The Hebron revenge flat's sealed and guarded. When can your people get to it?"
"Right away. Can you patch me to French Hill?"
"Easy enough," said Marciano, crushing out his cigarette.
The two of them climbed out of the truck bed and back up into the cab. The colonel punched a few buttons, handed
Daniel the radio, said good-bye and good luck, and stepped out. Daniel watched him stride onto the asphalt, stooping to examine a bloodstain, conferring with an underling, gazing neutrally at the Gvura people, who were beginning to return to their homes.
The pace of activity had slowed. Only the heat remained constant. A flock of ravens rose from the vineyard, flying overhead in formation, then reversing itself and settling in the fig trees. Big, lazy-looking birds, their well-fed bodies sheathed by blue-black wings as glossy as an oil slick. Perched with uncharacteristic silence on the gray, knobby branches.
Suspicious creature, the raven. Noah had sent one out to seek dry land; it had come back before completing the journey. Convinced, according to the rabbis, that Noah had designs upon its mate.
Daniel stared at the birds for a moment, then got on the radio.
Wilbur never heard them coming. He was celebrating the Butcher-letter story-rounding off the afternoon at Fink's with a belly full of steak and chips washed down with shots of Wild Turkey and Heineken chasers. The place was empty-all the others were scrambling to write up the Gvura riot thing. Far as he was concerned, that was the same old stuff, be stale by sunrise. He was enjoying the solitude, easing down his fifth chaser and fading into a nice summer high, when he felt his elbows in the vise-grip, saw the gray sleeve hook around his neck and flash the badge in his face.
"What the-" He tried to turn around. A big, warm hand clamped around him and held his head still, exerting pressure behind the ears and keeping him staring straight ahead. Another hand took hold of his belt and pushed forward, preventing him from backing off the barstool.
