"He's creative in his own way," said Daniel. "Bright and tenacious-well suited for records work. There'll be plenty of that on this case."

Laufer blew smoke at the sky, cleared his throat, said finally, "Very well, take him. In terms of your subinspector-"

"I want Yosef Lee."

"Free egg rolls, eh?"

"He's a good team worker. Knows the streets, indefatigable."

"How much homicide experience?"

"He put in time on the old woman from Musrara-the one asphyxiated by the burglar's gag. And he came onto Gray Man shortly before we… reduced our activity. Along with Daoud, whom I also want."

"The Arab from Bethlehem?"

"The same."

"That," said Laufer, "could prove awkward."

"I'm aware of that. But the benefits exceed the drawbacks."

"Name them."

Daniel did and the deputy commander listened with a bland expression in his face. After several moments of deliberation he said, "You want an Arab, okay, but you'll have to run a tight ship. If it turns into a security case he'll be transferred out immediately-for his own good, as well as ours. And it will go down on your record as an administrative blunder."

Daniel ignored the threat, put forth his next request. "Something this big, I could use more than one samal. There's a kid over at the Russian Compound named Ben Aharon-"

"Forget it on both counts," said Laufer. He turned on his heel, began walking back to the Volvo, forcing Daniel to follow in order to hear what he was saying. "Business as usual-one samal-and I've already chosen him. New hire named Avi Cohen, just transferred from Tel Aviv."

"What talent does he have to pull a transfer so soon?"

"Young, strong, eager, earned a ribbon in Lebanon." Laufer paused. "He's the third son of Pinni Cohen, the Labor MK from Petah Tikva."

"Didn't Cohen just die?"

"Two months ago. Heart attack, all the stress. In case you don't read the papers, he was one of our friends in Knesset, a sweetheart during budget struggles. Kid's got a good record and we'd be doing the widow a favor."

"Why the transfer?"

"Personal reasons."

"How personal?"

"Nothing to do with his work. He had an affair with the wife of a superior. Asher Davidoff's blonde, a first-class kurva."

"It indicates," said Daniel, "a distinct lack of good judgment."

The deputy commander waved away his objection. "It's an old story with her, Sharavi. She goes for the young ones, makes a blatant play for them. No reason for Cohen to eat it because he got caught. Give him a chance."

His tone indicated that further debate was unwelcome, and Daniel decided the issue wasn't worth pressing. He'd gotten nearly everything he wanted. There'd be plenty of quiet work for this Cohen. Enough to keep him busy and out of trouble.

"Fine," he said, suddenly impatient with talk. Looking over his shoulder at the Hagah man, he began mentally framing his interview questions, the best way to approach an old soldier.

"… absolutely no contact with the press," Laufer was saying, "I'll let you know if and when a leak is called for.

You'll report directly to me. Keep me one hundred percent informed."

"Certainly. Anything else?"

"Nothing else," said Laufer. "Just clear this one up."

After the deputy commander had been driven away, Daniel walked over to Schlesinger. He told the uniformed officers to wait by their car and extended his hand to the Hagah man. he one that gripped it in return was hard and dry.

"Adon Schlesinger, I'm Pakad Sharavi. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Sharavi?" The man's voice was deep, hoarse, his Hebrew dipped short by the vestiges of a German accent. "You're a Yemenite?"

Daniel nodded.

"I knew a Sharavi once," said Schlesinger. "Skinny little fellow-Moshe the baker. Lived in the Old City before we lost it in '48, left to join the crew that built the cable trolley from the Ophthalmic Hospital to Mount Zion." He pointed pouth. "We put it up every night, dismantled it before sunrise. So the goddamned British wouldn't catch us sending food and medicine to our fighters."

"My uncle," said Daniel. "Ach, small world. How's he doing?"

"He died five years ago."

"What from?"

"Stroke."

"How old was he, seventy?" Schlesinger's face had drawn tight with anxiety, the bushy white eyebrows drooping low over watery blue eyes. "Seventy-nine."

"Seventy-nine," echoed Schlesinger. "Could be worse. He was a hell of a worker for a little guy, never griped. You come from good stock, Pakad Sharavi."

"Thank you," Daniel pulled out his note pad. Schlesinger's eyes followed him, stopped, focused on the back of his hand. Stared at the scar tissue. An observant one, thought Daniel.

"Tell me about your patrol," he said.

Schlesinger shrugged. "What's there to tell? I walk up and down the road five times a night, scaring away jack-rabbits."

"How long have you been with Hagah?"

"Fourteen years, first spring out of the reserves. Patrolled Rehavya for thirteen of them, past the Prime Minister's house. A year ago I bought a flat in the towers on French Hill-near your headquarters-and the wife insisted I take something closer to home."

"What's your schedule?"

"Midnight to sunrise, Monday through Saturday. Five passes from Old Hadassah to the Ben Adayah intersection and back."

"Fifteen kilometers a night," said Daniel.

"Closer to twenty if you include curves in the road."

"A lot of walking, adoni."