That was as interesting as it got, sitting around waiting. Davis talked to Tali a little, asking he r about her year in the Israeli Army, and found ou t where she lived. But he couldn't relax and sa y funny things to her with Mel in the room.
Finally, going on four, the phone rang and Tali answered it. He knew it was Rosen from the wa y she turned and looked at him before she looked a t Mr. Bandy and held out the phone, nodding.
Davis didn't hear much from where he was sitting. Mel stood with one hand in his pocket looking up at the wall, saying, "Yes . . . of course . . . w e've been waiting, we're ready to go," his ton e much different, being efficient and a little kissy-ass.
He waved the phone at Tali and said, "Here, you get the directions from him. Make sure it's clear."
Then he said into the phone, "Rosie, don't worry about a thing. It's as good as done."
Tali spoke to him again. When she hung up she seemed sad. "The address where he is is Rehov Bil u 30 in Herzliya."
"I know about where it is," Davis said.
"Write it down for him," Mel said. "What is it, a house, what?"
"An apartment. Number 23 on the fifth floor. It belongs to a friend of his," Tali said. "There's a lif t you take."
Mati picked up the package and left, not looking back when Tali said something to him in Hebrew.
A few minutes later it was Davis' turn, carrying the alligator attache case inside the Marine trave l bag and the thousand bucks in his back pocket. A t the door, Tali said, "If you come back this way o n your trip, please stop and tell me how Mr. Rosen is , how he looks."
Davis left, wondering if Tali was sleeping with the guy. He was anxious to see this Mr. Rosen.
Mati got no more than three strides out of the elevator before Teddy Cass hit him with a stand-up bod y block, forearms into Mati's chest, and pushed hi m back inside. Valenzuela came in after them. Th e doors closed and the elevator went up. Teddy Cas s held Mati against the wall, his forearm now agains t the skinny kid's throat, staring at the kid's wide-ope n eyes while Valenzuela ripped open the package.
"Bullshit time," Valenzuela said. "Paper in a tin box." The elevator stopped. Valenzuela jabbed th e button for the lobby. "We'll bring him along."
Rashad was over by the taxi stand to the left of the hotel entrance, where a cement stairway le d down to the side street that sloped toward th e beach. Rashad waited for them as they came ou t with the Arab-looking kid between them, the ki d looking very frightened or sick.
"The decoy," Teddy Cass said.
"Car down the street's got a Marine thing on the windshield. They like to tell you what they do, don't they?" Rashad said. Next to him, on the cemen t wall at the top of the stairway, was a plaid overnigh t bag. "Looks like he should be along any time now.
It's one way, so he's got to come toward the hotel before he turns to go anyplace else." Rashad picke d up the overnight bag. "I'll see you gentlemen."
He walked down the hotel drive toward Hayarkon and gave a little wave without looking back.
Valenzuela and Teddy Cass walked Mati over to the white BMW parked in the shade of the hotel.
HE'D GO WEST on Nordau to Ibn Gvirol, then cut over to the Haifa Road. He could keep going nort h after the stop in Herzliya, drive up to the Golan o r Metulla, see if maybe there was some action alon g the border--terrorists sneaking in. Maybe talk t o the troops up there on border watch. He could stil l make the Sinai in a day.
Davis put the Camaro in gear and got almost to the end of the block. The crazy Black Muslim cam e running out into the street right in front of him , grinning and holding up his hand. Davis recognize d him, couldn't miss him, as he braked to a stop. Nex t thing, the guy had the door open and was getting in.
"What way we going?"
Davis pushed the gear into neutral. He didn't like it, but he didn't have time to think.
"I'm going north."
"That's fine with me," Rashad said. "I'm ready to see some country." Davis didn't move an d Rashad eased up a little. "I don't want to fuck u p your plans, my man. You don't want me along, sa y it. But I would appreciate a lift out of Tel Aviv.
Place is beginning to press down on me. . . ."
Davis started up, creeping, and made the turn at Nordau.
". . . All the nightlife, places like Norman's.
Man, it's warm and friendly, but it gets to you. Hey, I thought we were gonna have some Chinese."
That was the way it went. Rashad talking, Davis holding on to the steering wheel. Rashad admirin g the gutty sound of the Z-28, saying shit, this machine ought to blow the mothers off the road, put a Mercedes on the trailer. Davis began to relax. A n insistent Israeli car horn would sound behind the m at a light and Davis would give it some revs wit h the clutch in, letting the horn-blower have som e heavy varooms, then release the clutch and slingshoot the Camaro away from the light. Kid stuff, with gas a buck sixty a gallon. But he enjoyed i t once in a while and the black guy ate it up. The gu y didn't seem so bad when he wasn't trying to com e on, when he relaxed. He asked Davis was that al l he had, the one bag? It was on the back seat. Davi s said no, he had stuff in the trunk. Some newspaper s his aunt had sent him. Rashad said he liked t o travel light. He unzipped his plaid bag and pulle d out a white and black kaffiyeh and draped it ove r his natural, saying, man, it made sense. It was cool , and he meant cool cool. The guy tried to be entertaining, trying to be friendly. He was tiresome.
On the highway, the Haifa Road, Davis said, "I g ot to make a stop in Herzliya. It's a suburb u p here."
"You going to be long?" Rashad laughed then, taking off the kaffiyeh. "Shit, like it makes any difference. Man, I don't even know where I'm going.
But if you want me to get out up here, say it. It won't hurt my feelings any. You've been very kin d and I appreciate it. I suppose after talking to yo u last night and all, meeting your friends," Rasha d said, "I feel like I'm one of them."
"Well, I don't think I'll be too long," Davis said.
Dumb. Backing down because he felt sorry for the guy. He didn't say anything else until they were i n Herzliya, passing streets lined with new apartmen t buildings.
"I'm looking for Bilu. That's the name of the street."
"You never been here before?"
"Well, it's not a friend," Davis said. "I just have to stop and see a guy for a minute."
Rosen heard the car, the rumbling engine sound.
He stepped out onto the balcony to see it roll into the blacktop parking area facing the building: a lime-green American car among the Europea n minis. That would be the Marine.
Except there were two people in the car. Rosen watched the driver, in a white cap, get out an d reach in again to get the canvas bag, then slam th e door and start toward the building.
Rosen stepped back, a reflex action. He could still see the car and make out the figure sitting in th e front seat. He didn't see the man's face, though, until the side window came down and the face inside leaned over to look up at the building. Rose n jumped back again.
The guy in the car was black.
He told himself it couldn't be the same one.
Probably another Marine or a guy who worked at the embassy. When he heard the elevator comin g up--one door away in the hall--he stepped out t o the balcony again. The black guy was still in th e car. If it was the one from Netanya he wouldn't b e sitting there doing nothing. Rosen went to the doo r of the apartment and opened it about an inch, the n moved to a table facing the door where his attach e case was lying open, the top half of it standing up.
The small automatic pistol he brought out of the attache case was wrapped in tissue paper.
He didn't know for sure that the guy in the cap was the Marine named Davis. Or if the guy wa s coming here. He was thinking now he should hav e waited, given it more thought and picked anothe r place. This seemed too close to Tel Aviv. They'd gotten here in twenty minutes. Maybe it shoul d have been out somewhere in the desert, in th e Negev. They drop the money and leave and
h e picked it up later. He should have taken more time.
The guy, somebody, was knocking at the door. . . .
"It's open."
"My name's Davis. I've got something for Mr.
Rosen."
"Show me your name's Davis," Rosen said. He closed the attache case, bringing the top par t down.
Davis saw the automatic pointing at him. Little 32-caliber Beretta, seven shots. Not a bad weapo n if the man knew how to use it.
"Are you Mr. Rosen?"
"Let's see something with your name on it."
Davis dropped the canvas travel bag on the table. He dug his wallet out of his pocket, opene d it, and held it out for Rosen to see his Marin e Corps I . D . The man was too old for Tali. He couldn't see the two of them making it together.
The man would be like her father. Davis wondered if he should take the Beretta away from him. No--l eave him alone. The man was nervous and had a right to be.
"Who's the one in the car?"
Davis put his wallet back in his pocket. "Some guy thinks he's a friend of mine."
Rosen looked at him, stared for a moment. He didn't understand, but it wasn't something he wa s going to get into a discussion about. He said, "Yo u know what it is you're bringing me?"
"Yes, sir. Money."
Davis got the alligator case out of the travel bag and reached over to lay it on top of Rosen's attach e case. He watched the man snap it open.
"You mind my asking, sir--your name's Al Rosen?"
"That's right."
"You weren't by any chance a third baseman?"
Rosen looked up at him, his hands on the case.
"You're about the right age," Davis said. "The one played for the Indians, made Most Valuabl e Player in, I think, '53. Hit forty-three home runs , led the league with a three thirty-six average."
"You want to know something? You're the first person over here's asked me that," Rosen said.
"How old you think I was then?"
"I don't know. In your twenties?"
"He hit three thirty-six," Rosen said, "but Mickey Vernon led the league that year. Beat hi m out by oh-oh-one percentage point with a thre e thirty-seven."
"Yeah?" Davis was interested and more at ease.
"I don't remember what happened to him after that. I was only about eleven."
"Rosen? He retired, thirty-one years of age.
Greenberg, the sonofabitch, wouldn't give him any more than twenty-seven five to come back, an d Rosen said fuck it. He was already in the brokerag e business."
"Greenberg from the Tigers?"
"Yeah, he was general manager of the Indians then."
"I guess I don't recall that," Davis said.
"Yeah, well, I'm about ten years older than you are." Opening the alligator case, Rosen said, "So you remember Al Rosen, huh?"
He picked up a sheet of paper that was inside and his expression changed as he began reading it , squinting or frowning, Davis wasn't sure which.
Something wasn't right. Davis stepped around to look in the case. There wasn't anywhere near tw o hundred thousand inside. Just a bunch of loos e hundred-dollar bills.
"You know about this?" Rosen was staring at him again. "He sent five grand. That's all."
"You think I took it?"
"I'm asking if he said anything about it, if he told you what he was doing."
"No, sir. He put two hundred thousand in there yesterday. I watched him."
"You counted it?"
"He said how much it was. There were twenty packs of hundred-dollar bills."
"How long have you been working with Tali, getting the packages?"
"This was the third one," Davis said. "There were some letters other times."
Rosen held up the sheet of paper. "My lawyer says, 'I'm not sure we can trust the Marine.' "
Davis was used to standing on the front side of a desk, at ease or at attention. He made no comment.
It was all right, because he felt much different with Mr. Rosen than he did with Mr. Bandy. He respected Mr. Rosen.
"My lawyer says we can't trust anyone under the circumstances. 'Anyone' underlined. He says, m y lawyer who's been here two days, 'Let's conside r this a test run. If you receive the five thousand intact we will know we have established a reliable liaison'--Jesus Christ--'and I will feel more confident in carrying out the responsibility of seeing that you receive the entire amount.' "
"He writes different than he talks," Davis said.
"Fucking lawyer," Rosen said. "His responsibility! It's not his responsibility, he's got nothing to do with the money!"
"Why don't you fire him?" Davis said.
"He says if I receive this and so on. He doesn't say anything about if I don't receive it. You notic e that?" Rosen said. "All right, why wouldn't I receive it? One, you ran off with it. Two, I didn't show up here for some reason. But if I knew it wa s coming, what's the only reason I wouldn't b e here?" Rosen waited.
Davis shook his head.
"Because I'd be fucking dead is what I'd be,"
Rosen said. "The sonofabitch, he's waiting to see if I stay alive before he delivers the two hundred. I'v e got to save my ass and he's concerned, he's worrying, he says he wants to feel confident about his responsibility!"
"Why don't I go back and get it?" Davis said.
Rosen looked at him and seemed surprised.
"You mean right now? You'd do that for me?"
"He says he wants to establish a liaison. Well, let's show him it's established." He watched Rose n reach into the case and pick up some hundreddollar bills. "No, I don't need any more. The thousand Mr. Bandy gave me'll cover it."
Rosen paused. "How long you think it'll take you?"
"Forty minutes. If Mr. Bandy's there and he's got it ready."
"He'll be ready," Rosen said. He went over to the phone that was on the counter separating th e kitchen from the living-room area. He dialed a number and asked for the room.
Now the lawyer would get chewed out. Davis felt good about that and was anxious to hear it. He didn't want to appear to be listening, though. I t wasn't any of his business. Walking out on the balcony, he heard Rosen say, "Tali, let me speak to Mel. . . . Yeah, he's here. Everything's fine." Hi s voice sounded calm; he was in control, knew wha t he was going to say. The man was all right. Peopl e trying to kill him, he still seemed to have it prett y well together.
"Mel . . . I got your note. . . ." Rosen was listening; then: "Mel . . ." not able to get a word in.
Davis could picture the lawyer with his hand in his light blue pants, talking, looking up at the wall.
Davis was looking down five stories at the limegreen Camaro, the racing stripe--he hadn't realized the white stripe didn't extend over the roof of the car. Just on the hood and the trunk. The ca r looked empty. The black guy, his new buddy , wasn't inside.
"Mel, you're a wonderful person, I appreciate your concern. . . . Of course not, I understand. . . ."
It surprised Davis, Mr. Rosen's tone, his patience.
There he was. The black guy was over toward the far end of the parking lot standing by a car , leaning against the side, bending down a little now , talking to somebody in the car. One in front, behind the wheel, one or two in the back seat.
". . . I understand, Mel, you don't want to delay this any more than I do . . . Mel, would you just d o one thing for me? PUT THE FUCKING MONEY IN A BOX AND HAVE IT READY . . . RIGHT NOW!"
Davis heard the phone slammed down.
"There," Rosen said, quietly again.
"You better come out here," Davis said.
"What is it?"
"You know anybody owns a white BMW?"
Teddy Cass was the driver. Valenzuela was in back with the worried-or sick-looking street kid, Mat i Harari, who sat with his hands folded tight.
"He says he thinks its the top floor," Valenzuela said. "Number 23?"
Mati nodded.
"No name of Rosen on the mailboxes," Rashad said. "Less it's in Jewish. Th
ere's a little elevator , one set of stairs, very dark. I think it looks good.
You want to hand me something out of the trunk?"
"When the hot-rodder leaves," Valenzuela said.
"What do I do, he comes out?" Rashad said.
"I'm standing there."
"No, you better get around the back of the building someplace, till he comes out," Valenzuel a said. "He'll think you got tired and left."
"What about him?" Teddy Cass said, half turned on the seat, nodding at Mati.
"He's going with us," Valenzuela said, "He's gonna knock on the door for us."
"It's the same car," Rosen said. "You can almost see the dents in the front end. Sonofabitch with a n Arab thing over his head."
"He showed it to me," Davis said. "Jesus, I never had any idea. Guy trying to get you to like him."
"I'm not blaming you," Rosen said. He was standing away from the balcony railing so that h e could just see the BMW past the flat cement surface. "You wouldn't have any way of knowing.
Maybe--could they have seen you with Tali?"
"I guess that was it, in the lobby. We weren't together more than a minute."
"Then the colored guy sucks up, gets in your car," Rosen said. "The one in front, I think that's the young guy with the hair. I don't know his name.
Val's probably in back. You see a guy looks like an off-duty cop, that's Val. Or a fucking linebacker , something like that."
"The colored guy said his name was Kamal Rashad."
"Yeah, they're getting these cute names now,"
Rosen said. "Alabama Arabians. Well, shit, I don't know--" He turned to go into the room and cam e around again and stood there.
Davis watched the black guy, Rashad, coming away from the BMW, past empty parking spaces , then go behind some other cars, walking towar d the Camaro.
"Which one's your car?" Davis said.
"The black one, right near the walk." It was a Mercedes four-door sedan.
"They know it's yours?"
"I don't see how they could."
It was next to the Camaro. They could run, get to the cars--then what?
All the BMW had to do was back up and it would block the drive. There were shrubs alon g the street; you couldn't run over the lawn to ge t out. Well, maybe, but you could get hung up on a bush.