the tourists still came for the stories, and if they wanted a sniff of something real they came to the museum.
The only place you can still feel the history is in the deep Old City, but the sightseers seldom stray down here. In the last war, this walled warren of streets served as its own citadel; the buildings around its perimeter shielded the ones within from the wave of pressurized air that levelled the proud temples of the old faiths. Now, the dust-caked ruins at the edges stand as a slowly crumbling bulwark against the post-war contagion of grim utilitarian box-buildings spreading through the rest of Jerusalem.
Inside, the sun doesn’t reach the streets for most of the year. The stench of refuse ripening tells you it still belongs to the Arabs and the poor. The faces change; you can see flashes of pale skin on the European hookers plying their trade, but poverty always stinks. A fat fruit-seller smiles obsequiously as Silas passes, a cheap, occasionally useful informant who’s always keen to impress. That is the truly marvellous thing about the poor; tiny sums of money suffice to purchase so much goodwill.
A rainbow-beaded curtain in a doorway offers an entrance to his destination. The strands brush the sides of his face and sway noisily as he passes. This place is a dump, but it serves a purpose. This is where to find the skinny Jew boy who likes to hide among the Arabs, as if that wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world. Silas waits, presumably being subjected to some form of scrutiny, before the bulky man behind the bar nods him over to a dark corner where he can just now discern movement.
Levi Peres strikes a match and holds it to the tip of a thin, straggly cigarette. The flash of orange match-light reveals a man of no more than twenty-one with a scant beard that lends its wearer none of the intended gravitas. The shadowed figure leans back in its seat with exaggerated ease. Bravado is a wonderful thing – so useful.
‘You know who I am. Can we talk somewhere privately?’
Levi gestures around expansively. ‘This is my office. We can talk here.’
One of the trio of old men sitting on leather pouffes at the other end of the room takes a deep drag on the shisha pipe and coughs. The bulky barman stands silent, unashamedly listening.
‘All right, that’s up to you. The thing you have to understand is that listening to this job description connotes acceptance. There are obligations and liabilities that go with that and they’ll apply to your hefty friend if he’s in.’
The youngster gives a little jerk of the head and the big man purses his lips, then shrugs and drifts to the other side of the bar, out of earshot.
‘Yusuf’s a good guy. If he’s not around I get nervous. Tell me a big number to make me feel better.’
‘Fifty thousand shekels. One fifth now to cover expenses and make life more enjoyable. The rest on completion.’ Silas watches for a reaction but this Levi character has at least got front. Fifty thousand would be maybe two and a half years’ labour for an honest working man. It represents a little under half a per cent of what Silas ultimately stands to make on this deal.
Levi plucks a fibre of unburnt tobacco from his tongue. ‘Two hundred thousand. Forty up front. If I don’t know what I’m getting into, I need to know it’s worth it.’
Small-time. A few seconds feigned agonizing serves to avoid making the victory look too easy. ‘OK, two hundred, but twenty’s as much as I can do up front.’ Any more than that and young Levi Peres will disappear from Jerusalem for good. So would anyone. The youngster performs his own little act of silent mental arithmetic before nodding. ‘There is an artefact I wish to have removed from the city. I have a buyer, but the item is sufficiently high profile that its loss will be noticed sooner or later. Later is better. It is currently in the museum’s storage facility. I have taken steps to withdraw it from public view and reduce the security surrounding it, but you will have to effect its removal.’
Levi’s expression darkens and his hands spread in denial. ‘No way. You want a break-in, you find yourself a thief. Who do you think I am?’
He smells the trap, but he can’t see it. ‘I know exactly who you are, Levi Peres. I know who you owe money to, how much, and what they’ll do to you if you don’t pay, and I know you’re just about smart enough to pull this off. Besides …’ His voice softens; no need to puncture that useful bravado yet. ‘You’re not a foot soldier on this job. There’s enough in that pot for you to get help.’
The thin cigarette in Levi’s hand twitches and half-burnt ash tumbles onto his loose-checked keffiyeh. ‘You should have said up front if you wanted a crew.’
Too late for remorse, boy, and you know it. ‘The money told you that. Or were we not having the same conversation?’ Silas’s fingers glide against the silk of his European-style jacket, pull out two solid blocks of pre-counted money and slide them across the table. He stands with slightly stagey formality. ‘One of my people will be in touch with details.’
Habit, more than any genuine fear of being followed, steers him through a skewed dogleg route back to his office. A light breeze carries the odour of the Old City away to the east. There is always a sense of relief that comes with the moment of putting a plan into action, as if the ideas had carried weight from the moment of their conception. Not that there’s any guarantee of success, not at all, but the omens are good. Levi Peres is perfect. Of course, there are better smugglers and better thieves in Jerusalem, but the best ones have a certain traction in the city – they could make things difficult if they chose. No, he didn’t need the best. Levi Peres was good enough, and entirely disposable.
‘Shouldn’t you be working on your masterplan?’
Yusuf turns a chair around the wrong way and sits. The curved wicker frame creaks under the weight of those bear arms folded across the backrest. He leans in too close, like a man who wants to hear a secret.
‘I’m thinking. You should try it sometime.’
He watches me for a few seconds. He doesn’t care that I’m not looking at him.
‘It’s the woman, isn’t it? You thinking maybe you should’ve helped her out?’
‘Sure, like I’ve got time to burn on every ghreeb who wanders in off the street.’
‘Come on! You got to be curious! She comes in here, from Marseille, asking for you by name? And you don’t want to know what her deal is?’
A knot of a hundred tiny metal chains chinks between my fingers. He won’t drop this thing about the girl. He never does. It’s kind of an unwritten agreement between Yusuf and me that I bring excitement into his life in exchange for him letting me run the business from his place. The problem with unwritten contracts is they’re subject to interpretation. ‘Forget her. I’m working on a plan. That’s all you need to know. Right now, I have other work to do.’
‘Yeah, looks important. What is that shit?’
‘Religious souvenirs, for the tourists. I got a variety box of a thousand from China for nothing, but they got tangled in transit, and selling crucifixes to Muslims is a quick way to go out of business.’
‘What
