The Jerusalem File

by Nick Carter

  I met her eyes. "I've already had my fight for the day, so if you're planning on setting me up, you're too late."

  She gave me a genuine puzzled face. "I do not understand this…'setting up'?"

  I put the gun away and crossed to the bed. I sat down. "Neither do I. So suppose you tell me." She was holding the covers up around her, looking frightened as well as confused. Big topaz eyes, scanning my face.

  I ran a hand over my face. "You work for B'nai Megiddo, no?"

  "No. What makes you say?"

  I sighed. "A clobber on the jaw, a kick in the shin, and a belt in the gut — to name just a few. Suppose we start all over again. Who do you work for and why are you here? And I better warn you. I've also had my Vilma. The Vamp act for today, so don't try to pitch me with your tender young body."

  She gave me a long, curious look; head to one side, chewing on a long fingernail. "You talk much," she said slowly. And then another smile, amused, coaxing.

  I stood up. "Okay. Up!" I clapped my hands. "Lickety-split. Into the clothes. Out of the door. Out!"

  She pulled the covers higher and smiled wider. "I think you do not understand. Didn't David tell you to expect me?"

  "David?"

  "Benyamin."

  Put that together, you get David Benyamin. David — I-am-Sending-You-a-Teammate — Benyamin.

  Teammate, hell. This was the cheerleader.

  I studied her. "I think you'd better prove that."

  She shrugged. "Of course." And got up.

  Not naked. She was wearing a clingy, plunging gown. Turquoise blue. Forget the gown. The body… sweet Lord!

  "Here." She was handing me an envelope. A note from Benyamin. She was standing no more than six inches away. My blood kept swimming out to meet her. I took the letter. The first part was what he'd told me on the phone. And the rest:

  You will no doubt remember Miss Kaloud, our undercover agent at El Jazzar (or should I say our 'uncovered agent'?) She tells me she has already given you help. Your table at the club was set on a trap door, and after you'd swallowed your last bite of food, the floor was planning to swallow you.

  So that's why she gave me the cue to scram. I looked at the woman in front of me and smiled. "If you'd like to change your mind about offering your body…"

  She was suddenly indignant. She got back into my bed, crawled under my covers, but still looking indignant. "Mr. Carter," she said, and right away I knew the offer was off, "I am here pretending to be Mrs. MacKenzie because these are my orders. I take these orders because, as an Arab, I despise the things the terrorists do. And because I wish, as a woman, to be free from the tyranny of veil and purdah. Those are my reasons. Political only. You will kindly to keep our relationship political."

  She plumped up the pillows and pulled up the covers. "Now," she said, "I would like to sleep." She closed her eyes and then opened them again. Turn off the light, please, on your way out"

  I gave her the look I reserve for Martians and certain obscure Cubist paintings. "I think," I said slowly, "we better take that again. This is my room. And that, on which you are lying, is my bed, Mrs. MacKenzie. And even if I could get another room, it wouldn't look right, Mrs. MacKenzie, in terms of our cover, Mrs. MacKenzie, if I upped and ran out on a dish like you."

  She sat up and leaned on her elbow and thought "Well… you are right." She threw a pillow down on the floor and started to strip a blanket from the bed.

  I threw the pillow back. "Any way we play this, it's going to be adolescent but I'm damned if I'm spending a night on the floor." I hastily started to loosen my tie. The look she gave me was wide-eyed and young. "I… I warn you," she said, trying to keep the tone of a warn, "I… I will not… I do not…" and finally she muttered, "I am a virgin."

  My hand got frozen on the knot of my tie. The thing was, I believed her. A twenty-five-year-old, luscious, sexy, bellydancing, spy… virgin.

  I left on my underwear and turned out the fight. I sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. "What's your first name?" I asked her softly.

  "Leila," she said.

  "Okay, Leila. We'll keep our relationship strictly political."

  I got under the covers and looked at her quickly. Her back was to me and her eyes were closed.

  Politics make strange bedfellows.

  Eleven

  It was just about, but not quite dawn. The lights were still on in the hotel lobby and the night clerk had a hard-day's-night-clerk expression. A maintenance man in a dark green jumpsuit was running a vacuum cleaner over the rug. Its hum echoed in the empty lobby. Correction: the not quite empty lobby.

  He had a face like an army recruiting poster. All blonde and blue-eyed and young and cool. Expensively tailored American suit. But a little lumpy under the arm. Right about where a holster would hang. And a little too cool around the eyes. And what exactly was he doing in the lobby reading a paper at five A.M.P The virgin goddess was in my bed, not his.

  I knew who he was. Jack Armstrong, the all-American stake-out.

  All I'd had in mind when I left the room was a once-around-the-block insomniac stroll. Now I decided to take the car — and do a little sightseeing in the rear view mirror.

  And sure enough, A black Renault. He pulled out of a spot across from the hotel. All I got was a quick impression of his looks. Dark-haired and hefty. But he didn't look like an Arab, either. Who were all these guys? And what did they have to do with Al Shaitan?

  I made a right on Hayesod Street.

  The Renault made a right on Hayesod Street.

  Why were they suddenly tailing me now? No one had dogged me on the road from Tel Aviv. And yesterday the road behind me was clear. So why now?

  Because they knew where I was going until now. The American Colony. The Shanda Baths. They'd made damned sure I'd go to the Shanda Baths and they figured I'd go to the morgue from there. Now they didn't know what to expect. So I had a shadow on me.

  Or did I have a killer on me?

  I turned again. He turned again.

  I stopped at the far end of Rambon Street, with a view overlooking the still-sleeping city. I left the motor running and pulled out my gun.

  The Renault cruised past.

  Not a killer.

  Not necessarily.

  A car had pulled in from Agron Street. Young lovers come to watch the sunrise view.

  It was probably time to leave Jerusalem.

  If Robey's contact was still here (if Robey had a contact here to begin with) the guy would see the shadows and avoid me like the plague. Shadow the shadows? Not worth the trouble. They were typical small-time hired muscle. The Shanda? Shin Bet would check it out. But chances were it was a minor plot. I was looking for Arab terrorists. And so far I hadn't even seen an Arab.

  It was time to leave Jerusalem.

  I knew exactly where I wanted to go.

  The question was: Did the shadows know?

  I fit a cigarette and turned on some music and let the sun hit my face through the window. I closed my eyes.

  And Jacqueline Reine danced in my head.

  Where did Jacqueline Reine fit in?

  * * *

  I used a piece of acetate and sprung the lock.

  She hadn't been sleeping.

  The look on her face when I opened the door was a paradox of serene terror. When she saw it was me, she sighed and fell back against the pillows.

  I said, "You wanted to talk."

  She said, "Oh, thank God."

  I threw a lace peignoir off the chair and sat down. Jacqueline put her finger to her lips. "Careful," she whispered, "Bob — he stays in the room across the hall."

  I told her I knew that I'd checked to make sure they weren't registered together. She asked for a cigarette. I threw her the pack. She pushed the blonde hair back from her face, her hand slightly shaky. Face slightly puffy.

  She blew out the match. "You take me with you?"

  "I doubt it," I said. "But you can try to convince me."

  She met my eyes and
leaned slightly forward, her breasts spilling out of the green lace gown…

  "With logic," I added. "So put your pretty little chest right back where it was."

  She pulled up the covers and smiled wryly. "You're all heart."

  "I'm all ears. You want to talk — or you want me to go?"

  She looked at me and sighed. "Where shall I start?"

  "Who is Lamott?"

  "I… I don't know."

  "Bye, Jacqueline. It's been nice chatting."

  "No!" she said sharply. "I don't know. I only know who he says he is."

  "How long have you known him?"

  "About two months."

  "All right. I'll buy that Where did you meet?"

  "In Damascus."

  "How?"

  "At a party."

  "Whose house?"

  "Not at a house. At a restaurant"

  "A private party or a business party?"

  "I don't understand."

  "A private party or a business party?"

  "I don't understand why you ask these details."

  Because the best way to find out if someone is lying is to fire off questions like machine gun bullets. It doesn't matter what the questions are. What counts is the speed. Only a pro can He that fast. And only a pro who's been well rehearsed. Jacqueline Reine, whoever she was, was not in any way, a pro.

  "Private party or a business party?"

  "Business,"

  "Whose?"

  "An oilmen's conference."

  "Name the firms that went to the conference."

  "Trans-Com, Fresco, S-Standard, I think. I…"

  "How did you get there?"

  "I… with a friend."

  "What friend?"

  "A man. Is it really important? I…"

  "What friend?"

  "His name is — his name is — Jean Manteau."

  A lie.

  "Go on."

  "With what?"

  "Manteau. A friend? Or was he your lover?"

  "L-lover." She said in a small voice.

  "Go on."

  "With what? My god! With what?"

  "Lamott You dumped Manteau for Lamott. So what do you know about Bob Lamott?"

  "I told you. Not much. I… I just know he's mixed up in something bad. It scares me. I want to get away."

  "So? What stops you."

  "He… he does."

  "How?"

  Silence. Then: "He… he has two men who are watching me. I pretend I don't know. But I know. They watch. I think they will kill me if I try to get away. I think they will kill me if they know we talk."

  Silence.

  "Go on."

  "What do you want?"

  "The truth. Start at the top. Who were you with at the oil conference?"

  For a minute I thought she was going to faint. Her body slumped and her eyelids fluttered.

  "You might as well tell me. I already know."

  She didn't faint She just collapsed into strangled sobs. She moaned and rolled over, facing the wall.

  "Ted Jehns. Right? He works for Trans-Com Oil in Damascus. At least that's part of the work he does. And you sold him out for some diamond earrings." I thought about Jehns questioning Millie. Whether Millie cared about money. It all made sense now, dammit to hell. "And you almost got him killed, you know."

  "Don't! Please!"

  "You're not too soft to hear about things like that What did you think was going on?"

  She sat up limply. "Bob only wanted the keys to the apartment. He said he Just needed to use Ted's apartment That no one would know. That we would be rich."

  "What did he do in Ted's apartment?"

  She shook her head. "I wasn't there."

  "And where was Ted?"

  "He… he was in Beirut"

  "When did he leave?"

  She looked eighty years old. "I don't know. A Wednesday, I think."

  "The twelfth?"

  She shrugged. "Probably. I guess."

  It figured. Jehns left Damascus on Wednesday, the twelfth. He'd gone to Beirut and been hit by a car. On a Tuesday, he'd said. So it must have been Tuesday, the eighteenth. That timed with when he'd shown up in Arizona. The way he'd told it he didn't think it was related to AXE.

  Only it must have been.

  Maybe even related to Foxx.

  Foxx had been kidnapped on the fifteenth. About when Lamott started using Jehns's apartment.

  And Robey started getting hot on the case.

  And somebody knew be was getting hot. "When did Jackson Robey first call?"

  She didn't even hesitate very long. "Late one night. Maybe one o'clock."

  "And Ted wasn't there."

  She shook her head no.

  "And Lamott was."

  She nodded yes.

  "And you put him on the phone. You said, 'Just a minute, I'll get Ted.' And you put Lamott on the phone with Robey."

  She nodded.

  "And after that, he asked for the key."

  Another nod.

  And after that Jehns was run over.

  And Lamott had stayed on, taking Robey's calls. Robey's progress reports on the case.

  So when Robey found Shaitan, Lamott knew about it And told somebody. And had Robey killed.

  "One more question. The first day I got here. That invitation to take you to the concert. Did Lamott really think I'd fall in your arms and start to whisper state secrets in your ears?"

  "No," she said slowly. "That was my idea. I told him I thought I could get you tell things. But all I wanted was to get you alone… to ask you for help."

  "And you planned to give me some cock and bull story. Damsel in distress."

  She closed her eyes. "I am in distress."

  I stood up.

  Her eyes opened and flashed panic. "Please!" she begged. "You can't just leave me. Ted isn't dead and God knows I'm sorry. I'll make it up. I will. I'll help you."

  "Tokyo Rose said the same thing."

  "Really! I will. I'll… I'll find out things from Bob and tell you."

  I picked up my cigarettes from the bed. I lit one up and pocketed the pack. I seemed to consider her proposition. "You realize," I said, "if your friend Lamott finds out I was here and all of a sudden you're asking questions he's sharp enough to put it together. Which means you're dead."

  I crossed to the door and opened it quietly. No one in the hall. No eyes watching. Sounds of snoring from Lamott's room. I walked back in and closed the door. I stubbed my cigarette in the ashtray by the chair.

  "All right," I said. "I want some information and I want it tonight."

  She swallowed hard. "You're sure that Bob won't know you were here?"

  I raised an eyebrow. "I'll never tell."

  She sighed and nodded.

  I smiled and left.

  Either way it worked was all right with me. Maybe she could get some information. I doubted it strongly, but maybe she could. On the other hand — the likelier hand — if Lamott were smart, he'd know I'd been there.

  There were two cigarette butts in Jacqueline's room.

  The gold-tipped butts that read like a sign. A sign that said Carter Was Here.

  I went back upstairs and got into bed. Leila was there, still sound asleep.

  I was so damned tired, I didn't care.

  Twelve

  I dreamed I was lying somewhere in the desert, surrounded by huge orange rocks and the rocks turned into the shape of the devil and started breathing fire and smoke. I could feel the heat and I could feel my own sweat, but somehow I wasn't able to move. In the other direction were purple mountains, and cool, and shade, and off in the distance, a single rider on a bronze mare. In front of me a smooth stone rose from the ground. There was writing on the stone. I squinted to read it: Here Lies Nick Carter. I felt something cold at the side of my head. I shook my head. It didn't move, I opened my eyes.

  Bob Lamott was standing over me. The "something cold" was the barrel of a gun. I pulled my eyes left. The bed was empty. Leila was gone. />
  My mind flashed back to an earlier scene. Me, standing in the hall this morning. Standing in front of Lamott's door. Weighing the value of busting in. I'd decided against it. I'd run over the likeliest script in my mind and decided the dialogue wouldn't play.

  Me (my gun pointed straight at his head): Okay, Lamott. Tell me who you work for and where I can find them.

  Lamott: You'll kill me if I don't, is that it?

  Me: That's it.

  Lamott: And you'll let me five if I do? I hardly believe that, Mr. 'MacKenzie.'

  Me: Take your chances.

  Lamott (pulling a knife out of nowhere and making an awkward stab at my side): Ugh! Argh!

  Me: Bang!

  Not that I thought Lamott was a hero. Men who indulge in fifty-dollar ties like to keep their necks secure. I simply figured he'd figure the odds. If he didn't talk, I'd have to kill him. If he did talk, I'd have to kill him. What could I do? Leave him alive to warn Al Shaitan? They'd move their hiding place before I could get there, and all I'd walk into would be a trap. And Lamott was smart enough to dope that out So instead of giving me any answer — except for maybe the wrong answer — he'd try to kill me and I'd have to kill him. (That was the script with the happy ending.) In any case, I'd get no real information and I might be killing off a valuable clue.

  So I'd walked away from Lamott's door, thinking I'd handle him some other way.

  So much for that.

  "Well, at last you're awake," he said. "Hands up."

  Lamott was dressed in a thousand dollars and waves of Zizanie rose off his face. Sarah had said he was "rather handsome" — the man who'd come and posed as Jehns — but he looked to me like a spoiled kid. Lips too soft. Sulky eyes.

  "Yeah," I said. "Thanks for the favor. It's hell to wake up to a jangling alarm. So now that I'm up, what can I get you?"

  He smiled. "You could die. I think that would suit me."

  I laughed. "That wasn't a smart thing to say, Lamott. In the first place, your voice is now on tape. You started the machine when you opened the door." He started to look around the room. "Uh uh," I said. "I doubt you'll find it if you look all day." I bit my lip. "If you five that long."

  He wouldn't find it because it wasn't there. I know it isn't nice, but sometimes I lie.