by Paul Sussman
'Waste of bloody time,' Ben-Roi had grumbled during the drive over. 'The guy hasn't spoken for fifteen years. He's a cabbage.'
But it was the only possibility left.
As arranged over the phone, they made their own way up to the North Wing Psychogeriatric Centre, where they were met by Dr Gilda Nissim, the woman who had escorted Ben-Roi on his previous visit. She greeted them both with a perfunctory nod and, throwing a suspicious glance at Layla, led them through the wing's glass doors and down the softly lit corridor, their shoes squeaking on the polished marble floor, the overhead air-conditioning filling the building with a ghostly whispering sound. When they reached Schlegel's room she delivered a brief lecture, informing them that her patient had been extremely disturbed by Ben-Roi's previous visit, that she would not tolerate him being upset again in that manner, and that they could have fifteen minutes only, no more. Then she opened the door and stepped aside. Ben-Roi strode through; Layla hesitated, then followed, the doctor half-opening her mouth as if about to issue further instructions before Ben-Roi turned round and, with a curt 'Thanks', closed the door in her face.
'Fucking busybody,' he muttered.
The room was unchanged from his last visit: bed, table, crayon drawings all over the walls and, in an armchair by the window, pyjama-clad and thin as a scarecrow, Isaac Schlegel, his gaze locked onto the same dog-eared book in his lap. Ben-Roi grabbed a stool and sat down in front of him. Layla remained where she was, eyes flicking around the walls, taking in the numerous drawings of seven-branched menorahs.
'I'm sorry to have to trouble you again, Mr Schlegel,' began the detective, launching straight in, 'but I need to ask you some more questions. About your sister Hannah?'
He tried to keep his tone calm and reassuring, so as not to frighten the old man. It didn't work, because the moment he heard the detective's voice Schlegel's eyes widened in distress and he began to rock back and forth in his chair, hands clasping and unclasping around the spine of the book, a faint whimpering sound emitting from his mouth. Ben-Roi bit his lip, clearly not in the mood for this sort of thing.
'There's no need to be afraid,' he said, forcing a not entirely sympathetic smile across his face. 'We're not going to hurt you. We just need to talk to you. It won't take long, I promise.'
Again, his attempts at reassurance had the opposite of the desired effect. The whimpering grew louder, the rocking more pronounced.
'I know this is difficult, Mr Schlegel, and I'm sorry if I upset you before, but it's extremely—'
Schlegel's hands bunched into fists and came up to either side of his head, like a boxer trying to ward off a barrage of blows, his whimpers expanding into a high-pitched wail, filling the room. Ben-Roi's mouth crumpled into an irate grimace, his own fists clenching in frustration.
'Look, Schlegel, I know you—'
'For God's sake!' Layla stepped forward, throwing the detective a cutting look as if to say 'What the hell's wrong with you?' before squatting down beside the old man and cupping one of his fists between her palms. 'Ssssh,' she said gently, stroking the pale, translucent skin. 'It's OK, it's OK. Calm down.'
Almost immediately the fit began to abate, the old man's rocking gradually slowing, his wailing subsiding into a low-pitched purr, like the background murmur of a fridge or a computer.
'That's it,' she said softly, continuing to caress the old man's hand. 'There's no need to be afraid. Everything's going to be OK. There's nothing to be scared of.'
Ben-Roi watched her, a momentary flicker of uncertainty registering in his eyes, as though he was discomforted by this show of tenderness, confused by it; then, removing his hip-flask, he sat back and took a swift gulp. Layla carried on talking to the old man, soothing him, relaxing him, humming the odd bar of a lullaby her father used to sing to her when she was a child, until eventually he was completely calm, his opaque grey eyes staring downwards into his lap, his hand clasped around hers. She gave it another half a minute, then, judging that she had gained as much of his confidence as she was going to, shuffled round so that she was kneeling directly in front of him, her back to Ben-Roi.
'Isaac,' she said gently, her voice little more than a whisper, 'we need your help. Will you help us?'
Behind her, Ben-Roi gave a dismissive snort. She ignored him, focusing all her attention on the scarecrow figure in front of her.
'Will you tell us about the Menorah, Isaac? You saw it, didn't you? You and Hannah. At the ruined castle. Like in your drawings. Do you remember? At Castelombres. When you were children.'
Schlegel just stared down at his book, a beam of early-morning sunlight slanting through the window onto his skeletal face, the faint humming sound continuing to drift from his nostrils.
'Please, Isaac.' She squeezed his hand, silently willing him to speak to her. 'We're trying to find the Menorah. To protect it. Do you know where it is? Do you know what happened to it?'
Nothing.
She asked again, and again, and again, all the while trying to rein in her frustration, keep her voice level. Then, when there was still no response, not even a flicker of understanding or connection, she sighed, slipped her hand out of his and dropped her head, acknowledging that Ben-Roi was right, it was a waste of time.
'Yellow.'
It wasn't even a whisper; more a faint disturbance of the air around Schlegel's lips that might or might not have actually constituted a word. Layla looked up, thinking she must have imagined it. The old man was still staring down at his book.
'Yellow.'
The word was stronger this time, although still so low as to be barely audible. Behind her she could feel Ben-Roi tensing, leaning forward.
She reached out, took Schlegel's hand again.
'What's yellow, Isaac? What do you mean?'
Slowly, the old man looked up. He held Layla's eyes a moment, his own now seeming to glow faintly, like bright light seen through frosted glass. Then, slipping his hand from hers, he raised it and pointed a trembling finger up and to his right, to the four drawings depicting the arch at Castelombres, with in their midst a fifth drawing of a seven-branched Menorah.
'Yellow,' he whispered for a third time, his entire body shaking as though with the effort of forcing the words up from within him.
'What do you mean, yellow?' Ben-Roi had come so far forwards his knees were pushing into Layla's back. 'That the Menorah's yellow?'
The old man continued to point for a long moment, then dropped his arm again, clasping his hands tightly around his book.
'Look at the yellow one.'
Layla half-turned, throwing a bewildered glance at Ben-Roi, then dipped her head and looked up into the old man's face, laying her hands on his again.
'Is that what Hannah told you, Isaac? Did Hannah say that?'
Schlegel was squeezing the book, twisting it, bending the spine.
'Look at the yellow one,' he repeated.
'But what does it mean?' Ben-Roi's voice was harsh, loud. 'What yellow one?'
Schlegel said nothing, just continued to twist the book.
'The yellow picture?' pushed the detective. 'Is that what she meant? Look at the yellow picture? The picture of the Menorah?'
There was a pause, then a scrape of wood on linoleum as Ben-Roi pushed back his stool and got to his feet, striding over to the Menorah drawing and gazing at it, searching for some hidden meaning in the simple, yellow-crayon image. Nothing. He ripped the sheet from the wall and looked on the back. Blank. He threw a glance at Layla, then started round the room examining the other Menorah drawings, tearing them down, his movements increasingly agitated. Still nothing. Schlegel just gazed down into his lap.
'Please, Isaac!' whispered Layla, clasping her hands around his. 'What did Hannah mean? What did she want you to tell us? Please help us, Isaac. Please!'
He was receding, she could feel it, sliding back into himself. She continued to press him, squeezing his hands, gently kneading the bony palms as if by so doing she could somehow force one final piece of
information out of him. The moment had passed, however, and with an exasperated groan she sank back on her haunches and stared up at the ceiling, shaking her head.
Ben-Roi slammed his hand against the wall.
'Fuck it,' he muttered.
Afterwards, as the two of them trudged in despondent silence back down through the hospital grounds, the only sounds the atonal twittering of the birds in the pine and cypress trees and, from somewhere away to their right, the faint pop and clack of a ping-pong ball being knocked back and forth, Ben-Roi fought to focus his mind, work out what his next move should be, how the hell he could still make this whole thing work.
Aside from a few snatched minutes here and there he hadn't slept for seventy-two hours, and he was shattered, more shattered than he'd ever thought it possible to be, everything inside his head all fogged up and confused so that he was no longer entirely sure what the fuck he was doing any more, or why he was doing it. Three days ago it had all seemed so clear: the article, the interviews, the aftershave – it had all fitted, all tied in. Keep her close, keep watch, wait for the cracks to appear. But the cracks hadn't appeared – she was too clever, too controlled – so that despite himself he was starting to have doubts, to wonder if maybe he'd got the whole thing wrong (the way she'd been with Schlegel just now . . . could someone like that . . . ?). Sure, he still had the bellyache – God, did he have the bellyache! – but could he trust it? Could he trust himself? He didn't know, he just didn't fucking know any more. And he never would unless they could find the Menorah. That's when she'd—
'What do we do now?'
'Hmm?' He was still half-sunk in his reverie.
'What do we do now?' Layla repeated.
He shook his head, trying to drag himself back into the present. 'Pray that schmuck Khalifa's found something.'
'And if he hasn't?'
'Then we get back on the phones. And we stay on them till we find what we're looking for.'
He slowed and looked across at her, pupils swelling with suspicion and antipathy, before turning away again and striding on down the hill, Layla trailing in his wake. At the bottom they got into his BMW and drove out through the hospital's white metal gates, turning onto the main highway back towards central Jerusalem. As they did so, just for an instant, Layla caught sight of a blue Saab parked on the forecourt of a derelict garage on the corner opposite the hospital entrance, the driver leaning forward over his wheel apparently staring directly at them. It only lasted a split-second and then they were past and speeding off back into the city.
Behind them, Avi Steiner started the Saab's engine.
'OK, they're moving again,' he murmured into his walkie-talkie. 'Kanfei Nesharim, eastbound. I'm with them.'
He engaged first and slipped out into the traffic, weaving his way through the cars until he was hovering directly on their tail.
LUXOR
Back in his office, Khalifa crunched a pickled turnip from the bag of torshi he'd bought on the way back from Hoth's villa and, with a reluctant sigh, lifted the telephone and dialled Ben-Roi's mobile number. The line rang four times, then clicked into life. As usual, the Israeli didn't bother with formalities.
'So?'
'Nothing,' replied the Egyptian.
'Fuck it!'
'You?'
'What does it fucking sound like?'
Khalifa shook his head, wondering if the man was capable of forming a sentence that didn't hinge on an expletive. Never in his life . . .
'You've seen the brother again?' he asked, trying to keep his voice civil, not to dwell on how utterly objectionable he found the Israeli.
'Just finished with him.'
'And?'
'Fuck all. The man's a zombie. Just sits there fiddling with his book making weirdo humming noises.'
There was the echo of a female voice – Layla al-Madani, presumably – asking Ben-Roi what was being said, the Israeli responding with an aggressive 'Wait, will you!'
'And there was definitely nothing in Hoth's house?' Ben-Roi's voice stormed down the line again. 'You're certain?'
'Certain,' replied Khalifa. 'I've gone over every inch of it.'
'The garden?'
'That too.'
'What about—'
'And his car. And his hotel. And the Alexandria Police have gone over his former residence. There's nowhere left to look, Ben-Roi. Not here. Not in Egypt. There's nothing.'
'Well, you must have missed something.'
'I have not missed anything.' Khalifa clenched his fist. 'There's nothing here, I tell you.'
'Well, just keep looking.'
'You're not listening to me. There's nowhere left. What do you want me to do? Dig up the whole of Luxor?'
'If that's what it takes, yes! We have to find it. I have to—'
The Israeli broke off, abruptly, as if reining himself back from some comment he hadn't wanted to make. There was a fractional pause, then he resumed, struggling to keep his voice level.
'You know what's at stake here. Just keep looking.'
The Egyptian threw up a hand helplessly. Like talking to a bloody brick wall! He mumbled a tight-lipped 'OK, OK, I'll see what I can do' and leant forward, ready to put down the phone.
'What's the book, by the way?' he asked.
'What?'
'You said Schlegel's brother had a book.'
There was another fractional pause, the Israeli clearly floored by the question, then a brief muttered exchange as he asked Layla. The next thing, so loud it made Khalifa jerk the receiver away from his ear, there was a high-pitched squeal of tyres on tarmac as of a car abruptly changing direction, accompanied by a chorus of outraged beeping.
'Ben-Roi?'
'I'll get back to you!' shouted the Israeli. Then, to Layla, 'Why the fuck didn't you—'
The line went dead.
JERUSALEM
The young man picked his way carefully across the building site, a heavy holdall clutched in his right hand, stopping frequently to check he wasn't being watched or followed, an unnecessary precaution since the site had been abandoned for the last five months, and anyway, it was way out on the fringes of the city, well beyond any populated areas. He passed a pile of breeze-blocks, skirted a network of crumbling foundation trenches from which lines of rusted iron rods stuck up like wind-blasted saplings, before eventually coming to a large metal shipping container at the very centre of the site, its door secured with a chunky padlock. After taking another cautious look around he produced a bolt-cutter from the holdall, snapped the lock and, easing open the door, went inside, the air hot and musty, thick with the smell of dust and tar. At the far end lay a crumpled heap of tarpaulin – the interior's only contents – and, crossing to this, he carefully concealed the holdall beneath it, smoothing the material back to its original shape before going outside again and re-securing the door with a new padlock. He threw a final lingering glance around, then removed a single key from his pocket, stooped and buried it in the sand at the container's front left-hand corner before straightening and hurrying back across the site, the tassles of his tallit katan flicking from beneath his shirt like anenome tentacles swirling in a strong current.
JERUSALEM
'Why the fuck didn't you tell us this before?'
'Because you didn't ask,' snapped Dr Gilda Nissim, striding ahead of them down the corridor towards Isaac Schlegel's room. 'I might be a psychiatrist, but that doesn't mean I can read people's minds! And kindly control your language!'
Ben-Roi opened his mouth, apparently about to yell at her. Somehow he managed to control himself and instead just let out an exasperated growl. Layla quickened her pace, coming up level with the doctor.
'And you say his sister gave it to him just before she left for Egypt?'
Nissim gave a curt nod, clearly struggling to master her own temper. 'Mrs Schlegel stopped off on her way to the airport. Spent fifteen minutes with him, gave him the book, then left again. It was the last time he ever saw her. He hasn't let it out of his sight
since.'
'For fuck's sake!' muttered Ben-Roi underneath his breath, glowering at the back of the doctor's head.
They reached Schlegel's room, but instead of stopping Nissim led them on down the hallway and out through a set of glass doors at the far end of the unit, explaining that at this time of the morning her patient liked to sit outside in the sunshine. They climbed a set of steps up through a rockery planted with flowering geraniums and purple-headed lavender bushes, then followed a narrow, white-stone path up to the very top of the hospital compound, where there was a grassy knoll surrounded by pine trees, very still, very peaceful, the air redolent with the bitter-sweet tang of pine needles, the hazy forest sea of the Judean Hills spreading out all around. Nissim nodded towards a solitary figure sitting alone on a concrete bench at the far side of the knoll, and, throwing Ben-Roi a severe look over the tops of her glasses, withdrew. The two of them continued walking until they reached the bench, Ben-Roi taking up position behind it, Layla sitting down beside the old man. The book, as ever, was clasped tightly in his lap. She laid a hand gently on his arm.
