The first thing Ralston did after Bartlett left Jerusalem was to check out his destination with a contact at the garage which had supplied the Jeep to Raquel Rabinovitz.
The contact, who was an Arab mechanic, said: ‘Why do you want to know this information?’
Ralston handed him 150 Israeli lira: ‘That’s the only reason you need to worry about.’ He paused. ‘In fact they’re friends of mine – I want to surprise them.’
‘That will be difficult,’ said the mechanic. He had fawning manners and an oily voice.
‘Why?’
‘Because I saw the pass that the girl has got. They are going to Kantara.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I would not lie to you,’ said the Arab.
‘I hope for your sake that you haven’t.’
As Ralston left the garage a cab pulled up and Yosevitz got out. Everything about him was shiny – his damp hair, his sunglasses made for the ski slopes, his non-porous nylon shirt, his glowing cheeks and forehead.
Poor bastard, Ralston thought. Sometimes you had to hand it to the British – they had ways of doing things. Nevertheless, beneath the Pierrot’s disguise, Yosevitz was still a professional. Efficient and dedicated.
Or was he so dedicated? Ralston wondered why Yosevitz had failed to move up behind him at the Wailing Wall and attempt the execution that he had almost certainly planned? Had the faith which he had been born into suddenly asserted itself at its fount?
Ralston backed into a coffee shop as Yosevitz walked across the sidewalk into the garage. He was wearing his jacket despite the heat. Because, Ralston knew, he had an automatic underneath. They never went far without their guns.
Ralston climbed into his own cab and told the driver to take him to the Damascus Gate where he had another meeting with Brandon from the American Embassy. Brandon wouldn’t be enthusiastic about letting Bartlett motor into the Sinai Desert with an Israeli agent. Nor was he. But there was no alternative.
He looked out of the window and saw an Israeli policeman standing outside a curio shop listening to a group of Arabs and a European tourist, all talking at the same time. He guessed that the tourist’s pocket had been picked. Or perhaps someone had cut the strap of his camera and run off with it.
The policeman looked very young. He was dark and thin, and yet tough in the Israeli way, a toughness bred by necessity whatever the physical limitations. His face was patient beneath his peaked cap; his uniform wasn’t very smart.
Ralston remembered his days on the beat in Chicago. At night in particular. The drunks, the bums, the car. thieves, the junkies. And the night people who were his friends, from clubs, newspaper offices, restaurants; sweepers, cleaners, milkmen, cab drivers. Good honest days.
Then promotion to the plain-clothes department. And his involvement – through what had appeared to be a routine murder – in the capture of a Russian who had shot an American diplomat in an apartment high above the city. The call to Washington, the praise for efficiency and discretion. It was the latter quality that particularly impressed them. Promotion to this, the highest echelon of plain-clothes work, and an education in dishonesty that relegated the escapades of the crooks he had once arrested to the nursery. Berlin, Geneva, Paris, Vietnam.
But all the time it had seemed to Ralston that he had managed to retain honesty of purpose if not method. A small diamond set in the cotton-wool of deceit. The West versus Communism, them versus us; scuffles of cunning that you hoped were contributing to a pattern that benefited mankind. The small diamond had always been bright with that honesty of purpose. But not on this assignment. Politics and prestige. A formidable partnership that had clouded the diamond’s polish.
On the sidewalk the policeman was smiling. So were the Arabs and the tourist. One of the Arabs had probably decided that he had ‘found’ the tourist’s pocketbook in the gutter. Property returned, complainant satisfied, Arab not punished but possibly deterred. A good cop. Ralston envied him.
The cab rounded a corner and Ralston lost sight of them. They drove past the Notre Dame de France and stopped outside the Damascus Gate. The tall, balding figure of Brandon was standing at the entrance. Ralston’s depression deepened.
Brandon said: ‘You must be crazy. Just like you were crazy to let that guy Yosevitz follow you with a gun when you were coming to meet me this morning.’
‘Maybe,’ Ralston said. ‘What do you figure I should have done?’
Brandon shrugged his meaty shoulders. ‘Held him, I guess. Persuaded him to tell you where these goddamn maps are.’
‘Great,’ Ralston said. ‘Just great. How would you. have justified holding a British geologist prisoner in his hotel room?’
‘Bartlett would have played ball with you eventually. He’s not against us, after all.’
They walked on the outside of the wall towards Herod’s Gate.
After a couple of minutes Brandon said: ‘I suppose we are sure that he’s not against us. He’s not a Red, is he?’
Ralston said: ‘He’s about as Red as Queen Elizabeth.’
‘I still think you’re screwing up this whole operation,’ Brandon said.
Ralston stopped and took a picture of an Israeli soldier with an Uzi on one arm and a soldier girl on the other. Perhaps he might even be able to sell some of his pictures to a magazine. He said: ‘I don’t care What you think, Brandon. Do I need to remind you about the order of our seniorities?’
‘Jesus,’ Brandon said. ‘So now he’s trying to pull rank.’
‘Right,’ Ralston said. ‘Now get this – you’re Embassy Security. Nothing more. And if you play your cards like this you never will be anything more.’
Brandon held up his hands. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘So I’m sorry.’
Ralston looked at him speculatively. Slow but dependable. A good man on the beat. He smiled and the depression began its exit.
Brandon said: ‘So what are you grinning about?’
Ralston shook his head. ‘Bartlett’s out in the Sinai with this girl. Right?’
‘Right,’ Brandon said.
‘So here’s what we’ve got to do,’ Ralston said.
Ralston went back to his hotel room after he had primed Brandon and checked his .45 police-issue Colt. At least it was a good honest sort of gun, he thought.