The Jerusalem File

by Nick Carter

  Leila was wrapped in her Arab-lady yardage, which now, at least, had a practical purpose; keeping the dust and the sun away. It wasn't as yet a summer sun, not that pin cushion up in the sky that tosses needles of heat at your skin. But it was hot enough and the dust and the haze scratched at my eyes, even behind Colonel Qaffir's dark glasses.

  Leila handed me the water canteen. I took it and drank and handed it back. She sipped and then carefully moistened her fingers and ran cool fingertips over my neck. I looked at her and smiled. Women always want to know if they've "changed." Leila had changed. She'd dropped both the stiff patina of starch and the Rita-Hayworth-playing-Sadie-Thompson routine. She'd stopped playing and was just being. I took her hand from my neck and kissed it. The ground underneath us was like brittle clay and our wheels crushed it, churning up dust. Orange dust.

  I pushed on the pedal and picked up speed.

  The town of Rhamaz was hardly a town. More like a small cluster of buildings. The typical flat-topped mud-brick huts, some painted blue to ward off evil.

  The first Rhamaz citizen to spot us on the road was a man who looked about a hundred and eighty years old. He was hobbling along on a makeshift cane and when he saw the Jeep, he bowed low, a position I thought I'd have to rescue him from.

  I stopped short. He seemed surprised. "Welcome," he intoned, "oh most honored Colonel."

  I reached over Leila and opened the door. "Get in, old man. I'll give you a ride."

  He smiled a glorious gap-toothed smile. "The Colonel does me honor."

  I bowed my own head. "It is my good fortune to be of assistance."

  "May the blessings of Allah rain on you forever." He creaked, slowly, into the Jeep. I geared up and started down the road to town.

  "I am looking for a house in Rhamaz, old man. Perhaps you will know the house I seek."

  "Inshallah," he said. If God wills it.

  "In the house I seek there will be many men. Some will be American. The rest will be Arab."

  He shook his walnut-shell of a face. "No such house in Rhamaz," he said.

  "Are you certain, old man? This is very important."

  "With no desire to offend the Colonel, Allah has seen fit to leave me my senses. Would a man not be blind to not know such a house if such a house existed in Rhamaz?"

  I told him I bowed to his wisdom and Allah's. But I didn't give up. Shaitan headquarters had to be here. Because the middle of nowhere was an ideal place. And because it was the only place I knew of. I asked him if perhaps there were another house — where something unusual was going on.

  The old man looked at me with licorice eyes. "There is nothing unusual under the sun. All that happens has happened before. The wars and the peacetimes, the learning and forgetting. All things repeat themselves again and again, from error to enlightenment and back to error." He pointed a bony finger at me and under the sleeves of his loose ragged robe, something silver flashed at the wrist "The only unusual thing on earth is a man with a gladly giving heart."

  Ah! The beauty of the Arab mind! I cleared my throat. "I suffer to contradict you, old man, but such glad-giving is met with daily. One has but to ask to discover this is so."

  He eyed my hand on the steering wheel. "The Colonel believes what they call mankind is literally made of kind men. But as sure as the heavenly light of the sun is reflected in the jewel of the Colonel's ring, I tell the Colonel that this is not so."

  I removed Qaffir's signet ring from a finger. "I don't like to be contradicted, old man. I advise you, on pain of my great displeasure, to accept this ring — a pauper's token, but given gladly — and then to admit that you misjudge your fellows." I reached across Leila and handed him the ring. Again I saw silver flash at his wrist.

  He accepted the ring, unwillingly. "I do this only so as not to offend, but perhaps my judgment was wrong after all."

  We were starting to approach a small blue house. The old man pardoned me and said it was his house. I pulled up in front and stopped the Jeep. He slow-motioned out and then turned back to face me.

  "Perhaps while the Colonel is passing through Rhamaz, he might stop off at the house of Kalooris." He pointed out across the rocky expanse. "The house of Shaftek and Serhan Kalooris is the only yellow house in Bhamaz. In that respect, it is most… unusual."

  * * *

  It wasn't exactly yellow. Someone had tried to paint it yellow, but they must have used the wrong land of paint Huge chunks of it had pulled away, baring random patches of stone.

  Nor was the house set off by itself. Another two-story sand-colored square sat directly across the road. The only other object on the desolate landscape was a Jagged pile of orange rocks, halfway between the two houses.

  My plan was only to case the place. I wasn't intending to bust in alone with a pistol and a line like; "You're under arrest." Still, I'd left Leila back in the Jeep, parked about a half-mile down the road. I'd come the rest of the way on foot.

  It was very quiet around the house. Only an occasional whoosh of wind. The house across the road seemed completely deserted; the windows unshuttered, the open door, swinging.

  I made a wide circle of the half-yellow house. Its windows were closed and darkly shuttered. In the back was a small, narrow entry, a kind of miniature stone court, maybe five feet deep and five feet wide, roofed over by the second story of the house. A warped wooden door was at the end of the court. I put my ear to it I heard nothing. I knocked, loudly. A Syrian colonel in need of information.

  Nothing.

  No answer. No noise. No nothing. I drew a gun and threw the door open.

  It banged against a wall and then swung back and forth. Creak, creak.

  Nothing else.

  I walked in.

  Bare floors, bare stone walls with bare stone benches built around them. A grimy, black, pot-bellied stove. A kerosene lamp. Four empty beer cans scattered on the floor. A dozen cigarette butts pushed inside them. Charred paper matches on the floor.

  Another room, almost identical. Almost, except for one thing. The bare stone bench was mottled with red. A big death-size patch of blood.

  One more room on the ground floor. Another pile of beer-and-butt litter. Another ugly death-spattered bench.

  Up the narrow steps. Two more rooms. Two more scenes of bloody murder.

  And only the sound of the wind out the window and the creak, creak, creak of the downstairs door.

  Dammit. Missed. Flubbed it Blew it This had been the Al Shaitan hideout all right Jackson Robey had been here too. And it wasn't just the orange dust that proved it That flash of silver at the old mans wrist was a standard AXE chronometer watch.

  I kicked some litter and sat down. A small lacquered table was in front of the bench, its surface covered with beer can rings. Also a pack of cigarettes. A Syrian brand. And a matchbook that read: Always a luxury — Foxx Hotels — Conventions, Vacations.

  I cursed and threw the matchbook back on the table. I was through. That was it. The end of the road. And instead of answers, there were only more questions.

  I lit a cigarette and kicked a beer can. It rolled over and showed its holes. Bullet holes. One on each side. In one side and out the other. I picked it up and put it on the table. We stared at each other.

  It probably didn't make any difference, but if the shot through the can were a shot that had missed…

  I stood up and started to calculate trajectories.

  The slaughter took place in the middle of the night That had to be it Everyone here had been killed on a bench. Caught napping. By a silenced gun. So figure I'm aiming at the head of a guy who's asleep, there where the blood stain is. There's a beer can on the table. I'm aiming at the guy, but I hit the can instead. So I'm standing… where? I'm standing here, and the bullet would have gone through the can and landed — and there it was. I pried it out of the soft stone. A small .25 caliber bullet. Like Little David. Small, but oh my.

  I left the house by the front door. And there was the Jeep parked in the road. And Leila
was standing there right beside it.

  I started toward her, angry as hell. "Leila, what the…"

  "Nick! Go back!"

  Crack! Whang!

  Gunners on the roofs. "Down!" I yelled to her. Whang! Too late. A bullet grazed her leg as she ducked for cover. "Get under the Jeep!" I ran for the rocks. Crack! Whang! There were four guys up there, two on each roof. I aimed at a gunner across the road. Bull's eye! He tumbled and fell to the dust. Two bullets whanged off the top of my rock. I aimed at another guy and missed by a foot Whang! He missed by less than a foot All of them had the advantage of height Whang! I sprinted for the covered entrance, bullets shooting up the dust at my feet. I dove inside and stood there panting, out of their rifle range. For a while.

  I waited for what I knew was coming.

  Dead silence.

  Door creaking.

  No footsteps. No other sound. I heard them only in my imagination. Now, said the time-and-place map in my head. Now they've reached the rock, now they're at the house, now they're — I squatted on the ground and got ready. One, two, three, now. I looked out and shot at the same time. I got him in the center of his clean white robe, and ducked back in time to miss another whanger from the other guy, the other gun. He was moving in from the other side. "Inal abouk!" the gunner yelled. Curses on my father. I shot again, and ducked back into my tiny grotto.

  "Yallah!" he called out. Hurry up! And again I saw it played it in my mind before it happened. I took another shot, straight through the doorway. The guy on the roof timed his jump to catch it. Midway, his leap turned from a jump to a fall. By the time he hit the ground he was gushing from the gut. I finished him off with a quick second shot. It was one to one now. One rifleman left. So where the hell was he? The filmstrip in my head was running blank footage. If I were the last guy, what would I do?

  I looked around the corner and saw him. Click! My gun was empty. He was suddenly brave. He heard the click and started forward. I ducked back in and cursed out loud and then tossed the useless gun through the doorway. Count of four and he peeked around the corner, a conqueror's grin on his sweating face. Bang! I shot him right in the grin.

  Qaffir's gun was empty, but Wilhelmina was not.

  Eighteen

  I checked the bodies. The guy with no face also had no papers. An Arabian Arab, that's all I knew. The face had been Arab and the dialect Saudi.

  Body Number Two: The roof-diver. Another nameless Arab.

  Body Number Three: I kicked him over with my foot. His checkered headcloth fell away. I whistled softly. It was Jack Armstrong. The big blond stake-out from the hotel lobby. He'd man-tanned his skin but he hadn't dyed his hair. I just walked away, shaking my head.

  Body Number Four: In front of the house. My first lucky shot had felled him from the roof. I lifted the headdress. The guy who'd tailed me in the Renault.

  I walked slowly toward the Jeep. Leila was already seated in the front I got in the driver's seat and closed the door.

  "How's the leg?" I said dully.

  She looked at me curiously. "It hurts a little, but it's not too bad."

  I was staring ahead at the hazy horizon.

  "Nick?" Her tone was careful. "What's the matter with you? You look like… like you're in some kind of a trance."

  I lit a cigarette and smoked it all before I said, "I'm stumped, is what's the matter. A million clues and nothing adds up. I'm back at zero."

  I shrugged and started to rev the motor. I turned to Leila. "Better have Nasr look at that leg. But first I've got a stop to make…"

  * * *

  I didn't waste time with polite indirection. I barged in the door with my gun in my hand and lifted the old man up from the floor. "Talk," I said.

  His story was this:

  Late one night a few weeks ago, the old man had heard a sound in the sky. It woke him up and he ran to the window. A giant insect, a monstrous mosquito with huge whirling wings. He saw it drop down, straight from the sky, next to the yellow house of Kalooris. The old man had seen this creature before. It had dropped from heaven in the same way. It carried men in its stomach, he was told, and this, he thought, was undoubtedly true. For the brother of Shaftek and Serhan Kalooris and two of their cousins had appeared at the house.

  And an American?

  No. No American.

  Then what happened?

  Nothing much. The brother left. The cousins stayed.

  And what about the insect?

  It was still here. Living on the plain, two miles east of town.

  And the second insect? The one that appeared in the middle of the night?

  It flew away an hour later.

  And what else happened?

  The next day another stranger arrived. An American, maybe.

  By insect?

  By car.

  He also went to the yellow house. The old man followed, his curiosity making him bold. He looked in the window of the yellow house. Shaftek Kalooris was lying on a bench. Dead. Then he saw the stranger enter the room. The stranger also saw him — at the window. The old man was afraid. The stranger held up a silver bracelet and told the old man not to be afraid. The old man took the bracelet and was not afraid. He and the stranger walked upstairs. Upstairs they found the three other bodies. Serbian Kalooris and the two cousins.

  And then?

  And then the stranger had asked some questions. The old man told him about the insects. And that was all.

  "That was all?" I still had the gun pointed at his head.

  "By merciful Allah, is that not enough?"

  No. It wasn't enough. Not enough to send Robey to Jerusalem to cable AXE that he'd found Shaitan. four dead bodies and no Leonard Foxx? No. That wasn't enough.

  But that was all. Robey had looked at the bodies and the beer cans; he'd picked up the cigarettes and the matches. And that was all. That was all. He'd left the house looking angry and confused. The way you look now," the old man observed. But that was all.

  "Who buried the bodies?"

  A heavier curtain of fear filmed his eyes.

  "You have my word they won't harm you."

  He looked from my gun to my face to my gun. "Four others came. The next day. They are still there, staying now at the house of Kalooris."

  "They were staying there," I told the old man.

  He understood.

  "Alhamdulilah," he said. Thank God.

  Terrific. I'd killed off my last four clues.

  * * *

  The helicopter was out on the plain. Plainly visible. Out in the open. I climbed up the small aluminum ladder. An old machine, but well cared-for. The gas gauge said it was still good for another hundred and fifty miles.

  I carried Leila into the cockpit and pulled the ladder back inside.

  "You know how to fly this?" She looked a little scared.

  I looked annoyed. "Axe you going to be a back-seat pilot?"

  "I don't understand this." Her voice sounded hurt.

  I didn't answer. My head was too crowded to make room for words. I felt for the rudder pedals at my feet. Better to check the engine first. I locked the wheel brakes and pushed the pitch-control lever down. I switched on the fuel and pressed the starter The engine coughed up orange dust. It sputtered and finally started to hum. I released the rotor brake, twisted the throttle, and the giant rotor blades started their spin, like some gargantuan whirling fly-swatter. I waited till they whirled 200 rpms, then released the wheel brakes and upped the pitch. Now, more throttle and we started to rise. Up up and away.

  Right rudder.

  Stick forward.

  First stop, Ilfidri.

  * * *

  Leila was sleeping on the Nasrs' bed.

  She was sleeping in a loose blue cotton nightgown, surrounded by bright embroidered pillows and the shiny billows of her own black hair. She opened her eyes. I sat down on the bed. She opened her arms and I held her, close.

  "I'm sorry," I whispered.

  "For what?" she said.

  "F
or being somewhere else. I…"

  "Don't." She put a fingertip to my lips. "I knew to begin with you didn't love me. And I knew your mind would be on your work. And it's all right. It's really all right. I — I wanted you to be the first one. And maybe the last one for a long time coming. But that is my concern, not yours." She smiled softly. "Soon I think we will part, yes?"

  I looked at her. "Where are you going?"

  She sighed. "I'll stay here for a few days. I cannot dance with a bandaged leg."

  "Dance?"

  She nodded. "I come here to work in a Syrian nightclub. A place where the army officers gather."

  I frowned sharply. "Leila Kaloud — do you know what you're doing?"

  She smiled again. Broadly. "No woman can better protect her virtue than one who has done so for twenty-five years." She kept on smiling. "Didn't I make even you keep your distance?"

  "Did you?"

  "I mean, when I wanted you to."

  I smiled too. I said, "So how's my distance now?"

  She didn't smile. "Closer would be nice."

  Closer was nice.

  I lifted the loose blue cotton gown and pulled it gently until it was gone.

  Nice.

  Nicer.

  Nicest.

  Her round breasts flattened against my chest and her body moved like a river under mine; a constant, gentle, rolling river. And then her breath came quick and fast and the river roared and then it was still. I felt her tears against my skin.

  "Are you all right?"

  She shook her head.

  "No?"

  "No. I am not all right. I am sad and happy and frightened and alive and drowning and… and anything but all right."

  I ran my hand down the straight of her nose and over the curves of her curvy lips. She moved and settled her head on my chest. We lay there like that for a little while.