The former lay coiled in a pair of shallow containers. The latter filled two small tubs. Barely. A third tub held fill from the loculus floor.

Friedman was sitting on the ground, ankles crossed, back to the hillside. He didn’t look irked. He didn’t look bored.

He looked like Gilligan waiting for the Captain.

On seeing us, Friedman drained his bottled water, and cranked to his feet.

“Get your man?”

Good question. I’d taken a peek. The pelvic fragments were broadcasting mixed signals on gender.

I gave a thumbs-up, then brushed dirt from my hands by rubbing them together.

“Going up?” Ryan asked Friedman in an elevator voice.

Friedman nodded, took the shovel, and began climbing. We fell in behind.

Twenty yards from the top we stopped for a group breather. Friedman’s face was crimson. Sweat matted Ryan’s hairline. I was far from ready for close-ups, myself.

Minutes later, we were at Friedman’s car.

“Join us for dinner?” Ryan asked as Friedman pulled out of Silwan.

Friedman shook his head. “Gotta get home.”

To what? I wondered. A wife? A budgie? A chop defrosting in the kitchen sink?

At the hotel, Ryan and Friedman remained outside. I went straight to the desk. The clerk managed to check out my appearance while avoiding actual eye contact. I was impressed. But not enough to explain why I looked like a train wreck.

Keys in hand, I started back toward the circle drive. Ryan had left Friedman and was walking toward me through the portico. Behind him, I could see Friedman conversing with Mrs. Hanani.

The hotel manager stood stiffly, eyes down, arms wrapping her waist.

Friedman said something. Mrs. Hanani’s head jerked up and shook in negation.

While Friedman spoke again, Mrs. Hanani pulled cigarettes from a pocket and tried lighting up. The match head jigged around, finally hit its target. Mrs. Hanani drew smoke into her lungs, exhaled, again shook her head.

Friedman walked away. Mrs. Hanani took a drag and exhaled slowly, squinting through the smoke at his departing back. I couldn’t read her expression.

“What is it?” Ryan asked.

“Nothing.”

I held out his key.

Ryan’s hand closed around mine.

“What chow would you be favorin’, ma’am?”

I knew I wanted a shower. I knew I wanted clean clothes. I knew I wanted food, followed by twelve hours of sleep.

I hadn’t a clue what cuisine I favored.

“Got a plan?”

“Fink’s.”

“Fink.”

“On Histadrut. Been there since before Israel was Israel. Friedman tells me Mouli Azrieli’s an institution.”

“Mouli would be the owner.”

Ryan nodded. “Mouli’s reputed to have turned Kissinger away rather than close the doors to his regulars. But more to the point, Mouli is said to rustle up some mean beef goulash.”

Rustle up? Ryan was going into his cowboy routine.

“Thirty minutes.” I raised one muddy finger. “On one condition.”

Ryan spread his arms. What?

“Lose the lingo.”

I turned toward the stairs.

“Lock the booty in your room safe,” Ryan said to my back. “Rustlers in these parts.”

I stopped. Ryan was right. But my room had been burgled. It wasn’t safe. I’d lost one set of bones, and didn’t want to risk losing another.

I turned.

“Do you think Friedman would secure the bones at police headquarters overnight?”

“Unquestionably.”

I held out my pack. Ryan took it.

Soap and shampoo. Blush and mascara. A half hour later, in soft light, from the right angle, I looked reasonably good.

Fink’s boasted a total of six tables. And a million examples of bric-a-brac. Though the decor was dated, the goulash was excellent.

And Mouli did join us with his stack of scrapbooks. Golda Meir. Kirk Douglas. John Steinbeck. Shirley MacLaine. His celeb collection rivaled that at the American Colony.

In the taxi, Ryan asked, “What would you be thinking, lass?” He’d tradedGunsmoke for Galway.

“Mouli needs new curtains. What would you be thinkin’?”

Ryan beamed a smile as wide as Galway Bay.

“Ah, ’tis that,” I said.

“’Tis,” he said.

I needn’t have worried about fretting sleepless alone in the dark.

ISLEPT THROUGH THE MUEZZIN’S CALL TO PRAYER. ISLEPTthrough morning rush hour humming by my window. I slept through Ryan slipping off to his room.

I awoke to my jeans playing “A Hard Day’s Night.”

That couldn’t be right.

“I should be sleepin’ like a log…”

The music cut off.

Weird dream. Lying back, I remembered the prior evening’s postprandial romp. The lyrics fast-forwarded in my mind.

“You know I feel all right…”

The tinny music blared again.

Jake’s mobile!

Bolting from bed, I unpocketed the phone, and dropped the jeans back onto the floor.

“Jake?”

“You’vegot my cell.”

“How are you?”

I looked at the clock. Seven-forty.

“Peachy. I love being bled and having thumbs shoved up my butt.”

“Nicely put.”

“I’m outa here before they take another run at me.”

“You’ve been released?”

“Right.” Jake snorted.

“Jake, you have to-”

“Uh. Huh. Did you get it?”

“The bag was gone.”

“Fucking sonovabitch!”

I waited out the explosion.

“What about the other?”

“I have the shrou-”

“Don’t say it over a cell phone! Can you get to my place?”

“When?”

“I’ve got to deal with the truck, then scare up a replacement vehicle.” Pause. “Eleven?”

“Directions?” I darted to the desk.

Jake gave them. The landmarks and street names meant nothing to me.

“I have to call the IAA, Jake.” To tell them I’d lost the skeleton. I was dreading it.

“First, let me show you what else I recovered from that tomb.”

“I’ve been in Israel for two days. I have to call Blotnik.”

“When you’ve seen what I have.”

“Today,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he snapped. “And bring my goddamn phone.”

Dead air.

Obviously Jake still had irritability issues. And paranoia issues? Did he really believe his calls were being monitored?

I was standing naked, phone in one hand, pen in the other, when someone kicked my door.

Crap. Now what?

I checked the peephole.

Ryan had returned bearing bagels and coffee. He’d shaved, and his hair was wet from the shower.

Through my morning toilette, I described Jake’s call.

“We’ll finish with Kaplan well before eleven. Where’s Jake living?”

“Beit Hanina.”

“I’ll get you out there.”

“I’ve got directions.”

“How is he?”

“Ferocious.”

Kaplan was being held at a police station in the Russian Compound, one of the first quarters to be established outside the Old City. Originally intended as a residence for Russian pilgrims, it was now a down-at-the-heels piece of inner city deservedly slated for urban renewal.

The district headquarters and attached lockup were a collection of buildings wedged between Jaffa Street and the Russian church. Stone walls, iron window grates. Dingy and decrepit, the place blended well with the hood.

Police units pointed every which way. Friedman parked among them, by a cement barricade flanking the compound. Near it, a massive stone pillar lay half-exposed in the earth.

The pillar was fenced off with iron railings, inside of which were mounded thousands of cigarette butts. I pictured policemen and nervous prisoners taking their last open-air drags before heading or being herded inside.

Friedman noticed me eyeing the pillar.

“First century,” he said.

“Herod strikes again?” Ryan said.

Friedman nodded. “They say it was intended for the royal stoa of Herod’s Temple Mount.”

“The old boy was quite a builder.”

“Quarrymen noticed a crack, so they just left the thing in the ground. Two millennia later, it’s still here.”