"The big problem is going to be between Jew and Jew-the black-coats and everyone else. They're fanatics, don't recognize the state, want to tear down everything we've fought for, turn it into another Iran run by Jewish ayatollahs. Think of it: no cinema, no cafes, no museums or concert halls, fanatics telling us to hang mezuzahs on every door and daven three times a day or be flogged in Zion Square. And they're breeding heavily-nine, ten kids a family. Thousands of them emigrating from ghettos in America in order to build ghettos here. They huddle in their yeshivas all day, live off the dole-not one of them does a day of army service. Thousands of enemies of the state and future enemies-and dangerous because they're repressed-sexually, emotionally. You know how violent they can get, the bus burnings we had every Saturday night in Mea She'arim. Even the soccer field we built them didn't drain off all the aggression."

The mayor relit his cigar.

"Violent," he repeated. "Which is why the religious implications of the note didn't sound all that implausible to me-those blackies are capable of doing violence to anyone who offends them. However, you inform me there's no evidence of any particular group at work."

"Malkovsky," Daniel reminded him.

The mayor's expression said the whole issue was trivial.

"Malkovsky's'rebbe-the Prostnitzer-is a potential asset, someone definitely to be reckoned with. He's a cousin of the Satmar rebbe, broke off from the Satmar three years ago because of some dispute about the line of succession. That, of course, is no big deal-they're always fighting with each other. But as part of establishing his own identity, the Prostnitzer adopted a pro-state stance. Think of it: your basic ultrafanatic type-black hat, side curls, fur hats, leggings-and he's coming out saying righteous Jews should support the state."

"Agudah's been doing that for years."

"Agudah's of no importance. All they want to do is build kosher hotels and get rich. This Prostnitzer is a man with stature. Charisma. When he tells his Hassidim the '67 victory is a sign from Messiah, it carries weight."

"I never heard him say that," said Daniel.

"He's said it in private, to me. He's waiting for the right time to go public. The Malkovsky thing has pushed the date up a bit, but he's made a commitment, requested only a few favors in return. Small favors, which I'm more happy to grant him because the stakes are high. Exposing one of his followers as a pervert would only be destructive. Think of it: an inroad to the fanatics, a first wedge driven into their intransigent ranks. They're followers by nature. Conformists. One begins; other follow suit; pretty soon you've introduced ambiguity into their belief system-creative tension. Lack of absolutes weakens fanaticism. The battle lines become obscured, strengthening the vitality of our pluralism."

"Ants crawling from hole to hole?" asked Daniel.

The mayor looked at his watch and stood.

"It's late. I've spent too much time on theoreticals. I expect Mark Wilbur to be released immediately, with no further harassment. You're obviously an intelligent fellow. If you wish to discuss ant holes further, feel free to call me at the office or at home-both numbers are listed. We'll set up an evening, break out the schnapps, open a few philosophy books. But not yet. After you clear up this Butcher nonsense."

Alone, Daniel read the tour file. The university had provided lists of participants in nine field studies in the general vicinity of the murder cave, three expeditions a year for the past three years. Exploration had been going on since '67, but older lists hadn't turned up. ("D: You should see their files, what a mess," Shmeltzer had noted. "Professors.")

The most recent trip had taken place last summer, a surface dig one and a half kilometers north of the cave, sponsored by the Department of Archaeology. The others were a pair of water-retention surveys conducted by Geology. Participants were faculty members, students, and visiting scholars. Only the names of the professors were listed, the same half-dozen over and over. Two were out of the country; Shmeltzer had interviewed the other four, three of them women, coming up with no leads and an incomplete list of student names gleaned from cluttered academic memories. The students were all Israelis, with the exception of one Nigerian who'd returned to Africa six months before the first murder. They had yet to be questioned.

None of the private tour companies visited that part of the desert, which wasn't surprising-nothing flashy down there. When the tourists asked for desert, they were shown the camel market in Beersheva, Massada, Ein Gedi, the Dead Sea mud spas.

The Nature Conservancy had taken a single group of hikers into the area six months ago, a lecture tour on annual desert flora. The guide was a woman named Nurit Blau, now married to a member of Kibbutz Sa'ad. Shmeltzer had called her; she had a new baby, sounded fatigued, remembered nothing about the tour other than that a freak rain shower had ended it prematurely. No, none of the participants was memorable. Some of them might have been foreigners, she really didn't remember-how could one be expected to remember that far back?

A check at the Conservancy office turned up no names; reservation lists weren't kept past the day of the hike. The lists were incomplete, anyway. Most hikers never bothered to reserve, simply showed up at a designated location the morning of the hike, paid cash, and tagged along.

Sum total: skimpy. Besides, lists didn't prove anything; anyone could take a walk in the desert. Still, procedure was procedure. It wasn't as if they were deluged with leads. He'd have Cohen and the Chinaman interview the students, try to obtain the names of the missing ones, check them out too.

At eight twenty-five he went down the hall, made a couple of turns, and ended up at the unlabeled locked door of Amos Harel's office. He knocked, waited several moments for it to open, and found himself staring into the undercover man's gray eyes.

Harel held a smoldering Gauloise in one hand, a felt-tip pen in the other. He wore a T-shirt and jeans. The full white beard he'd worn on his last assignment was gone, revealing a pale, lean face, the jawline marred by shaving nicks.

"Morning, Dani."

"Morning."

Harel didn't invite him in, simply stood there waiting for him to speak. Though ten years Daniel's senior and a rav pakad, he never pulled rank, just concentrated on the job. The toughest of the tough guys, though to look at him you'd never know it-the narrow shoulders, the bent back that housed three splinters of shrapnel, courtesy Anwar Sadat. He had an emotional barometer that never seemed to register and a bloodhound's nose for subtle irregularities and suspicious parcels.

"Morning, Amos. Is your man still watching Wilbur's mailbox?"