Hope edged a trifle higher.
‡
He located the Eldan desk in the spacious lobby of the tower portion of the Hilton. The pert brunette there wore a name tag that said “Chaya” in English. Kesev made sure she was properly impressed by his Shin Bet ID, then he handed her the sheet from his notepad with the number of the Explorer’s license plate.
“Did you rent a Ford Explorer with this plate out of here?”
“Explorer, you say?” She tapped a few instructions into the terminal before her. A few beeps later, Chaya smiled. “Yes, sir. To an American. Carolyn Ferris. Out of New York.”
What luck! Found them on the first try. Then again, if you were going to explore the area around the Dead Sea, Jerusalem was the ideal base.
“Have they returned the car yet?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“When’s it due back?”
“Today, I would assume. They took it on a two-day special—unlimited mileage. But there’s nothing to say they won’t keep it till tomorrow. They have an option for extra days.”
Tomorrow—he prayed they wouldn’t keep it till then. Especially since he wasn’t even sure this Ferris couple were the ones he wanted. The tire tracks around the Resting Place might not be theirs.
But they were the only lead he had.
If only there were some way to involve Shin Bet in this. He could have the tire tracks identified as to their size and brand and from that get a list of what vehicles used them as standard equipment. If a Ford Explorer was on the list, he’d issue an all-points alert for the Ferrises and their vehicle.
But Shin Bet would want to know what crime they’d committed or were suspected of committing. Theft? What did they steal?
Kesev could not answer those basic questions, so Shin Bet had to stay out of it.
He was on his own.
He wrote down his cell number and handed it to the Eldan clerk.
“I will be close by and will be checking in with you frequently. But if I am not about, call this number immediately should you hear from the Ferrises. Make sure you fill in whoever relieves you.”
“Are they dangerous?” Chaya said, a note of anxiety creeping into her voice.
He smiled to reassure her. It wasn’t easy. He wanted to grab the front of her blouse and pull her half across the counter and shout that they may have stolen a relic that God Himself had designated as untouchable and only God Himself knew what might happen to Kesev—to the entire world—if it was not returned immediately to its designated Resting Place.
Instead he kept his tone low and even.
“Absolutely not. They are just a couple of tourists who may have witnessed something and we need to question them. The problem is that they don’t know we’re looking for them and we don’t know where to find them. Not yet. But with your help we can clear up this matter swiftly and everyone can go about their business.”
Meanwhile, he didn’t have to sit idle.
He went to one of the Hilton’s house phones and asked the operator to connect him with the Ferris room. He slammed his fist on the counter when she informed him that there was no Ferris registered at the hotel, then glanced around to see if he’d startled anyone. He did not want to attract attention. He forced himself to return the receiver gently to its cradle.
Then he pulled out his phone and called all the major and some of the minor hotels in Jerusalem, asking to be connected to the Ferris room.
No luck. They weren’t registered in Jerusalem. One could almost believe they’d driven to the north end of Route 90, and instead of turning left toward Jerusalem, turned right toward Jordan. Or worse yet, were hijacked by some Hezbollah crazies...
The thought staggered Kesev, weakening his knees.
The Mother...in the hands of that rabble
No. Such a thing was unthinkable, so why torture himself with it?
Kesev found himself a seat in the lobby where he had an unobstructed view of the Eldan desk. He calmed himself with the thought that he had done all that one man could do at the moment. All that was left was the waiting. So he sat and waited. He was good at waiting. An expert.
Sooner or later the Ferris couple would show up to return their car. When they did he would confront them. He’d know if they were hiding something. And if they were, he’d get it out of them. First by intimidating them with his Shin Bet credentials. If that didn’t work, there were other ways.
Kesev slipped his left hand into his pocket and gripped the handle of the long folding knife he always carried.
Yes, he thought grimly. He knew other ways, and he was quite ready to use whatever means were necessary to return the Mother to the Resting Place.
THIRTEEN
Tel Aviv
“It should be right around the next corner to the left,” Carrie said, glancing between the street signs and the map on her lap.
“I sure as hell hope so,” Dan muttered from the front seat.
Carrie reached forward and gave his shoulder a gentle rub.
Poor Dan. Not a happy camper at the moment. He’d complained most of the trip that her sitting in the back made him feel like a chauffeur. Carrie was sorry about that, but with the way the Explorer had bounced around the hills, she’d been afraid the Virgin would be harmed. She’d folded down part of the rear seat and pulled the Virgin’s blanket-swathed form beside her to steady and protect it.
But even after they hit paved road she’d stayed here, her fingers gripping one of the cords that bound the blankets. Carrie felt good sitting close to the Virgin. Despite the danger in smuggling her out of the country—Carrie had no idea how the Israeli government felt about smuggling, but she was sure it could cost Dan and her years in jail if they were caught—she felt strangely calm. At peace.
“Damn this traffic!”
Dan was anything but at peace. They’d got lost twice already, and now they were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic that would give Manhattan’s cross-town crawl a run for its money, all of which might have been bearable if the air conditioner had been working. Tel Aviv in the summer...almost as hot as the desert they’d left this morning, but suffocatingly humid thanks to the Mediterranean, only blocks away.
“At last!” Dan said as he turned off Ibn Givrol in the northern end of the city.
Carrie saw it too: The Kaplan Gallery. Gold letters on black marble over two large windows filled with paintings and sculpture. A spasm of anxiety tightened her fingers around the cord. She prayed Bernard Kaplan would help them. If not, where else could they go?
Dan had called Kaplan from Jerusalem and asked if he could arrange a shipment for them similar to the one he’d arranged for Harold Gold. Dan said Kaplan had been non-committal on the phone but gave them directions—not very good directions—to his gallery.
Dan double-parked and turned to her.
“Stay with the car. I’ll leave the engine running and go inside. Hope this isn’t a wasted trip.”
Carrie nodded and watched him disappear through the gallery doors. She sat in the heat and fumes, ignoring the glares of annoyed drivers as they inched around the Explorer. As long as they weren’t police...
Dan seemed to take forever inside. Finally, when she was almost ready to run in and see what was taking him so long, he emerged with a man in a gray business suit—tall, tanned, silver hair slicked straight back.
Dan introduced him as Bernard Kaplan. He said Mr. Kaplan had called Harold in the interim and Harold had vouched for them.
“He wants to get a look at the size of our, uh, sculpture.”
“Ah, yes,” Kaplan said with a British accent—or was it Australian?—and flashed a dazzling set of caps as he looked at the bundle. “About life-sized, as you said. I’ll have a couple of my men bring it in and we’ll—”
“That’s okay,” Carrie said quickly. “We’ll bring it in ourselves.”
Kaplan glanced at Dan who nodded and said, “It could be fragile and this way we’ll take full responsibility for any damage.”