the Levine woman was behind it all; she had cooked the patents so she could sell the rights to the highest bidder on the side. She had duped her uncle into letting a contract killer into the lab and had probably arranged for the instrument itself to be sold to yet another bidder. A dangerous game, the double cross, but common among greedy criminals who imagined they could play it and then escape the consequences.
He had done his research on Cohen Brothers and was reasonably sure she was playing solitary. She would go down for it tidily. Thus, everyone who deserved to would win—the old law firm would maintain its credibility, and he would be set up for life.
Still, there was the odd business of Shor’s visit to his genetics lab just before the murder. Tempelman didn’t like unexplained details. Shor had been utterly Orthodox: it was unthinkable that he would go to the office on the Sabbath. The old man was undoubtedly duped into opening the Nanotechnology Center, but why go to his own laboratory? To collect an electronic key? No, the key he used for the genetics center was coded for his brother’s lab as well. There was the police theory that Shor had removed a DNA sample from the lab. Why would he break the Sabbath and a Holy Day for that, unless he were protecting someone?
Tempelman had pondered all of this while working on a hard turn in the fairway at the Caesarea golf club. Sometimes when the ball goes wrong into deep rough, he thought, it isn’t worth the trouble to go looking for it. Was this one of those times? But he didn’t have the leisure for worrying about it now—Catriel Levine was about to leave the country, Interpol had identified the eyelash, and he had to move quickly. Crete was calling.
At one time it had suited him to become Israeli rather than British. A certain deputy minister of state at Whitehall had encouraged him to emigrate “to prevent a serious hindrance to his career.” He had played on the minister a good deal and had, unwisely, crossed a dangerous threshold with him. But the minister was Labour and had scruples, so Tempelman was allowed to leave Britain freely and even to carry the minister’s highest recommendation for future employment. Israel was open to any Jewish person; there was need for good security people; and the climate was perfect for golf. Judaizing his name eased the way into the country.
But now there would be no need to stay. With enough money, he could find refuge on a small acreage overlooking the Mediterranean, maybe an olive orchard, perhaps a pool. He would have time to work on the flaws in his golf game.
Still, something was wrong. His thoughts kept returning to Shor, to the detour to the genetics lab. Shor was an odd man, it was true—obsessed with his Judaism, dressed day after day in the same sloppy white shirt with the cords of his tallit flying around him—but he had never broken any security protocols. Lots of the eccentrics at Technion had amused themselves at cat-and-mouse with Tempelman over security systems, playing graceless jokes he had come to expect. But never Shor. It wouldn’t have occurred to him. The man had no joking in him. If he had been fooled into opening the Nanoelectronics lab, might he have been fooled into recovering something incriminating from his own lab? The Shin Bet wouldn’t tell Tempelman whose DNA sample had gone missing—perhaps it was the killer’s? No. If so, the case would have been closed by now. Anyway, he knew that the missing sample was from the Cohanic collection, hardly controversial in contrast to the much more sensitive MAO-A collection. Again, the return on such a remarkable investment seemed troublingly small to him. There was something unclear about all of this, something blocking his mental line of sight.
But whatever the complications might be, the man behind the office door would undoubtedly be glad to make a small investment of his own to satisfy Tempelman. That was simple enough and all he cared about. For Tempelman, the details of a case were interesting only as far as they hinted at some advantage to himself. After today, he would be totally focused on burying himself in superb isolation.
“Mr. Luel should finish soon,” the woman with glasses said. “I’m taking my lunch now. When he rings, please go in.” She stood and walked past him, the skin of her face and amazing long legs shining green in the glow of the windows. His eyes followed her out the door.
Just as she promised, after a few moments, a small buzzer sounded on the desk. Tempelman picked up his case and pushed open the office door.
The man in the chair was not Ivan Luel; he knew that straightaway.
Kibbutz En Gedi, Israel, 1220h
Ari missed the cold weather he had left behind in Europe; here he felt throttled by the heat. Jammed into his little car, he and Toad and Miner sped along the road between the Judean cliffs and the baking blue Dead Sea. They passed few vehicles on the road; the heat was too intense here at the lowest place on the planet.
Passing the Qumran historical site where the Dead Sea Scrolls had been taken out of pocky caves in the cliffside, they could see the unlikely green groves of En Gedi flowing over the escarpment overhead. Soon the kibbutz gate opened for them.
A welcome breeze met them as they got out of the car, and Ari reflected that this must be the only cool place in the whole country. The waterfalls of En Gedi looked shrunken, but a faint freshness hung over the hilltop. A male ibex, its horns curving nearly into its back, stood under a tree nearby watching them. I could live here, Ari thought; in this place, even kibbutz life might be all right.
Jules Halevy and his wife emerged from their tiny house to greet them. “Shalom, shalom, welcome!” Halevy repeated as he ushered the three policemen into the house. “Air-conditioned, you see.” Halevy grinned at them and offered drinks, which the three men accepted thirstily. Ari introduced the others.
“Thank you for seeing us. I’m Inspector Davan; this is Mr. Kara and Mr. Sefardi.” Both Halevys shook hands vigorously, smilingly. Although Toad had questioned them briefly several days before, they didn’t seem to remember him.
Looking around, Ari noted that the walls were covered with woven hangings, some of an abstract design, others with bitmapped pictures of palm trees and bearded prophets. It was comfortably cool in the room, and Ari sat back to assess the host. Halevy was stout, short, and dressed in what looked like homemade clothes: a tunic with no shape and trousers in the tannish color of raw linen. Barefoot, he folded himself into a ball on a low sofa and rubbed rapidly at his brief beard the color of fog.
“Now, how can we help you?”
Toad and Miner looked bemused at Ari. It had been his idea to come here. Back in Miner’s cellar, they had conceded to him that religion might have had something to do with the death of Emanuel Shor. Neither man was religious, and Miner was positively allergic to it. Toad’s convictions, if there were any, had never been discussed.
“The inscription on the rings is the key,” Ari had said.
“The key to what? You say it comes from a Bible verse, I can’t remember what…”
“Until he comes whose right it is to reign,” Toad had reminded them; then he had picked up a photo from the pile of evidence on Miner’s table and displayed it to them. The model of the ancient Temple of Jerusalem that sat on the grounds of the Holyland Hotel. And, on the back of the photo, six Hebrew letters scrawled by hand:
עבאלהם
“Did you ever find out what these letters refer to?” Ari to Toad, who had shaken his head.
“I asked the brother and the niece—they said they didn’t know. But now I wonder…”
Ari had run out of the room to his office, the other two behind him, to look in the big Hebrew Bible on his desk. It was hard to take the stairs and study his GeM at the same time, but he found the Latin Bible verse he had photographed in Chartres.
…DONEC
