The statement was so swollen with regret that Ruth decided then and there that she wanted very much to hear more about O’Donovan’s life. She watched his light eyes as they lost focus for a moment, his reddish brows forming a small crease above the bridge of his nose. His dirty-blond hair was thick like the coat of a husky, and the way his razor had left a line of fuzz across one cheekbone made her want to reach out and touch his face.
“And our dental work?” Benni pressed on.
“Should be ready by now. Could you pull the door open?”
Benni complied, and O’Donovan called out to the squad room. “Binder, send Davis in here.”
“Yes, sir,” Binder replied facetiously, but he walked quickly to the rear annex of the room, and soon Aaron Davis appeared in the doorway. A very tall black man in his early forties, Davis wore gold-rimmed glasses, and had a penchant for Armani suits. He was an elegant, intelligent detective, and considerably more mature than the rest of the crew. O’Donovan did not trust Binder or Mancuso to maintain respectful demeanors in Ruth’s presence. Davis, on the other hand, had absolutely no interest in white women. He referred to them all as “tuna in water.”
“My liege?” The detective offered his services in an operatic bass.
“Where you been?” O’Donovan asked.
“Back of the bus.” Davis often retreated to the annex to concentrate on his reports. O’Donovan smiled.
“Aaron Davis, meet Benjamin and Ruth Baum. They’re from Israel.”
“A pleasure.” Davis bowed to their nods, thinking, Crazy white folks marrying teenagers.
“Davis, check the Teletype. Should be a printout for me from Epstein in Forensics. It’ll just be a list of chemical compounds.”
“On it.”
O’Donovan sat with the Baums for an awkward moment. Then his stomach growled, and he slapped it with his hand and ordered, “Quiet.”
“You should eat.” Ruth gestured at the bag from the Stage Deli.
“That’s all right. I can wait.”
“I’ll join you if you are shy. My father picked me up before I had time for lunch.”
“In that case . . .” O’Donovan began to open the bag.
“Another black mark against my parenthood,” Benni sighed.
“And my book is already full,” said Ruth. She stood up, opened her coat, and shook it off onto the chair. She was wearing a forest-green turtleneck, and when O’Donovan saw the upper half of her body he quickly turned to the task of unfolding wax paper from the sandwich. “But I’ll bet you ate. Didn’t you, Abba?” she added.
“You know me, Ruti.” Baum pinched his own girth. “Pockets full of cookies.”
Ruth grinned as she stepped to O’Donovan’s desk. Her teeth were very white, and small dimples appeared on her cheeks. He divided the sandwich and gave her half.
“Beteyavon.” She sat back down and took a bite.
“Sorry?” O’Donovan popped open a Coke can.
“It means Bon appétit. Do you always eat Jewish deli?”
“Binder out there has converted us. He’s a landsman.” The Baums’ surprised stare made O’Donovan laugh. “We work the diamond district. You pick up the slang.”
Ruth chewed and nodded slowly at him, as if she were building a file.
Aaron Davis reappeared, bearing a single Teletype page. “This must be it, O.D.”
“Thanks. And stick around.” O’Donovan wanted to shift the balance of discomfort. Davis leaned against the doorjamb.
The Teletype said only:
LABORATORY TO MTN SQUAD. ANALYSIS OF COMPOUNDS AND STRUCTURE. (It did not mention a tooth outright, for O’Donovan had asked Epstein for the results outside of channels.) MATURE BIO PRODUCT: ENAMEL 8%, DENTIN 47%, PULP 23%, NON-PRECIOUS ALLOY PULPOTOMY FILLING 21%, INC. NICKEL, BERYLLIUM, SILVER, COBALT. MINUTE TRACES CARBON AND HUMAN BLOOD TYPE B NEGATIVE.
The list ended with two words in the lower right corner: NO CONCLUSIONS.
O’Donovan sat back and blew out a sigh of frustration. “Terrific,” he mumbled. He passed the printout to Baum, who looked briefly at the page and pointed at O’Donovan’s phone.
“Do you mind?”
“Be my guest.”
“Overseas?”
“It’s on the arm,” said O’Donovan. Ruth raised an eyebrow. Every profession had its own patois.
Benni stood up and bent over the desk, punching numbers into the soiled beige instrument. “My people may be able to decipher this quickly.”
“And who exactly are your people, Colonel?” O’Donovan decided to match his guests’ bluntness.
“Where did you serve in the army, Mike?” Baum countered with a question as he waited for Jerusalem to pick up.
“Special Forces.”
“Those kind of people,” said Benni. Then he began to chatter quickly in Hebrew. He picked up a pencil from O’Donovan’s desk, jotted a number on the back of one of the detective’s calling cards, and hung up. He waved the Teletype sheet. “I would like to fax this, with your permission.”
“Couldn’t read it to them, Mr. Baum?” Davis asked proprietarily.
Baum turned to the dapper detective and smiled. “Open satellite calls can be easily pulled from the atmosphere, Mr. Davis. But fax intercept devices are very expensive, as well as fussy. It decreases the odds.”
Davis showed his palms in surrender. “Out of my league,” he said. He looked down at Ruth, and then at O’Donovan. “Maybe yours too, O.D.”
“Show the colonel the fax machine, Aaron.” So much for Davis’s discretion.
The tall detective led Baum from the office. Ruth took a sip from the Coke can and handed it to O’Donovan, waiting to see if he would wipe the top or just add his lips to her imprint.
“So, Michael,” she said as she balled her napkin and arced it into his waste-basket. “What is your theory?”
O’Donovan swigged from the can. “Honestly?”
“And professionally.”
“The bomber was dressed like a Hasid. Maybe he was one. Occam’s razor.”
“The most obvious conclusion is often, et cetera, et cetera.” Ruth nodded. “And motive? Or affiliation?”
“Not personal. Maybe religious, or a connection to one of your right-wing groups.”
“Like the JDL?”
“It’s possible.”
“Yeshiva boys with complexes.” Ruth scoffed like a dismissive psychologist.
“Even the incompetent can be dangerous.”
She looked at him, then shifted her chair to face him head-on as she tucked a rope of hair behind her ear.
“Let me tell you something about Jews,” she instructed with a smile. “We may self-flagellate, but we don’t self-detonate.”
O’Donovan laughed.
“It is an absolute,” Ruth insisted. “I will stand by it.”
“I hope I don’t prove you wrong.”
“Wager.”
“Pardon me?”
“I will bet you.”
“I’ll take that bet. How much?”
“Dinner.”
The smile fled from O’Donovan’s face. He felt the deep blush rise from his chest and up over his cheeks.
Ruth looked down at her hands and shook her head. “I am sorry,” she said, admonishing herself. It was just that he reminded her so much of the young Israeli men she missed. Men of purpose, with a reserved yet ready humor. He was very handsome and had a concealed strength, like some of her father’s comrades. He reminded her of Eytan Eckstein. She looked up. “I shouldn’t have. But you don’t wear a ring, and policemen usually have pictures on their desks, wives or children . . .”
“It’s all right.”
“You know, I come from a country at war. Life can be very short. We jump sometimes.”
“Ruth.” He stopped her. “It’s a bet.”
She watched him for a moment. “You are being polite.”
“No.” He swallowed. “I’m trying to match your courage.”
“Fine.�
� She slapped the tops of her thighs. “If I win, you cook. I’m a rotten cook. If you win, we go out. Fair?”
O’Donovan laughed again. “Fair as a skeet shoot for the blind.” Ruth’s mischievous smile had made him feel somehow lighter.
Baum returned with Detective Davis, rubbing his thick hands together.
“It went through,” he said. “We have some very talented dental forensics people. They could have a point of origin within fifteen minutes.”
O’Donovan looked doubtful, and he noticed a similar expression on Davis’s face as the tall man cleaned his glasses with a purple handkerchief.
“What are your theories, Colonel?” O’Donovan asked as he retrieved the original Teletype.
“Well . . .” Benni pursed his heavy lips. “May I smoke?”
O’Donovan opened a drawer and placed a glass ashtray on his desk. Baum produced an unfamiliar cigarette box and lit up as Davis wrinkled his nose.
“I am tempted to say Hizbollah.” Benni began to pace in the very small space. Of course, he preferred to completely strike the Party of God from the suspect list, given his high hopes for Moonlight. “But that is the most obvious choice.” He stopped pacing and squinted at the two detectives through a ribbon of smoke. “Do you know them?”
“Not personally,” said Davis. “But we read the papers.”
“Iranian proxies,” O’Donovan grunted.
“Yes,” said Benni. “But I am leaning toward the more obscure. Perhaps Hamas, very active in our country, in the West Bank. Very violent. The Red Eagles would be good candidates, or Islamic Jihad.” He was fishing for another truth. One that might lead him comfortably away from his own instincts. “Abu Nidal is still quite dangerous. He recently had Yasir Arafat’s chief of security, Abu Iyad, murdered in Tunis. He would do anything to stall a rapprochement between us and the PLO, including running an operation like this one and false-flagging it.”
“I lost you,” said Davis.
“Disguising it. Making it look like someone else.” Benni mimed a rectangle with his hands. “A sill job?”
“A frame-up,” O’Donovan corrected.
“Ach, ja.”
“You are reaching, Abba,” Ruth scoffed.
The three men looked at her. Benni smiled patronizingly.
“Ruth has ideas of her own,” he said. “In addition to studying psychology, she is also an amateur antiterrorism.”
“Amateur simply means unpaid, Abba,” she retorted. “Given your salary, that almost puts you in my league.”
Davis laughed.
“I should have spanked her more,” Benni said wryly.
Ruth ignored them. “Detective O’Donovan here thinks the bomber was actually a Jew.”
Baum looked at the American. “Really?” he asked, as if O’Donovan had just claimed an abduction by alien beings. “How absurd.”
“You see?” Ruth pointed at O’Donovan. “I like Italian, by the way.”
The detective cut her off quickly. “You haven’t mentioned your suspects, Ms. Baum.”
She hesitated for a moment, then turned to her father. “Mootar li?” She asked his permission to put in her “two shekels,” but it was more of a professional courtesy than the subservience of a child.
Benni raised a palm and shrugged. He was almost instantly regretful.
“My own theory is rather more simplistic than my father’s.” Ruth crossed her arms over her chest as O’Donovan fought to keep his focus on her face. “And I believe it is more in line with your investigation.” She looked up at Davis. “After all, as homicide detectives, you are probably more interested in catching a killer than in implicating a political group. Correct?”
“You got it,” said Davis.
Ruth’s appeal to the policemen’s motivation was not lost on Benni. He resumed his seat, knowing where she was going with this and wishing it were otherwise.
“I think the bomber was just a male mule,” said Ruth. “While the bomb maker is a woman.”
O’Donovan leaned forward. “A woman?”
“Martina Ursula Klump.” Ruth pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes, and recalled the details she had just reviewed from her database. “Born in Buenos Aires in 1955, only child of a former Nazi physicist and his wife. Father commits suicide in 1960, mother reacts with extreme depressive anxiety and alcoholism. The fatherless daughter feels orphaned.” She opened her eyes for a moment and lifted one finger in the air. “This, by the way, is a common thread among radical female terrorists.” Then she resumed her Rodinian pose. “Ms. Klump attends the Sorbonne around 1973, is recruited by Action Directe, a budding French terrorist group. She does not fully matriculate, transfers to the University of Frankfurt, becomes involved with ASTA, the General Committee of Students. She writes some radical articles for Konkret—it’s a leftist German magazine-and is picked up by Baader-Meinhoff.”
She looked up to be sure the Americans were following her. Davis made a reeling-in motion with a finger, and she continued.
“Klump has inherited, or learned, her father’s abilities with explosive devices. She designs, builds, and detonates a number of bombs for the Red Army Faction. She has an affinity for plastics, usually stolen from U.S. Army facilities in Europe, and becomes known as Frau Seafore—Mrs. C-4.” Ruth formed a small brick shape with the fingers of her joined hands. “Sometime in the early eighties, she is captured by GSG-9.”
“Ulrich Wegener’s commandos,” said O’Donovan.
“Right.” Ruth smiled at him and continued. “But somehow she escapes before trial.”
Benni shot from his chair, startling everyone as he lunged for the ashtray and stubbed out his cigarette. One simple sentence from his daughter’s mouth, and ten years of nightmares for him. But don’t stop her, he warned himself. Not now. He sat back down, waved an apology, and lit up another Time.
Ruth watched him for a moment, his cool blue stare a mirror of her own. She went on.
“She disappears, but is later spotted training terror cadre in Lebanon. Some experts ascribe suicide bombings there to her handiwork. She leaves Lebanon, and her trail goes cold.”
“Like Carlos,” O’Donovan offered.
“Yes, except that Ilyich Ramírez Sánchez is believed to have retired.”
“But this Klump hasn’t?” Davis asked.
“No.”
“So why do you connect her to this?” O’Donovan asked. He was very impressed by Ruth’s knowledge, but it was purely academic. She had no case, as far as he could see.
“Well, let’s look at it as you would.” She held up a finger. “Motive: money, as she is known for providing work for hire, and politics, a long history of acting on behalf of extreme leftist and anti-Zionist groups.” Another finger came up. “Means: her proven expertise. Just three years ago, an Indian head of state was killed by a suicide bomber, and it was believed that Martina was the technician. Only last year, the Israeli Embassy in Buenos Aires—please note the location—was destroyed by a car bomb identical to one designed by Klump for an offshoot of Hizbollah in 1984. Her photograph even appeared in Israeli newspapers, which are often used as tools by our intelligence agencies. They were probably trying to . . . how would you say it? Squeeze her.”
Benni said nothing. He was regarding his cigarette as if the tobacco had been cut with camel dung.
“And finally”—Ruth now held up three digits, like a Girl Scout salute—“opportunity. She is a linguist and holds probably at least three legitimate passports—Argentinian, French, German—and who knows how many forged papers. No offense, but your customs officials at Kennedy might as well be blind.”
Davis looked at O’Donovan and pulled a face. “From the mouths of babes.”
“She is likely not alone,” Ruth added. “It is suspected that Ms. Klump heads her own cell of freelancers, her former students from Lebanon.”
“It’s not that easy to just come walking in here,” O’Donovan said defensively.
“With all due respect, M
ichael,” Ruth corrected him, “you board a foreign airliner in, let’s say, Nairobi, bound for New York. Halfway over, you tear up your Tunisian passport, which costs about five hundred dollars on the black market, and flush it into the wind. At JFK you claim refugee status, sign a promise to return for an immigration hearing, and then simply disappear. I could bring an army in here.”
“I don’t think you need one,” Davis said, looking impressed.
“Jesus,” O’Donovan whispered. He had listened to Ruth’s performance with growing alarm, yet it was not the information that shocked him. It was the source of its delivery. Out of your league, Davis had said.
“Well!” Benni clapped his hands once. “As you can see, my Ruth weaves a good story. However, I could paint you three other scenarios equally as convincing. You know . . .”
“Put your money where your mouth is, Abba,” Ruth said.
Baum tried to cut her off with his glare, yet his heart sank as he realized that his parental powers had been all but castrated. She was absolutely unmoved by his displeasure.
“You could get us the latest updates on Klump.” She began to work him into a corner.
“Could you do that?” O’Donovan jumped on the idea.
“Well, I suppose . . .”
“Of course he could,” said Ruth. “He can get anything he wants.”
“Would it have her recent movements?” Davis asked.
“There is really no way to tell.” Benni desperately searched for an escape route.
“Unless you ask,” Ruth pressed.
“Ruti,” Benni turned on her in Hebrew. “Tafsiki im zeh. Stop with this.”
“Lama? Mi mah atah mefached?” She knew her father too well. Accuse him of being afraid, and he would jump from a skyscraper just to prove you wrong. “Just call again, Abba, and ask for the last page of the file,” she pleaded in a phony, manipulative purr that really annoyed him.
Benni sighed and pushed himself out of his chair. He was seeing a fat file inside his safe. There was a single word on its cover, TANGO, and across that, a red slash of Most Secret. But what did it matter, really? Only a chosen few could access his safe, so at best a sanitized print from the AMAN computers would be relayed. Why not? It would prove nothing.
The Nylon Hand of God Page 18
